‘Well, if you can tell me quickly,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ve got to go out to a coffee morning.’
‘Oh yes. At Mrs Barber’s, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ said Tuppence. ‘Now what’s the problem?’
‘Well, it’s a coat. Ever such a nice coat it was. At Simmonds it was, and I went in and tried it on and it seemed to me very nice, it did. Well, there was one little spot on the skirt, you know, just round near the hem but that didn’t seem to me would matter much. Anyway, well, it—er—’
‘Yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘it what?’
‘It made me see why it was so inexpensive, you see. So I got it. And so that was all right. But when I got home I found there was a label on it and instead of saying £3.70 it was labelled £6. Well, ma’am, I didn’t like to do that, so I didn’t know what to do. I went back to the shop and I took the coat with me—I thought I’d better take it back and explain, you see, that I hadn’t meant to take it away like that and then you see the girl who sold it to me—very nice girl she is, her name is Gladys, yes, I don’t know what her other name is—but anyway she was ever so upset, she was, and I said, “Well, that’s all right, I’ll pay extra,” and she said, “No, you can’t do that because it’s all entered up.” You see—you do see what I mean?’
‘Yes, I think I see what you mean,’ said Tuppence.
‘And so she said, “Oh you can’t do that, it will get me into trouble.”’
‘Why should it get her into trouble?’
‘Well, that’s what I felt. I mean to say, well, I mean it’d been sold to me for less and I’d brought it back and I didn’t see why it could put her in trouble. She said if there was any carelessness like that and they hadn’t noticed the right ticket and they’d charged me the wrong price, as likely as not she’d get the sack for it.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think that would happen,’ said Tuppence. ‘I think you were quite right. I don’t see what else you could do.’
‘Well, but there it is, you see. She made such a fuss and she was beginning to cry and everything, so I took the coat away again and now I don’t know whether I’ve cheated the shop or whether—I don’t really know what to do.’
‘Well,’ said Tuppence, ‘I really think I’m too old to know what one ought to do nowadays because everything is so odd in shops. The prices are odd and everything is difficult. But if I were you and you want to pay something extra, well perhaps you’d better give the money to what’s-her-name—Gladys something. She can put the money in the till or somewhere.’
‘Oh well, I don’t know as I’d like to do that because she might keep it, you see. I mean, if she kept the money, oh well, I mean it wouldn’t be difficult would it, because I suppose I’ve stolen the money and I wouldn’t have stolen it really. I mean then it would have been Gladys who stole it, wouldn’t it, and I don’t know that I trust her all that much. Oh dear.’
‘Yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘life is very difficult, isn’t it? I’m terribly sorry, Beatrice, but I really think you’ve got to make up your own mind about this. If you can’t trust your friend—’
‘Oh, she’s not exactly a friend. I only buy things there. And she’s ever so nice to talk to. But I mean, well, she’s not exactly a friend, you know. I think she had a little trouble once before the last place she was in. You know, they said she kept back money on something she’d sold.’
‘Well in that case,’ said Tuppence, in slight desperation, ‘I shouldn’t do anything.’
The firmness of her tone was such that Hannibal came into the consultation. He barked loudly at Beatrice and took a running leap at the Hoover which he considered one of his principal enemies. ‘I don’t trust that Hoover,’ said Hannibal. ‘I’d like to bite it up.’
‘Oh, be quiet, Hannibal. Stop barking. Don’t bite anything or anyone,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’m going to be awfully late.’
She rushed out of the house.
‘Problems,’ said Tuppence, as she went down the hill and along Orchard Road. Going along there, she wondered as she’d done before if there’d ever been an orchard attached to any of the houses. It seemed unlikely nowadays.
Mrs Barber received her with great pleasure. She brought forward some very delicious-looking éclairs.
‘What lovely things,’ said Tuppence. ‘Did you get them at Betterby’s?’
Betterby’s was the local confectionery shop.
‘Oh no, my aunt made them. She’s wonderful, you know. She does wonderful things.’
‘Éclairs are very difficult things to make,’ said Tuppence. ‘I could never succeed with them.’
‘Well, you have to get a particular kind of flour. I believe that’s the secret of it.’
The ladies drank coffee and talked about the difficulties of certain kinds of home cookery.
