'Well, I'm really just passing by,' said Tuppence. 'I thought I'd just look at the church. I'd rather lost myself in a car wandering around the lanes.'
'Yes, yes. Very difficult to find one's way about round here. A lot of signposts are broken, you know, and the council don't repair them as they should.' He added, 'I don't know that it matters very much. People who drive down these lanes aren't usually trying to get anywhere in particular. People who are keep to the main roads. Dreadful,' he added again. 'Especially the new Motorway. At least, I think so. The noise and the speed and the reckless driving. Oh well! Pay no attention to me. I'm a crusty old fellow. You'd never guess what I'm doing here,' he went on.
'I saw you were examining some of the gravestones,' said Tuppence. 'Has there been any vandalism? Have teenagers been breaking bits off them?'
'No. One's mind does turn that way nowadays what with so many telephone boxes wrecked and all those other things that these young vandals do. Poor children, they don't know any better, I suppose. Can't think of anything more amusing to do than to smash things. Sad, isn't it? Very sad. No,' he said, 'there's been no damage of that kind here. The boys round here are a nice lot on the whole. No, I'm just looking for a child's grave.'
Tuppence stirred on her tombstone. 'A child's grave?' she said.
'Yes. Somebody wrote to me. A Major Waters, he asked if by any possibility a child had been buried here. I looked it up in the parish register, of course, but there was no record of any such name. All the same, I came out here and looked round the stones. I thought, you know, that perhaps whoever wrote might have got hold of some wrong name, or that there had been a mistake.'
'What was the Christian name?' asked Tuppence.
'He didn't know. Perhaps Julia after the mother.'
'How old was the child?'
'Again he wasn't sure. Rather vague, the whole thing. I think myself that the man must have got hold of the wrong village altogether. I never remember a Waters living here or having heard of one.'
'What about the Warrenders?' asked Tuppence, her mind going back to the names in the church. 'The church seems full of tablets to them and their names are on lots of gravestones out here.'
'Ah, that family's died out by now. They had a fine property, an old fourteenth-century Priory. It was burnt down-oh, nearly a hundred years ago now, so I suppose any Warrenders there were left, were away and didn't come back. A new house was built on the site, by a rich Victorian called Starke. A very ugly house but comfortable, they say. Very comfortable. Bathrooms, you know, and all that. I suppose that sort of thing is important.'
'It seems a very odd thing,' said Tuppence, 'that someone should write and ask you about a child's grave. Somebody-a relation?'
'The father of the child,' said the vicar. 'One of these war tragedies, I imagine. A marriage that broke up when the husband was on service abroad. The young wife ran away with another man while the husband was serving abroad. There was a child, a child he'd never seen. She'd be grown up by now, I suppose, if she were alive. It must be twenty years ago or more.'
'Isn't it a long time after to be looking for her?'
'Apparently he only heard there was a child quite recently. The information came to him by pure chance. Curious story, the whole thing.'
'What made him think that the child had been buried here?'
'I gather somebody who had come across his wife in wartime had told him that his wife had said she was living at Sutton Chancellor. It happens, you know. You meet someone, a friend or acquaintance you haven't seen for years, and they sometimes can give you news from the past that you wouldn't get in any other way. But she's certainly not living here now. Nobody of that name has lived here-not since I've been here. Or in the neighbourhood as far as I know. Of course, the mother might have been going by another name. However, I gather the father is employing solicitors and inquiry agents and all that sort of thing, and they will probably be able to get results in the end. It will take time.'
'Was it your poor child?' murmured Tuppence.
'I beg your pardon, my dear?'
'Nothing,' said Tuppence. 'Something somebody said to me the other day. "Was it your poor child?" It's rather a startling thing to hear suddenly. But I don't really think the old lady who said it knew what she was talking about.'
'I know. I know. I'm often the same. I say things and I don't really know what I mean by them. Most vexing.'
'I expect you know everything about the people who live here now?' said Tuppence.
'Well, there certainly aren't very many to know. Yes. Why? Is there someone you wanted to know about?'
'I wondered if there had ever been a Mrs. Lancaster living here.'
'Lancaster? No, I don't think I recollect that name.'
