Postern of Fate by Agatha Christie

  Albert stretched up, overdid his armful, and Catriona fell more or less on Tuppence's head.

  'Oh, sorry, madam. Very sorry.'

  'It's quite all right,' said Tuppence, 'it doesn't matter. Catriona. Yes. Any more Stevensons up there?'

  Albert handed the books down now more gingerly. Tuppence uttered a cry of excessive delight.

  'The Black Arrow. I declare! The Black Arrow! Now that's one of the first books really I ever got hold of and read. Yes. I don't suppose you ever did, Albert. I mean, you wouldn't have been born, would you? Now let me think. Let me think. The Black Arrow. Yes, of course, it was that picture on the wall with eyes - real eyes - looking through the eyes of the picture. It was splendid. So frightening, just that. Oh yes. The Black Arrow. What was it? It was all about - oh yes, the cat, the dog? No. The cat, the rat and Lovell, the dog, Rule all England under the hog. That's it. The hog was Richard the Third, of course. Though nowadays they all write books saying he was really wonderful. Not a villain at all. But I don't believe that. Shakespeare didn't either. After all, he started his play by making Richard say: "I am determined so to prove a villain." Ah yes. The Black Arrow.'

  'Some more, madam?'

  'No, thank you, Albert. I think I'm rather too tired to go on now.'

  'That's all right. By the way, the master rang up and said he'd be half an hour late.'

  'Never mind,' said Tuppence.

  She sat down in the chair, took The Black Arrow, opened the pages and engrossed herself.

  'Oh dear,' she said, 'how wonderful this is. I've really forgotten it quite enough to enjoy reading it all over again. It was so exciting.'

  Silence fell. Albert returned to the kitchen. Tuppence leaned back in the chair. Time passed. Curled up in the rather shabby armchair, Mrs Thomas Beresford sought the joys of the past by applying herself to the perusal of Robert Louis Stevenson's The Black Arrow.

  In the kitchen time also passed. Albert applied himself to various manoeuvres with the stove. A car drove up. Albert went to the side door.

  'Shall I put it in the garage, sir?'

  'No,' said Tommy, 'I'll do that. I expect you're busy with dinner. Am I very late?'

  'Not really, sir, just about when you said, A little early, in fact.'

  'Oh.' Tommy disposed of the car and then came into the kitchen, rubbing his hands. 'Cold out. Where's Tuppence?'

  'Oh, missus, she's upstairs with the books.'

  'What, still those miserable books?'

  'Yes. She's done a good many more today and she's spent most of the time reading.'

  'Oh dear,' said Tommy. 'All right, Albert. What are we having?'

  'Fillets of lemon sole, sir. It won't take long to do.'

  'All right. Well, make it about quarter of an hour or so anyway. I want to wash first.'

  Upstairs, on the top floor Tuppence was still sitting in the somewhat shabby armchair, engrossed in The Black Arrow. Her forehead was slightly wrinkled. She had come across what seemed to her a somewhat curious phenomenon. There seemed to be what she could only call a kind of interference. The particular page she had got to - she gave it a brief glance, 64 or was it 65? She couldn't see - anyway, apparently somebody had underlined some of the words on the page. Tuppence had spent the last quarter of an hour studying this phenomenon. She didn't see why the words had been underlined. They were not in sequence, they were not a quotation, therefore, in the book. They seemed to be words that had been singled out and had then been underlined in red ink. She read under her breath: 'Matcham could not restrain a little cry. Dick started with surprise and dropped the windac from his fingers. They were all afoot, loosing sword and dagger in the sheath. Ellis held up his hand. The white of his eyes shone. Let, large -' Tuppence shook her head. It didn't make sense. None of it did.

  She went over to the table where she kept her writing things, picked out a few sheets recently sent by a firm of notepaper printers for the Beresfords to make a choice of the paper to be stamped with their new address: The Laurels.

  'Silly name,' said Tuppence, 'but if you go changing names all the time, then all your letters go astray.'

  She copied things down. Now she realized something she hadn't realized before.

  'That makes all the difference,' said Tuppence.

  She traced letters on the page.

  'So there you are,' said Tommy's voice, suddenly. 'Dinner's practically in. How are the books going?'

  'This lot's terribly puzzling,' said Tuppence. 'Dreadfully puzzling.'

  'What's puzzling?'

  'Well this is The Black Arrow of Stevenson's and I wanted to read it again and I began. It was all right, and then suddenly - all the pages were rather queer because I mean a lot of the words had been underlined in red ink.'

  'Oh well, one does that,' said Tommy. 'I don't mean solely in red ink but I mean one does underline things. You know, something you want to remember, or a quotation of something. Well, you know what I mean.'

  'I know what you mean,' said Tuppence, 'but it doesn't go like that. And it's - it's letters, you see.'

  'What do you mean by letters?' said Tommy.

  'Come here,' said Tuppence.'

  Tommy came and sat on the arm of the chair. Tommy read: '"Matcham could not restrain a little cry and even died starter started with surprise and dropped the window from his fingers the two big fellows on the - something I can't read - shell was an expected signal. They were all afoot together tightening loosing sword and dagger." It's mad,' he said.

