The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (94 page)

“I see.”

“Everyone here liked Mrs. Lancaster very much. She was a little bit—well, you know what I mean—woolly in the head. I mean, she forgot things, confused things and couldn't remember names and addresses sometimes.”

“Did she get many letters?” said Tuppence. “I mean letters from abroad and things?”

“Well, I think Mrs. Johnson—or Mr. Johnson—wrote once or twice from Africa but not after the first year. People, I'm afraid, do forget, you know. Especially when they go to a new country and a different life, and I don't think they'd been very closely in touch with her at any time. I think it was just a distant relation, and a family responsibility, and that was all it meant to them. All the financial arrangements were done through the lawyer, Mr. Eccles, a very nice, reputable firm. Actually we'd had one or two dealings with that firm before so that we new about them, as they knew about us. But I think most of Mrs. Lancaster's friends and relations had passed over and so she didn't hear much from anyone, and I think hardly anyone ever came to visit her. One very nice-looking man came about a year later, I think. I don't think he knew her personally at all well but he was a friend of Mr. Johnson's and had also been in the Colonial service overseas. I think he just came to make sure she was well and happy.”

“And after that,” said Tuppence, “everyone forgot about her.”

“I'm afraid so,” said Miss Packard. “It's sad, isn't it? But it's the usual rather than the unusual thing to happen. Fortunately, most visitors to us make their own friends here. They get friendly with someone who has their own tastes or certain memories in common, and so things settle down quite happily. I think most of them forget most of their past life.”

“Some of them, I suppose,” said Tommy, “are a little—” he hesitated for a word “—a little—” his hand went slowly to his forehead, but he drew it away. “I don't mean—” he said.

“Oh, I know perfectly what you mean,” said Miss Packard. “We don't take mental patients, you know, but we do take what you might call borderline cases. I mean, people who are rather senile—can't look after themselves properly, or who have certain fancies and imaginations. Sometimes they imagine themselves to be historical personages. Quite in a harmless way. We've had two Marie Antoinettes here, one of them was always talking about something called the
Petit Trianon
and drinking a lot of milk which she seemed to associate with the place. And we had one dear old soul who insisted that she was Madame Curie and that she had discovered radium. She used to read the papers with great interest, especially any news of atomic bombs or scientific discoveries. Then she always explained it was she and her husband who had first started experiments on these lines. Harmless delusions are things that manage to keep you very happy when you're elderly. They don't usually last all the time, you know. You're not Marie Antoinette every day or even Madame Curie. Usually it comes on about once a fortnight. Then I suppose presumably one gets tired of keeping the playacting up. And of course more often it's just forgetfulness that people suffer from. They can't quite remember who they are. Or they keep saying there's something very important they've forgotten and if they could only remember it. That sort of thing.”

“I see,” said Tuppence. She hesitated, and then said, “Mrs. Lancaster—Was it always things about that particular fireplace in the sitting room she remembered, or was it any fireplace?”

Miss Packard stared—“A fireplace? I don't understand what you mean.”

“It was something she said that I didn't understand—Perhaps she'd had some unpleasant association with a fireplace, or read some story that had frightened her.”

“Possibly.”

Tuppence said: “I'm still rather worried about the picture she gave to Aunt Ada.”

“I really don't think you need worry, Mrs. Beresford. I expect she's forgotten all about it by now. I don't think she prized it particularly. She was just pleased that Miss Fanshawe admired it and was glad for her to have it, and I'm sure she'd be glad for you to have it because you admire it. It's a nice picture, I thought so myself. Not that I know much about pictures.”

“I tell you what I'll do. I'll write to Mrs. Johnson if you'll give me her address, and just ask if it's all right to keep it.”

“The only address I've got is the hotel in London they were going to—the Cleveland, I think it was called. Yes, the Cleveland Hotel, George Street, W1. She was taking Mrs. Lancaster there for about four or five days and after that I think they were going to stay with some relations in Scotland. I expect the Cleveland Hotel will have a forwarding address.”