'And there's a house-I was driving today rather aimlessly not minding particularly where I went, just following lanes…'
'I know. Very nice, the lanes round here. And you can find quite rare specimens. Botanical, I mean. In the hedges here. Nobody ever picks flowers in these hedges. We never get any tourists round here or that sort of thing. Yes, I've found some very rare specimens sometimes. Dusty Cranesbell, for instance…'
'There was a house by a canal,' said Tuppence, refusing to be sidetracked into botany. 'Near a little hump-backed bridge. It was about two miles from here. I wondered what its name was.'
'Let me see. Canal-hump-backed bridge. Well… there are several houses like that. There's Merricot Farm.'
'It wasn't a farm.'
'Ah, now, I expect it was the Perrys' house-Amos and Alice Perry.'
'That's right,' said Tuppence. 'A Mr. and Mrs. Perry.'
'She's a striking looking woman, isn't she? Interesting, I always think. Very interesting. Medieval face, didn't you think so? She's going to play the witch in our play we're getting up. The school children, you know. She looks rather like a witch, doesn't she?'
'Yes,' said Tuppence. 'A friendly witch.'
'As you say, my dear, absolutely rightly. Yes, a friendly witch.'
'But he…'
'Yes, poor fellow,' said the vicar. 'Not completely compos mentis-but no harm in him.'
'They were very nice. They asked me in for a cup of tea,' said Tuppence. 'But what I wanted to know was the name of the house. I forgot to ask them. They're only living in half of it, aren't they?'
'Yes, yes. In what used to be the old kitchen quarters. They call it "Waterside", I think, though I believe the ancient name for it was "Watermead". A pleasanter name, I think.'
'Who does the other part of the house belong to?'
'Well, the whole house used to belong originally to the Bradleys. That was a good many years ago. Yes, thirty or forty at least, I should think. And then it was sold, and then sold again and then it remained empty for a long time. When I came here it was just being used as a kind of weekend place. By some actress-Miss Margrave, I believe. She was not here very much. Just used to come down from time to time. I never knew her. She never came to church. I saw her in the distance sometimes. A beautiful creature. A very beautiful creature.'
'Who does it actually belong to now?' Tuppence persisted.
'I've no idea. Possibly it still belongs to her. The part the Perrys live in is only rented to them.'
'I recognized it, you know,' said Tuppence, 'as soon as I saw it, because I've got a picture of it.'
'Oh really? That must have been one of Boscombe's, or was his name Boscobel-I can't remember now. Some name like that. He was a Cornishman, fairly well-known artist, I believe. I rather imagine he's dead now. Yes, he used to come down here fairly often. He used to sketch all round this part of the world. He did some oils here, too. Very attractive landscapes, some of them.'
'This particular picture,' said Tuppence, 'was given to an old aunt of mine who died about a month ago. It was given to her by a Mrs. Lancaster. That's why I asked if you knew the name.'
But the vicar shook his head once more.
'Lancaster? Lancaster. No, I don't seem to remem
ber the name. Ah! but here's the person you must ask. Our dear Miss Bligh. Very active, Miss Bligh is. She knows all about the parish. She runs everything. The Women's Institute, the Boy Scouts and the Guides-everything. You ask her. She's very active, very active indeed.'
The vicar sighed. The activity of Miss Bligh seemed to worry him. 'Nellie Bligh, they call her in the village. The boys sing it after her sometimes. Nellie Bligh, Nellie Bligh. It's not her proper name. That's something more like Gertrude or Geraldine.'
Miss Bligh, who was the tweed-clad woman Tuppence had seen in the church, was approaching them at a rapid trot, still holding a small watering can. She eyed Tuppence with deep curiosity as she approached, increasing her pace and starting a conversation before she reached them.
'Finished my job,' she exclaimed merrily. 'Had a bit of a rush today. Oh yes, had a bit of a rush. Of course, as you know, Vicar, I usually do the church in the morning. But today we had the emergency meeting in the parish rooms and really you wouldn't believe the time it took! So much argument, you know. I really think sometimes people object to things just for the fun of doing so. Mrs. Hartington was particularly irritating. Wanting everything fully discussed, you know, and wondering whether we'd got enough different prices from different [unclear].'
