The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (105 page)

“She might know that I'd worry,” said Tommy to himself. Not, of course, that he ever
did
worry—not about Tuppence. Tuppence was always all right. Albert contradicted this mood.

“Hope she hasn't had an accident,” he remarked, presenting Tommy with a dish of cabbage, and shaking his head gloomily.

“Take that away. You know I hate cabbage,” said Tommy. “Why should she have had an accident? It's only half past nine now.”

“Being on the road is plain murder nowadays,” said Albert. “Anyone might have an accident.”

The telephone bell rang. “That's her,” said Albert. Hastily reposing the dish of cabbage on the sideboard, he hurried out of the room. Tommy rose, abandoning his plate of chicken, and followed Albert. He was just saying “Here, I'll take it,” when Albert spoke.

“Yes, sir? Yes, Mr. Beresford is at home. Here he is now.” He turned his head to Tommy. “It's a Dr. Murray for you, sir.”

“Dr. Murray?” Tommy thought for a moment. The name seemed familiar but for the moment he couldn't remember who Dr. Murray was. If Tuppence had had an accident—and then with a sigh of relief he remembered that Dr. Murray had been the doctor who attended the old ladies at Sunny Ridge. Something, perhaps, to do with Aunt Ada's funeral forms. True child of his time, Tommy immediately assumed that it must be a question of some form or other—something he ought to have signed, or Dr. Murray ought to have signed.

“Hullo,” he said, “Beresford here.”

“Oh, I'm glad to catch you. You remember me, I hope. I attended your aunt, Miss Fanshawe.”

“Yes, of course I remember. What can I do?”

“I really wanted to have a word or two with you sometime. I don't know if we can arrange a meeting, perhaps in town one day?”

“Oh I expect so, yes. Quite easily. But—er—is it something you can't say over the phone?”

“I'd rather not say it over the telephone. There's no immediate hurry. I won't pretend there is but—but I should like to have a chat with you.”

“Nothing wrong?” said Tommy, and wondered why he put it that way. Why should there be anything wrong?

“Not really. I may be making a mountain out of a molehill. Probably am. But there have been some rather curious developments at Sunny Ridge.”

“Nothing to do with Mrs. Lancaster, is it?” asked Tommy.

“Mrs. Lancaster?” The doctor seemed surprised. “Oh no. She left some time ago. In fact—before your aunt died. This is something quite different.”

“I've been away—only just got back. May I ring you up tomorrow morning—we could fix something then.”

“Right. I'll give you my telephone number. I shall be at my surgery until ten a.m.”

“Bad news?” asked Albert as Tommy returned to the dining room.

“For God's sake, don't croak, Albert,” said Tommy irritably. “No—of course it isn't bad news.”

“I thought perhaps the missus—”

“She's all right,” said Tommy. “She always is. Probably gone haring off after some wildcat clue or other—You know what she's like. I'm not going to worry any more. Take away this plate of chicken—You've been keeping it hot in the oven and it's inedible. Bring me some coffee. And then I'm going to bed.

“There will probably be a letter tomorrow. Delayed in the post—you know what our posts are like—or there will be a wire from her—or she'll ring up.”

But there was no letter next day—no telephone call—no wire.

Albert eyed Tommy, opened his mouth and shut it again several times, judging quite rightly that gloomy predictions on his part would not be welcomed.

At last Tommy had pity on him. He swallowed a last mouthful of toast and marmalade, washed it down with coffee, and spoke—

“All right, Albert, I'll say it first—
Where is she?
What's happened to her? And what are we going to do about it?”

“Get on to the police, sir?”

“I'm not sure. You see—” Tommy paused.

“If she's had an accident—”

“She's got her driving licence on her—and plenty of identifying papers—Hospitals are very prompt at reporting these things—and getting in touch with relatives—all that. I don't want to be precipitate—she—she mightn't want it. You've no idea—no idea at all, Albert, where she was going—Nothing she said? No particular place—or county. Not a mention of some name?”

Albert shook his head.

