By the Pricking of My Thumbs

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Collins 1968

Agatha Christie® Tommy & Tuppence® By the Pricking of My Thumbs™

Copyright © 1968 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers/Agatha Christie Ltd 2015

Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007590629

Ebook Edition © Jan 2015 ISBN: 9780007422180

Version: 2017-04-17

This book is dedicated to the many readers in this and in other countries who write to me asking: ‘What has happened to Tommy and Tuppence? What are they doing now?’ My best wishes to you all, and I hope you will enjoy meeting Tommy and Tuppence again, years older, but with spirit unquenched!

By the pricking of my thumbs

Something wicked this way comes.

—Macbeth

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

BOOK 1: Sunny Ridge

CHAPTER 1: Aunt Ada

CHAPTER 2: Was It Your Poor Child?

CHAPTER 3: A Funeral

CHAPTER 4: Picture of a House

CHAPTER 5: Disappearance of an Old Lady

CHAPTER 6: Tuppence on the Trail

BOOK 2: The House on the Canal

CHAPTER 7: The Friendly Witch

CHAPTER 8: Sutton Chancellor

CHAPTER 9: A Morning in Market Basing

BOOK 3: Missing—A Wife

CHAPTER 10: A Conference—and After

CHAPTER 11: Bond Street and dr Murray

CHAPTER 12: Tommy Meets an Old Friend

CHAPTER 13: Albert on Clues

BOOK 4: Here is a Church and here is the Steeple Open the Doors and there are the People

CHAPTER 14: Exercise in Thinking

CHAPTER 15: Evening at the Vicarage

CHAPTER 16: The Morning After

CHAPTER 17: Mrs Lancaster

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher

BOOK 1

CHAPTER 1
Aunt Ada

Mr and Mrs Beresford were sitting at the breakfast table. They were an ordinary couple. Hundreds of elderly couples just like them were having breakfast all over England at that particular moment. It was an ordinary sort of day too, the kind of day that you get five days out of seven. It looked as though it might rain but wasn’t quite sure of it.

Mr Beresford had once had red hair. There were traces of the red still, but most of it had gone that sandy-cum-grey colour that red-headed people so often arrive at in middle life. Mrs Beresford had once had black hair, a vigorous curling mop of it. Now the black was adulterated with streaks of grey laid on, apparently at random. It made a rather pleasant effect. Mrs Beresford had once thought of dyeing her hair, but in the end she had decided that she liked herself better as nature had made her. She had decided instead to try a new shade of lipstick so as to cheer herself up.

An elderly couple having breakfast together. A pleasant couple, but nothing remarkable about them. So an onlooker would have said. If the onlooker had been young he or she would have added, ‘Oh yes, quite pleasant, but deadly dull, of course, like all old people.’

However, Mr and Mrs Beresford had not yet arrived at the time of life when they thought of themselves as old. And they had no idea that they and many others were automatically pronounced deadly dull solely on that account. Only by the young of course, but then, they would have thought indulgently, young people knew nothing about life. Poor dears, they were always worrying about examinations, or their sex life, or buying some extraordinary clothes, or doing extraordinary things to their hair to make them more noticeable. Mr and Mrs Beresford from their own point of view were just past the prime of life. They liked themselves and liked each other and day succeeded day in a quiet but enjoyable fashion.

There were, of course, moments, everyone has moments. Mr Beresford opened a letter, glanced through it and laid it down, adding it to the small pile by his left hand. He picked up the next letter but forbore to open it. Instead he stayed with it in his hand. He was not looking at the letter, he was looking at the toast-rack. His wife observed him for a few moments before saying,

‘What’s the matter, Tommy?’

‘Matter?’ said Tommy vaguely. ‘Matter?’

‘That’s what I said,’ said Mrs Beresford.

‘Nothing is the matter,’ said Mr Beresford. ‘What should it be?’

‘You’ve thought of something,’ said Tuppence accusingly.

‘I don’t think I was thinking of anything at all.’

‘Oh yes, you were. Has anything happened?’