‘Miss Bolland was talking about you the other day, Mrs Beresford.’
‘Oh?’ said Tuppence. ‘Really? Bolland?’
‘She lives next to the vicarage. Her family has lived here a long time. She was telling us how she’d come and stayed here when she was a child. She used to look forward to it. She said, because there were such wonderful gooseberries in the garden. And greengage trees too. Now that’s a thing you practically never see nowadays, not real greengages. Something else called gage plums or something, but they’re not a bit the same to taste.’
The ladies talked about things in the fruit line which did not taste like the things used to, which they remembered from their childhood.
‘My great-uncle had greengage trees,’ said Tuppence.
‘Oh yes. Is that the one who was a canon at Anchester? Canon Henderson used to live there, with his sister, I believe. Very sad it was. She was eating seed cake one day, you know, and one of the seeds got the wrong way. Something like that and she choked and she choked and she choked and she died of it. Oh dear, that’s very sad, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Barber. ‘Very sad indeed. One of my cousins died choking,’ she said. ‘A piece of mutton. It’s very easy to do, I believe, and there are people who die of hiccups because they can’t stop, you know. They don’t know the old rhyme,’ she explained. ‘Hic-up, hic-down, hic to the next town, three hics and one cup sure to cure the hiccups. You have to hold your breath while you say it.’
CHAPTER 7
More Problems
‘Can I speak to you a moment, ma’am?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Tuppence. ‘Not more problems?’
She was descending the stairs from the book-room, brushing dust off herself because she was dressed in her best coat and skirt, to which she was thinking of adding a feather hat and then proceeding out to a tea she had been asked to attend by a new friend she had met at the White Elephant Sale. It was no moment, she felt, to listen to the further difficulties of Beatrice.
‘Well, no, no, it’s not exactly a problem. It’s just something I thought you might like to know about.’
‘Oh,’ said Tuppence, still feeling that this might be another problem in disguise. She came down carefully. ‘I’m in rather a hurry because I have to go out to tea.’
‘Well, it’s just about someone as you asked about, it seems. Name of Mary Jordan, that was right? Only they thought perhaps it was Mary Johnson. You know, there was a Belinda Johnson as worked at the post office, but a good long time ago.’
‘Yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘and there was a policeman called Johnson, too, so someone told me.’
‘Yes, well, anyway, this friend of mine—Gwenda, her name is—you know the shop, the post office is one side and envelopes and dirty cards and things the other side, and some china things too, before Christmas, you see, and—’
‘I know,’ said Tuppence, ‘it’s called Mrs Garrison’s or something like that.’
‘Yes, but it isn’t really Garrison nowadays as keep it. Quite a different name. But anyway, this friend of mine, Gwenda, she thought you might be interested to know because she says as she had heard of a Mary Jordan what lived here a long time ago. A very long time ago. Lived here, in this house I mean.’
‘Oh, lived in The Laurels?’
‘Well, it wasn’t called that then. And she’d heard something about her, she said. And so she thought you might be interested. There was some rather sad story about her, she had an accident or something. Anyway she died.’
‘You mean that she was living in this house when she died? Was she one of the family?’
‘No. I think the family was called Parker, a name of that kind. A lot of Parkers there were, Parkers or Parkinsons—something like that. I think she was just staying here. I believe Mrs Griffin knows about it. Do you know Mrs Griffin?’
‘Oh, very slightly,’ said Tuppence. ‘Matter of fact, that’s where I’m going to tea this afternoon. I talked to her the other day at the Sale. I hadn’t met her before.’
‘She’s a very old lady. She’s older than she looks, but I think she’s got a very good memory. I believe one of the Parkinson boys was her godson.’
‘What was his Christian name?’
‘Oh, it was Alec, I think. Some name like that. Alec or Alex.’
‘What happened to him? Did he grow up—go away—become a soldier or sailor or something like that?’
‘Oh no. He died. Oh yes, I think he’s buried right here. It’s one of those things, I think, as people usedn’t to know much about. It’s one of those things with a name like a Christian name.’
‘You mean somebody’s disease?’