  'Yes,' said Tuppence, 'that's what I thought at first. It was mad. But it isn't mad, Tommy.'

  Some cow bells rang from downstairs.

  'That's supper in.'

  'Never mind,' said Tuppence, 'I've got to tell you this first. We can get down to things about it later but it's really so extraordinary. I've got to tell you this straight away.'

  'Oh, all right. Have you got one of your mare's nests?'

  'No I haven't. It's just that I took out the letters, you see. Well - on this page, you see, well - the M of "Matcham" which is the first word, the M is underlined and the A and after that there are three more, three or four more words. They don't come in sequence in the book. They've just been picked out, I think, and they've been underlined - the letters in them - because they wanted the right letters and the next one, you see, is the R from "restraint" underlined and the Y of "cry", and then there's J from "Jack", O from "shot" R from "ruin", D from "death" and A from "death" again, N from "murrain" -'

  'For goodness' sake,' said Tommy, 'do stop.'

  'Wait,' said Tuppence. 'I've got to find out. Now you see because I've written out these, do you see what this is? I mean if you take those letters out and write them in order on this piece of paper, do you see what you get with the ones I've done first? M-A-R-Y. Those four were underlined.'

  'What does that make?'

  'It makes Mary.'

  'All right,' said Tommy, 'it makes Mary. Somebody called Mary. A child with an inventive nature, I expect who is trying to point out that this was her book. People are always writing their names in books and things like that.'

  'All right. Mary,' said Tuppence. 'And the next thing that comes underlined makes the word J-o-r-d-a-n.'

  'You see? Mary Jordan,' said Tommy. 'It's quite natural. Now you know her whole name. Her name was Mary Jordan.'

  'Well, this book didn't belong to her. In the beginning it says in a rather silly, childish-looking writing, it says "Alexander". Alexander Parkinson, I think.'

  'Oh well. Does it really matter?'

  'Of course it matters,' said Tuppence.

  'Come on, I'm hungry,' said Tommy.

  'Restrain yourself,' said Tuppence, 'I'm only going to read you the next bit until the writing stops - or at any rate stops in the next four pages. The letters are picked from odd places on various pages. They don't run in sequence - there can't be anything in the words that matters - it's just the letters. Now then. We've got M-a-r-y J-o-r-d-a-n. That's right. Now do you know wha
t the next four words are? D-i-d n-o-t, not, d-i-e n-a-t-u-r-a-l-y. That's meant to be "naturally" but they didn't know it had two "ls". Now then, what's that? Mary Jordan did not die naturally. There you are,' said Tuppence.

  'Now the next sentence made is: It was one of us, I think I know which one. That's all. Can't find anything else. But it is rather exciting, isn't it?'

  'Look here, Tuppence,' said Tommy, 'you're not going to get a thing about this, are you?'

  'What do you mean, a thing, about this?'

  'Well, I mean working up a sort of mystery.'

  'Well, it's a mystery to me,' said Tuppence. 'Mary Jordan did not die naturally. It was one of us. I think I know which. Oh, Tommy, you must say that it is very intriguing.'

  Chapter 3

  VISIT TO THE CEMETERY

  'Tuppence!' Tommy called, as he came into the house.

  There was no answer. With some annoyance, he ran up the stairs and along the passage on the first floor. As he hastened along it, he nearly put his foot through a gaping hole, and swore promptly.

  'Some other bloody careless electrician,' he said.

  Some days before he had had the same kind of trouble. Electricians arriving in a kindly tangle of optimism and efficiency had started work. 'Coming along fine now, not much more to do,' they said. 'We'll be back this afternoon.' But they hadn't been back that afternoon; Tommy was not precisely surprised. He was used, now, to the general pattern of labour in the building trade, electrical trade, gas employees and others. They came, they showed efficiency, they made optimistic remarks, they went away to fetch something. They didn't come back. One rang up numbers on the telephone but they always seemed to be the wrong numbers. If they were the right numbers, the right man was not working at this particular branch of the trade, whatever it was. All one had to do was be careful to not rick an ankle, fall through a hole, damage yourself in some way or another. He was far more afraid of Tuppence damaging herself than he was of doing the damage to himself. He had had more experience than Tuppence. Tuppence, he thought, was more at risk from scalding herself from kettles or disasters with the heat of the stove. But where was Tuppence now? He called again.

  'Tuppence! Tuppence!'

  He worried about Tuppence. Tuppence was one of those people you had to worry about. If you left the house, you gave her last words of wisdom and she gave you last promises of doing exactly what you counselled her to do: No, she would not be going out except just to buy half a pound of butter, and after all you couldn't call that dangerous, could you?

  'It could be dangerous if you went out to buy half a pound of butter,' said Tommy.

  'Oh,' said Tuppence, 'don't be an idiot.'

  'I'm not being an idiot,' Tommy had said. 'I am just being a wise and careful husband, looking after something which is one of my favourite possessions. I don't know why it is -'

  'Because,' said Tuppence, 'I am so charming, so good-looking, such a good companion and because I take so much care of you.'