‘No, of course not. What should happen?’ He added, ‘I got the plumber’s bill.’

‘Oh,’ said Tuppence with the air of one enlightened. ‘More than you expected, I suppose.’

‘Naturally,’ said Tommy, ‘it always is.’

‘I can’t think why we didn’t train as plumbers,’ said Tuppence. ‘If you’d only trained as a plumber, I could have been a plumber’s mate and we’d be raking in money day by day.’

‘Very short-sighted of us not to see these opportunities.’

‘Was that the plumber’s bill you were looking at just now?’

‘Oh no, that was just an Appeal.’

‘Delinquent boys—Racial integration?’

‘No. Just another Home they’re opening for old people.’

‘Well, that’s more sensible anyway,’ said Tuppence, ‘but I don’t see why you have to have that worried look about it.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that.’

‘Well, what were you thinking of?’

‘I suppose it put it into my mind,’ said Mr Beresford.

‘What?’ said Tuppence. ‘You know you’ll tell me in the end.’

‘It really wasn’t anything important. I just thought that perhaps—well, it was Aunt Ada.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Tuppence, with instant comprehension. ‘Yes,’ she added, softly, meditatively. ‘Aunt Ada.’

Their eyes met. It is regrettably true that in these days there is in nearly every family, the problem of what might be called an ‘Aunt Ada’. The names are different—Aunt Amelia, Aunt Susan, Aunt Cathy, Aunt Joan. They are varied by grandmothers, aged cousins and even great-aunts. But they exist and present a problem in life which has to be dealt with. Arrangements have to be made. Suitable establishments for looking after the elderly have to be inspected and full questions asked about them. Recommendations are sought from doctors, from friends, who have Aunt Adas of their own who had been ‘perfectly happy until she had died’ at ‘The Laurels, Bexhill’, or ‘Happy Meadows at Scarborough’.

The days are past when Aunt Elisabeth, Aunt Ada and the rest of them lived on happily in the homes where they had lived for many years previously, looked after by devoted if sometimes somewhat tyrannical old servants. Both sides were thoroughly satisfied with the arrangement. Or there were the innumerable poor relations, indigent nieces, semi-idiotic spinster cousins, all yearning for a good home with three good meals a day and a nice bedroom. Supply and demand complemented each other and all was well. Nowadays, things are different.

For the Aunt Adas of today arrangements have to be made suitable, not merely to an elderly lady who, owing to arthritis or other rheumatic difficulties, is liable to fall downstairs if she is left alone in a house, or who suffers from chronic bronchitis, or who quarrels with her neighbours and insults the tradespeople.

Unfortunately, the Aunt Adas are far more trouble than the opposite end of the age scale. Children can be provided with foster homes, foisted off on relations, or sent to suitable schools where they stay for the holidays, or arrangements can be made for pony treks or camps, and on the whole very little objection is made by the children to the arrangements so made for them. The Aunt Adas are very different. Tuppence Beresford’s own aunt—Great-aunt Primrose—had been a notable troublemaker. Impossible to satisfy her. No sooner did she enter an establishment guaranteed to provide a good home and all comforts for elderly ladies than after writing a few highly complimentary letters to her niece praising this particular establishment, the next news would be that she had indignantly walked out of it without notice.

‘Impossible. I couldn’t stay there another minute!’

Within the space of a year Aunt Primrose had been in and out of eleven such establishments, finally writing to say that she had now met a very charming young man. ‘Really a very devoted boy. He lost his mother at a young age and he badly needs looking after. I have rented a flat and he is coming to live with me. This arrangement will suit us both perfectly. We are natural affinities. You need have no more anxieties, dear Prudence. My future is settled. I am seeing my lawyer tomorrow as it is necessary that I should make some provision for Mervyn if I should pre-decease him which is, of course, the natural course of events, though I assure you at the moment I feel in the pink of health.’

