The Complete Tommy and Tuppence

by Agatha Christie

  “No. Oh no, there was nothing of that sort. The story is, you see, that he had to get rid of the body and he walled her up in the fireplace.”

  “Walled her up in the fireplace!”

  “Some ways they tell it, they say she was a nun, and she had run away from a convent and that’s why she had to be walled up. That’s what they do at convents.”

  “But it wasn’t nuns who walled her up.”

  “No, no. He did it. Her lover, what had done her in. And he bricked up all the fireplace, they say, and nailed a big sheet of iron over it. Anyway, she was never seen again, poor soul, walking about in her fine dresses. Some said, of course, she’d gone away with him. Gone away to live in town or back to some other place. People used to hear noises and see lights in the house, and a lot of people don’t go near it after dark.”

  “But what happened later?” said Tuppence, feeling that to go back beyond the reign of Queen Victoria seemed a little too far into the past for what she was looking for.

  “Well, I don’t rightly know as there was very much. A farmer called Blodgick took it over when it came up for sale, I believe. He weren’t there long either. What they called a gentleman farmer. That’s why he liked the house, I suppose, but the farming land wasn’t much use to him, and he didn’t know how to deal with it. So he sold it again. Changed hands ever so many times it has—Always builders coming along and making alterations—new bathrooms—that sort of thing—A couple had it who were doing chicken farming, I believe, at one time. But it got a name, you know, for being unlucky. But all that’s a bit before my time. I believe Mr. Boscowan himself thought of buying it at one time. That was when he painted the picture of it.”

  “What sort of age was Mr. Boscowan when he was down here?”

  “Forty, I would say, or maybe a bit more than that. He was a good-looking man in his way. Run into fat a bit, though. Great one for the girls, he was.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Copleigh. It was a warning grunt this time.

  “Ah well, we all know what artists are like,” said Mrs. Copleigh, including Tuppence in this knowledge. “Go over to France a lot, you know, and get French ways, they do.”

  “He wasn’t married?”

  “Not then he wasn’t. Not when he was first down here. Bit keen he was on Mrs. Charrington’s daughter, but nothing came of it. She was a lovely girl, though, but too young for him. She wasn’t more than twenty-five.”

  “Who was Mrs. Charrington?” Tuppence felt bewildered at this introduction of new characters.

  “What the hell am I doing here, anyway?” she thought suddenly as waves of fatigue swept over her—“I’m just listening to a lot of gossip about people, and imagining things like murder which aren’t true at all. I can see now—It started when a nice but addleheaded old pussy got a bit mixed up in her head and began reminiscing about stories this Mr. Boscowan, or someone like him who may have given the picture to her, told about the house and the legends about it, of someone being walled up alive in a fireplace and she thought it was a child for some reason. And here I am going round investigating mares’ nests. Tommy told me I was a fool, and he was quite right—I am a fool.”

  She waited for a break to occur in Mrs. Copleigh’s even flow of conversation, so that she could rise, say good night politely and go upstairs to bed.

  Mrs. Copleigh was still in full and happy spate.

  “Mrs. Charrington? Oh, she lived in Watermead for a bit,” said Mrs. Copleigh. “Mrs. Charrington, and her daughter. She was a nice lady, she was, Mrs. Charrington. Widow of an army officer, I believe. Badly off, but the house was being rented cheap. Did a lot of gardening. She was very fond of gardening. Not much good at keeping the house clean, she wasn’t. I went and obliged for her, once or twice, but I couldn’t keep it up. I had to go on my bicycle, you see, and it’s over two miles. Weren’t any buses along that road.”

  “Did she live there long?”

  “Not more than two or three years, I think. Got scared, I expect, after the troubles came. And then she had her own troubles about her daughter, too. Lilian, I think her name was.”

  Tuppence took a draught of the strong tea with which the meal was fortified, and resolved to get finished with Mrs. Charrington before seeking repose.

  “What was the trouble about the daughter? Mr. Boscowan?”

  “No, it wasn’t Mr. Boscowan as got her into trouble. I’ll never believe that. It was the other one.”