'I mean, the whole thing is such a small cost anyway, that really a few shillings here or there can't make much difference. And Burkenheads have always been most reliable. I don't think really, Vicar, you know, that you ought to sit on that tombstone.'
'Irreverent, perhaps?' suggested the vicar.
'Oh no, no, of course I didn't mean that at all, Vicar. I meant the stone, you know, the damp does come through and with your rheumatism-' Her eyes slid sideways to Tuppence questioningly.
'Let me introduce you to Miss Bligh,' said the vicar. 'This is-this is-' he hesitated.
'Mrs. Beresford,' said Tuppence.
'Ah yes,' said Miss Bligh. 'I saw you in the church, didn't I, just now, looking round it. I would have come and spoken to you, called your attention to one or two interesting points, but I was in such a hurry to finish my job.'
'I ought to have come and helped you,' said Tuppence, in her sweetest voice. 'But it wouldn't have been much use, would it, because I could see you knew so exactly where every flower ought to go.'
'Well now, it's very nice of you to say so, but it's quite true. I've done the flowers in the church for-oh, I don't know how many years it is. We let the school children arrange their own particular pots of wild flowers for festivals, though of course they haven't the least idea, poor little things. I do think a little instruction, but Mrs. Peake will never have any instruction. She's so particular. She says it spoils their initiative. Are you staying down here?' she asked Tuppence.
'I was going on to Market Basing,' said Tuppence. 'Perhaps you can tell me a nice quiet hotel to stay there?'
'Well, I expect you'll find it a little disappointing. It's just a market town, you know. It doesn't cater at all for the motoring trade. The Blue Dragon is a two-star but really I don't think these stars mean anything at all sometimes. I think you'd find The Lamb better. Quieter, you know. Are you staying there for long?'
'Oh no,' said Tuppence, 'just a day or two while I'm looking round the neighbourhood.'
'Not very much to see, I'm afraid. No interesting antiquities or anything like that. We're purely a rural and agricultural district,' said the vicar. 'But peaceful, you know, very peaceful. As I told you, some interesting wild flowers.'
'Ah yes,' said Tuppence, 'I've heard that and I'm anxious to collect a few specimens in the intervals of doing a little mild house hunting,' she added.
'Oh dear, how interesting,' said Miss Bligh. 'Are you thinking of settling in this neighbourhood?'
'Well, my husband and I haven't decided very definitely on any one neighbourhood in particular,' said Tuppence. 'And we're in no hurry. He won't be retiring for another eighteen months. But it's always as well, I think, to look about. Personally, what I prefer to do is to stay in one neighbourhood for four or five days, get a list of likely small properties and drive about to see them. Coming down for one day from London to see one particular house is very tiring, I find.'
'Oh yes, you've got your car here, have you?'
'Yes,' said Tuppence. 'I shall have to go to a house agent in Market Basing tomorrow morning. There's nowhere, I suppose, to stay in the village here, is there?'
'Of course, there's Mrs. Copleigh,' said Miss Bligh. 'She takes people in the summer, you know. Summer visitors. She's beautifully clean. All her rooms are. Of course, she only does bed and breakfast and perhaps a light meal in the evening. But I don't think she takes anyone in much before August or July at the earliest.'
'Perhaps I could go and see her and find out,' said Tuppence.
'She's a very worthy woman,' said the vicar. 'Her tongue wags a good deal,' he added. 'She never stops talking, not for one single minute.'
'A lot of gossip and chattering is always going on in these small villages,' said Miss Bligh. 'I think it would be a very good idea if I helped Mrs. Beresford. I could take her along to Mrs. Copleigh and just see what chances there are.'
'That would be very kind of you,' said Tuppence.
'Then we'll be off,' said Miss Bligh briskly. 'Goodbye, Vicar. Still on your quest? A sad task and so unlikely to meet with success. I really think it was a most unreasonable request to make.'
Tuppence said goodbye to the vicar and said she would be glad to help him if she could.
'I could easily spend an hour or two looking at the various gravestones. I've got very good eyesight for my age. It's just the name Waters you are looking for?'
'Not really,' said the vicar. 'It's the age that matters, I think. A child of perhaps seven, it would be. A girl. Major Waters thinks that his wife might have changed her name and that probably the child might be known by the name she had taken. And as he doesn't know what that name is, it makes it all very difficult.'
