The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (141 page)

‘I don't need him to look after me,' said Tommy.

‘Oh, that's just arrogance,' said Tuppence.

‘I think he'll come to say goodbye,' said Tommy.

‘Oh yes, because he's got very nice manners, hasn't he?'

‘He'll want to make sure that you're quite all right again.'

‘I'm only wounded and the doctor's seen to that.'

‘He's really very keen on gardening,' said Tommy. ‘I realize that. He really did work for a friend of his who happened to be Mr Solomon, who has been dead for some years, but I suppose it makes a good cover, that, because he can say he worked for him and people will know he worked for him. So he'll appear to be quite
bona fide
.'

‘Yes, I suppose one has to think of all those things,' said Tuppence.

The front door bell rang and Hannibal dashed from the room, tiger-style, to kill any intruder who might be
wishing to enter the sacred precincts which he guarded. Tommy came back with an envelope.

‘Addressed to us both,' he said. ‘Shall I open it?'

‘Go ahead,' said Tuppence.

He opened it.

‘Well,' he said, ‘this raises possibilities for the future.'

‘What is it?'

‘It's an invitation from Mr Robinson. To you and to me. To dine with him on a date the week after next when he hopes you'll be fully recovered and yourself again. In his country house. Somewhere in Sussex, I think.'

‘Do you think he'll tell us anything then?' said Tuppence.

‘I think he might,' said Tommy.

‘Shall I take my list with me?' said Tuppence. ‘I know it by heart now.'

She read rapidly.

‘Black Arrow, Alexander Parkinson, Oxford and Cambridge porcelain Victorian seats, Grin-hen-lo, KK, Mathilde's stomach, Cain and Abel, Truelove…'

‘Enough,' said Tommy. ‘It sounds mad.'

‘Well, it is mad, all of it. Think there'll be anyone else at Mr Robinson's?'

‘Possibly Colonel Pikeaway.'

‘In that case,' said Tuppence, ‘I'd better take a cough lozenge with me, hadn't I? Anyway, I do want to see
Mr Robinson. I can't believe he's as fat and yellow as you say he is–Oh!–but, Tommy, isn't it the week after next that Deborah is bringing the children to stay with us?'

‘No,' said Tommy, ‘it's this
next
weekend as ever is.'

‘Thank goodness, so that's all right,' said Tuppence.

‘Was that the car?'

Tuppence came out of the front door peering curiously along the curve of the drive, eagerly awaiting the arrival of her daughter Deborah and the three children.

Albert emerged from the side door.

‘They won't be here yet. No, that was the grocer, madam. You wouldn't believe it–eggs have gone up,
again
. Never vote for this Government again,
I
won't. I'll give the Liberals a go.'

‘Shall I come and see to the rhubarb and strawberry fool for tonight?'

‘I've seen to that, madam. I've watched you often and I know just how you do it.'

‘You'll be a cordon bleu chef by the time you've finished, Albert,' said Tuppence. ‘It's Janet's favourite sweet.'

‘Yes, and I made a treacle tart–Master Andrew loves treacle tart.'

‘The rooms are all ready?'

‘Yes. Mrs Shacklebury came in good time this morning. I put the Guerlain Sandalwood Soap in Miss Deborah's bathroom. It's her favourite, I know.'

Tuppence breathed a sigh of relief at the knowledge that all was in order for the arrival of her family.

There was the sound of a motor horn and a few minutes later the car came up the drive with Tommy at the wheel and a moment later the guests were decanted on the doorstep–daughter Deborah still a very handsome woman, nearly forty, and Andrew, fifteen, Janet, eleven, and Rosalie, seven.

‘Hullo, Grandma,' shouted Andrew.

‘Where's Hannibal?' called Janet.

‘I want my tea,' said Rosalie, showing a disposition to burst into tears.

Greetings were exchanged. Albert dealt with the disembarkation of all the family treasures including a budgerigar, a bowl of goldfish and a hamster in a hutch.

