'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 tubes. 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 in 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.'
Chapter 2
INTRODUCTION TO MATHILDE, TRUELOVE AND KK
Tuppence, on the following morning, went in search of that well-known public character in the village known usually as Old Isaac, or, on formal occasions if one could remember, Mr Bodlicott. Isaac Bodlicott was one of the local 'characters'. He was a character because of his age - he claimed to be ninety (not generally believed) - and he was able to do repairs of many curious kinds. If your efforts to ring up the plumber met with no response, you went to old Isaac Bodlicott. Mr Bodlicott, whether or not he was in any way qualified for the repairs he did, had been well acquainted for many of the years of his long life with every type of sanitation problem, bath water problems, difficulties with geysers, and sundry electrical problems on the side. His charges compared favourably with a real live qualified plumber, and his repairs were often surprisingly successful. He could do carpentering, he could attend to locks, he could hang pictures - rather crookedly sometimes - he understood about the springs of derelict armchairs. The main disadvantage of Mr Bodlicott's attentions was his garrulous habit of incessant conversation slightly hampered by a difficulty in adjusting his false teeth in such a way as to make what he said intelligible in his pronunciation. His memories of past inhabitants of the neighbourho
od seemed to be unlimited. It was difficult, on the whole, to know how reliable they might be. Mr Bodlicott was not one to shirk giving himself the pleasure of retailing some really good story of past days. These flights of fancy, claimed usually as flights of memory, were usually ushered in with the same type of statement.
'You'd be surprised, you would, if I could tell you what I knew about that one. Yes indeed. Well, you know, everybody thought they knew all about it, but they were wrong. Absolutely wrong. It was the elder sister, you know. Yes, it was. Such a nice girl she seemed. It was the butcher's dog that gave them all the clue. Followed her home, he did. Yes. Only it wasn't her own home, as you might say. Ah well, I could tell you a lot more about that. Then there was old Mrs Atkins. Nobody knew as she kept a revolver in the house, but I knew. I knew when I was sent for to mend her tallboy - that's what they call those high chests, isn't it? Yes. Tallboys. Well, that's right. Well, there she was, seventy-five, and in that drawer, the drawer of the tallboy as I went, you know, to mend - the hinges had gone, the lock too - that's where the revolver was. Wrapped up, it was, with a pair of women's shoes. No. 3 size. Or, I'm not sure as it wasn't No. 2. White satin. Tiny little foot. Her great-grandmother's wedding shoes, she said. Maybe. But somebody said she bought them at a curiosity shop once but I don't know about that. And there was the revolver wrapped up too. Yes. Well, they said as her son had brought it back. Brought it back from East Africa, he did. He'd been out there shooting elephants or something of that kind. And when he come home he brought this revolver. And do you know what that old lady used to do? Her son had taught her how to shoot. She'd sit by her drawing-room window looking out and when people came up the drive she'd have her revolver with her and she'd shoot either side of them. Yes. Got them frightened to death and they ran away. She said she wouldn't have anyone coming in and disturbing the birds. Very keen on the birds, she was. Mind you, she never shot a bird. No, she didn't want to do that. Then there was all the stories about Mrs Letherby. Nearly had up, she was. Yes, shoplifting. Very clever at it, so they say. And yet as rich as they make them.'
Having persuaded Mr Bodlicott to replace the skylight in the bathroom, Tuppence wondered if she could direct his conversation to any memory of the past which would be useful to Tommy and herself in solving the mystery of the concealment in their house of some treasure or interesting secret of whose nature they had no knowledge whatever.
Old Isaac Bodlicott made no difficulties about coming to do repairs for the new tenants to the place. It was one of his pleasures in life to meet as many newcomers as possible. It was in his life one of the main events to be able to come across people who had not so far heard any of his splendid memories and reminiscences. Those who were well acquainted with them did not often encourage him to repeat these tales. But a new audience! That was always a pleasant happening. That and displaying the wonderful amount of trades that he managed to combine among his various services to the community in which he lived. It was his pleasure to indulge in a running commentary.
'Luck it was, as old Joe didn't get cut. Might have ripped his face open.'
'Yes, it might indeed.'
'There's a bit more glass wants sweeping up on the floor still, missus.'
'I know,' said Tuppence, 'we haven't had time yet.'
'Ah, but you can't take risks with glass. You know what glass is. A little splinter can do you all the harm in the world. Die of it, you can, if it gets into a blood vessel. I remember Miss Lavinia Shotacomb. You wouldn't believe...'
Tuppence was not tempted by Miss Lavinia Shotacomb. She had heard her mentioned by other local characters. She had apparently been between seventy and eighty, quite deaf and almost blind.
