The Complete Tommy and Tuppence by Agatha Christie
“We shall see about that,” said the sister. “Hurry up, Nurse, don’t be all day with that feeding cup.”
Tuppence remained half drowsy on her pillows. She had not yet got beyond the stage of allowing thoughts to flit through her mind in a rather disorganized procession.
There was somebody who ought to be here, she felt, somebody she knew quite well. There was something very strange about this hospital. It wasn’t the hospital she remembered. It wasn’t the one she had nursed in. “All soldiers, that was,” said Tuppence to herself. “The surgical ward, I was on A and B rows.” She opened her eyelids and took another look round. She decided it was a hospital she had never seen before and that it had nothing to do with the nursing of surgical cases, military or otherwise.
“I wonder where this is,” said Tuppence. “What place?” She tried to think of the name of some place. The only places she could think of were London and Southampton.
The ward sister now made her appearance at the bedside.
“Feeling a little better, I hope,” she said.
“I’m all right,” said Tuppence. “What’s the matter with me?”
“You hurt your head. I expect you find it rather painful, don’t you?”
“It aches,” said Tuppence. “Where am I?”
“Market Basing Royal Hospital.”
Tuppence considered this information. It meant nothing to her at all.
“An old clergyman,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing particular. I—”
“We haven’t been able to write your name on your diet sheet yet,” said the ward sister.
She held her Biro pen at the ready and looked inquiringly at Tuppence.
“My name?”
“Yes,” said the sister. “For the records,” she added helpfully.
Tuppence was silent, considering. Her name. What was her name? “How silly,” said Tuppence to herself, “I seem to have forgotten it. And yet I must have a name.” Suddenly a faint feeling of relief came to her. The elderly clergyman’s face flashed suddenly across her mind and she said with decision,
“Of course. Prudence.”
“P-r-u-d-e-n-c-e?”
“That’s right,” said Tuppence.
“That’s your Christian name. The surname?”
“Cowley. C-o-w-l-e-y.”
“Glad to get that straight,” said the sister, and moved away again with the air of one whose records were no longer worrying her.
Tuppence felt faintly pleased with herself. Prudence Cowley. Prudence Cowley in the V.A.D. and her father was a clergyman at—at something vicarage and it was wartime and . . . “Funny,” said Tuppence to herself, “I seem to be getting this all wrong. It seems to me it all happened a long time ago.” She murmured to herself, “Was it your poor child?” She wondered. Was it she who had just said that or was it somebody else said it to her?
The sister was back again.
“Your address,” she said, “Miss—Miss Cowley, or is it Mrs. Cowley? Did you ask about a child?”
“Was it your poor child? Did somebody say that to me or am I saying it to them?”
“I think I should sleep a little if I were you now, dear,” said the sister.
She went away and took the information she had obtained to the proper place.
“She seems to have come to herself, Doctor,” she remarked, “and she says her name is Prudence Cowley. But she doesn’t seem to remember her address. She said something about a child.”
“Oh well,” said the doctor, with his usual casual air, “we’ll give her another twenty-four hours or so. She’s coming round from the concussion quite nicely.”
II
Tommy fumbled with his latchkey. Before he could use it the door came open and Albert stood in the open aperture.
“Well,” said Tommy, “is she back?”
Albert slowly shook his head.
“No word from her, no telephone message, no letters waiting—no telegrams?”
“Nothing I tell you, sir. Nothing whatever. And nothing from anyone else either. They’re lying low—but they’ve got her. That’s what I think. They’ve got her.”
“What the devil do you mean—they’ve got her?” said Tommy. “The things you read. Who’ve got her?”
“Well, you know what I mean. The gang.”
“What gang?”
“One of those gangs with flick knives maybe. Or an international one.”
“Stop talking rubbish,” said Tommy. “D’you know what I think?”
Albert looked inquiringly at him.
“I think it’s extremely inconsiderate of her not to send us word of some kind,” said Tommy.