‘So this is the new home,' said Deborah, embracing her mother. ‘I like it–I like it very much.'

‘Can we go round the garden?' asked Janet.

‘After tea,' said Tommy.

‘I want my tea,' reiterated Rosalie with an expression on her face of: First things first.

They went into the dining-room where tea was set out and met with general satisfaction.

‘What's all this I've been hearing about you, Mum?' demanded Deborah, when they had finished tea and repaired to the open air–the children racing round to explore the possible pleasures of the garden in the joint company of Thomas and Hannibal who had rushed out to take part in the rejoicings.

Deborah, who always took a stern line with her mother, whom she considered in need of careful guardianship, demanded, ‘What
have
you been doing?'

‘Oh. We've settled in quite comfortably by now,' said Tuppence.

Deborah looked unconvinced.

‘You've been doing things. She has, hasn't she, Dad?'

Tommy was returning with Rosalie riding him piggyback, Janet surveying the new territory and Andrew looking around with an air of taking a full grownup view.

‘You have been
doing
things.' Deborah returned to the attack. ‘You've been playing at being Mrs Blenkinsop all over again. The trouble with you is, there's no holding you–N or M–all over again. Derek heard something and wrote and told me.' She nodded as she mentioned her brother's name.

‘Derek–what could
he
know?' demanded Tuppence.

‘Derek always gets to know things.'

‘You too, Dad.' Deborah turned on her father. ‘
You've
been mixing yourself up in things, too. I thought you'd come here, both of you, to retire, and take life quietly–and enjoy yourselves.'

‘That
was
the idea,' said Tommy, ‘but Fate thought otherwise.'

‘Postern of Fate,' said Tuppence. ‘Disaster's Cavern, Fort of Fear–'

‘Flecker,' said Andrew, with conscious erudition. He was addicted to poetry and hoped one day to be a poet himself. He carried on with a full quotation:

With singularly apposite cooperation birds flew suddenly from the roof of the house over their heads.

‘What are all those birds, Grannie?' asked Janet.

‘Swallows flying south,' said Tuppence.

‘Won't they ever come back again?'

‘Yes, they'll come back next summer.'

‘And pass through the Postern of Fate!' said Andrew with intense satisfaction.

‘This house was called Swallow's Nest once,' said Tuppence.

‘But you aren't going on living here, are you?' said Deborah. ‘Dad wrote and said you're looking out for another house.'

‘Why?' asked Janet–the Rosa Dartle of the family. ‘I like this one.'

‘I'll give you a few reasons,' said Tommy, plucking a sheet of paper from his pocket and reading aloud:

‘Shut up, Tommy–that's
my
list. It's nothing to do with you,' said Tuppence.

‘But what does it
mean
?' asked Janet, continuing her quiz.

‘It sounds like a list of clues from a detective story,' said Andrew, who in his less poetical moments was addicted to that form of literature.

‘It
is
a list of clues. It's the reason why we are looking for another house,' said Tommy.

‘But I like it here,' said Janet, ‘it's lovely.'

‘It's a nice house,' said Rosalie. ‘Chocolate biscuits,' she added, with memories of recently eaten tea.

‘I like it,' said Andrew, speaking as an autocratic Czar of Russia might speak.

‘Why don't
you
like it, Grandma?' asked Janet.

‘I
do
like it,' said Tuppence with a sudden unexpected enthusiasm. ‘I want to live here–to go on living here.'

‘Postern of Fate,' said Andrew. ‘It's an exciting name.'

‘It used to be called Swallow's Nest,' said Tuppence. ‘We could call it that again–'

‘All those clues,' said Andrew. ‘You could make a story out of them–even a book–'

‘Too many names, too complicated,' said Deborah. ‘Who'd read a book like that?'

‘You'd be surprised,' said Tommy, ‘what people
will
read–and enjoy!'

Tommy and Tuppence looked at each other.

‘Couldn't I get some paint tomorrow?' asked Andrew. ‘Or Albert could get some and he'd help me. We'd paint the new name on the gate.'