  “Who was the other one?” asked Tuppence. “Someone else who lived down here?”

  “I don’t think he lived down in these parts. Someone she’d met up in London. She went up there to study ballet dancing, would it be? Or art? Mr. Boscowan arranged for her to join some school there. Slate I think its name was.”

  “Slade?” suggested Tuppence.

  “May have been. That sort of name. Anyway, she used to go up there and that’s how she got to know this fellow, whoever he was. Her mother didn’t like it. She forbade her to meet him. Fat lot of good that was likely to do. She was a silly woman in some ways. Like a lot of those army officers’ wives were, you know. She thought girls would do as they were told. Behind the times, she was. Been out in India and those parts, but when it’s a question of a good-looking young fellow and you take your eye off a girl, you won’t find she’s doing what you told her. Not her. He used to come down here now and then and they used to meet outside.”

  “And then she got into trouble, did she?” Tuppence said, using the well-known euphemism, hoping that under that form it would not offend Mr. Copleigh’s sense of propriety.

  “Must have been him, I suppose. Anyway, there it was plain as plain. I saw how it was long before her own mother did. Beautiful creature, she was. Big and tall and handsome. But I don’t think, you know, that she was one that could stand up to things. She’d break up, you know. She used to walk about rather wildlike, muttering to herself. If you ask me he treated her bad, that fellow did. Went away and left her when he found out what was happening. Of course, a mother as was a mother would have gone and talked to him and made him see where his duty lay, but Mrs. Charrington, she wouldn’t have had the spirit to do that. Anyway, her mother got wise, and she took the girl away. Shut up the house, she did and afterwards it was put up for sale. They came back to pack up, I believe, but they never came to the village or said anything to anyone. They never come back here, neither of them. There was some story got around. I never knew if there was any truth in it.”

  “Some folk’ll make up anything,” said Mr. Copleigh unexpectedly.

  “Well, you’re right there, George. Still they may have been true. Such things happen. And as you say, that girl didn’t look quite right in the head to me.”

  “What was the story?” demanded Tuppence.

  “Well, really, I don’t like to say. It’s a long time since and I wouldn’t like to say anything as I wasn’t sure of it. It was Mrs. Badcock’s Louise who put it about. Awful liar that girl was. The things she’d say. Anything to make up a good story.”

  “But what was it?” said Tuppence.

  “Said this Charrington girl had killed the baby and after that killed herself. Said her mother went half mad with grief and her relations had to put her in a nursing home.”

  Again Tuppence felt confusion mounting in her head. She felt almost as though she was swaying in her chair. Could Mrs. Charrington be Mrs. Lancaster? Changed her name, gone slightly batty, obsessed about her daughter’s fate. Mrs. Copleigh’s voice was going on remorselessly.

  “I never believed a word of that myself. That Badcock girl would say anything. We weren’t listening much to hearsay and stories just then—we’d had other things to worry about. Scared stiff we’d been, all over the countryside on account of the things that had been going on—real things—”

  “Why? What had been happening?” asked Tuppence, marvelling at the things that seemed to happen, and to centre round the peaceful-looking village of Sutton Chancellor.

  “I daresay as you’ll
have read about it all in the papers at the time. Let’s see, near as possible it would have been twenty years ago. You’ll have read about it for sure. Child murders. Little girl of nine years old first. Didn’t come home from school one day. Whole neighbourhood was out searching for her. Dingley Copse she was found in. Strangled, she’d been. It makes me shiver still to think of it. Well, that was the first, then about three weeks later another. The other side of Market Basing, that was. But within the district, as you might say. A man with a car could have done it easy enough.

  “And then there were others. Not for a month or two sometimes. And then there’d be another one. Not more than a couple of miles from here, one was; almost in the village, though.”

  “Didn’t the police—didn’t anyone know who’d done it?”

  “They tried hard enough,” said Mrs. Copleigh. “Detained a man quite soon, they did. Someone from t’other side of Market Basing. Said he was helping them in their inquiries. You know what that always means. They think they’ve got him. They pulled in first one and then another but always after twenty-four hours or so they had to let him go again. Found out he couldn’t have done it or wasn’t in these parts or somebody gave him an alibi.”

