By the Pricking of My Thumbs tat-4 Read online

  '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, simple minded. 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 there and 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 parties, 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 be 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.'

  'No trouble at all,' said Mrs. Copleigh.

  Tuppence pulled herself wearily up to bed. She opened her suitcase, took out the few things she needed, undressed, washed and dropped into bed. It was true what she had told Mrs. Copleigh. She was dead tired. The things she had heard passed through her head in a kind of kaleidoscope of moving figures and of all sorts of horrific imaginings. Dead children too many dead children. Tuppence wanted just one dead child behind a fireplace. The fireplace had to do perhaps with Waterside. The child's doll. A child that had been killed by a demented young girl driven off her rather weak brains by the fact that her lover had deserted her. Oh dear me, what melodramatic language I'm using, thought Tuppence. All such a muddle-the chronology all mixed up-one can't be sure what happened when.

  She went to sleep and dreamt. There was a kind of Lady of Shalott looking out of the window of the house. There was a scratching noise coming from the chimney. Blows were coming from behind a great iron plate nailed up there. The clanging sounds of the hammer. Clang, clang, clang. Tuppence woke up. It was Mrs. Copleigh knocking on the door. She came in brightly, put the tea down by Tuppence's bed, pulled the curtains, hoped Tuppence had slept well. No one had ever, Tuppence thought, looked more cheerful than Mrs. Copleigh did. She had had no bad dreams!

  Chapter 9. A Morning in Market Basing
/>   'Ah well,' said Mrs. Copleigh, as she bustled out of the room. 'Another day. That's what I always when I wake up.'

  'Another day?' thought Tuppence, sipping strong black tea. 'I wonder if I'm making an idiot of myself…? Could be… Wish I had Tommy here to talk to. Last night muddled me.'

  Before she left her room, Tuppence made entries in her notebook on the various facts and names that she had heard the night before, which she had been far too tired to do when she went up to bed. Melodramatic stories, of the past, containing perhaps grains of truth here and there but mostly hearsay, malice, gossip, romantic imagination.

  'Really,' thought Tuppence. 'I'm beginning to know the love lives of a quantity of people right back to the eighteenth century, I think. But what does it all amount to? And what am I looking for? I don't even know any longer. The awful thing is that I've got involved and I can't leave off.'

  Having a shrewd suspicion that the first thing she might be getting involved with was Miss Bligh, whom Tuppence recognized as the overall menace of Sutton Chancellor, she circumvented all kind offers of help by driving off to Market Basing post haste, only pausing, when the car was accosted by Miss Bligh with shrill cries, to explain to that lady that she had an urgent appointment… When would she be back? Tuppence was vague. Would she care to lunch?-Very kind of Miss Bligh, but Tuppence was afraid… 'Tea, then. Four-thirty I'll expect you.' It was almost a Royal Command. Tuppence smiled, nodded, let in the clutch and drove on.

  Possibly, Tuppence thought-if she got anything interesting out of the house agents in Market Basing-Nellie Bligh might provide additional useful information. She was the kind of woman who prided herself on knowing all about everyone. The snag was that she would be determined to know all about Tuppence. Possibly by this afternoon Tuppence would have recovered sufficiently to be once more her own inventive self.

  'Remember, Mrs. Blenkinsop,' said Tuppence, edging round a sharp corner and squeezing into a hedge to avoid being annihilated by a frolicsome tractor of immense bulk.

  Arrived in Market Basing she put the car in a parking lot in the main square, and went into the post office and entered a vacant telephone box.

  The voice of Albert answered-using his usual response-a single 'Hallo' uttered in a suspicious voice.

  'Listen, Albert-I'll be home tomorrow. In time for dinner, anyway-perhaps earlier. Mr. Beresford will be back, too, unless he rings up. Get us something-chicken, I think.'

  'Right, Madam. Where are you?'

  But Tuppence had rung off.

  The life of Market Basing seemed centred in its important main square-Tuppence had consulted a classified directory before leaving the post office and three out of the four house and estate agents were situated in the square-the fourth in something called George Street.

  Tuppence scribbled down the names and went out to look for them.

  She started with Messrs. Lovebody amp; Slicker which appeared to be the most imposing.

  A girl with spots received her.

  'I want to make some inquiries about a house.'

  The girl received this news without interest. Tuppence might have been inquiring about some rare animal.

  'I don't know, I'm sure,' said the girl, looking round to ascertain if there was one of her colleagues to whom she could pass Tuppence on.

  'A house,' said Tuppence. 'You are house agents, aren't you?'

  'House agents and auctioneers. The Cranberry Court auction's on Wednesday if it's that you're interested in, catalogues two shillings.'

  'I'm not interested in auctions. I want to ask about a house.'

  'Furnished?'

  'Unfurnished. To buy-or rent.'

  Spots brightened a little.

  'I think you'd better see Mr. Slicker.'