“What was she feeling like? Pleased?—Excited? Unhappy? Worried?”

Albert's response was immediate.

“Pleased as Punch—Bursting with it.”

“Like a terrier off on the trail,” said Tommy.

“That's right, sir—you know how she gets—”

“On to something—Now I wonder—” Tommy paused in consideration.

Something had turned up, and, as he had just said to Albert, Tuppence had rushed off like a terrier on the scent. The day before yesterday she had rung up to announce her return. Why, then, hadn't she returned? Perhaps, at this moment, thought Tommy, she's sitting somewhere telling lies to people so hard that she can't think of anything else!

If she were engrossed in pursuit, she would be extremely annoyed if he, Tommy, were to rush off to the police bleating like a sheep that his wife had disappeared—He could hear Tuppence saying “How you could be so fatuous as to do such a thing! I can look after myself
perfectly.
You ought to know that by this time!” (But could she look after herself?)

One was never quite sure where Tuppence's imagination could take her.

Into
danger?
There hadn't, so far, been any evidence of danger in this business—Except, as aforesaid, in Tuppence's imagination.

If he were to go to the police, saying his wife had not returned home as she announced she was going to do—The police would sit there, looking tactful though possibly grinning inwardly, and would then presumably, still in a tactful way, ask what men friends his wife had got!

“I'll find her myself,” declared Tommy. “She's
somewhere.
Whether it's north, south, east or west I've no idea—and she was a silly cuckoo not to leave word when she rang up, where she was.”

“A gang's got her, perhaps—” said Albert.

“Oh! be your age, Albert, you've outgrown that sort of stuff years ago!”

“What are you going to do, sir?”

“I'm going to London,” said Tommy, glancing at the clock. “First I'm going to have lunch at my club with Dr. Murray who rang me up last night, and who's got something to say to me about my late deceased aunt's affairs—I might possibly get a useful hint from him—After all, this business started at Sunny Ridge. I am also taking that picture that's hanging over our bedroom mantelpiece up with me—”

“You mean you're taking it to Scotland Yard?”

“No,” said Tommy. “I'm taking it to Bond Street.”

Eleven

B
OND
S
TREET
AND
D
R
. M
URRAY

T
ommy jumped out of a taxi, paid the driver and leaned back into the cab to take out a rather clumsily done up parcel which was clearly a picture. Tucking as much of it as he could under his arm, he entered the New Athenian Galleries, one of the longest established and most important picture galleries in London.

Tommy was not a great patron of the arts but he had come to the New Athenian because he had a friend who officiated there.

“Officiated” was the only word to use because the air of sympathetic interest, the hushed voice, the pleasurable smile, all seemed highly ecclesiastical.

A fair-haired young man detached himself and came forward, his face lighting up with a smile of recognition.

“Hullo, Tommy,” he said. “Haven't seen you for a long time. What's that you've got under your arm? Don't tell me you've been taking to painting pictures in your old age? A lot of people do—results usually deplorable.”

“I doubt if creative art was ever my long suit,” said Tommy. “Though I must admit I found myself strongly attracted the other day by a small book telling in the simplest terms how a child of five can learn to paint in water colours.”

“God help us if you're going to take to that. Grandma Moses in reverse.”

“To tell you the truth, Robert, I merely want to appeal to your expert knowledge of pictures. I want your opinion on this.”

Deftly Robert took the picture from Tommy and skilfully removed its clumsy wrappings with the expertise of a man accustomed to handle the parcelling up and deparcelling of all different-sized works of art. He took the picture and set it on a chair, peered into it to look at it, and then withdrew five or six steps away. He turned his gaze towards Tommy.

“Well,” he said, “what about it? What do you want to know? Do you want to sell it, is that it?”

“No,” said Tommy, “I don't want to sell it, Robert. I want to know about it. To begin with, I want to know who painted it.”

“Actually,” said Robert, “if you
had
wanted to sell it, it would be quite saleable nowadays. It wouldn't have been, ten years ago. But Boscowan's just coming into fashion again.”

