Читать книгу Postern of Fate - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 10

‘Tuppence!’ Tommy called, as he came into the house.

There was no answer. With some annoyance, he ran up the stairs and along the passage on the first floor. As he hastened along it, he nearly put his foot through a gaping hole, and swore promptly.

‘Some other bloody careless electrician,’ he said.

Some days before he had had the same kind of trouble. Electricians arriving in a kindly tangle of optimism and efficiency had started work. ‘Coming along fine now, not much more to do,’ they said. ‘We’ll be back this afternoon.’ But they hadn’t been back that afternoon; Tommy was not precisely surprised. He was used, now, to the general pattern of labour in the building trade, electrical trade, gas employees and others. They came, they showed efficiency, they made optimistic remarks, they went away to fetch something. They didn’t come back. One rang up numbers on the telephone but they always seemed to be the wrong numbers. If they were the right numbers, the right man was not working at this particular branch of the trade, whatever it was. All one had to do was to be careful to not rick an ankle, fall through a hole, damage yourself in some way or another. He was far more afraid of Tuppence damaging herself than he was of doing the damage to himself. He had had more experience than Tuppence. Tuppence, he thought, was more at risk from scalding herself from kettles or disasters with the heat of the stove. But where was Tuppence now? He called again.

‘Tuppence! Tuppence!’

He worried about Tuppence. Tuppence was one of those people you had to worry about. If you left the house, you gave her last words of wisdom and she gave you last promises of doing exactly what you counselled her to do: No, she would not be going out except just to buy half a pound of butter, and after all you couldn’t call that dangerous, could you?

‘It could be dangerous if you went out to buy half a pound of butter,’ said Tommy.

‘Oh,’ said Tuppence, ‘don’t be an idiot.’

‘I’m not being an idiot,’ Tommy had said. ‘I am just being a wise and careful husband, looking after something which is one of my favourite possessions. I don’t know why it is—’

‘Because,’ said Tuppence, ‘I am so charming, so good-looking, such a good companion and because I take so much care of you.’

‘That also, maybe,’ said Tommy, ‘but I could give you another list.’

‘I don’t feel I should like that,’ said Tuppence. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think you have several saved-up grievances. But don’t worry. Everything will be quite all right. You’ve only got to come back and call me when you get in.’

But now where was Tuppence?

‘The little devil,’ said Tommy. ‘She’s gone out somewhere.’

He went on into the room upstairs where he had found her before. Looking at another child’s book, he supposed. Getting excited again about some silly words that a silly child had underlined in red ink. On the trail of Mary Jordan, whoever she was. Mary Jordan, who hadn’t died a natural death. He couldn’t help wondering. A long time ago, presumably, the people who’d had the house and sold it to them had been named Jones. They hadn’t been there very long, only three or four years. No, this child of the Robert Louis Stevenson book dated from further back than that. Anyway, Tuppence wasn’t here in this room. There seemed to be no loose books lying about with signs of having had interest shown in them.

‘Ah, where the hell can she be?’ said Thomas.

He went downstairs again, shouting once or twice. There was no answer. He examined one of the pegs in the hall. No signs of Tuppence’s mackintosh. Then she’d gone out. Where had she gone? And where was Hannibal? Tommy varied the use of his vocal cords and called out for Hannibal.

‘Hannibal—Hannibal—Hanny-boy. Come on, Hannibal.’

No Hannibal.

Well, at any rate, she’s got Hannibal with her, thought Tommy.

He didn’t know if it was worse or better that Tuppence should have Hannibal. Hannibal would certainly allow no harm to come to Tuppence. The question was, might Hannibal do some damage to other people? He was friendly when taken visiting people, but people who wished to visit Hannibal, to enter any house in which he lived, were always definitely suspect in Hannibal’s mind. He was ready at all risks to both bark and bite if he considered it necessary. Anyway, where was everybody?

He walked a little way along the street, could see no signs of any small black dog with a medium-sized woman in a bright red mackintosh walking in the distance. Finally, rather angrily, he came back to the house.

Rather an appetizing smell met him. He went quickly to the kitchen, where Tuppence turned from the stove and gave him a smile of welcome.

‘You’re ever so late,’ she said. ‘This is a casserole. Smells rather good, don’t you think? I put some rather unusual things in it this time. There were some herbs in the garden, at least I hope they were herbs.’

‘If they weren’t herbs,’ said Tommy, ‘I suppose they were Deadly Nightshade, or Digitalis leaves pretending to be something else but really foxglove. Where on earth have you been?’

‘I took Hannibal for a walk.’

Hannibal, at this moment, made his own presence felt. He rushed at Tommy and gave him such a rapturous welcome as nearly to fell him to the ground. Hannibal was a small black dog, very glossy, with interesting tan patches on his behind and each side of his cheeks. He was a Manchester terrier of very pure pedigree and he considered himself to be on a much higher level of sophistication and aristocracy than any other dog he met.

‘Oh, good gracious. I took a look round. Where’ve you been? It wasn’t very nice weather.’

‘No, it wasn’t. It was very sort of foggy and misty. Ah—I’m quite tired, too.’

‘Where did you go? Just down the street for the shops?’

‘No, it’s early closing day for the shops. No… Oh no, I went to the cemetery.’

‘Sounds gloomy,’ said Tommy. ‘What did you want to go to the cemetery for?’

‘I went to look at some of the graves.’

‘It still sounds rather gloomy,’ said Tommy. ‘Did Hannibal enjoy himself?’

‘Well, I had to put Hannibal on the lead. There was something that looked like a verger who kept coming out of the church and I thought he wouldn’t like Hannibal because—well, you never know, Hannibal mightn’t like him and I didn’t want to prejudice people against us the moment we’d arrived.’

‘What did you want to look in the cemetery for?’

‘Oh, to see what sort of people were buried there. Lots of people, I mean it’s very, very full up. It goes back a long way. It goes back well in the eighteen-hundreds and I think one or two older than that, only the stone’s so rubbed away you can’t really see.’

‘I still don’t see why you wanted to go to the cemetery.’

‘I was making my investigations,’ said Tuppence.

‘Investigations about what?’

‘I wanted to see if there were any Jordans buried there.’

‘Good gracious,’ said Tommy. ‘Are you still on that? Were you looking for—’

‘Well, Mary Jordan died. We know she died. We know because we had a book that said she didn’t die a natural death, but she’d still have to be buried somewhere, wouldn’t she?’

‘Undeniably,’ said Tommy, ‘unless she was buried in this garden.’

‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ said Tuppence, ‘because I think that it was only this boy or girl—it must have been a boy, I think—of course it was a boy, his name was Alexander—and he obviously thought he’d been rather clever in knowing that she’d not died a natural death. But if he was the only person who’d made up his mind about that or who’d discovered it—well, I mean, nobody else had, I suppose. I mean, she just died and was buried and nobody said…’

‘Nobody said there had been foul play,’ suggested Tommy.

‘That sort of thing, yes. Poisoned or knocked on the head or pushed off a cliff or run over by a car or—oh, lots of ways I can think of.’

‘I’m sure you can,’ said Tommy. ‘Only good thing about you, Tuppence, is that at least you have a kindly heart. You wouldn’t put them into execution just for fun.’

‘But there wasn’t any Mary Jordan in the cemetery. There weren’t any Jordans.’

‘Disappointing for you,’ said Tommy. ‘Is that thing you’re cooking ready yet, because I’m pretty hungry. It smells rather good.’

‘It’s absolutely done à point,’ said Tuppence. ‘So, as soon as you’ve washed, we eat.’