Tuppence had hurried north (the incident had taken place in Aberdeen). But as it happened, the police had arrived there first and had removed the glamorous Mervyn, for whom they had been seeking for some time, on a charge of obtaining money under false pretences. Aunt Primrose had been highly indignant, and had called it persecution—but after attending the Court proceedings (where twenty-five other cases were taken into account)—had been forced to change her views of her protégé.

‘I think I ought to go and see Aunt Ada, you know, Tuppence,’ said Tommy. ‘It’s been some time.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Tuppence, without enthusiasm. ‘How long has it been?’

Tommy considered. ‘It must be nearly a year,’ he said.

‘It’s more than that,’ said Tuppence. ‘I think it’s over a year.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Tommy, ‘the time does go so fast, doesn’t it? I can’t believe it’s been as long as that. Still, I believe you’re right, Tuppence.’ He calculated. ‘It’s awful the way one forgets, isn’t it? I really feel very badly about it.’

‘I don’t think you need,’ said Tuppence. ‘After all, we send her things and we write letters.’

‘Oh yes, I know. You’re awfully good about those sort of things, Tuppence. But all the same, one does read things sometimes that are very upsetting.’

‘You’re thinking of that dreadful book we got from the library,’ said Tuppence, ‘and how awful it was for the poor old dears. How they suffered.’

‘I suppose it was true—taken from life.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘there must be places like that. And there are people who are terribly unhappy, who can’t help being unhappy. But what else is one to do, Tommy?’

‘What can anyone do except be as careful as possible. Be very careful what you choose, find out all about it and make sure she’s got a nice doctor looking after her.’

‘Nobody could be nicer than Dr Murray, you must admit that.’

‘Yes,’ said Tommy, the worried look receding from his face. ‘Murray’s a first-class chap. Kind, patient. If anything was going wrong he’d let us know.’

‘So I don’t think you need worry about it,’ said Tuppence. ‘How old is she by now?’

‘Eighty-two,’ said Tommy. ‘No—no. I think it’s eighty-three,’ he added. ‘It must be rather awful when you’ve outlived everybody.’

‘That’s only what we feel,’ said Tuppence. ‘They don’t feel it.’

‘You can’t really tell.’

‘Well, your Aunt Ada doesn’t. Don’t you remember the glee with which she told us the number of her old friends that she’d already outlived? She finished up by saying “and as for Amy Morgan, I’ve heard she won’t last more than another six months. She always used to say I was so delicate and now it’s practically a certainty that I shall outlive her. Outlive her by a good many years too.” Triumphant, that’s what she was at the prospect.’

‘All the same—’ said Tommy.

‘I know,’ said Tuppence, ‘I know. All the same you feel it’s your duty and so you’ve got to go.’

‘Don’t you think I’m right?’

‘Unfortunately,’ said Tuppence, ‘I do think you’re right. Absolutely right. And I’ll come too,’ she added, with a slight note of heroism in her voice.

‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘Why should you? She’s not your aunt. No, I’ll go.’

‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Beresford. ‘I like to suffer too. We’ll suffer together. You won’t enjoy it and I shan’t enjoy it and I don’t think for one moment that Aunt Ada will enjoy it. But I quite see it is one of those things that has got to be done.’

‘No, I don’t want you to go. After all, the last time, remember how frightfully rude she was to you?’

‘Oh, I didn’t mind that,’ said Tuppence. ‘It’s probably the only bit of the visit that the poor old girl enjoyed. I don’t grudge it to her, not for a moment.’

‘You’ve always been nice to her,’ said Tommy, ‘even though you don’t like her very much.’

‘Nobody could like Aunt Ada,’ said Tuppence. ‘If you ask me I don’t think anyone ever has.’

‘One can’t help feeling sorry for people when they get old,’ said Tommy.

‘I can,’ said Tuppence. ‘I haven’t got as nice a nature as you have.’

‘Being a woman you’re more ruthless,’ said Tommy.

