The Complete Tommy and Tuppence

by Agatha Christie

  ‘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 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 noticed that the small so-called greenhouse attached to the 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 was as 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?’

  ‘How do you 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 apply 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.’

  Mathilde was a rather splendid-looking horse even in decay. Its length was quite the length of any horse or mare to be found nowadays. Only a few hairs were left of what must once have been a prolific mane. One ear was broken off. It had once been painted grey. Its front legs splayed out in front and its back legs at the back; it had a wispy tail.

  ‘It doesn’t work like any rocking-horse I’ve ever seen before,’ said Tuppence, interested.

  ‘No, it don’t, do it?’ said Isaac. ‘You know, they go up and down, up and down, front to back. But this one here, you see–it sort of springs forwards. Once first, the front legs do it–whoop–and then the back legs do it. It’s a very good action. Now if I was to get on it and show you–’

  ‘Do be careful,’ said Tuppence. ‘It might–there might be nails or something which would stick into you, or you might fall off.’

  ‘Ah. I’ve ridden on Mathilde, fifty or sixty years ago it must have been, but I remember. And it’s still pretty solid, you know. It’s not really falling to bits yet.’

  With a sudden, unexpected, acrobatic action he sprang upon Mathilde. The horse raced forwards, then raced backwards.

  ‘Got action, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s got action,’ said Tuppence.

  ‘Ah, they loved that, you know. Miss Jenny, she used to ride it day after day.’

  ‘Who was Miss Jenny?’

  ‘Why, she was the eldest one, you know. She was the one that had the godfather as sent her this. Sent her Truelove, too,’ he added.

  Tuppence looked at him enquiringly. The remark did not seem to apply to any of the other contents of Kay-Kay.

  ‘That’s what they call it, you know. That little horse and cart what’s there in the corner. Used to ride it down the hill, Miss Pamela did. Very serious, she was, Miss Pamela. She’d get in at the top of the hill and she’d put her feet on there–you see, it’s meant to have pedals but
they don’t work, so she’d take it to the top of the hill and then she’d let it begin to go down the hill, and she’d put the brakes on, as it were, with her feet. Often she’d end up landing in the monkey puzzle, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘That sounds very uncomfortable,’ said Tuppence. ‘I mean, to land in the monkey puzzle.’

  ‘Ah well, she could stop herself a bit before that. Very serious, she was. She used to do that by the hour–three or four hours I’ve watched her. I was doing the Christmas rose bed very often, you know, and the pampas grass, and I’d see her going down. I didn’t speak to her because she didn’t like being spoken to. She wanted to go on with what she was doing or what she thought she was doing.’

  ‘What did she think she was doing?’ said Tuppence, beginning suddenly to get more interested in Miss Pamela than she had been in Miss Jenny.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. She used to say sometimes she was a princess, you know, escaping, or Mary, Queen of What-is-it–do I mean Ireland or Scotland?’

  ‘Mary Queen of Scots,’ suggested Tuppence.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. She went away or something, or escaped. Went into a castle. Lock something it was called. Not a real lock, you know, a piece of water, it was.’

  ‘Ah yes, I see. And Pamela thought she was Mary Queen of Scots escaping from her enemies?’

  ‘That’s right. Going to throw herself into England on Queen Elizabeth’s mercy, she said, but I don’t think as Queen Elizabeth was very merciful.’

  ‘Well,’ said Tuppence, masking any disappointment she felt, ‘it’s all very interesting, I’m sure. Who were these people, did you say?’

  ‘Oh, they were the Listers, they were.’

  ‘Did you ever know a Mary Jordan?’

  ‘Ah, I know who you mean. No, she was before my time a bit, I think. You mean the German spy girl, don’t you?’

  ‘Everyone seems to know about her here,’ said Tuppence.

  ‘Yes. They called her the Frow Line, or something. Sounds like a railway.’

  ‘It does rather,’ said Tuppence.

  Isaac suddenly laughed. ‘Ha, ha, ha,’ he said. ‘If it was a railway, a line, a railway line, oh, it didn’t run straight, did it? No, indeed.’ He laughed again.

  ‘What a splendid joke,’ said Tuppence kindly.

  Isaac laughed again.

  ‘It’s about time,’ he said, ‘you thought of putting some vegetables in, isn’t it? You know, if you want to get your broad beans on in good time you ought to put ’em in and prepare for the peas. And what about some early lettuce? Tom Thumbs now? Beautiful lettuce, those, small but crisp as anything.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve done a lot of gardening work round here. I don’t mean just this house, but a lot of places.’

  ‘Ah yes, I’ve done odd jobbing, you know. I used to come along to most of the houses. Some of the gardeners they had weren’t any good at all and I’d usually come in and help at certain times or other. Had a bit of an accident here once, you know. Mistake about vegetables. Before my time–but I heard about it.’

  ‘Something about foxglove leaves, wasn’t it?’ said Tuppence.

  ‘Ah, fancy you having heard of that already. That was a long time ago, too. Yes, several was taken ill with it. One of them died. At least so I heard. That was only hearsay. Old pal of mine told me that.’

  ‘I think it was the Frow Line,’ said Tuppence.

  ‘What, the Frow Line as died? Well, I never heard that.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I’m wrong,’ said Tuppence. ‘Supposing you take Truelove,’ she said, ‘or whatever this thing’s called, and put it on the hill in the place where that child, Pamela, used to take it down the hill–if the hill is still there.’