  “You don’t know, Liz,” said Mr. Copleigh. “They may have known quite well who done it. I’d say they did. That’s often the way of it, or so I’ve heard. The police know who it is but they can’t get the evidence.”

  “That’s wives, that is,” said Mrs. Copleigh, “wives or mothers or fathers even. Even the police can’t do much no matter what they may think. A mother says ‘my boy was here that night at dinner’ or his young lady says she went to the pictures with him that night, and he was with her the whole time, or a father says that he and his son were out in the far field together doing something—well, you can’t do anything against it. They may think the father or the mother or his sweetheart’s lying, but unless someone else come along and say they saw the boy or the man or whatever it is in some other place, there’s not much they can do. It was a terrible time. Right het up we all were round here. When we heard another child was missing we’d make parties up.”

  “Aye, that’s right,” said Mr. Copleigh.

  “When they’d got together they’d go out and they’d search. Sometimes they found her at once and sometimes they wouldn’t find her for weeks. Sometimes she was quite near her home in a place you’d have thought we must have looked at already. Maniac, I suppose it must have been. It’s awful,” said Mrs. Copleigh in a righteous tone, “it’s awful, that there should be men like that. They ought to be shot. They ought to be strangled themselves. And I’d do it to them for one, if anyone would let me. Any man who kills children and assaults them. What’s the good putting them in loony bins and treating them with all the home comforts and living soft. And then sooner or later they let ’em out again, say they’re cured and send them home. That happened somewhere in Norfolk. My sister lives there and she told me about it. He went back home and two days later he’d done in someone else. Crazy they are, these doctors, some of them, saying these men are cured when they are not.”

  “And you’ve no idea down here who it might have been?” said Tuppence. “Do you think really it was a stranger?”

  “Might have been a stranger to us. But it must have been someone living within—oh! I’d say a range of twenty miles around. It mightn’t have been here in this village.”

  “You always thought it was, Liz.”

  “You get het up,” said Mrs. Copleigh. “You think it’s sure to be here in your own neighbourhood because you’re afraid, I suppose. I used to look at people. So did you, George. You’d say to yourself I wonder if it could be that chap, he’s seemed a bit queer lately. That sort of thing.”

  “I don’t suppose really he looked queer at all,” said Tuppence. “He probably looked just like everyone else.”

  “Yes, it could be you’ve got something there. I’ve heard it said that you wouldn’t know, and whoever it was had never seemed mad at all, but other people say there’s always a terrible glare in their eyes.”

  “Jeffreys, he was the sergeant of police here then,” said Mr. Copleigh, “he always used to say he had a good idea but there was nothing doing.”

  “They never caught the man?”

  “No. Over six months it was, nearly a year. Then the whole thing stopped. And there’s never been anything of that kind round here since. No, I think he must have gone away. Gone away altogether. That’s what makes people think they might know who it was.”

  “You mean because of people who did leave the district?”

  “Well, of course it made people talk, you know. They’d say it might be so-and-so.”

  Tuppence hesitated to ask the next question, but she felt that with Mrs. Copleigh’s passion for talking it wouldn’t matter if she did.

  “Who did you think it was?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s that long ago I’d hardly like to say. But there was names mentioned. Talked of, you know, and looked at. Some as thought it might be Mr. Boscowan.”

  “Did they?”

  “Yes, being an artist and all, artists are queer. They say that. But I didn’t think it was him!”

  “There was more as said it was Amos Perry,” said Mr. Copleigh.

  “Mrs. Perry’s husband?”

  “Yes. He’s a bit queer, you know, simpleminded. He’s the sort of chap that might have done it.”

  “Were the Perrys living here then?”

  “Yes. Not at Watermead. They had a cottage about four or five miles away. Police had an eye on him, I’m sure of that.”

