The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection

by Agatha Christie

  Opening her handbag, she tugged at a notebook of rather tiresome size, and finally got it out.

  ‘I made various notes each time about things. I took some of the china menus along, for one thing.’

  ‘Oh. And what did that produce?’

  ‘Well, it’s not names that I write down so much as the things they say to me and tell me. And they were very thrilled at that china menu because it seemed it was one particular dinner that everyone had enjoyed very much and they had had a wonderful meal–they hadn’t had anything like it before, and apparently they had lobster salad for the first time. They’d heard of it being served after the joint in the richest and most fashionable houses, but it hadn’t come their way.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tommy, ‘that wasn’t very helpful.’

  ‘Well, yes it was, in a way, because they said they’d always remember that evening. So I said why would they always remember that evening and they said it was because of the census.’

  ‘What–a census?’

  ‘Yes. You know what a census is, surely, Tommy? Why, we had one only last year, or was it the year before last? You know–having to say, or making everyone sign or enter particulars. Everyone who slept under your roof on a certain night. You know the sort of thing. On the night of November 15th who did you have sleeping under your roof? And you have to put it down, or they have to sign their names. I forget which. Anyway, they were having a census that day and so everyone had to say who was under their roof, and of course a lot of people were at the party and they talked about it. They said it was very unfair and a very stupid thing to have and that anyway they thought it was really a most disgraceful thing to go on having nowadays, because you had to say if you had children and if you were married, or if you were not married but did have children, and things like that. You had to put down a lot of very difficult particulars and you didn’t think it was nice. Not nowadays. So they were very upset about it. I mean, they were upset, not about the old census because nobody minded then. It was just a thing that happened.’

  ‘The census might come in useful if you’ve got the exact date of it,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Do you mean you could check up about the census?’

  ‘Oh yes. If one knows the right people I think one could check up fairly easily.’

  ‘And they remembered Mary Jordan being talked about. Everyone said what a nice girl she had seemed and how fond everyone was of her. And they would never have believed–you know how people say things. Then they said, Well, she was half German so perhaps people ought to have been more careful in engaging her.’

  II

  Tuppence put down her empty coffee cup and settled back in her chair.

  ‘Anything hopeful?’ said Tommy.

  ‘No, not really,’ said Tuppence, ‘but it might be. Anyway, the old people talked about it and knew about it. Most of them had heard it from their elderly relations or something. Stories of where they had put things or found things. There was some story about a will that was hidden in a Chinese vase. Something about Oxford and Cambridge, though I don’t see how anyone would know about things being hidden in Oxford or Cambridge. It seems very unlikely.’

  ‘Perhaps someone had a nephew undergraduate,’ said Tommy, ‘who took something back with him to Oxford or Cambridge.’

  ‘Possible, I suppose, but not likely.’

  ‘Did anyone actually talk about Mary Jordan?’

  ‘Only in the way of hearsay–not of actually knowing definitely about her being a German spy, only from their grandmothers or great-aunts or sisters or mothers’ cousins or Uncle John’s naval friend who knew all about it.’

  ‘Did they talk about how Mary died?’

  ‘They connected her death with the foxglove and spinach episode. Everyone recovered, they said, except her.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Tommy. ‘Same story different setting.’

  ‘Too many ideas perhaps,’ said Tuppence. ‘Someone called Bessie said, “Well. It was only my grandmother who talked about that and of course it had all been years before her time and I expect she got some of the details wrong. She usually did, I believe.” You know, Tommy, with everyone talking at once it’s all muddled up. There was all the talk about spies and poison on picnics and everything. I couldn’t get any exact dates because of course nobody ever knows the exact date of anything your grandmother tells you. If she says, “I was only sixteen at the time and I was terribly thrilled,” you probably don’t know now how old your grandmother really was. She’d probably say she was ninety now because people like to say they’re older than their age when they get to eighty, or if, of course, she’s only about seventy, she says she’s only fifty-two.’

