The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (96 page)

“Give my love to Josh.”

“I will.” He added, looking at his wife in a worried manner, “I wish you were coming with me. Don't—don't do anything stupid, will you?”

“Of course not,” said Tuppence.

Six

T
UPPENCE
ON
THE
T
RAIL

“O
h dear,” sighed Tuppence, “oh dear.” She looked round her with gloomy eyes. Never, she said to herself, had she felt more miserable. Naturally she had known she would miss Tommy, but she had no idea how much she was going to miss him.

During the long course of their married life they had hardly ever been separated for any length of time. Starting before their marriage, they had called themselves a pair of “young adventurers.” They had been through various difficulties and dangers together, they had married, they had had two children and just as the world was seeming rather dull and middle-aged to them, the second war had come about and in what seemed an almost miraculous way they had been tangled up yet again on the outskirts of the British Intelligence. A somewhat unorthodox pair, they had been recruited by a quiet nondescript man who called himself “Mr. Carter,” but to whose word everybody seemed to bow. They had had adventures, and once again they had had them together. This, by the way, had not been planned by Mr. Carter. Tommy alone had been recruited. But Tuppence displaying all her natural ingenuity, had managed to eavesdrop in such a fashion that when Tommy had arrived at a guest house on the sea coast in the role of a certain Mr. Meadows, the first person he had seen there had been a middle-aged lady plying knitting needles, who had looked up at him with innocent eyes and whom he had been forced to greet as Mrs. Blenkensop. Thereafter they had worked as a pair.

“However,” thought Tuppence to herself, “I can't do it this time.” No amount of eavesdropping, of ingenuity, or anything else would take her to the recesses of Hush Hush Manor or to participation in the intricacies of I.U.A.S. Just an Old Boys Club, she thought resentfully. Without Tommy the flat was empty, the world was lonely, and “What on earth,” thought Tuppence, “am I to do with myself?”

The question was really purely rhetorical for Tuppence had already started on the first steps of what she planned to do with herself. There was no question this time of intelligence work, of counterespionage or anything of that kind. Nothing of an official nature. “Prudence Beresford, Private Investigator, that's what I am,” said Tuppence to herself.

After a scrappy lunch had been hastily cleared away, the dining room table was strewn with railway timetables, guidebooks, maps, and a few old diaries which Tuppence had managed to disinter.

Some time in the last three years (not longer, she was sure) she had taken a railway journey, and looking out of the carriage window, had noticed a house. But, what railway journey?

Like most people at the present time, the Beresfords travelled mainly by car. The railway journeys they took were few and far between.

Scotland, of course, when they went to stay with their married daughter Deborah—but that was a night journey.

Penzance—summer holidays—but Tuppence knew that line by heart.

No, this had been a much more casual journey.

With diligence and perseverance, Tuppence had made a meticulous list of all the possible journeys she had taken which might correspond to what she was looking for. One or two race meetings, a visit to Northumberland, two possible places in Wales, a christening, two weddings, a sale they had attended, some puppies she had once delivered for a friend who bred them and who had gone down with influenza. The meeting place had been an arid-looking country junction whose name she couldn't remember.

Tuppence sighed. It seemed as though Tommy's solution was the one she might have to adopt—Buy a kind of circular ticket and actually travel over the most likely stretches of railway line.

In a small notebook she had jotted down any snatches of extra memories—vague flashes—in case they might help.

A hat, for instance—Yes, a hat that she had thrown up on the rack. She had been wearing a hat—so—a wedding or the christening—certainly not puppies.

And—another flash—kicking off her shoes—because her feet hurt. Yes—that was definite—she had been actually looking at the House—and she had kicked off her shoes because her feet hurt.

So, then, it had definitely been a social function she had either been going to, or returning from—Returning from, of course—because of the painfulness of her feet from long standing about in her best shoes. And what kind of a hat? Because that would help—a flowery hat—a summer wedding—or a velvet winter one?