'I suppose,' said Tuppence, breaking in before Isaac's reminiscences of Lavinia Shotacomb could begin, that you must know a lot about all the various people and the extraordinary things that have happened in this place in the past.'
'Aw well, I'm not as young as I was, you know. Over eighty-five, I am. Going on for ninety. I've always had a good memory. There are things, you know, you don't forget. No. However long it is, something reminds you of it, you know, and brings it all back to you. The things I could tell you, you wouldn't believe.'
'Well, it's really wonderful, isn't it,' said Tuppence, 'to think how much you must know about what a lot of extraordinary people.'
'Ah no there's no accounting for people, is there? Ones that aren't what you think they are, sometimes things as you wouldn't have believed in about them.'
'Spies, I suppose, sometimes,' said Tuppence, 'or criminals.'
She looked at him hopefully... Old Isaac bent and picked up a splinter of glass.
'Here you are,' he said. 'How'd you feel if that got in the sole of your foot?'
Tuppence began to feel that the replenishing of a glass skylight was not going to yield much in the way of Isaac's more exciting memories of the past. She mentioned that the small so-called greenhouse attached to a wall of the house near the dining-room window was also in need of repair and replacement by an outlay of money upon glass. Would it be worth repairing or would it be better to have it pulled down? Isaac was quite pleased to transfer himself to this fresh problem. They went downstairs, and outside the house walked round its walls until they came to the erection in question.
'Ah, you mean that there, do you?'
Tuppence said yes, she did mean that there.
'Kay-kay,' said Isaac.
Tuppence looked at him. Two letters of the alphabet such as KK really meant nothing to her.
'What did you say?'
'I said KK. That's what it used to be called in old Mrs Lottie Jones's time.'
'Oh. Why did she call it KK?'
'I dunno. It was a sort of - sort of name I suppose they used to have for places like this. You know, it wasn't grand. Bigger houses have a real conservatory. You know, where they'd have maidenhair ferns in pots.'
'Yes,' said Tuppence, her own memories going back easily to such things.
'And a greenhouse you can call it, too. But this here, KK old Mrs Lottie Jones used to call it. I dunno why.'
'Did they have maidenhair ferns in it?'
'No, it wasn't used for that. No. The children had it for toys mostly. Well, when you say toys I expect they're here still if nobody has turned them out. You see, it's half falling down, isn't it? They just stuck up a bit then they put a bit of roofing over and I don't suppose that anyone will use it again. They used to bring the broken toys, or chairs out here and things like that. But then, you see, they already had the rocking-horse there and Truelove in the far corner.'
'Can we get inside it?' asked Tuppence, trying to apply her eye to a slightly clearer portion of a pane of window. 'There must be a lot of queer things inside.'
'Ah well, there's the key,' said Isaac. 'I expect it's hanging up in the same place.'
'Where's the same place?'
'Ah, there's a shed round here.'
They went round an adjacent path. The shed was hardly worthy of being called a shed. Isaac kicked its door open, removed various bits of branches of trees, kicked away some rotting apples and, removing an old doormat hanging on the wall, showed three or four rusty keys hanging up on a nail.
'Lindop's keys, those,' he said. 'Last but one as was living here as gardener. Retired basket-maker, he was. Didn't do no good at anything. If you'd like to see inside KK -?'
'Oh yes,' said Tuppence hopefully. 'I'd like to see inside KK. How do you spell it?' she asked.
'How do I spell what?'
'I mean KK. Is it just two letters?'
'No. I think it was something different. I think it was two foreign words. I seem to remember now K-A-I and then another K-A-I. Kay-Kay, or Kye-Kye almost, they used to say it. I think it was a Japanese word.'
'Oh,' said Tuppence. 'Did any Japanese people ever live here?'
'Oh no, nothing like that. No. Not that kind of foreigner.'
The application of a little oil, which Isaac seemed to produce and app
ly quite quickly, had a wonderful effect on the rustiest of the keys which, inserted in the door and turned with a grinding noise, could be pushed open. Tuppence and her guide went in.
'There you are,' said Isaac, not displaying any particular pride in the objects within. 'Nothing but old rubbish, is it?'
'That's a rather wonderful-looking horse,' said Tuppence.
'That's Mackild, that is,' said Isaac.
'Mack-ild?' said Tuppence, rather doubtfully.
'Yes. It's a woman's name of some kind. Queen somebody, it was. Somebody said as it was William the Conqueror's wife but I think they were just boasting about that. Come from America, it did. American godfather brought it to one of the children.'
'To one of the -?'
'One of the Bassington children, that was. Before the other lot. I dunno. I suppose it's all rusted up now.'
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