  ‘Mary Jordan,’ said Tommy thoughtfully, as he quoted the words, ‘did not die naturally. He had his suspicions. Wonder if he ever talked to a policeman about them.’

  ‘You mean Alexander?’

  ‘Yes–And perhaps because of that he talked too much. He had to die.’

  ‘A lot depends on Alexander, doesn’t it?’

  ‘We do know when Alexander died, because of his grave here. But Mary Jordan–we still don’t know when or why.’

  ‘We’ll find out in the end,’ said Tommy. ‘You make a few lists of names you’ve got and dates and things. You’ll be surprised. Surprised what one can check up through an odd word or two here and there.’

  ‘You seem to have a lot of useful friends,’ said Tuppence enviously.

  ‘So do you,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Well, I don’t really,’ said Tuppence.

  ‘Yes, you do, you set people in motion,’ said Tommy. ‘You go and see one old lady with a birthday book. The next thing I know you’ve been all through masses of people in an old pensioners’ home or something, and you know all about things that happened at the time of their great-aunts, great-grandmothers and Uncle Johns and godfathers, and perhaps an old Admiral at sea who told tales about espionage and all that. Once we can figure a few dates down and get on with a few enquiries, we might–who knows?–get something.’

  ‘I wonder who the undergraduates were who were mentioned–Oxford and Cambridge, the ones who were said to have hidden something.’

  ‘They don’t sound very like espionage,’ said Tommy.

  ‘No, they don’t really,’ said Tuppence.

  ‘And doctors and old clergymen,’ said Tommy. ‘One could, I expect, check up on them, but I don’t see it would lead one anywhere. It’s all too far away. We’re not near enough. We don’t know–Has anybody tried anything more funny on you, Tuppence?’

  ‘Do you mean has anyone attempted my life in the last two days? No, they haven’t. Nobody’s invited me to go on a picnic, the brakes of the car are all right, there’s a jar of weedkiller in the potting shed but it doesn’t even seem to be opened yet.’

  ‘Isaac keeps it there to be handy in case you come out with some sandwiches one day.’

  ‘Oh, poor Isaac,’ said Tuppence. ‘You are not to say things against Isaac. He is becoming one of my best friends. Now I wonder–that reminds me–’

  ‘What does that remind you of?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Tuppence, blinking her eyes. ‘It reminded me of something when you said that about Isaac.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Tommy and sighed.

  ‘One old lady,’ said Tuppence, ‘was said to have always put her things in her mittens every night. Earrings, I think it was. That’s the one who thought everyone was poisoning her. And somebody else remembered someone who put things in a missionary box or something. You know, the china thing for the waifs and strays, there was a label stuck on to it. But it wasn’t for the waifs and strays at all, apparently. She used to put five pound notes in it so that she’d always have a nest egg, and when it got too full she used to take it away and buy another box and break the first one.’

  ‘And spend the five pounds, I suppose,’ said Tommy.

  ‘I suppose that was the idea. My cousin Emlyn used to say,’ said Tuppence, obviously quot
ing, ‘nobody’d rob the waifs and strays or missionaries, would they? If anyone smashed a box like that somebody’d notice, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘You haven’t found any books of rather dull-looking sermons, have you, in your book search in those rooms upstairs?’

  ‘No. Why?’ asked Tuppence.

  ‘Well, I just thought that’d be a very good place to hide things in. You know, something really boring written about theology. An old crabbed book with the inside scooped out.’

  ‘Hasn’t been anything like that,’ said Tuppence. ‘I should have noticed it if there was.’

  ‘Would you have read it?’

  ‘Oh, of course I wouldn’t,’ said Tuppence.

  ‘There you are then,’ said Tommy. ‘You wouldn’t have read it, you’d have just thrown it away, I expect.’

  ‘The Crown of Success. That’s one book I remember,’ said Tuppence. ‘There were two copies of that. Well, let’s hope that success will crown our efforts.’

  ‘It seems to me very unlikely. Who killed Mary Jordan? That’s the book we’ll have to write one day, I suppose?’

