By the Pricking of My Thumbs

‘Somebody was being poisoned last time we were here, I remember,’ said Tuppence.

‘Ah! that was only Mrs Lockett. It happens to her every day. But it’s not the police she wants, it’s a doctor to be called—she’s that crazy about doctors.’

‘And somebody—a little woman—calling out for cocoa—’

‘That would be Mrs Moody. Poor soul, she’s gone.’

‘You mean left here—gone away?’

‘No—it was a thrombosis took her—very sudden. She was one who was very devoted to your Aunt—not that Miss Fanshawe always had time for her—always talking nineteen to the dozen, as she did—’

‘Mrs Lancaster has left, I hear.’

‘Yes, her folk came for her. She didn’t want to go, poor thing.’

‘What was the story she told me—about the fireplace in the sitting-room?’

‘Ah! she’d lots of stories, that one—about the things that happened to her—and the secrets she knew—’

‘There was something about a child—a kidnapped child or a murdered child—’

‘It’s strange it is, the things they think up. It’s the TV as often as not that gives them the ideas—’

‘Do you find it a strain, working here with all these old people? It must be tiring.’

‘Oh no—I like old people—That’s why I took up Geriatric work—’

‘You’ve been here long?’

‘A year and a half—’ She paused. ‘—But I’m leaving next month.’

‘Oh! why?’

For the first time a certain constraint came into Nurse O’Keefe’s manner.

‘Well, you see, Mrs Beresford, one needs a change—’

‘But you’ll be doing the same kind of work?’

‘Oh yes—’ She picked up the fur stole. ‘I’m thanking you again very much—and I’m glad, too, to have something to remember Miss Fanshawe by—She was a grand old lady—You don’t find many like her nowadays.’

CHAPTER 5 (#udb4cef93-17d4-59a0-9d65-dd81fe5d7410)

Disappearance of an Old Lady (#udb4cef93-17d4-59a0-9d65-dd81fe5d7410)

Aunt Ada’s things arrived in due course. The desk was installed and admired. The little work-table dispossessed the whatnot—which was relegated to a dark corner of the hall. And the picture of the pale pink house by the canal bridge Tuppence hung over the mantelpiece in her bedroom where she could see it every morning when drinking her early morning tea.

Since her conscience still troubled her a little, Tuppence wrote a letter explaining how the picture had come into their possession but that if Mrs Lancaster would like it returned, she had only got to let them know. This she dispatched to Mrs Lancaster, c/o Mrs Johnson, at the Cleveland Hotel, George Street, London, W1.

To this there was no reply, but a week later the letter was returned with ‘Not known at this address’ scrawled on it.

‘How tiresome,’ said Tuppence.

‘Perhaps they only stayed for a night or two,’ suggested Tommy.

‘You’d think they’d have left a forwarding address—’

‘Did you put “Please forward” on it?’

‘Yes, I did. I know, I’ll ring them up and ask—They must have put an address in the hotel register—’

‘I’d let it go if I were you,’ said Tommy. ‘Why make all this fuss? I expect the old pussy has forgotten all about the picture.’

‘I might as well try.’

Tuppence sat down at the telephone and was presently connected to the Cleveland Hotel.

She rejoined Tommy in his study a few minutes later.

‘It’s rather curious, Tommy—they haven’t even been there. No Mrs Johnson—no Mrs Lancaster—no rooms booked for them—or any trace of their having stayed there before.’

‘I expect Miss Packard got the name of the hotel wrong. Wrote it down in a hurry—and then perhaps lost it—or remembered it wrong. Things like that often happen, you know.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought it would at Sunny Ridge. Miss Packard is so efficient always.’

‘Perhaps they didn’t book beforehand at the hotel and it was full, so they had to go somewhere else. You know what accommodation in London is like—Must you go on fussing?’

Tuppence retired.

Presently she came back.

‘I know what I’m going to do. I’ll ring up Miss Packard and I’ll get the address of the lawyers—’

‘What lawyers?’

‘Don’t you remember she said something about a firm of solicitors who made all the arrangements because the Johnsons were abroad?’

Tommy, who was busy over a speech he was drafting for a Conference he was shortly to attend, and murmuring under his breath—‘the proper policy if such a contingency should arise’—said: ‘How do you spell contingency, Tuppence?’

‘Did you hear what I was saying?’

‘Yes, very good idea—splendid—excellent—you do that—’

Tuppence went out—stuck her head in again and said:

‘C-o-n-s-i-s-t-e-n-c-y.’

‘Can’t be—you’ve got the wrong word.’