‘I suppose that might be it. After all, women haven’t really got time to be anything but realistic over things. I mean I’m very sorry for people if they’re old or sick or anything, if they’re nice people. But if they’re not nice people, well, it’s different, you must admit. If you’re pretty nasty when you’re twenty and just as nasty when you’re forty and nastier still when you’re sixty, and a perfect devil by the time you’re eighty—well, really, I don’t see why one should be particularly sorry for people, just because they’re old. You can’t change yourself really. I know some absolute ducks who are seventy and eighty. Old Mrs Beauchamp, and Mary Carr and the baker’s grandmother, dear old Mrs Poplett, who used to come in and clean for us. They were all dears and sweet and I’d do anything I could for them.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Tommy, ‘be realistic. But if you really want to be noble and come with me—’

‘I want to come with you,’ said Tuppence. ‘After all, I married you for better or for worse and Aunt Ada is decidedly the worse. So I shall go with you hand in hand. And we’ll take her a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates with soft centres and perhaps a magazine or two. You might write to Miss What’s-her-name and say we’re coming.’

‘One day next week? I could manage Tuesday,’ said Tommy, ‘if that’s all right for you.’

‘Tuesday it is,’ said Tuppence. ‘What’s the name of the woman? I can’t remember—the matron or the superintendent or whoever she is. Begins with a P.’

‘Miss Packard.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Perhaps it’ll be different this time,’ said Tommy.

‘Different? In what way?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Something interesting might happen.’

‘We might be in a railway accident on the way there,’ said Tuppence, brightening up a little.

‘Why on earth do you want to be in a railway accident?’

‘Well I don’t really, of course. It was just—’

‘Just what?’

‘Well, it would be an adventure of some kind, wouldn’t it? Perhaps we could save lives or do something useful. Useful and at the same time exciting.’

‘What a hope!’ said Mr Beresford.

‘I know,’ agreed Tuppence. ‘It’s just that these sort of ideas come to one sometimes.’

CHAPTER 2
Was It Your Poor Child?

How Sunny Ridge had come by its name would be difficult to say. There was nothing prominently ridge-like about it. The grounds were flat, which was eminently more suitable for the elderly occupants. It had an ample, though rather undistinguished garden. It was a fairly large Victorian mansion kept in a good state of repair. There were some pleasant shady trees, a Virginia creeper running up the side of the house, and two monkey puzzles gave an exotic air to the scene. There were several benches in advantageous places to catch the sun, one or two garden chairs and a sheltered veranda on which the old ladies could sit sheltered from the east winds.

Tommy rang the front door bell and he and Tuppence were duly admitted by a rather harassed-looking young woman in a nylon overall. She showed them into a small sitting-room saying rather breathlessly, ‘I’ll tell Miss Packard. She’s expecting you and she’ll be down in a minute. You won’t mind waiting just a little, will you, but it’s old Mrs Carraway. She’s been and swallowed her thimble again, you see.’

‘How on earth did she do a thing like that?’ asked Tuppence, surprised.

‘Does it for fun,’ explained the household help briefly. ‘Always doing it.’

She departed and Tuppence sat down and said thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I should like to swallow a thimble. It’d be awfully bobbly as it went down. Don’t you think so?’

They had not very long to wait however before the door opened and Miss Packard came in, apologizing as she did so. She was a big, sandy-haired woman of about fifty with the air of calm competence about her which Tommy had always admired.

‘I’m sorry if I have kept you waiting, Mr Beresford,’ she said. ‘How do you do, Mrs Beresford, I’m so glad you’ve come too.’

‘Somebody swallowed something, I hear,’ said Tommy.

‘Oh, so Marlene told you that? Yes, it was old Mrs Carraway. She’s always swallowing things. Very difficult, you know, because one can’t watch them all the time. Of course one knows children do it, but it seems a funny thing to be a hobby of an elderly woman, doesn’t it? It’s grown upon her, you know. She gets worse every year. It doesn’t seem to do her any harm, that’s the cheeriest thing about it.’

‘Perhaps her father was a sword swallower,’ suggested Tuppence.