  ‘If we ever find out,’ said Tuppence gloomily.

  Chapter 4

  Possibility of Surgery on Mathilde

  ‘What are you going to do this afternoon, Tuppence? Go on helping me with these lists of names and dates and things?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ve had all that. It really is most exhausting writing everything down. Every now and then I do get things a bit wrong, don’t I?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past you. You have made a few mistakes.’

  ‘I wish you weren’t more accurate than I am, Tommy. I find it so annoying sometimes.’

  ‘What are you going to do instead?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having a good nap. Oh no, I’m not going to actually relax,’ said Tuppence. ‘I think I’m going to disembowel Mathilde.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Tuppence.’

  ‘I said I was going to disembowel Mathilde.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you? You seem very set on violence.’

  ‘Mathilde–she’s in KK.’

  ‘What do you mean, she’s in KK?’

  ‘Oh, the place where all the dumps are. You know, she’s the rocking-horse, the one that’s got a hole in her stomach.’

  ‘Oh. And–you’re going to examine her stomach, is that it?’

  ‘That’s the idea,’ said Tuppence. ‘Would you like to come and help me?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Would you be kind enough to come and help me?’ suggested Tuppence.

  ‘Put like that,’ said Tommy, with a deep sigh, ‘I will force myself to consent. Anyway, it won’t be as bad as making lists. Is Isaac anywhere about?’

  ‘No. I think it’s his afternoon off. Anyway, we don’t want Isaac about. I think I’ve got all the information I can out of him.’

  ‘He knows a good deal,’ said Tommy thoughtfully. ‘I found that out the other day, he was telling me a lot of things about the past. Things he can’t remember himself.’

  ‘Well, he must be nearly eighty,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’m quite sure of that.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but things really far back.’

  ‘People have always heard so many things,’ said Tuppence. ‘You never know if they’re right or not in what they’ve heard. Anyway, let’s go and disembowel Mathilde. I’d better change my clothes first because it’s excessively dusty and cobwebby in KK and we have to burrow right inside her.

  ‘You might get Isaac, if he’s about, to turn her upside down, then we could get at her stomach more easily.’

  ‘You really sound as though in your last reincarnation you must have been a surgeon.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it is a little like that. We are now going to remove foreign matter which might be dangerous to the preservation of Mathilde’s life, such as is left of it. We might have her painted up and Deborah’s twins perhaps would like to ride on her when they next come to stay.’

  ‘Oh, our grandchildren have so many toys and presents already.’

  ‘That won’t matter,’ said Tuppence. ‘Children don’t particularly like expensive presents. They’ll play with an old bit of string or a rag doll or something they call a pet bear which is only a bit of a hearthrug just made up into a bundle with a couple of black boot-button eyes put on it. Children have their own ideas about toys.’

  ‘Well, come on,’ said Tommy. ‘Forward to Mathilde. To the operating theatre.’

  The reversal of Mathilde to a position suitable for the necessary operation to take place was not an easy job. Mathilde was a very fair weight. In addition to that, she was very well studded with various nails which would on occasions reverse their position, and which had points sticking out. Tuppence wiped blood from her hand and Tommy swore as he caught his pullover which immediately tore itself in a somewhat disastrous fashion.

  ‘Blow this damned rocking-horse,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Ought to have been put on a bonfire years ago,’ said Tuppence.

  It was at that moment that the aged Isaac suddenly appeared and joined them.

  ‘Whatever now!’ he said with some surprise. ‘Whatever be you two doing here now? What do you want with this old bit of horse-flesh here? Can I help you at all? What do you want to do with it–do you want it taken out of here?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Tuppence. ‘We want to turn it upside down so that we can get at the hole there and pull things out.’

  ‘You mean pull things out from inside her, as you might say? Who’s been putting that idea into your head?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘that’s what we do mean to do.’

  ‘What do you think you’ll find there?’