Tuppence was busy jotting down details from the Railway timetables of different lines when Albert came in to ask what she wanted for supper—and what she wanted ordered in from the butcher and the grocer.

“I think I'm going to be away for the next few days,” said Tuppence. “So you needn't order in anything. I'm going to take some railway journeys.”

“Will you be wanting some sandwiches?”

“I might. Get some ham or something.”

“Egg and cheese do you? Or there's a tin of
pâté
in the larder—it's been there a long while, time it was eaten.” It was a somewhat sinister recommendation, but Tuppence said,

“All right. That'll do.”

“Want letters forwarded?”

“I don't even know where I'm going yet,” said Tuppence.

“I see,” said Albert.

The comfortable thing about Albert was that he always accepted everything. Nothing ever had to be explained to him.

He went away and Tuppence settled down to her planning—what she wanted was: a social engagement involving a hat and party shoes. Unfortunately the ones she had listed involved different railway lines—One wedding on the Southern Railway, the other in East Anglia. The christening north of Bedford.

If she could remember a little more about the scenery . . . She had been sitting on the right-hand side of the train. What had she been looking at
before
the canal—Woods? Trees? Farmland? A distant village?

Straining her brain, she looked up with a frown—Albert had come back. How far she was at that moment from knowing that Albert standing there waiting for attention was neither more nor less than an answer to prayer—

“Well, what is it
now,
Albert?”

“If it's that you're going to be away all day tomorrow—”

“And the day after as well, probably—”

“Would it be all right for me to have the day off?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It's Elizabeth—come out in spots she has. Milly thinks it's measles—”

“Oh dear.” Milly was Albert's wife and Elizabeth was the youngest of his children. “So Milly wants you at home, of course.”

Albert lived in a small neat house a street or two away.

“It's not that so much—She likes me out of the way when she's got her hands full—she doesn't want me messing things up—But it's the other kids—I could take 'em somewhere out of her way.”

“Of course. You're all in quarantine, I suppose.”

“Oh! well, best for 'em all to get it, and get it over. Charlie's had it, and so has Jean. Anyway, that'll be all right?”

Tuppence assured him that it would be all right.

Something was stirring in the depths of her subconscious—A happy anticipation—a recognition—Measles—Yes, measles. Something to do with measles.

But why should the house by the canal have anything to do with measles . . . ?

Of course! Anthea. Anthea was Tuppence's goddaughter—and Anthea's daughter Jane was at school—her first term—and it was Prize Giving and Anthea had rung up—her two younger children had come out in a measle rash and she had nobody in the house to help and Jane would be terribly disappointed if nobody came—Could Tuppence possibly?—

And Tuppence had said of course—She wasn't doing anything particular—she'd go down to the school and take Jane out and give her lunch and then go back to the sports and all the rest of it. There was a special school train.

Everything came back into her mind with astonishing clarity—even the dress she'd worn—a summer print of cornflowers!

She had seen the house on the return journey.

Going down there she had been absorbed in a magazine she had bought, but coming back she had had nothing to read, and she had looked out of the window until, exhausted by the activities of the day, and the pressure of her shoes, she had dropped off to sleep.

When she had woken up the train had been running beside a canal. It was partially wooded country, an occasional bridge, sometimes a twisting lane or minor road—a distant farm—no villages.

The train began to slow down, for no reason it would seem, except that a signal must be against it. It drew jerkily to a halt by a bridge, a little humpbacked bridge which spanned the canal, a disused canal presumably. On the other side of the canal, close to the water, was the house—a house that Tuppence thought at once was one of the most attractive houses she had ever seen—a quiet, peaceful house, irradiated by the golden light of the late afternoon sun.

There was no human being to be seen—no dogs, or livestock. Yet the green shutters were not fastened. The house must be lived in, but now, at this moment, it was empty.

“I must find out about that house,” Tuppence had thought. “Someday I must come back here and look at it. It's the kind of house I'd like to live in.”