‘And then the swallows would know they could come back next summer,' said Janet.

She looked at her mother.

‘Not at all a bad idea,' said Deborah.

‘
La Reine le veult
,' said Tommy and bowed to his daughter, who always considered that giving the Royal assent in the family was her perquisite.

‘What a lovely meal,' said Tuppence. She looked round at the assembled company.

They had passed from the dining table and were now assembled in the library round the coffee table.

Mr Robinson, as yellow and even larger than Tuppence had visualized him, was smiling behind a big and beautiful George II coffee-pot–next to him was Mr Crispin, now, it seemed, answering to the name of Horsham. Colonel Pikeaway sat next to Tommy, who had, rather doubtfully, offered him one of his own cigarettes.

Colonel Pikeaway, with an expression of surprise, said: ‘I
never
smoke after
dinner
.'

Miss Collodon, whom Tuppence had found rather alarming, said, ‘Indeed, Colonel Pikeaway? How
very, very
interesting.' She turned her head towards Tuppence.
‘What a very well-behaved dog you have got, Mrs Beresford!'

Hannibal, who was lying under the table with his head resting on Tuppence's foot, looked out with his misleading best angelic expression and moved his tail gently.

‘I understood he was a very
fierce
dog,' said Mr Robinson, casting an amused glance at Tuppence.

‘You should see him in action,' said Mr Crispin–alias Horsham.

‘He has party manners when he is asked out to dinner,' explained Tuppence. ‘He loves it, feels he's really a prestige dog going into high society.' She turned to Mr Robinson. ‘It was really very,
very
nice of you to send him an invitation and to have a plateful of liver ready for him. He loves liver.'

‘All dogs love liver,' said Mr Robinson. ‘I understand–' he looked at Crispin-Horsham–‘that if I were to pay a visit to Mr and Mrs Beresford at their
own
home I might be torn to pieces.'

‘Hannibal takes his duties very seriously,' said Mr Crispin. ‘He's a well-bred guard dog and never forgets it.'

‘You understand his feelings, of course, as a security officer,' said Mr Robinson.

His eyes twinkled.

‘You and your husband have done a very remarkable piece of work, Mrs Beresford,' said Mr Robinson. ‘We
are indebted to you. Colonel Pikeaway tells me that
you
were the initiator in the affair.'

‘It just happened,' said Tuppence, embarrassed. ‘I got–well–curious. I wanted to find out–about certain things–'

‘Yes, I gathered that. And now, perhaps you feel an equally natural curiosity as to what all this has been about?'

Tuppence became even more embarrassed, and her remarks became slightly incoherent.

‘Oh–oh of course–I mean–I do understand that all this is quite secret–I mean all very hush-hush–and that we can't ask questions–because you couldn't tell us things. I do understand that perfectly.'

‘On the contrary, it is I who want to ask you a question. If you will answer it by giving me the information I shall be enormously pleased.'

Tuppence stared at him with wide-open eyes.

‘I can't imagine–' She broke off.

‘You have a list–or so your husband tells me. He didn't tell me what that list was. Quite rightly. That list is
your
secret property. But I, too, know what it is to suffer curiosity.'

Again his eyes twinkled. Tuppence was suddenly aware that she liked Mr Robinson very much.

She was silent for a moment or two, then she coughed and fumbled in her evening bag.

‘It's terribly silly,' she said. ‘In fact it's rather more than silly. It's mad.'

Mr Robinson responded unexpectedly: ‘“Mad, mad, all the whole world is
mad
.” So Hans Sachs said, sitting under his elder tree in
Die Meistersinger
–my favourite opera. How right he was!'

He took the sheet of foolscap she handed to him.

‘Read it aloud if you like,' said Tuppence. ‘I don't really mind.'

Mr Robinson glanced at it, then handed it to Crispin. ‘Angus, you have a clearer voice than I have.'

Mr Crispin took the sheet and read in an agreeable tenor with good enunciation:

He stopped, looked at his host, who turned his head towards Tuppence.

