“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!
Nine
A MORNING IN MARKET BASING
“Ah well,” said Mrs. Copleigh, as she bustled out of the room. “Another day. That’s what I always say 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 posthaste, 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. Blenkensop,” 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 & 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 & Burgess might do so. By the tone in his voice the clerk seemed to imply this Messrs. Blodget & Burgess were a very inferior firm.
Tuppence transferred herself to Messrs. Blodget & Burgess who were on the opposite side of the square—and whose premises closely resembled those of Messrs. Lovebody & 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 to 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 & 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 & 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 deathwatch 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.
She murmured to herself as she sent her steps towards The Lamb and Flag at which she proposed to fortify herself with lunch.
“A lot to think about—floods, deathwatch beetle, ghosts, clanking chains, absentee owners and landlords, solicitors, banks—a house that nobody wants or loves—except perhaps me . . . Oh well, what I want now is food.”
The food at The Lamb and Flag was good and plentiful—hearty food for farmers rather than phony French menus for tourists passing through—Thick savoury soup, leg of pork and apple sauce, Stilton cheese—or plums and custard if you preferred it—which Tuppence didn’t—
After a desultory stroll round, Tuppence retrieved her car and started back to Sutton Chancellor—unable to feel that her morning had been fruitful.
As she turned the last corner and Sutton Chancellor church came into view, Tuppence saw the vicar emerging from the churchyard. He walked rather wearily. Tuppence drew up by him.
“Are you still looking for that grave?” she asked.
The vicar had one hand at the small of his back.
“Oh dear,” he said, “my eyesight is not very good. So many of the inscriptions are nearly erased. My back troubles me, too. So many of these stones lie flat on the ground. Really, when I bend over sometimes I fear that I shall never get up again.”
“I shouldn’t do it any more,” said Tuppence. “If you’ve looked in the parish register and all that, you’ve done all you can.”
“I know, but the poor fellow seemed so keen, so earnest. I’m quite sure that it’s all wasted labour. However, I really felt it was my duty. I have still got a short stretch I haven’t done, over there from beyond the yew tree to the far wall—although most of the stones are eighteenth century. But I should like to feel I had finished my task properly. Then I could not reproach myself. However, I shall leave it till tomorrow.”
“Quite right,” said Tuppence. “You mustn’t do too much in one day. I tell you what,” she added. “After I’ve had a cup of tea with Miss Bligh, I’ll go and have a look myself. From the yew tree to the wall, do you say?”
“Oh, but I couldn’t possibly ask you—”
“That’s all right. I shall quite like to do it. I think it’s very interesting prowling round in a churchyard. You know, the older inscriptions give you a sort of picture of the people who lived here and all that sort of thing. I shall quite enjoy it, I shall really. Do go back home and rest.”
“Well, of course, I really have to do something about my sermon this evening, it’s quite true. You are a very kind friend, I’m sure. A very kind friend.”
He beamed at her and departed into the vicarage. Tuppence glanced at her watch. She stopped at Miss Bligh’s house. “Might as well get it over,” thought Tuppence. The front door was open and Miss Bligh was just carrying a plate of fresh-baked scones across the hall into the sitting room.
“Oh! so there you are, dear Mrs. Beresford. I’m so pleased to see you. Tea’s quite ready. The kettle is on. I’ve only got to fill up the teapot. I hope you did all the shopping you wanted,” she added, looking in a rather marked manner at the painfully evident empty shopping bag hanging on Tuppence’s arm.
“Well, I didn’t have much luck really,” said Tuppence, putting as good a face on it as she could. “You know how it is sometimes—just one of those days when people just haven’t got the particular colour or the particular kind of thing you want. But I always enjoy looking round a new place even if it isn’t a very interesting one.”
A whistling kettle let forth a strident shriek for attention and Miss Bligh shot back into the kitchen to attend to it, scattering a batch of letters waiting for the post on the hall table.
Tuppence stooped and retrieved them, noticing as she put them back on the table that the topmost one was addressed to a Mrs. Yorke, Rosetrellis Court for Elderly Ladies—at an address in Cumberland.
“Really,” thought Tuppence. “I am beginning to feel as if the whole of the country is full of nothing but Homes for the Elderly! I suppose in next to no time Tommy and I will be living in one!”
Only the other day, some would-be kind and helpful friend had written to recommend a very nice address in Devon—married couples—mostly retired Service people. Quite good cooking—You brought your own furniture and personal belongings.
Miss Bligh reappeared with the teapot and the two ladies sat down to tea.
Miss Bligh’s conversation was of a less melodramatic and juicy nature than that of Mrs. Copleigh, and was concerned more
with the procuring of information, than of giving it.
Tuppence murmured vaguely of past years of Service abroad—the domestic difficulties of life in England, gave details of a married son and a married daughter both with children and gently steered the conversation to the activities of Miss Bligh in Sutton Chancellor which were numerous—The Women’s Institute, Guides, Scouts, the Conservative Ladies Union, Lectures, Greek Art, Jam Making, Flower Arrangement, the Sketching Club, the Friends of Archaeology—The vicar’s health, the necessity of making him take care of himself, his absentmindedness—Unfortunate differences of opinion between churchwardens—
Tuppence praised the scones, thanked her hostess for her hospitality and rose to go.
“You are so wonderfully energetic, Miss Bligh,” she said. “How you manage to do all you do, I cannot imagine. I must confess that after a day’s excursion and shopping, I like just a nice little rest on my bed—just half an hour or so of shut-eye—A very comfortable bed, too. I must thank you very much for recommending me to Mrs. Copleigh—”
“A most reliable woman, though of course she talks too much—”
“Oh! I found all her local tales most entertaining.”
“Half the time she doesn’t know what she’s talking about! Are you staying here for long?”
“Oh no—I’m going home tomorrow. I’m disappointed at not having heard of any suitable little property—I had hopes of that very picturesque house by the canal—”
“You’re well out of that. It’s in a very poor state of repair—Absentee landlords—it’s a disgrace—”
“I couldn’t even find out who it belongs to. I expect you know. You seem to know everything here—”
“I’ve never taken much interest in that house. It’s always changing hands—One can’t keep pace. The Perrys live in half of it—and the other half just goes to rack and ruin.”
Tuppence said goodbye again and drove back to Mrs. Copleigh’s. The house was quiet and apparently empty. Tuppence went up to her bedroom, deposited her empty shopping bag, washed her face and powdered her nose, tiptoed out of the house again, looking up and down the street, then leaving her car where it was, she walked swiftly round the corner, and took a footpath through the field behind the village which eventually led to a stile into the churchyard.