‘Hodgkin’s Disease, or something. No, it was a Christian name of some kind. I don’t know, but they say as your blood grows the wrong colour or something. Nowadays I believe they take blood away from you and give you some good blood again, or something like that. But even then you usually die, they say. Mrs Billings—the cake shop, you know—she had a little girl died of that and she was only seven. They say it takes them very young.’
‘Leukaemia?’
‘Oh now, fancy you knowing. Yes, it was that name, I’m sure. But they say now as one day there’ll maybe be a cure for it, you know. Just like nowadays they give you inoculations and things to cure you from typhoid, or whatever it is.’
‘Well,’ said Tuppence, ‘that’s very interesting. Poor little boy.’
‘Oh, he wasn’t very young. He was at school somewhere, I think. Must have been about thirteen or fourteen.’
‘Well,’ said Tuppence, ‘it’s all very sad.’ She paused, then said, ‘Oh dear, I’m very late now. I must hurry off.’
‘I dare say Mrs Griffin could tell you a few things. I don’t mean things as she’d remember herself, but she was brought up here as a child and she heard a lot of things, and she tells people a lot sometimes about the families that were here before. Some of the things are real scandalous, too. You know, goings-on and all that. That was, of course, in what they call Edwardian times or Victorian times. I don’t know which. You know. I should think it was Victorian because she was still alive, the old Queen. So that’s Victorian, really. They talk about it as Edwardian and something called “the Marlborough House set”. Sort of high society, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘yes. High society.’
‘And goings-on,’ said Beatrice, with some fervour.
‘A good many goings-on,’ said Tuppence.
‘Young girls doing what they shouldn’t do,’ said Beatrice, loath to part with her mistress just when something interesting might be said.
‘No,’ said Tuppence, ‘I believe the girls led very—well, pure and austere lives and they married young, though often into the peerage.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Beatrice, ‘how nice for them. Lots of fine clothes, I suppose, race meetings and going to dances and ballrooms.’
‘Yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘lots of ballrooms.’
‘Well, I knew someone once, and her grandmother had been a housemaid in one of those smart houses, you know, as they all came to, and the Prince of Wales—the Prince of Wales as was then, you know, he was Edward VII afterwards, that one, the early one—well he was there and he was ever so nice. Ever so nice to all the servants and everything else. And when she left she took away the cake of soap that he’d used for his hands, and she kept it always. She used to show it to some of us children once.’
‘Very thrilling for you,’ said Tuppence. ‘It must have been very exciting times. Perhaps he stayed here in The Laurels.’
‘No, I don’t think as I ever heard that, and I would have heard it. No, it was only Parkinsons here. No countesses and marchionesses and lords and ladies. The Parkinsons, I think, were mostly in trade. Very rich, you know, and all that, but still there’s nothing exciting in trade, is there?’
‘It depends,’ said Tuppence. She added, ‘I think I ought—’
‘Yes, you’d best be going along, ma’am.’
‘Yes. Well, thank you very much, I don’t think I’d better put on a hat. I’ve got my hair awfully mussed now.’
‘Well, you put your head in that corner where the cobwebs is. I’ll dust it off in case you do it again.’
Tuppence ran down the stairs.
‘Alexander ran down there,’ she said. ‘Many times, I expect. And he knew it was “one of them”. I wonder. I wonder more than ever now.’
CHAPTER 8
Mrs Griffin
‘I am so very pleased that you and your husband have come here to live, Mrs Beresford,’ said Mrs Griffin, as she poured out tea. ‘Sugar? Milk?’
She pressed forward a dish of sandwiches, and Tuppence helped herself.
‘It makes so much difference, you know, in the country where one has nice neighbours with whom one has something in common. Did you know this part of the world before?’
‘No,’ said Tuppence, ‘not at all. We had, you know, a good many different houses to go and view—particulars of them were sent to us by the estate agents. Of course, most of them were very often quite frightful. One was called Full of Old World Charm.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Griffin, ‘I know exactly. Old world charm usually means that you have to put a new roof on and that the damp is very bad. And “thoroughly modernized”—well, one knows what that means. Lots of gadgets one doesn’t want and usually a very bad view from the windows of really hideous houses. But The Laurels is a charming house. I expect, though, you have had a good deal to do to it. Everyone has in turn.’
‘I suppose a lot of different people have lived there,’ said Tuppence.