‘My dear,' said Mr Robinson. ‘Let me congratulate
you–you must have a most unusual mind. To arrive from this list of clues at your final discoveries is really most remarkable.'

‘Tommy was hard at it too,' said Tuppence.

‘Nagged into it by you,' said Tommy.

‘Very good research he did,' said Colonel Pikeaway appreciatively.

‘The census date gave me a very good pointer.'

‘You are a gifted pair,' said Mr Robinson. He looked at Tuppence again and smiled. ‘I am still assuming that though you have displayed no indiscreet curiosity, you really want to know what all this has been about?'

‘Oh,' exclaimed Tuppence. ‘Are you really going to tell us something? How wonderful!'

‘Some of it begins, as you surmised, with the Parkinsons,' said Mr Robinson. ‘That is to say, in the distant past. My own great-grandmother was a Parkinson. Some things I learnt from her–

‘The girl known as Mary Jordan was in our service. She had connections in the Navy–her mother was Austrian and so she herself spoke German fluently.

‘As you may know, and as your husband certainly knows already, there are certain documents which will shortly be released for publication.

‘The present trend of political thinking is that hush-hush, necessary as it is at certain times, should not be preserved indefinitely. There are things in the records
that should be made known as a definite part of our country's past history.

‘Three or four volumes are due to be published within the next couple of years authenticated by documentary evidence.

‘What went on in the neighbourhood of Swallow's Nest (that was the name of your present house at that time) will certainly be included.

‘There were leakages–as always there are leakages in times of war, or preceding a probable outbreak of war.

‘There were politicians who had prestige and who were thought of very highly. There were one or two leading journalists who had enormous influence and used it unwisely. There were men even before the First World War who were intriguing against their own country. After that war there were young men who graduated from universities and who were fervent believers and often active members of the Communist Party without anyone knowing of that fact. And even more dangerous, Fascism was coming into favour with a full progressive programme of eventual union with Hitler, posing as a Lover of Peace and thereby bringing about a quick end to the war.

‘And so on. A Continuous Behind the Scenes Picture. It has happened before in history. Doubtless it will always happen: a Fifth Column that is both active
and dangerous, run by those who believed in it–as well as those who sought financial gain, those who aimed at eventual power being placed in their hands in the future. Some of this will make interesting reading. How often has the same phrase been uttered in all good faith: Old B.? A traitor? Nonsense. Last man in the world! Absolutely trustworthy!

‘The complete confidence trick. The old, old story. Always on the same lines.

‘In the commercial world, in the Services, in political life. Always a man with an honest face–a fellow you can't help liking and trusting. Beyond suspicion. “The last man in the world”. Etc., etc., etc. Someone who's a natural for the job, like the man who can sell you a gold brick outside the Ritz.

‘Your present village, Mrs Beresford, became the headquarters of a certain group just before the First World War. It was such a nice old-world village–nice people had always lived there–all patriotic, doing different kinds of war work. A good naval harbour–a good-looking young Naval commander–came of a good family, father had been an admiral. A good doctor practising there–much loved by all his patients–they enjoyed confiding their troubles to him. Just in general practice–hardly anyone knew that he had had a special training in chemical warfare–in poison-gases.

‘And later, before the Second World War, Mr Kane
–spelt with a K–lived in a pretty thatched cottage by the harbour and had a particular political creed–not Fascist–oh no! Just Peace before Everything to save the world–a creed rapidly gaining a following on the Continent and in numerous other countries abroad.

‘None of that is what you really want to know, Mrs Beresford–but you've got to realize the background first, a very carefully contrived one. That's where Mary Jordan was sent to find out, if she could, just what was going on.

‘She was born before my time. I admired the work she had done for us when I heard the story of it–and I would have liked to have known her–she obviously had character and personality.

‘Mary was her own Christian name though she was always known as Molly. She did good work. It was a tragedy she should die so young.'