  “Couldn’t get anything on him, though,” said Mrs. Copleigh. “His wife spoke for him always. Stayed at home with her in the evenings, he did. Always, she said. Just went along sometimes to the pub on a Saturday night, but none of these murders took place on a Saturday night, so there wasn’t anything in that. Besides, Alice Perry was the kind you’d believe when she gave evidence. She’d never let up or back down. You couldn’t frighten her out of it. Anyway, he’s not the one. I never thought so. I know I’ve nothing to go on but I’ve a sort of feeling if I’d had to put my finger on anyone I’d have put it on Sir Philip.”

  “Sir Philip?” Again Tuppence’s head reeled. Yet another character was being introduced. Sir Philip. “Who’s Sir Philip?” she asked.

  “Sir Philip Starke—Lives up in the Warrender House. Used to be called the Old Priory when the Warrenders lived in it—before it burnt down. You can see the Warrender graves in the churchyard and tablets in the church, too. Always been Warrenders here practically since the time of King James.”

  “Was Sir Philip a relation of the Warrenders?”

  “No. Made his money in a big way, I believe, or his father did. Steelworks or something of that kind. Odd sort of man was Sir Philip. The works were somewhere up north, but he lived here. Kept to himself he did. What they call a rec—rec—rec-something.”

  “Recluse,” suggested Tuppence.

  “That’s the word I’m looking for. Pale he was, you know, and thin and bony and fond of flowers. He was a botanist. Used to collect all sorts of silly little wild flowers, the kind you wouldn’t look at twice. He even wrote a book on them, I believe. Oh yes, he was clever, very clever. His wife was a nice lady, and very handsome, but sad looking, I always thought.”

  Mr. Copleigh uttered one of his grunts. “You’re daft,” he said. “Thinking it might have been Sir Philip. He was fond of children, Sir Philip was. He was always giving parties for them.”

  “Yes I know. Always giving fêtes, having lovely prizes for the children. Egg and spoon races—all those strawberry and cream teas he’d give. He’d no children of his own, you see. Often he’d stop children in a lane and give them a sweet or give them a sixpence to buy sweets. But I don’t know. I think he overdid it. He was an odd man. I thought there was something wrong when his wife suddenly up and left him.”

  “When did his wife leave him?”

  “It’d b
e about six months after all this trouble began. Three children had been killed by then. Lady Starke went away suddenly to the south of France and she never came back. She wasn’t the kind, you’d say, to do that. She was a quiet lady, respectable. It’s not as though she left him for any other man. No, she wasn’t the kind to do that. So why did she go and leave him? I always say it’s because she knew something—found out about something—”

  “Is he still living here?”

  “Not regular, he isn’t. He comes down once or twice a year but the house is kept shut up most of the time with a caretaker there. Miss Bligh in the village—she used to be his secretary—she sees to things for him.”

  “And his wife?”

  “She’s dead, poor lady. Died soon after she went abroad. There’s a tablet put up to her in the church. Awful for her it would be. Perhaps she wasn’t sure at first, then perhaps she began to suspect her husband, and then perhaps she got to be quite sure. She couldn’t bear it and she went away.”

  “The things you women imagine,” said Mr. Copleigh.

  “All I say is there was something that wasn’t right about Sir Philip. He was too fond of children, I think, and it wasn’t in a natural kind of way.”

  “Women’s fancies,” said Mr. Copleigh.

  Mrs. Copleigh got up and started to move things off the table.

  “About time,” said her husband. “You’ll give this lady here bad dreams if you go on about things as were over years ago and have nothing to do with anyone here any more.”

  “It’s been very interesting hearing,” said Tuppence. “But I am very sleepy. I think I’d better go to bed now.”

  “Well, we usually goes early to bed,” said Mrs. Copleigh, “and you’ll be tired after the long day you’ve had.”

  “I am. I’m frightfully sleepy.” Tuppence gave a large yawn. “Well, good night and thank you very much.”

  “Would you like a call and a cup of tea in the morning? Eight o’clock too early for you?”

  “No, that would be fine,” said Tuppence. “But don’t bother if it’s a lot of trouble.”