Читать книгу Postern of Fate - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 17

Tuppence was selecting birthday cards. It was a wet afternoon and the post office was almost empty. People dropped letters into the post box outside or occasionally made a hurried purchase of stamps. Then they usually departed to get home as soon as possible. It was not one of those crowded shopping afternoons. In fact, Tuppence thought, she had chosen this particular day very well.

Gwenda, whom she had managed to recognize easily from Beatrice’s description, had been only too pleased to come to her assistance. Gwenda represented the household shopping side of the post office. An elderly woman with grey hair presided over the government business of Her Majesty’s mails. Gwenda, a chatty girl, interested always in new arrivals to the village, was happy among the Christmas cards, valentines, birthday cards, comic postcards, note paper and stationery, various types of chocolates and sundry china articles of domestic use. She and Tuppence were already on friendly terms.

‘I’m so glad that the house has been opened again. Princes Lodge, I mean.’

‘I thought it had always been The Laurels.’

‘Oh no. I don’t think it was ever called that. Houses change names a lot around here. People do like giving new names to houses, you know.’

‘Yes, they certainly seem to,’ said Tuppence thoughtfully. ‘Even we have thought of a name or two. By the way, Beatrice told me that you knew someone once living here called Mary Jordan.’

‘I didn’t know her, but I have heard her mentioned. In the war it was, not the last war. The one long before that when there used to be zeppelins.’

‘I remember hearing about zeppelins,’ said Tuppence.

‘In 1915 or 1916—they came over London.’

‘I remember I’d gone to the Army & Navy Stores one day with an old great-aunt and there was an alarm.’

‘They used to come over at night sometimes, didn’t they? Must have been rather frightening, I should think.’

‘Well, I don’t think it was really,’ said Tuppence. ‘People used to get quite excited. It wasn’t nearly as frightening as the flying bombs—in this last war. One always felt rather as though they were following you to places. Following you down a street, or something like that?’

‘Spend all your nights in the tube, did you? I had a friend in London. She used to spend all the nights in the tubes. Warren Street, I think it was. Everyone used to have their own particular tube station.’

‘I wasn’t in London in the last war,’ said Tuppence. ‘I don’t think I’d have liked to spend all night in the tube.’

‘Well, this friend of mine, Jenny her name was, oh she used to love the tube. She said it was ever so much fun. You know, you had your own particular stair in the tube. It was kept for you always, you slept there, and you took sandwiches in and things, and you had fun together and talked. Things went on all night and never stopped. Wonderful, you know. Trains going on right up to the morning. She told me she couldn’t bear it when the war was over and she had to go home again, felt it was so dull, you know.’

‘Anyway,’ said Tuppence, ‘there weren’t any flying bombs in 1914. Just the zeppelins.’

Zeppelins had clearly lost interest for Gwenda.

‘It was someone called Mary Jordan I was asking about,’ said Tuppence. ‘Beatrice said you knew about her.’

‘Not really—I just heard her name mentioned once or twice, but it was ages ago. Lovely golden hair she had, my grandmother said. German she was—one of those Frowlines as they were called. Looked after children—a kind of nurse. Had been with a naval family somewhere, that was up in Scotland, I think. And afterwards she came down here. Went to a family called Parks—or Perkins. She used to have one day off a week, you know, and go to London, and that’s where she used to take the things, whatever they were.’

‘What sort of things?’ said Tuppence.

‘I don’t know—nobody ever said much. Things she’d stolen, I expect.’

‘Was she discovered stealing?’

‘Oh no, I don’t think so. They were beginning to suspect, but she got ill and died before that.’

‘What did she die of? Did she die down here? I suppose she went to hospital.’

‘No—I don’t think there were any hospitals to go to then. Wasn’t any Welfare in those days. Somebody told me it was some silly mistake the cook made. Brought foxglove leaves into the house by mistake for spinach—or for lettuce, perhaps. No, I think that was someone else. Someone told me it was Deadly Nightshade but I don’t believe that for a moment because, I mean, everyone knows about Deadly Nightshade, don’t they, and anyway that’s berries. Well, I think this was foxglove leaves brought in from the garden by mistake. Foxglove is Digoxo or some name like Digit—something that sounds like fingers. It’s got something very deadly in it—the doctor came and he did what he could, but I think it was too late.’

‘Were there many people in the house when it happened?’

‘Oh, there was quite a lot I should think—yes, because there were always people staying, so I’ve heard, and children, you know, and weekenders and a nursery maid and a governess, I think, and parties. Mind you, I’m not knowing all about this myself. It’s only what Granny used to tell me. And old Mr Bodlicott talks now and then. You know, the old gardener chap as works here now and then. He was gardener there, and they blamed him at first for sending the wrong leaves, but it wasn’t him as did it. It was somebody who came out of the house, and wanted to help and picked the vegetables in the garden, and took them in to the cook. You know, spinach and lettuce and things like that and—er—I suppose they just made a mistake not knowing much about growing vegetables. I think they said at the inquest or whatever they had afterwards that it was a mistake that anyone could make because the spinach or the sorrel leaves were growing near the Digi—Digit-what-not, you see, so I suppose they just took a great handful of both leaves, possibly in a bunch together. Anyway, it was very sad because Granny said she was a very good-looking girl with golden hair and all that, you know.’

‘And she used to go up to London every week? Naturally she’d have to have a day off.’

‘Yes. Said she had friends there. Foreigner, she was—Granny says there was some as said she was actually a German spy.’

‘And was she?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. The gentlemen liked her all right, apparently. You know, the naval officers and the ones up at Shelton Military Camp too. She had one or two friends there, you know. The military camp it was.’

‘Was she really a spy?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. I mean, my grandmother said that was what people said. It wasn’t in the last war. It was ages before that.’

‘Funny,’ said Tuppence, ‘how easy it is to get mixed up over the wars. I knew an old man who had a friend in the Battle of Waterloo.’

‘Oh, fancy that. Years before 1914. People did have foreign nurses—what were called Mamoselles as well as Frowlines, whatever a Frowline is. Very nice with children she was, Granny said. Everyone was very pleased with her and always liked her.’

‘That was when she was living here, living at The Laurels?’

‘Wasn’t called that then—at least I don’t think so. She was living with the Parkinsons or the Perkins, some name like that,’ said Gwenda. ‘What we call nowadays an au pair girl. She came from that place where the patty comes from, you know, Fortnum & Mason keep it—expensive patty for parties. Half German, half French, so someone told me.’

‘Strasbourg?’ suggested Tuppence.

‘Yes, that was the name. She used to paint pictures. Did one of an old great-aunt of mine. It made her look too old, Aunt Fanny always said. Did one of one of the Parkinson boys. Old Mrs Griffin’s got it still. The Parkinson boy found out something about her, I believe—the one she painted the picture of, I mean. Godson of Mrs Griffin, I believe he was.’

‘Would that have been Alexander Parkinson?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. The one who’s buried near the church.’