Tuppence had been looking up to the wall at a picture which for some reason looked familiar. It was a mere sketch of a boy's head.

‘Is that–surely–'

‘Yes,' said Mr Robinson. ‘That's the boy Alexander Parkinson. He was only eleven then. He was a grandson of a great-aunt of mine. That's how Molly went to the Parkinsons' in the role of a nursery governess. It seemed a good safe observation post. One wouldn't
ever have thought–' he broke off, ‘what would come of it.'

‘It wasn't–one of the Parkinsons?' asked Tuppence.

‘Oh no, my dear. I understand that the Parkinsons were not involved in any way. But there were others–guests and friends–staying in the house that night. It was your Thomas who found out that the evening in question was the date of a census return. The names of everyone sleeping under that roof had to be entered as well as the usual occupants. One of those names linked up in a significant manner. The daughter of the local doctor about whom I have just told you came down to visit her father as she often did and asked the Parkinsons to put her up that night as she had brought two friends with her. Those friends were all right–but later her father was found to be heavily involved in all that was going on in that part of the world. She herself, it seemed, had helped the Parkinsons in garden work some weeks earlier and was responsible for foxgloves and spinach being planted in close proximity. It was she who had taken the mixture of leaves to the kitchen on the fatal day. The illness of all the participants of the meal passed off as one of those unfortunate mistakes that happen sometimes. The doctor explained he had known such a thing happen before. His evidence at the inquest resulted in a verdict of Misadventure. The fact that a cocktail glass had been swept off a table
and smashed by accident that same night attracted no attention.

‘Perhaps, Mrs Beresford, you would be interested to know that history might have repeated itself. You were shot at from a clump of pampas grass, and later the lady calling herself Miss Mullins tried to add poison to your coffee cup. I understand she is actually a granddaughter or great-niece of the original criminal doctor, and before the Second World War she was a disciple of Jonathan Kane. That's how Crispin knew of her, of course. And your dog definitely disapproved of her and took prompt action. Indeed we now know that it was she who coshed old Isaac.

‘We now have to consider an even more sinister character. The genial kindly doctor was idolized by everyone in the place, but it seems most probable on the evidence that it was the doctor who was responsible for Mary Jordan's death, though at the time no one would have believed it. He had wide scientific interests, and expert knowledge of poisons and did pioneering work in bacteriology. It has taken sixty years before the facts have become known. Only Alexander Parkinson, a schoolboy at the time, began having ideas.'

‘
Mary Jordan did not die naturally
,' quoted Tuppence softly. ‘
It must have been one of us
.' She asked: ‘Was it the doctor who found out what Mary was doing?'

‘No. The doctor had not suspected. But somebody had. Up till then she had been completely successful. The Naval commander had worked with her as planned. The information she passed to him was genuine and he didn't realize that it was mainly stuff that didn't matter–though it had been made to sound important. So-called Naval plans and secrets which he passed to her, she duly delivered on her days off in London, obeying instructions as to when and where. Queen Mary's Garden in Regent's Park was one, I believe–and the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens was another. We learned a good deal from these meetings and the minor officials in certain embassies concerned.

‘But all that's in the past, Mrs Beresford, long, long in the past.'

Colonel Pikeaway coughed and suddenly took over. ‘But history repeats itself, Mrs Beresford. Everyone learns that sooner or later. A nucleus recently reformed in Hollowquay. People who knew about it set things up again. Perhaps that's why Miss Mullins returned. Certain hiding-places were used again. Secret meetings took place. Once more money became significant–where it came from, where it went to. Mr Robinson here was called in. And then our old friend Beresford came along and started giving me some very interesting information. It fitted in with what we had already
suspected. Background scenery, being set up in anticipation. A future being prepared to be controlled and run by one particular political figure in this country. A man with a certain reputation and making more converts and followers every day. The Confidence Trick in action once again. Man of Great Integrity–Lover of Peace. Not Fascism–oh no! Just something that looks like Fascism. Peace for all–and financial rewards to those who cooperate.'