“Oh,” said Albert, “well, I see what you mean. I suppose you could put it that way. If it makes you happier,” he added rather unfortunately. He removed the parcel from Tommy’s arms. “I see you brought that picture back,” he said.
“Yes, I’ve brought the bloody picture back,” said Tommy. “A fat lot of use it’s been.”
“You haven’t learnt anything from it?”
“That’s not quite true,” said Tommy. “I have learnt something from it but whether what I’ve learnt is going to be any use to me I don’t know.” He added, “Dr. Murray didn’t ring up, I suppose, or Miss Packard from Sunny Ridge Nursing Home? Nothing like that?”
“Nobody’s rung up except the greengrocer to say he’s got some nice aubergines. He knows the missus is fond of aubergines. He always lets her know. But I told him she wasn’t available just now.” He added, “I’ve got a chicken for your dinner.”
“It’s extraordinary that you can never think of anything but chickens,” said Tommy, unkindly.
“It’s what they call a poussin this time,” said Albert. “Skinny,” he added.
“It’ll do,” said Tommy.
The telephone rang. Tommy was out of his seat and had rushed to it in a moment.
“Hallo . . . hallo?”
A faint and faraway voice spoke. “Mr. Thomas Beresford? Can you accept a personal call from Invergashly?”
“Yes.”
“Hold the line, please.”
Tommy waited. His excitement was calming down. He had to wait some time. Then a voice he knew, crisp and capable, sounded. The voice of his daughter.
“Hallo, is that you, Pop?”
“Deborah!”
“Yes. Why are you sounding so breathless, have you been running?”
Daughters, Tommy thought, were always critical.
“I wheeze a bit in my old age,” he said. “How are you, Deborah?”
“Oh, I’m all right. Look here, Dad, I saw something in the paper. Perhaps you’ve seen it too. I wondered about it. Something about someone who had had an accident and was in hospital.”
“Well? I don’t think I saw anything of that kind. I mean, not to notice it in any way. Why?”
“Well it—it didn’t sound too bad. I supposed it was a car accident or something like that. It mentioned that the woman, whoever it was—an elderly woman—gave her name as Prudence Cowley but they were unable to find her address.”
“Prudence Cowley? You mean—”
“Well yes. I only—well—I only wondered. That is Mother’s name, isn’t it? I mean it was her name.”
“Of course.”
“I always forget about the Prudence. I mean we’ve never thought of her as Prudence, you and I, or Derek either.”
“No,” said Tommy. “No. It’s not the kind of Christian name one would associate much with your mother.”
“No, I know it isn’t. I just thought it was—rather odd. You don’t think it might be some relation of hers?”
“I suppose it might be. Where was this?”
“Hospital at Market Basing, I think it said. They wanted to know more about her, I gather. I just wondered—well, I know it’s awfully silly, there must be quantities of people called Cowley and quantities of people called Prudence. But I thought I’d just ring up and
“I see,” said Tommy. “Yes, I see.”
“Well, go on, Pop, is she at home?”
“No,” said Tommy, “she isn’t at home and I don’t know either whether she is all right or not.”
“What do you mean?” said Deborah. “What’s Mother been doing? I suppose you’ve been up in London with that hush-hush utterly secret idiotic survival from past days, jawing with all the old boys.”
“You’re quite right,” said Tommy. “I got back from that yesterday evening.”
“And you found Mother away—or did you know she was away? Come on, Pop, tell me about it. You’re worried. I know when you’re worried well enough. What’s Mother been doing? She’s been up to something, hasn’t she? I wish at her age she’d learn to sit quiet and not do things.”
“She’s been worried,” said Tommy. “Worried about something that happened in connection with your Great-aunt Ada’s death.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Well, something that one of the patients at the nursing home said to her. She got worried about this old lady. She started talking a good deal and your mother was worried about some of the things she said. And so, when we went to look through Aunt Ada’s things we suggested talking to this old lady and it seems she’d left rather suddenly.”