“Well, thank you—And now, about this fur stole of Aunt Ada's.”

“I'll go and bring Miss O'Keefe to you.”

She went out of the room.

“You and your Mrs. Blenkensops,” said Tommy.

Tuppence looked complacent.

“One of my best creations,” she said. “I'm glad I was able to make use of her—I was just trying to think of a name and suddenly Mrs. Blenkensop came into my mind. What fun it was, wasn't it?”

“It's a long time ago—No more spies in wartime and counter-espionage for us.”

“More's the pity. It
was
fun—living in that guest house—inventing a new personality for myself—I really began to believe I
was
Mrs. Blenkensop.”

“You were lucky you got away safely with it,” said Tommy, “and in my opinion, as I once told you, you overdid it.”

“I did not. I was perfectly in character. A nice woman, rather silly, and far too much taken up with her three sons.”

“That's what I mean,” said Tommy. “One son would have been quite enough. Three sons were too much to burden yourself with.”

“They became quite real to me,” said Tuppence. “Douglas, Andrew and—goodness, I've forgotten the name of the third one now. I know exactly what they looked like and their characters and just where they were stationed, and I talked most indiscreetly about the letters I got from them.”

“Well, that's over,” said Tommy. “There's nothing to find out in this place—so forget about Mrs. Blenkensop. When I'm dead and buried and you've suitably mourned me and taken up your residence in a home for the aged, I expect you'll be thinking you are Mrs. Blenkensop half of the time.”

“It'll be rather boring to have only one role to play,” said Tuppence.

“Why do you think old people
want
to be Marie Antoinette, and Madame Curie and all the rest of it?” asked Tommy.

“I expect because they get so bored. One does get bored. I'm sure
you
would if you couldn't use your legs and walk about, or perhaps your fingers get too stiff and you can't knit. Desperately you want something to do to amuse yourself so you try on some public character and see what it feels like when you are it. I can understand that perfectly.”

“I'm sure you can,” said Tommy. “God help the home for the aged that you go to. You'll be Cleopatra most of the time, I expect.”

“I won't be a famous person,” said Tuppence. “I'll be someone like a kitchenmaid at Anne of Cleves' castle retailing a lot of spicy gossip that I'd heard.”

The door opened, and Miss Packard appeared in company with a tall, freckle-faced young woman in nurse's dress and a mop of red hair.

“This is Miss O'Keefe—Mr. and Mrs. Beresford. They have something to tell you. Excuse me, will you? One of the patients is asking for me.”

Tuppence duly made the presentation of Aunt Ada's fur stole and Nurse O'Keefe was enraptured.

“Oh! It's lovely. It's too good for me, though. You'll be wanting it yourself—”

“No, I don't really. It's on the big side for me. I'm too small. It's just right for a tall girl like you. Aunt Ada was tall.”

“Ah! she was the grand old lady—she must have been very handsome as a girl.”

“I suppose so,” said Tommy doubtfully. “She must have been a tartar to look after, though.”

“Oh, she was that, indeed. But she had a grand spirit. Nothing got her down. And she was no fool either. You'd be surprised the way she got to know things. Sharp as a needle, she was.”

“She had a temper, though.”

“Yes, indeed. But it's the whining kind that gets you down—all complaints and moans. Miss Fanshawe was never dull. Grand stories she'd tell you of the old days—Rode a horse once up the staircase of a country house when she was a girl—or so she said—Would that be true now?”

“Well, I wouldn't put it past her,” said Tommy.

“You never know what you can believe here. The tales the old dears come and tell you. Criminals that they've recognized—We must notify the police at once—if not, we're all in danger.”

“Somebody was being poisoned last time we were here, I remember,” said Tuppence.

“Ah! that was only Mrs. Lockett. It happens to her every day. But it's not the police she wants, it's a doctor to be called—she's that crazy about doctors.”