“Boscowan?” Tommy looked at him inquiringly. “Is that the name of the artist? I saw it was signed with something beginning with B but I couldn't read the name.”

“Oh, it's Boscowan all right. Very popular painter about twenty-five years ago. Sold well, had plenty of shows. People bought him all right. Technically a very good painter. Then, in the usual cycle of events, he went out of fashion. Finally, hardly any demand at all for his works but lately he's had a revival. He, Stitchwort, and Fondella. They're all coming up.”

“Boscowan,” repeated Tommy.

“B-o-s-c-o-w-a-n,” said Robert obligingly.

“Is he still painting?”

“No. He's dead. Died some years ago. Quite an old chap by then. Sixty-five, I think, when he died. Quite a prolific painter, you know. A lot of his canvases about. Actually we're thinking of having a show of him here in about four or five months' time. We ought to do well over it, I think. Why are you so interested in him?”

“It'd be too long a story to tell you,” said Tommy. “One of these days I'll ask you out to lunch and give you the doings from the beginning. It's a long, complicated and really rather an idiotic story. All I wanted to know is all about this Boscowan and if you happen to know by any chance where this house is that's represented here.”

“I couldn't tell you the last for a moment. It's the sort of thing he did paint, you know. Small country houses in rather isolated spots usually, sometimes a farmhouse, sometimes just a cow or two around. Sometimes a farm cart, but if so, in the far distance. Quiet rural scenes. Nothing sketchy or messy. Sometimes the surface looks almost like enamel. It was a peculiar technique and people liked it. A good many of the things he painted were in France, Normandy mostly. Churches. I've got one picture of his here now. Wait a minute and I'll get it for you.”

He went to the head of the staircase and shouted down to someone below. Presently he came back holding a small canvas which he propped on another chair.

“There you are,” he said. “Church in Normandy.”

“Yes,” said Tommy, “I see. The same sort of thing. My wife says nobody ever lived in that house—the one I brought in. I see now what she meant. I don't see that anybody was attending service in that church or ever will.”

“Well, perhaps your wife's got something. Quiet, peaceful dwellings with no human occupancy. He didn't often paint people, you know. Sometimes there's a figure or two in the landscape, but more often not. In a way I think that gives them their special charm. A sort of isolationist feeling. It was as though he removed all the human beings, and the peace of the countryside was all the better without them. Come to think of it, that's maybe why the general taste has swung round to him. Too many people nowadays, too many cars, too many noises on the road, too much noise and bustle. Peace, perfect peace. Leave it all to Nature.”

“Yes, I shouldn't wonder. What sort of a man was he?”

“I didn't know him personally. Before my time. Pleased with himself by all accounts. Thought he was a better painter than he was, probably. Put on a bit of side. Kindly, quite likeable. Eye for the girls.”

“And you've no idea where this particular piece of countryside exists? It
is
England, I suppose.”

“I should think so, yes. Do you want me to find out for you?”

“Could you?”

“Probably the best thing to do would be to ask his wife, his widow rather. He married Emma Wing, the sculptor. Well known. Not very productive. Does quite powerful work. You could go and ask her. She lives in Hampstead. I can give you the address. We've been corresponding with her a good deal lately over the question of this show of her husband's work we're doing. We're having a few of her smaller pieces of sculpture as well. I'll get the address for you.”

He went to the desk, turned over a ledger, scrawled something on a card and brought it back.

“There you are, Tommy,” he said. “I don't know what the deep dark mystery is. Always been a man of mystery, haven't you? It's a nice representation of Boscowan's work you've got there. We might like to use it for the show. I'll send you a line to remind you nearer the time.”

“You don't know a Mrs. Lancaster, do you?”

“Well, I can't think of one off-hand. Is she an artist or something of the kind?”

“No, I don't think so. She's just an old lady living for the last few years in an old ladies' home. She comes into it because this picture belonged to her until she gave it away to an aunt of mine.”

“Well I can't say the name means anything to me. Better go and talk to Mrs. Boscowan.”