  ‘Nothing but rubbish, I expect,’ said Tommy. ‘But it would be nice,’ he said in a rather doubtful voice, ‘if things were cleared up a bit, you know. We might want to keep other things in here. You know–games, perhaps, a croquet set. Something like that.’

  ‘There used to be a crookey lawn once. Long time ago. That was in Mrs Faulkner’s time. Yes. Down where the rose garden is now. Mind you, it wasn’t a full size one.’

  ‘When was that?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘What, you mean the crookey lawn? Oh, well before my time, it was. There’s always people as wants to tell you things about what used to happen–things as used to be hidden and why and who wanted to hide them. Lot of tall stories, some of them lies. Some maybe as was true.’

  ‘You’re very clever, Isaac,’ said Tuppence, ‘you always seem to know about everything. How do you know about the croquet lawn?’

  ‘Oh, used to be a box of crookey things in here. Been there for ages. Shouldn’t think there’s much of it left now.’

  Tuppence relinquished Mathilde and went over to a corner where there was a long wooden box. After releasing the lid with some difficulty as it had stuck under the ravages of time, it yielded a faded red ball, a blue ball and one mallet bent and warped. The rest of it was mainly cobwebs.

  ‘Might have been in Mrs Faulkner’s time, that might. They do say, you know, as she played in the tournaments in her time,’ said Isaac.

  ‘At Wimbledon?’ said Tuppence, incredulous.

  ‘Well, not exactly at Wimbledon, I don’t think it was. No. The locals, you know. They used to have them down here. Pictures I’ve seen down at the photographer’s–’

  ‘The photographer’s?’

  ‘Ah. In the village, Durrance. You know Durrance, don’t you?’

  ‘Durrance?’ said Tuppence vaguely. ‘Oh, yes, he sells films and things like that, doesn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. Mind you, he’s not the old Durrance, as manages it now. It’s his grandson, or his great-grandson, I shouldn’t wonder. He sells mostly postcards, you know, and Christmas cards and birthday cards and things like that. He used to take photographs of people. Got a whole lot tucked away. Somebody come in the other day, you know. Wanted a picture of her great
-grandmother, she said. She said she’d had one but she’d broken it or burnt it or lost it or something, and she wondered if there was the negative left. But I don’t think she found it. But there’s a lot of old albums in there stuck away somewhere.’

  ‘Albums,’ said Tuppence thoughtfully.

  ‘Anything more I can do?’ said Isaac.

  ‘Well, just give us a bit of a hand with Jane, or whatever her name is.’

  ‘Not Jane, it’s Mathilde, and it’s not Matilda either, which it ought by rights to be, I should say. I believe it was always called Mathilde, for some reason. French, I expect.’

  ‘French or American,’ said Tommy, thoughtfully. ‘Mathilde. Louise. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Quite a good place to have hidden things, don’t you think?’ said Tuppence, placing her arm into the cavity in Mathilde’s stomach. She drew out a dilapidated indiarubber ball, which had once been red and yellow but which now had gaping holes in it.

  ‘I suppose that’s children,’ said Tuppence. ‘They always put things in like this.’

  ‘Whenever they see a hole,’ said Isaac. ‘But there was a young gentleman once as used to leave his letters in it, so I’ve heard. Same as though it was a post box.’

  ‘Letters? Who were they for?’

  ‘Some young lady, I’d think. But it was before my time,’ said Isaac, as usual.

  ‘The things that always happened long before Isaac’s time,’ said Tuppence, as Isaac, having adjusted Mathilde into a good position, left them on the pretext of having to shut up the frames.

  Tommy removed his jacket.

  ‘It’s incredible,’ said Tuppence, panting a little as she removed a scratched and dirty arm from the gaping wound in Mathilde’s stomach, ‘that anyone could put so many things or want to put them, in this thing, and that nobody should ever have cleaned it out.’

  ‘Well, why should anyone clean it out? Why would anyone want to clean it out?’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Tuppence. ‘We do, though, don’t we?’

  ‘Only because we can’t think of anything better to do. I don’t think anything will come of it though. Ow!’