  'That also, maybe,' said Tommy, 'but I could give you another list.'

  'I don't feel I should like that,' said Tuppence. 'No, I don't think so. I think you have several saved-up grievances. But don't worry. Everything will be quite all right. You've only got to come back and call me when you get in.'

  But now where was Tuppence?

  'The little devil,' said Tommy. 'She's gone out somewhere.'

  He went on into the room upstairs where he had found her before. Looking at another child's book, he supposed. Getting excited again about some silly words that a silly child had underlined in red ink. On the trail of Mary Jordan, whoever she was. Mary Jordan, who hadn't died a natural death. He couldn't help wondering. A long time ago, presumably, the people who d had the house and sold it to them had been named Jones. They hadn't been there very long, only three or four years. No, this child of the Robert Louis Stevenson book dated from further back than that. Anyway, Tuppence wasn't here in this room. There seemed to be no loose books lying about with signs of having had interest shown in them.

  'Ah, where the hell can she be?' said Thomas.

  He went downstairs again, shouting once or twice. There was no answer. He examined one of the pegs in the hall. No signs of Tuppence's mackintosh. Then she'd gone out. Where had she gone? And where was Hannibal? Tommy varied the use of his vocal chords and called for Hannibal.

  'Hannibal - Hannibal - Hanny-boy. Come on, Hannibal.'

  No Hannibal.

  Well, at any rate, she's got Hannibal with her, thought Tommy.

  He didn't know if it was worse or better that Tuppence should have Hannibal. Hannibal would certainly allow no harm to come to Tuppence. The question was, might Hannibal do some damage to other people? He was friendly when taken visiting people, but people who wished to visit Hannibal, to enter any house in which he lived, were always definitely suspect in Hannibal's mind. He was ready at all risks to both bark and bite if he considered it necessary. Anyway, where was everybody?

  He walked a little way along the street, could see no signs of any small black dog with a medium-sized woman in a bright red mackintosh walking in the distance. Finally, rather angrily, he came back to the house.

  Rather an appetizing smell met him. He went quickly to the kitchen, where Tuppence turned from the stove and gave him a smile of welcome.

  'You're ever so late,' she said. 'This is a casserole. Smells rather good, don't you think? I put some rather unusual things in it this time. There were some herbs in the garden, at least I hope they were herbs.'

  'If they weren't herbs,' said Tommy, 'I suppose they were Deadly Nightshade, or Digitalis leaves pretending to be something else but really foxglove. Where on earth have you been?'

  'I took Hannibal for a walk.'

  Hannibal, at this moment, made his own presence felt. He rushed at Tommy and gave him such a rapturous welcome as nearly to fell him to the ground. Hannibal was a small black dog, very glossy, with interesting tan patches on his behind and each side of his cheeks. He was a Manchester terrier of very pure pedigree and he considered himself to be on a much higher level of sophistication and aristocracy than any other dog he met.

  'Oh, good gracious. I took a look round. Where've you been? It wasn't very nice weather.'

  'No, it wasn't. It was very sort of foggy and misty. Ah - I'm quite tired, too.'

  'Where did you go? Just down the street for the shops?'

  'No, it's early closing day for the shops. No... Oh no, I went to the cemetery.'

  'Sounds gloomy,' said Tommy. 'What did you want to go to the cemetery for?'

  'I went to look at some of the graves.'

  'It still sounds rather gloomy,' said Tommy. 'Did Hannibal enjoy himself?'

  'Well, I had to put Hannibal on the lead. There was something that looked like a verger who kept coming out of the church and I thought he wouldn't like Hannibal because - well, you never know, Hannibal mightn't like him and I didn't want to prejudice people against us the moment we'd arrived.'

  'What did you want to look in the cemetery for?'

  'Oh, to see what sort of people were buried there. Lots of people, I mean it's very, very full up. It goes back a long way. It goes back well in the eighteen hundreds and I think one or two older than that, only the stone's so rubbed away you can't really see.'

  'I still don't see why you wanted to go to the cemetery.'

  'I was making my investigation,' said Tuppence.

  'Investigation about what?'

  'I wanted to see if there were any Jordans buried there.'

  'Good gracious,' said Tommy. 'Are you still on that? Were you looking for -'

  'Well, Mary Jordan died. We know she died. We know because we had a book that said she didn't die a natural death, but she'd still have to be buried somewhere, wouldn't she?'

  'Undeniably,' said Tommy, 'unless she was buried in this garden.'

  'I don't think that's very likely,' said Tuppence, 'because I think that it was only this boy or girl - it must have been a boy,
I think - of course it was a boy, his name was Alexander - and he obviously thought he'd been rather clever in knowing that she'd not died a natural death. But if he was the only person who'd made up his mind about that or who'd discovered it - well, I mean, nobody else had, I suppose. I mean, she just died and was buried and nobody said...'

  'Nobody said there had been foul play,' suggested Thomas.

  'That sort of thing, yes. Poisoned or knocked on the head or pushed off a cliff or run over by a car or - oh, lots of ways I can think of.'