The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (118 page)

Suddenly in a cold tide of fear she thought, “But
I'm
an old woman too. I'm not as strong as I think myself. I'm not as strong as she is. Her hands, her grasp, her fingers. I suppose because she's mad and mad people, I've always heard, are strong.”

The gleaming blade was approaching near her. Tuppence screamed. Down below she heard shouts and blows. Blows now on the doors as though someone were trying to force the doors or windows. “But they'll never get through,” thought Tuppence. “They'll never get through this trick doorway here. Not unless they know the mechanism.”

She struggled fiercely. She was still managing to hold Mrs. Lancaster away from her. But the other was the bigger woman. A big strong woman. Her face was still smiling but it no longer had the benignant look. It had the look now of someone enjoying herself.

“Killer Kate,” said Tuppence.

“You know my nickname? Yes, but I've sublimated that. I've become a killer of the Lord. It's the Lord's will that I should kill you. So that makes it all right. You do see that, don't you? You see, it makes it all right.”

Tuppence was pressed now against the side of a big chair. With one arm Mrs. Lancaster held her against the chair, and the pressure increased—no further recoil was possible. In Mrs. Lancaster's right hand the sharp steel of the stiletto approached.

Tuppence thought, “I mustn't panic—I mustn't panic—” But following that came with sharp insistence,
“But what can I do?”
To struggle was unavailing.

Fear came then—the same sharp fear of which she had the first indication in Sunny Ridge—

“Is it your poor child?”

That had been the first warning—but she had misunderstood it—she had not known it was a warning.

Her eyes watched the approaching steel but strangely enough it was not the gleaming metal and its menace that frightened her into a state of paralysis; it was the face above it—it was the smiling benignant face of Mrs. Lancaster—smiling happily, contentedly—a woman pursuing her appointed task, with gentle reasonableness.

“She doesn't
look
mad,” thought Tuppence—“That's what's so awful—Of course she doesn't because in her own mind she's sane. She's a perfectly normal, reasonable human being—that's what she
thinks
—Oh Tommy, Tommy, what have I got myself into this time?”

Dizziness and limpness submerged her. Her muscles relaxed—somewhere there was a great crash of broken glass. It swept her away, into darkness and unconsciousness.

II

“That's better—you're coming round—drink this, Mrs. Beresford.”

A glass pressed against her lips—she resisted fiercely—Poisoned milk—who had said that once—something about “poisoned milk?” She wouldn't drink poisoned milk . . . No, not milk—quite a different smell—

She relaxed, her lips opened—she sipped—

“Brandy,” said Tuppence with recognition.

“Quite right! Go on—drink some more—”

Tuppence sipped again. She leaned back against cushions, surveyed her surroundings. The top of a ladder showed through the window. In front of the window there was a mass of broken glass on the floor.

“I heard the glass break.”

She pushed away the brandy glass and her eyes followed up the hand and arm to the face of the man who had been holding it.

“El Greco,” said Tuppence.

“I beg your pardon.”

“It doesn't matter.”

She looked round the room.

“Where is she—Mrs. Lancaster, I mean?”

“She's—resting—in the next room—”

“I see.” But she wasn't sure that she did see. She would see better presently. Just now only one idea would come at a time—

“Sir Philip Starke.” She said it slowly and doubtfully. “That's right?”

“Yes—Why did you say El Greco?”

“Suffering.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“The picture—In Toledo—Or in the Prado—I thought so a long time ago—no, not very long ago—” She thought about it—made a discovery—“Last night. A party—At the vicarage—”

“You're doing fine,” he said encouragingly.

It seemed very natural, somehow, to be sitting here, in this room with broken glass on the floor, talking to this man—with the dark agonized face—

“I made a mistake—at Sunny Ridge. I was all wrong about her—I was afraid, then—a—wave of fear—But I got it wrong—I wasn't afraid of
her
—I was afraid
for
her—I thought something was going to happen to her—I wanted to protect her—to save her—I—” She looked doubtfully at him. “Do you understand? Or does it sound silly?”

“Nobody understands better than I do—nobody in this world.”

Tuppence stared at him—frowning.

“Who—who was she? I mean Mrs. Lancaster—Mrs. Yorke—that's not real—that's just taken from a rose tree—who was she—herself?”

Philip Starke said harshly:

“Who was she? Herself? The real one, the true one

Who was she—with God's Sign upon her brow?”

“Did you ever read Peer Gynt, Mrs. Beresford?”

He went to the window. He stood there a moment, looking out—Then he turned abruptly.

“She was my wife, God help me.”

“Your wife—But she died—the tablet in the church—”

“She died abroad—that was the story I circulated—And I put up a tablet to her memory in the church. People don't like to ask too many questions of a bereaved widower. I didn't go on living here.”

“Some people said she had left you.”

“That made an acceptable story, too.”

“You took her away when you found out—about the children—”

“So you know about the children?”

“She told me—It seemed—unbelievable.”

“Most of the time she was quite normal—no one would have guessed. But the police were beginning to suspect—I had to act—I had to save her—to protect her—You understand—can you understand—in the very least?”

“Yes,” said Tuppence, “I can understand quite well.”