  Tuppence was all for seeing Mr. Slicker and was presently seated in a small office opposite a tweed-suited young man in horsy checks, who began turning over a large number of particulars of desirable residences-murmuring comments to himself… '8 Mandeville Road-architect built, three bed, American kitchen. Oh, no, that's gone-Amabel Lodge picturesque residence, four acres-reduced price for quick sale…'

  Tuppence interrupted him forcefully: 'I have seen a house I like the look of. In Sutton Chancellor-or rather, near Sutton Chancellor-by a canal-'

  'Sutton Chancellor,' Mr. Slicker looked doubtful-'I don't think we have any property there on our books at present. What name?'

  'It doesn't seem to have any written up-Possibly Waterside. Rivermead-once called Bridge House. I gather,' said Tuppence, 'the house is in two parts. One half is let but the tenant there could not tell me anything about the other half, which fronts on the canal and which is the one in which I am interested. It appears to be unoccupied.'

  Mr. Slicker said distantly that he was afraid he couldn't help her, but condescended to supply the information that perhaps Messrs. Blodget amp; Burgess might do so. By the tone in his voice the clerk seemed to imply this Messrs. Blodget amp; Burgess were a very inferior firm.

  Tuppence transferred herself to Messrs. Blodget amp; Burgess who were on the opposite side of the square-and whose premises closely resembled those of Messrs. Lovebody amp; Slicker-the same kind of sale bills and forthcoming auctions in their rather grimy windows. Their front door had recently been repainted a rather bilious shade of green, if that was accounted to be a merit.

  The reception arrangements were equally discouraging, and Tuppence was given over to a Mr. Sprig, an elderly man of apparently despondent disposition. Once more Tuppence retailed her wants and requirements.

  Mr. Sprig admitted to being aware of the existence of the residence in question, but was not helpful, or as far as it seemed, much interested.

  'It's not in the market, I'm afraid. The owner doesn't want to sell.'

  'Who is the owner?'

  'Really I doubt if I know. It has changed hands rather frequently-there was a rumour at one moment of a compulsory purchase order.'

  'What did any local government want it for?'

  'Really, Mrs.-er-(he glanced down at Tuppence's name jotted down on his blotter)-Mrs. Beresford, if you could tell me the answer to that question you would be wiser than most victims are these days. The ways of local councils and planning societies are always shrouded in mystery. The rear portion of the house had a few necessary repairs done to it and was let at an exceedingly low rent to a-er-ah yes, a Mr. and Mrs. Perry. As to the actual owners of the property, the gentleman in question lives abroad and seems m have lost interest in the place. I imagine there was some question of a minor inheriting, and it was administered by executors. Some small legal difficulties arose-the law tends to be expensive, Mrs. Beresford. I fancy the owner is quite content for the house to fall down-no repairs are done except to the portion the Perrys inhabit. The actual land, of course, might always prove valuable in the future-the repair of derelict houses is seldom profitable. If you are interested in a property of that kind, I am sure we could offer you something far more worth your while. What, if I may ask, is there which especially appealed to you in this property?'

  'I liked the look of it,' said Tuppence. 'It's a very pretty house. I saw it first from the train-'

  'Oh, I see.' Mr. Sprig masked as best he could an expression of 'the foolishness of women is incredible'-and said soothingly, 'I should really forget all about it if I were you.'

  'I suppose you could write and ask the owners if they would be prepared to sell-or if you would give me their-or his address.'

  'We will get into communication with the owners' solicitors if you insist-but I can't hold out much hope.'

  'I suppose one always has to go through solicitors for everything nowadays.' Tuppence sounded both foolish and fretful… 'And lawyers are always so slow over everything.'

  'Ah yes-the law is prolific of delays.'

  'And so are banks-just as bad!'

  'Banks-' Mr. Sprig sounded a little startled.

  'So many people give you a bank as an address. That's tiresome too.'

 
'Yes-yes-as you say. But people are so restless these days and move about so much-living abroad and all that.' He opened a desk drawer. 'Now I have a property here, Crossgates-two miles from Market Basing-very good condition-nice garden…'

  Tuppence rose to her feet.

  'No thank you.'

  She bade Mr. Sprig a firm goodbye and went out into the square.

  She paid a brief visit to the third establishment which seemed to be mainly preoccupied with sales of cattle, chicken farms and general farms in a derelict condition.

  She paid a final visit to Messrs. Roberts amp; Wiley in George Street-which seemed to be a small but pushing business, anxious to oblige-but generally uninterested and ignorant of Sutton Chancellor and anxious to sell residences as yet only half built at what seemed ridiculously exorbitant sums-an illustration of one made Tuppence shudder. The eager young man seeing his possible client firm in departure, admitted unwillingly that such a place as Sutton Chancellor did exist.

  'Sutton Chancellor you mentioned. Better try Blodget amp; Burgess in the square. They handle some property thereabouts-but it's all in very poor condition-run down-'

  'There's a pretty house near there, by a canal bridge. I saw it from the train. Why does nobody want to live there?'

  'Oh! I know the place, this-Riverbank. You wouldn't get anyone to live in it. Got a reputation as haunted.'

  'You mean-ghosts?'

  'So they say. Lots of tales about it. Noises at nights. And groans. If you ask me, it's death-watch beetle.'

  'Oh dear,' said Tuppence. 'It looked to me so nice and isolated.'

  'Much too isolated most people would say. Floods in winter-think of that.'

  'I see that there's a lot to think about,' said Tuppence bitterly.