With a jerk the train lurched slowly forwards.

“I'll look out for the name of the next station—so that I'll know where it is.”

But there had been no appropriate station. It was the time when things were beginning to happen to railways—small stations were closed, even pulled down, grass sprouted on the decayed platforms. For twenty minutes—half an hour—the train ran on, but nothing identifiable was to be seen. Over fields, in the far distance, Tuppence once saw the spire of a church.

Then had come some factory complex—tall chimneys—a line of prefab houses, then open country again.

Tuppence had thought to herself—That house was rather like a dream! Perhaps it was a dream—I don't suppose I'll ever go and look for it—too difficult. Besides, rather a pity, perhaps—

Someday, maybe, I'll come across it by accident!

And so—she had forgotten all about it—until a picture hanging on a wall had reawakened a veiled memory.

And now, thanks to one word uttered unwittingly by Albert, the quest was ended.

Or, to speak correctly, a quest was beginning.

Tuppence sorted out three maps, a guidebook, and various other accessories.

Roughly now she knew the area she would have to search. Jane's school she marked with a large cross—the branch railway line, which ran into the main line to London—the time lapse whilst she had slept.

The final area as planned covered a considerable mileage—north of Medchester, southeast of Market Basing which was a small town, but was quite an important railway junction, west probably of Shaleborough.

She'd take the car, and start early tomorrow morning.

She got up and went into the bedroom and studied the picture over the mantelpiece.

Yes, there was no mistake. That was the house she had seen from the train three years ago. The house she had promised to look for someday—

Someday had come—Someday was tomorrow.

B
OOK
2
T
HE
H
OUSE
ON
THE
C
ANAL

Seven

T
HE
F
RIENDLY
W
ITCH

B
efore leaving the next morning, Tuppence took a last careful look at the picture hanging in her room, not so much to fix its details firmly in her mind, but to memorize its position in the landscape. This time she would be seeing it not from the window of a train but from the road. The angle of approach would be quite different. There might be many humpbacked bridges, many similar disused canals—perhaps other houses looking like this one (but that Tuppence refused to believe).

The picture was signed, but the signature of the artist was illegible—All that could be said was that it began with B.

Turning away from the picture, Tuppence checked her paraphernalia: an A.B.C. and its attached railway map; a selection of ordnance maps; tentative names of places—Medchester, Westleigh—Market Basing—Middlesham—Inchwell—Between them, they enclosed the triangle that she had decided to examine. With her she took a small overnight bag since she would have a three hours' drive before she even arrived at the area of operations, and after that, it meant, she judged, a good deal of slow driving along country roads and lanes looking for likely canals.

After stopping in Medchester for coffee and a snack, she pushed on by a second-class road adjacent to a railway line, and leading through wooded country with plenty of streams.

As in most of the rural districts of England, signposts were plentiful, bearing names that Tuppence had never heard of, and seldom seeming to lead to the place in question. There seemed to be a certain cunning about this part of the road system of England. The road would twist off from the canal, and when you pressed on hopefully to where you thought the canal might have taken itself, you drew a blank. If you had gone in the direction of Great Michelden, the next signpost you came to offered you a choice of two roads, one to Pennington Sparrow and the other to Farlingford. You chose Farlingford and managed actually to get to such a place but almost immediately the next signpost sent you back firmly to Medchester, so that you practically retraced your steps. Actually Tuppence never did find Great Michelden, and for a long time she was quite unable to find the lost canal. If she had had any idea of which village she was looking for, things might have gone more easily. Tracking canals on maps was merely puzzling. Now and again she came to the railway which cheered her up and she would then push on hopefully for Bees Hill, South Winterton and Farrell St. Edmund. Farrell St. Edmund had once had a station, but it had been abolished some time ago! “If only,” thought Tuppence, “there was some well-behaved road that ran alongside a canal, or alongside a railway line, it would make it so much easier.”