‘Oh yes. Nobody seems to stay very long anywhere nowadays, do they? The Cuthbertsons were here and the Redlands, and before that the Seymours. And after them the Joneses.’
‘We wondered a little why it was called The Laurels,’ said Tuppence.
‘Oh well, that was the kind of name people liked to give a house. Of course, if you go back far enough, probably to the time of the Parkinsons, I think there were laurels. Probably a drive, you know, curling round and a lot of laurels, including those speckled ones. I never liked speckled laurels.’
‘No,’ said Tuppence, ‘I do agree with you. I don’t like them either. There seem to have been a lot of Parkinsons here,’ she added.
‘Oh yes. I think they occupied it longer than anyone else.’
‘Nobody seems able to tell one much about them.’
‘Well, it was a long time ago, you see, dear. And after the—well, I think after the—the trouble you know, and there was some feeling about it and of course one doesn’t wonder they sold the place.’
‘It had a bad reputation, did it?’ said Tuppence, taking a chance. ‘Do you mean the house was supposed to be insanitary, or something?’
‘Oh no, not the house. No, really, the people you see. Well of course, there was the—the disgrace, in a way—it was during the first war. Nobody could believe it. My grandmother used to talk about it and say that it was something to do with naval secrets—about a new submarine. There was a girl living with the Parkinsons who was said to have been mixed up with it all.’
‘Was that Mary Jordan?’ said Tuppence.
‘Yes. Yes, you’re quite right. Afterwards they suspected that it wasn’t her real name. I think somebody had suspected her for some time. The boy had, Alexander. Nice boy. Quite sharp too.’
CHAPTER 1
A Long Time Ago
Tuppence was selecting birthday cards. It was a wet afternoon and the post office was almost empty. People dropped letters into the post box outside or occasionally made a hurried purchase of stamps. Then they usually departed to get home as soon as possible. It was not one of those crowded shopping afternoons. In fact, Tuppence thought, she had chosen this particular day very well.
Gwenda, whom she had managed to recognize easily from Beatrice’s description, had been only too pleased to come to her assistance. Gwenda represented the household shopping side of the post office. An elderly woman with grey hair presided over the government business of Her Majesty’s mails. Gwenda, a chatty girl, interested always in new arrivals to the village, was happy among the Christmas cards, valentines, birthday cards, comic postcards, note paper and stationery, various types of chocolates and sundry china articles of domestic use. She and Tuppence were already on friendly terms.
‘I’m so glad that the house has been opened again. Princes Lodge, I mean.’
‘I thought it had always been The Laurels.’
‘Oh no. I don’t think it was ever called that. Houses change names a lot around here. People do like giving new names to houses, you know.’
‘Yes, they certainly seem to,’ said Tuppence thoughtfully. ‘Even we have thought of a name or two. By the way, Beatrice told me that you knew someone once living here called Mary Jordan.’
‘I didn’t know her, but I have heard her mentioned. In the war it was, not the last war. The one long before that when there used to be zeppelins.’
‘I remember hearing about zeppelins,’ said Tuppence.
‘In 1915 or 1916—they came over London.’
‘I remember I’d gone to the Army & Navy Stores one day with an old great-aunt and there was an alarm.’
‘They used to come over at night sometimes, didn’t they? Must have been rather frightening, I should think.’
‘Well, I don’t think it was really,’ said Tuppence. ‘People used to get quite excited. It wasn’t nearly as frightening as the flying bombs—in this last war. One always felt rather as though they were following you to places. Following you down a street, or something like that?’
‘Spend all your nights in the tube, did you? I had a friend in London. She used to spend all the nights in the tubes. Warren Street, I think it was. Everyone used to have their own particular tube station.’
‘I wasn’t in London in the last war,’ said Tuppence. ‘I don’t think I’d have liked to spend all night in the tube.’
‘Well, this friend of mine, Jenny her name was, oh she used to love the tube. She said it was ever so much fun. You know, you had your own particular stair in the tube. It was kept for you always, you slept there, and you took sandwiches in and things, and you had fun together and talked. Things went on all night and never stopped. Wonderful, you know. Trains going on right up to the morning. She told me she couldn’t bear it when the war was over and she had to go home again, felt it was so dull, you know.’