“And somebody—a little woman—calling out for cocoa—”

“That would be Mrs. Moody. Poor soul, she's gone.”

“You mean left here—gone away?”

“No—it was a thrombosis took her—very sudden. She was one who was very devoted to your Aunt—not that Miss Fanshawe always had time for her—always talking nineteen to the dozen, as she did—”

“Mrs. Lancaster has left, I hear.”

“Yes, her folk came for her. She didn't want to go, poor thing.”

“What was the story she told me—about the fireplace in the sitting room?”

“Ah! she'd lots of stories, that one—about the things that happened to her—and the secrets she knew—”

“There was something about a child—a kidnapped child or a murdered child—”

“It's strange it is, the things they think up. It's the TV as often as not that gives them the ideas—”

“Do you find it a strain, working here with all these old people? It must be tiring.”

“Oh no—I like old people—That's why I took up Geriatric work—”

“You've been here long?”

“A year and a half—” She paused. “—But I'm leaving next month.”

“Oh! why?”

For the first time a certain constraint came into Nurse O'Keefe's manner.

“Well, you see, Mrs. Beresford, one needs a change—”

“But you'll be doing the same kind of work?”

“Oh yes—” She picked up the fur stole. “I'm thanking you again very much—and I'm glad, too, to have something to remember Miss Fanshawe by—She was a grand old lady—You don't find many like her nowadays.”

Five

D
ISAPPEARANCE
OF
AN
O
LD
L
ADY

A
unt Ada's things arrived in due course. The desk was installed and admired. The little worktable dispossessed the whatnot—which was relegated to a dark corner of the hall. And the picture of the pale pink house by the canal bridge Tuppence hung over the mantelpiece in her bedroom where she could see it every morning when drinking her early morning tea.

Since her conscience still troubled her a little, Tuppence wrote a letter explaining how the picture had come into their possession but that if Mrs. Lancaster would like it returned, she had only got to let them know. This she dispatched to Mrs. Lancaster, c/o Mrs. Johnson, at the Cleveland Hotel, George Street, London, W1.

To this there was no reply, but a week later the letter was returned with “Not known at this address” scrawled on it.

“How tiresome,” said Tuppence.

“Perhaps they only stayed for a night or two,” suggested Tommy.

“You'd think they'd have left a forwarding address—”

“Did you put ‘Please forward' on it?”

“Yes, I did. I know, I'll ring them up and ask—They must have put an address in the hotel register—”

“I'd let it go if I were you,” said Tommy. “Why make all this fuss? I expect the old pussy has forgotten all about the picture.”

“I might as well try.”

Tuppence sat down at the telephone and was presently connected to the Cleveland Hotel.

She rejoined Tommy in his study a few minutes later.

“It's rather curious, Tommy—they haven't even
been
there. No Mrs. Johnson—no Mrs. Lancaster—no rooms booked for them—or any trace of their having stayed there before.”

“I expect Miss Packard got the name of the hotel wrong. Wrote it down in a hurry—and then perhaps lost it—or remembered it wrong. Things like that often happen, you know.”

“I shouldn't have thought it would at Sunny Ridge. Miss Packard is so efficient always.”

“Perhaps they didn't book beforehand at the hotel and it was full, so they had to go somewhere else. You know what accommodation in London is like—
Must
you go on fussing?”

Tuppence retired.

Presently she came back.

“I know what I'm going to do. I'll ring up Miss Packard and I'll get the address of the lawyers—”

“What lawyers?”

“Don't you remember she said something about a firm of solicitors who made all the arrangements because the Johnsons were abroad?”

Tommy, who was busy over a speech he was drafting for a Conference he was shortly to attend, and murmuring under his breath—
“the proper policy if such a contingency should arise”
—said: “How do you spell contingency, Tuppence?”

“Did you hear what I was saying?”

“Yes, very good idea—splendid—excellent—you do that—”

Tuppence went out—stuck her head in again and said:

“C-o-n-s-i-s-t-e-n-c-y.”