“Well, that seems quite natural, doesn’t it?”
“Some of her relatives came and fetched her away.”
“It still seems quite natural,” said Deborah. “Why did Mother get the wind up?”
“She got it into her head,” said Tommy, “that something might have happened to this old lady.”
“I see.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, as the saying goes, she seems to have disappeared. All in quite a natural way. I mean, vouched for by lawyers and banks and all that. Only—we haven’t been able to find out where she is.”
“You mean Mother’s gone off to look for her somewhere?”
“Yes. And she didn’t come back when she said she was coming back, two days ago.”
“And haven’t you heard from her?”
“No.”
“I wish to goodness you could look after Mother properly,” said Deborah, severely.
“None of us have ever been able to look after her properly,” said Tommy. “Not you either, Deborah, if it comes to that. It’s the same way she went off in the war and did a lot of things that she’d no business to be doing.”
“But it’s different now. I mean, she’s quite old. She ought to sit at home and take care of herself. I suppose she’s been getting bored. That’s at the bottom of it all.”
“Market Basing Hospital, did you say?” said Tommy.
“Melfordshire. It’s about an hour or an hour and a half from London, I think, by train.”
“That’s it,” said Tommy. “And there’s a village near Market Basing called Sutton Chancellor.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” said Deborah.
“It’s too long to go into now,” said Tommy. “It has to do with a picture painted of a house near a bridge by a canal.”
“I don’t think I can hear you very well,” said Deborah. “What are you talking about?”
“Never mind,” said Tommy. “I’m going to ring up Market Basing Hospital and find out a few things. I’ve a feeling that it’s your mother, all right. People, if they’ve had concussion, you know, often remember things first that happened when they were a child, and only get slowly to the present. She’s gone back to her maiden name. She may have been in a car accident, but I shouldn’t be surprised if somebody hadn’t given her a conk on the head. It’s the sort of thing that happens to your mother. She gets into things. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
Forty minutes later, Tommy Beresford glanced at his wrist watch and breathed a sigh of utter weariness, as he replaced the receiver with a final clang on the telephone rest. Albert made an appearance.
“What about your dinner, sir?” he demanded. “You haven’t eaten a thing, and I’m sorry to say I forgot about that chicken—Burnt to a cinder.”
“I don’t want anything to eat,” said Tommy. “What I want is a drink. Bring me a double whisky.”
“Coming, sir,” said Albert.
A few moments later he brought the required refreshment to where Tommy had slumped down in the worn but comfortable chair reserved for his special use.
“And now, I suppose,” said Tommy, “you want to hear everything.”
“Matter of fact, sir,” said Albert in a slightly apologetic tone, “I know most of it. You see, seeing as it was a question of the missus and all that, I took the liberty of lifting up the extension in the bedroom. I didn’t think you’d mind, sir, not as it was the missus.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Tommy. “Actually, I’m grateful to you. If I had to start explaining—”
“Got on to everyone, didn’t you? The hospital and the doctor and the matron.”
“No need to go over it all again,” said Tommy.
“Market Basing Hospital,” said Albert. “Never breathed a word of that, she didn’t. Never left it behind as an address or anything like that.”
“She didn’t intend it to be her address,” said Tommy. “As far as I can make out she was probably coshed on the head in an out of the way spot somewhere. Someone took her along in a car and dumped her at the side of the road somewhere, to be picked up as an ordinary hit and run.” He added, “Call me at six-thirty tomorrow morning. I want to get an early start.”
“I’m sorry about your chicken getting burnt up again in the oven. I only put it in to keep warm and forgot about it.”
“Never mind chickens,” said Tommy. “I’ve always thought they were very silly birds, running under cars and clucking about. Bury the corpse tomorrow morning and give it a good funeral.”
“She’s not at death’s door or anything, is she, sir?” asked Albert.
