The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection

by Agatha Christie

  ‘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:

  ‘Black Arrow

  Alexander Parkinson

  Mary Jordan did not die naturally

  Oxford and Cambridge porcelain Victorian seats

  Grin-Hen-Lo

  KK

  Mathilde’s stomach

  Cain and Abel

  Truelove’

  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 h
ave 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.’

  ‘Do you mean it’s still going on?’ Tuppence’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘Well, we know more or less all we want and need to know now. And that’s partly because of what you two have contributed–the operation of a surgical nature on a rocking-horse was particularly informative–’

  ‘Mathilde!’ exclaimed Tuppence. ‘I am glad! I can hardly believe it. Mathilde’s stomach!’

  ‘Wonderful things, horses,’ said Colonel Pikeaway. ‘Never know what they will do, or won’t do. Ever since the wooden horse of Troy.’

  ‘Even Truelove helped, I hope,’ said Tuppence. ‘But, I mean, if it’s all going on still. With children about–’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Mr Crispin. ‘You don’t need to worry. That area of England is purified–the wasps’ nest cleared up. It’s suitable for private living again. We’ve reason to believe they’ve shifted operations to the neighbourhood of Bury St Edmunds. And we’ll be keeping an eye on you, so you needn’t worry at all.’

  Tuppence gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you for telling me. You see, my daughter Deborah comes to stay from time to time and brings her three children–’

  ‘You needn’t worry,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘By the way, after the N and M business, didn’t you adopt the child that figured in the case–the one that had the nursery rhyme books, Goosey Gander and all the rest of it?’

  ‘Betty?’ said Tuppence. ‘Yes. She’s done very well at university and she’s gone off now to Africa to do research on how people live–that sort of thing. A lot of young people are very keen on that. She’s a darling–and very happy.’

  Mr Robinson cleared his throat and rose to his feet. ‘I want to propose a toast. To Mr and Mrs Thomas Beresford in acknowledgement of the service they have rendered to their country.’

  It was drunk enthusiastically.

  ‘And if I may, I will propose a further toast,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘To Hannibal.’

  ‘There, Hannibal,’ said Tuppence, stroking his head. ‘You’ve had your health drunk. Almost as good as being knighted or having a medal. I was reading Stanley Weyman’s Count Hannibal only the other day.’

  ‘Read it as a boy, I remember,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘“Who touches my brother touches Tavanne,” if I’ve got it right. Pikeaway, don’t you think? Hannibal, may I be permitted to tap you on the shoulder?’

  Hannibal took a step towards him, received a tap on the shoulder and gently wagged his tail.

  ‘I hereby create you a Count of this Realm.’

  ‘Count Hannibal. Isn’t that lovely?’ said Tuppence. ‘What a proud dog you ought to be!’

  About the Author

  Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold over a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976.

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  Copyright

  THE SECRET ADVERSARY © 1922. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN 978-0-06-207435-5

  Epub Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 978-0-06-175374-9

  PARTNERS IN CRIME © 1929. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN 978-
0-06-207436-2

  Epub Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 978-0-06-174905-6

  N OR M? © 1941. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN 978-0-06-207432-4

  Epub Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 978-0-06-200669-1

  BY THE PRICKING OF MY THUMBS © 1968. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN 978-0-06-207433-1

  Epub Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 978-0-06-200660-8

  POSTERN OF FATE. Copyright © 1973 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company).

  EPub Edition © JANUARY 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-200669-1

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  EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062332837

  Version 1

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