'The whole thing's impossible, so far as I can see,' said Miss Bligh. 'You ought never to have said you would do such a thing, Vicar. It's monstrous, suggesting anything of the kind.'
'The poor fellow seems very upset,' said the vicar. 'A sad history altogether, so far as I can make out. But I mustn't keep you.'
Tuppence thought to herself as she was shepherded by Miss Bligh that no matter what the reputation of Mrs. Copleigh for talking, she could hardly talk more than Miss Bhgh did. A stream of pronouncements both rapid and dictatorial poured from her lips.
Mrs. Copleigh's cottage proved to be a pleasant and roomy one set back from the village street with a neat garden of flowers in front, a whitened doorstep and a brass handle well polished. Mrs. Copleigh herself seemed to Tuppence like a character straight out of the pages of Dickens. She was very small and very round, so that she came rolling towards you rather like a rubber ball. She had bright twinkling eyes, blonde hair rolled up in sausage curls on her head and an air of tremendous vigour. After displaying a little doubt to begin with-'Well, I don't usually, you know. No. My husband and I say "summer visitors, that's different". Everyone does that if they can nowadays. And have to, I'm sure. But not this time of year so much, we don't. Not until July. However, if it's just for a few days and the lady wouldn't mind things being a bit rough, perhaps…'
Tuppence said she didn't mind things being rough and Mrs. Copleigh, having surveyed her with close attention, whilst not stopping her flow of conversation, said perhaps the lady would like to come up and see the room, and then things might be arranged.
At that point Miss Bligh tore herself away with some regret because she had not so far been able to extract all the information she wanted from Tuppence, as to where she came from, what her husband did, how old she was, if she had any children and other matters of interest. But it appeared that she had a meeting at her house over which she was going to preside and was terrified at the risk that someone else might seize that coveted post.
'You'll be quite all right wi
th Mrs. Copleigh,' she assured Tuppence, 'she'll look after you, I'm sure. Now what about your car?'
'Oh, I'll fetch it presently,' said Tuppence. 'Mrs. Copleigh will tell me where I had better put it. I can leave it outside here really because it isn't a very narrow street, is it?'
'Oh, my husband can do better than that for you,' said Mrs. Copleigh. 'He'll put it in the field for you. Just round the side lane here, and it'll be quite all right, there. There's a shed he can drive it into.'
Things were arranged amicably on that basis and Miss Bligh hurried away to her appointment. The question of an evening meal was next raised. Tuppence asked if there was a pub in the village.
'Oh, we have nothing as a lady could go to,' said Mrs. Copleigh, 'but if you'd be satisfied with a couple of eggs and a slice of ham and maybe some bread and homemade jam…'
Tuppence said that would be splendid. Her room was small but cheerful and pleasant with a rosebud wallpaper and a comfortable-looking bed and a general air of spotless cleanliness.
'Yes, it's a nice wallpaper, miss,' said Mrs. Copleigh, who seemed determined to accord Tuppence single status. 'Chose it we did so that any newly married couple should come here on honeymoon. Romantic, if you know what I mean.'
Tuppence agreed that romance was a very desirable thing.
'They haven't got so much to spend nowadays, newly marrieds. Not what they used to. Most of them you see are saving for a house or are making down payments already. Or they've got to buy some furniture on the hire purchase and it doesn't leave anything over for having a posh honeymoon or anything of that kind. They're careful, you know, most of the young folk. They don't go bashing all their money.'
She clattered downstairs again talking briskly as she went.
Tuppence lay down on the bed to have half an hour's sleep after a somewhat tiring day. She had, however, great hopes of Mrs. Copleigh, and felt that once thoroughly rested herself, she would be able to lead the conversation to the most fruitful subjects possible. She would hear, she was sure, all about the house by the bridge, who had lived there, who had been of evil or good repute in the neighbourhood, what scandals there were and other such likely topics. She was more convinced of this than ever when she had been introduced to Mr. Copleigh, a man who barely opened his mouth. His conversation was mostly made up of amiable grunts, usually signifying an affirmative. Sometimes, in more muted tones, a disagreement.
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