“Subdue your melodramatic fancies,” said Tommy. “If you’d done any proper listening you’d have heard that she’s come nicely to herself again, knows who she is or was and where she is and they’ve sworn to keep her there waiting for me until I arrive to take charge of her again. On no account is she to be allowed to slip out by herself and go off again doing some more tomfool detective work.”
“Talking of detective work,” said Albert, and hesitated with a slight cough.
“I don’t particularly want to talk about it,” said Tommy. “Forget it, Albert. Teach yourself bookkeeping or window-box gardening or something.”
“Well, I was just thinking—I mean, as a matter of clues—”
“Well, what about clues?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s where all the trouble in life comes from. Thinking.”
“Clues,” said Albert again. “That picture, for instance. That’s a clue, isn’t it?”
Tommy observed that Albert had hung the picture of the house by the canal up on the wall.
“If that picture’s a clue to something, what do you think it’s a clue to?” He blushed slightly at the inelegancy of the phrase he had just coined. “I mean—what’s it all about? It ought to mean something. What I was thinking of,” said Albert, “if you’ll excuse me mentioning it—”
“Go ahead, Albert.”
“What I was thinking of was that desk.”
“Desk?”
“Yes. The one that came by the furniture removers with the little table and the two chairs and the other things. Family property, it was, you said?”
“It belonged to my Aunt Ada,” said Tommy.
“Well, that’s what I meant, sir. That’s the sort of place where you find clues. In old desks. Antiques.”
“Possibly,” said Tommy.
“It wasn’t my business, I know, and I suppose I really oughtn’t to have gone messing about with it, but while you were away, sir, I couldn’t help it. I had to go and hav
“What—a look into the desk?”
“Yes, just to see if there might be a clue there. You see, desks like that, they have secret drawers.”
“Possibly,” said Tommy.
“Well, there you are. There might be a clue there, hidden. Shut up in the secret drawer.”
“It’s an agreeable idea,” said Tommy. “But there’s no reason as far as I know for my Aunt Ada to hide things away in secret drawers.”
“You never know with old ladies. They like tucking things away. Like jackdaws, they are, or magpies. I forget which it is. There might be a secret will in it or something written in invisible ink or a treasure. Where you’d find some hidden treasure.”
“I’m sorry, Albert, but I think I’m going to have to disappoint you. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing of that kind in that nice old family desk which once belonged to my Uncle William. Another man who turned crusty in his old age besides being stone deaf and having a very bad temper.”
“What I thought is,” said Albert, “it wouldn’t do any harm to look, would it?” He added virtuously, “It needed cleaning out anyway. You know how old things are with old ladies. They don’t turn them out much—not when they’re rheumatic and find it hard to get about.”
Tommy paused for a moment or two. He remembered that Tuppence and he had looked quickly through the drawers of the desk, had put their contents such as they were in two large envelopes and removed a few skeins of wool, two cardigans, a black velvet stole and three fine pillow-cases from the lower drawers which they had placed with other clothing and odds and ends for disposal. They had also looked through such papers as there had been in the envelopes after their return home with them. There had been nothing there of particular interest.
“We looked through the contents, Albert,” he said. “Spent a couple of evenings really. One or two quite interesting old letters, some recipes for boiling ham, some other recipes for preserving fruit, some ration books and coupons and things dating back to the war. There was nothing of any interest.”
“Oh, that,” said Albert, “but that’s just papers and things, as you might say. Just ordinary go and come what everybody gets holed up in desks and drawers and things. I mean real secret stuff. When I was a boy, you know, I did six months with an antique dealer—helping him fake up things as often as not. But I got to know about secret drawers that way. They usually run to the same pattern. Three or four well-known kinds and they vary it now and then. Don’t you think, sir, you ought to have a look? I mean, I didn’t like to go it meself with you not here. I would have been presuming.” He looked at Tommy with the air of a pleading dog.