‘Anyway,’ said Tuppence, ‘there weren’t any flying bombs in 1914. Just the zeppelins.’
Zeppelins had clearly lost interest for Gwenda.
‘It was someone called Mary Jordan I was asking about,’ said Tuppence. ‘Beatrice said you knew about her.’
‘Not really—I just heard her name mentioned once or twice, but it was ages ago. Lovely golden hair she had, my grandmother said. German she was—one of those Frowlines as they were called. Looked after children—a kind of nurse. Had been with a naval family somewhere, that was up in Scotland, I think. And afterwards she came down here. Went to a family called Parks—or Perkins. She used to have one day off a week, you know, and go to London, and that’s where she used to take the things, whatever they were.’
‘What sort of things?’ said Tuppence.
‘I don’t know—nobody ever said much. Things she’d stolen, I expect.’
‘Was she discovered stealing?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. They were beginning to suspect, but she got ill and died before that.’
‘What did she die of? Did she die down here? I suppose she went to hospital.’
‘No—I don’t think there were any hospitals to go to then. Wasn’t any Welfare in those days. Somebody told me it was some silly mistake the cook made. Brought foxglove leaves into the house by mistake for spinach—or for lettuce, perhaps. No, I think that was someone else. Someone told me it was Deadly Nightshade but I don’t believe that for a moment because, I mean, everyone knows about Deadly Nightshade, don’t they, and anyway that’s berries. Well, I think this was foxglove leaves brought in from the garden by mistake. Foxglove is Digoxo or some name like Digit—something that sounds like fingers. It’s got something very deadly in it—the doctor came and he did what he could, but I think it was too late.’
‘Were there many people in the house when it happened?’
‘Oh, there was quite a lot I should think—yes, because there were always people staying, so I’ve heard, and children, you know, and weekenders and a nursery maid and a governess, I think, and parties. Mind you, I’m not knowing all about this myself. It’s only what Granny used to tell me. And old Mr Bodlicott talks now and then. You know, the old gardener chap as works here now and then. He was gardener there, and they blamed him at first for sending the wrong leaves, but it wasn’t him as did it. It was somebody who came out of the house, and wanted to help and picked the vegetables in the garden, and took them in to the cook. You know, spinach and lettuce and things like that and—er—I suppose they just made a mistake not knowing much about growing vegetables. I think they said at the inquest or whatever they had afterwards that it was a mistake that anyone could make because the spinach or the sorrel leaves were growing near the Digi—Digit-what-not, you see, so I suppose they just took a great handful of both leaves, possibly in a bunch together. Anyway, it was very sad because Granny said she was a very good-looking girl with golden hair and all that, you know.’
‘And she used to go up to London every week? Naturally she’d have to have a day off.’
‘Yes. Said she had friends there. Foreigner, she was—Granny says there was some as said she was actually a German spy.’
‘And was she?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. The gentlemen liked her all right, apparently. You know, the naval officers and the ones up at Shelton Military Camp too. She had one or two friends there, you know. The military camp it was.’
‘Was she really a spy?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. I mean, my grandmother said that was what people said. It wasn’t in the last war. It was ages before that.’
‘Funny,’ said Tuppence, ‘how easy it is to get mixed up over the wars. I knew an old man who had a friend in the Battle of Waterloo.’
‘Oh, fancy that. Years before 1914. People did have foreign nurses—what were called Mamoselles as well as Frowlines, whatever a Frowline is. Very nice with children she was, Granny said. Everyone was very pleased with her and always liked her.’
‘That was when she was living here, living at The Laurels?’
‘Wasn’t called that then—at least I don’t think so. She was living with the Parkinsons or the Perkins, some name like that,’ said Gwenda. ‘What we call nowadays an au pair girl. She came from that place where the patty comes from, you know, Fortnum & Mason keep it—expensive patty for parties. Half German, half French, so someone told me.’
‘Strasbourg?’ suggested Tuppence.
‘Yes, that was the name. She used to paint pictures. Did one of an old great-aunt of mine. It made her look too old, Aunt Fanny always said. Did one of one of the Parkinson boys. Old Mrs Griffin’s got it still. The Parkinson boy found out something about her, I believe—the one she painted the picture of, I mean. Godson of Mrs Griffin, I believe he was.’