  ‘Well, of course the hill is still there. What do you think? It’s all grass still, but be careful now. I don’t know how much of Truelove is rusted away. I’ll have a bit of a clean-up on it first, shall I?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Tuppence, ‘and then you can think of a list of vegetables that we ought to be getting on with.’

  ‘Ah well, I’ll be careful you don’t get foxglove and spinach planted together. Shouldn’t like to hear that something happened to you when you’ve just got into a new house. Nice place here if you can just have a little money to spend on it.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Tuppence.

  ‘And I’ll just see to that there Truelove so it won’t break down under you. It’s very old but you’d be surprised the way some old things work. Why, I knew a cousin of mine the other day and he got out an old bicycle. You wouldn’t think it would go–nobody had ridden it for about forty years. But it went all right with a bit of oil. Ah, it’s wonderful what a bit of oil can do.’

  Chapter 3

  Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

  ‘What on earth–’ said Tommy.

  He was used to finding Tuppence in unlikely spots when he returned to the house, but on this occasion he was more startled than usual.

  Inside the house there was no trace of her, although outside there was a very slight patter of rain. It occurred to him that she might be engrossed in some portion of the garden, and he went out to see if this might be the case. And it was then that he remarked, ‘What on earth–’

  ‘Hullo, Tommy,’ said Tuppence, ‘you’re back a bit earlier than I thought you would be.’

  ‘What is that thing?’

  ‘You mean Truelove?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said Truelove,’ said Tuppence, ‘that’s the name of it.’

  ‘Are you trying to go for a ride on it–it’s much too small for you.’

  ‘Well, of course it is. It’s a child’s sort of thing–what you had, I suppose, before you had fairy-cycles, or whatever one had in my youth.’

  ‘It doesn’t really go, does it?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ said Tuppence, ‘but you see, you take it up to the top of the hill and then it–well, its wheels turn of their own accord, you see, and because of the hill you go down.’

  ‘And crash at the bottom, I suppose. Is that what you’ve been doing?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Tuppence. ‘You brake it with your feet. Would you like me to give you a demonstration?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Tommy. ‘It’s beginning to rain rather harder. I just wanted to know why you–well, why you’re doing it. I mean, it can’t be very enjoyable, can it?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Tuppence, ‘it’s rather frightening. But you see I just wanted to find out and–’

  ‘And are you asking this tree? What is this tree, anyway? A monkey puzzle, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Tuppence. ‘How clever of you to know.’

  ‘Of course I know,’ said Tommy. ‘I know its other name, too.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Tuppence.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Only at the moment I’ve forgotten it,’ said Tommy. ‘Is it an arti–’

  ‘Well, it’s something very like that,’ said Tuppence. ‘I think that’s good enough, don’t you?’

  ‘What are you doing inside a prickly thing like that?’

  ‘Well, because when you get to the end of the hill, I mean, if you didn’t put your feet down to stop completely you could be in the arti–or whatever it is.’

  ‘Do I mean arti–? What about urticaria? No, that’s nettles, isn’t it? Oh well,’ said Tommy, ‘everyone to their own kind of amusement.’

  ‘I was just doing a little investigation, you know, of our latest problem.’

  ‘Your problem? My problem? Whose problem?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tuppence. ‘Both our problems, I hope.’

  ‘But not one of Beatrice’s problems, or anything like that?’

  ‘Oh no. It’s just that I wondered what other things there might be hidden in this house, so I went and looked at a lot of toys that seem to have been shoved away in a sort of queer old greenhouse probably years and years ago a
nd there was this creature and there was Mathilde, which is a rocking-horse with a hole in its stomach.’

  ‘A hole in its stomach?’

  ‘Well, yes. People, I suppose, used to shove things in there. Children–for fun–and lots of old leave sand dirty papers and bits of sort of queer dusters and flannel, oily stuff that had been used to clean things with.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go into the house,’ said Tommy.

  II

  ‘Well, Tommy,’ said Tuppence, as she stretched out her feet to a pleasant wood fire which she had lit already for his return in the drawing-room, ‘let’s have your news. Did you go to the Ritz Hotel Gallery to see the show?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t time, really.’

  ‘What do you mean, you hadn’t time? I thought that’s what you went for.’

  ‘Well, one doesn’t always do the things that one went for.’

  ‘You must have gone somewhere and done something,’ said Tuppence.

  ‘I found a new possible place to park a car.’

  ‘That’s always useful,’ said Tuppence. ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Near Hounslow.’

  ‘What on earth did you want to go to Hounslow for?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t actually go to Hounslow. There’s a sort of car park there, then I took a tube, you know.’

  ‘What, a tube to London?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it seemed the easiest way.’

  ‘You have rather a guilty look about you,’ said Tuppence. ‘Don’t tell me I have a rival who lives in Hounslow?’

  ‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘You ought to be pleased with what I’ve been doing.’

  ‘Oh. Have you been buying me a present?’

  ‘No. No,’ said Tommy, ‘I’m afraid not. I never know what to give you, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Well, your guesses are very good sometimes,’ said Tuppence hopefully. ‘What have you been really doing, Tommy, and why should I be pleased?’

  ‘Because I, too,’ said Tommy, ‘have been doing research.’

  ‘Everyone’s doing research nowadays,’ said Tuppence. ‘You know, all the teenagers and all one’s nephews or cousins or other people’s sons and daughters, they’re all doing research. I don’t know actually what they do research into nowadays, but they never seem to do it, whatever it is, afterwards. They just have the research and a good time doing the research and they’re very pleased with themselves and–well, I don’t quite know what does come next.’