“She was—so lovely once—” His voice broke a little. “You see her—there,” he pointed to the painting on the wall. “Waterlily—She was a wild girl—always. Her mother was the last of the Warrenders—an old family—inbred—Helen Warrender—ran away from home. She took up with a bad lot—a gaolbird—her daughter went on the stage—she trained as a dancer—Waterlily was her most popular role—then she took up with a criminal gang—for excitement—purely to get a kick out of it—She was always being disappointed—

“When she married me, she had finished with all that—she wanted to settle down—to live quietly—a family life—with children. I was rich—I could give her all the things she wanted. But we had no children. It was a sorrow to both of us. She began to have obsessions of guilt—Perhaps she had always been slightly unbalanced—I don't know—What do causes matter?—She was—”

He made a despairing gesture.

“I loved her—I always loved her—no matter what she was—what she did—I wanted her safe—to keep her safe—not shut up—a prisoner for life, eating her heart out. And we did keep her safe—for many many years.”

“We?”

“Nellie—my dear faithful Nellie Bligh. My dear Nellie Bligh. She was wonderful—planned and arranged it all. The Homes for the Elderly—every comfort and luxury. And no temptations—
no children
—keep children out of her way—It seemed to work—these homes were in faraway places—Cumberland—North Wales—no one was likely to recognize her—or so we thought. It was on Mr. Eccles's advice—a very shrewd lawyer—his charges were high—but I relied on him.”

“Blackmail?” suggested Tuppence.

“I never thought of it like that. He was a friend, and an adviser—”

“Who painted the boat in the picture—the boat called
Waterlily?
”

“I did. It pleased her. She remembered her triumph on the stage. It was one of Boscowan's pictures. She liked his pictures. Then, one day, she wrote a name in black pigment on the bridge—the name of a dead child—So I painted a boat to hide it and labelled the boat
Waterlily
—”

The door in the wall swung open—The friendly witch came through it.

She looked at Tuppence and from Tuppence to Philip Starke.

“All right again?” she said in a matter-of-fact way.

“Yes,” said Tuppence. The nice thing about the friendly witch, she saw, was that there wasn't going to be any fuss.

“Your husband's down below, waiting in the car. I said I'd bring you down to him—if that's the way you want it?”

“That's the way I want it,” said Tuppence.

“I thought you would.” She looked towards the door into the bedroom. “Is she—in there?”

“Yes,” said Philip Starke.

Mrs. Perry went to the bedroom. She came out again—

“I see—” She looked at him inquiringly.

“She offered Mrs. Beresford a glass of milk—Mrs. Beresford didn't want it.”

“And so, I suppose, she drank it herself?”

He hesitated.

“Yes.”

“Dr. Mortimer will be along later,” said Mrs. Perry.

She came to help Tuppence to her feet, but Tuppence rose unaided.

“I'm not hurt,” she said. “It was just shock—I'm quite all right now.”

She stood facing Philip Starke—neither of them seemed to have anything to say. Mrs. Perry stood by the door in the wall.

Tuppence spoke at last.

“There is nothing I can do, is there?” she said, but it was hardly a question.

“Only one thing—It was Nellie Bligh who struck you down in the churchyard that day.”

Tuppence nodded.

“I've realized it must have been.”

“She lost her head. She thought you were on the track of her, of our, secret. She—I'm bitterly remorseful for the terrible strain I've subjected her to all these long years. It's been more than any woman ought to be asked to bear—”

“She loved you very much, I suppose,” said Tuppence. “But I don't think we'll go on looking for any Mrs. Johnson, if that is what you want to ask
us
not to do.”

“Thank you—I'm very grateful.”

There was another silence. Mrs. Perry waited patiently. Tuppence looked round her. She went to the broken window and looked at the peaceful canal down below.

“I don't suppose I shall ever see this house again. I'm looking at it very hard, so that I shall be able to remember it.”

“Do you want to remember it?”

“Yes, I do. Someone said to me that it was a house that had been put to the wrong use. I know what they meant now.”

He looked at her questioningly, but did not speak.

“Who sent you here to find me?” asked Tuppence.

“Emma Boscowan.”

“I thought so.”

She joined the friendly witch and they went through the secret door and on down.

A house for lovers, Emma Boscowan had said to Tuppence. Well, that was how she was leaving it—in the possession of two lovers—one dead and one who suffered and lived—

She went out through the door to where Tommy and the car were waiting.

She said goodbye to the friendly witch. She got into the car.

“Tuppence,” said Tommy.

“I know,” said Tuppence.

“Don't do it again,” said Tommy. “Don't ever do it again.”

“I won't.”

“That's what you say now, but you will.”

“No, I shan't. I'm too old.”

Tommy pressed the starter. They drove off.

“Poor Nellie Bligh,” said Tuppence.

“Why do you say that?”

“So terribly in love with Philip Starke. Doing all those things for him all those years—such a lot of wasted doglike devotion.”

“Nonsense!” said Tommy. “I expect she's enjoyed every minute of it. Some women do.”

“Heartless brute,” said Tuppence.

“Where do you want to go—The Lamb and Flag at Market Basing?”

“No,” said Tuppence. “I want to go home. H
OME
, Thomas. And stay there.”

“Amen to that,” said Mr. Beresford.
“And if Albert welcomes us with a charred chicken, I'll kill him!”