‘Now that’s a very interesting idea, Mrs Beresford. Perhaps it would explain things.’ She went on, ‘I’ve told Miss Fanshawe that you were coming, Mr Beresford. I don’t know really whether she quite took it in. She doesn’t always, you know.’

‘How has she been lately?’

‘Well, she’s failing rather rapidly now, I’m afraid,’ said Miss Packard in a comfortable voice. ‘One never really knows how much she takes in and how much she doesn’t. I told her last night and she said she was sure I must be mistaken because it was term time. She seemed to think that you were still at school. Poor old things, they get very muddled up sometimes, especially over time. However, this morning when I reminded her about your visit, she just said it was quite impossible because you were dead. Oh well,’ Miss Packard went on cheerfully, ‘I expect she’ll recognize you when she sees you.’

‘How is she in health? Much the same?’

‘Well, perhaps as well as can be expected. Frankly, you know, I don’t think she’ll be with us very much longer. She doesn’t suffer in any way but her heart condition’s no better than it was. In fact, it’s rather worse. So I think I’d like you to know that it’s just as well to be prepared, so that if she did go suddenly it wouldn’t be any shock to you.’

‘We brought her some flowers,’ said Tuppence.

‘And a box of chocolates,’ said Tommy.

‘Oh, that’s very kind of you I’m sure. She’ll be very pleased. Would you like to come up now?’

Tommy and Tuppence rose and followed Miss Packard from the room. She led them up the broad staircase. As they passed one of the rooms in the passage upstairs, it opened suddenly and a little woman about five foot high trotted out, calling in a loud shrill voice, ‘I want my cocoa. I want my cocoa. Where’s Nurse Jane? I want my cocoa.’

A woman in a nurse’s uniform popped out of the next door and said, ‘There, there, dear, it’s all right. You’ve had your cocoa. You had it twenty minutes ago.’

‘No I didn’t, Nurse. It’s not true. I haven’t had my cocoa. I’m thirsty.’

‘Well, you shall have another cup if you like.’

‘I can’t have another when I haven’t had one.’

They passed on and Miss Packard, after giving a brief rap on a door at the end of the passage, opened it and passed in.

‘Here you are, Miss Fanshawe,’ she said brightly. ‘Here’s your nephew come to see you. Isn’t that nice?’

In a bed near the window an elderly lady sat up abruptly on her raised pillows. She had iron-grey hair, a thin wrinkled face with a large, high-bridged nose and a general air of disapprobation. Tommy advanced.

‘Hullo, Aunt Ada,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

Aunt Ada paid no attention to him, but addressed Miss Packard angrily.

‘I don’t know what you mean by showing gentlemen into a lady’s bedroom,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t have been thought proper at all in my young days! Telling me he’s my nephew indeed! Who is he? A plumber or the electrician?’

‘Now, now, that’s not very nice,’ said Miss Packard mildly.

‘I’m your nephew, Thomas Beresford,’ said Tommy. He advanced the box of chocolates. ‘I’ve brought you a box of chocolates.’

‘You can’t get round me that way,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘I know your kind. Say anything, you will. Who’s this woman?’ She eyed Mrs Beresford with an air of distaste.

‘I’m Prudence,’ said Mrs Beresford. ‘Your niece, Prudence.’

‘What a ridiculous name,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘Sounds like a parlourmaid. My Great-uncle Mathew had a parlourmaid called Comfort and the housemaid was called Rejoice-in-the-Lord. Methodist she was. But my Great-aunt Fanny soon put a stop to that. Told her she was going to be called Rebecca as long as she was in her house.’

‘I brought you a few roses,’ said Tuppence.

‘I don’t care for flowers in a sick-room. Use up all the oxygen.’

‘I’ll put them in a vase for you,’ said Miss Packard.

‘You won’t do anything of the kind. You ought to have learnt by now that I know my own mind.’

‘You seem in fine form, Aunt Ada,’ said Mr Beresford. ‘Fighting fit, I should say.’

‘I can take your measure all right. What d’you mean by saying that you’re my nephew? What did you say your name was? Thomas?’

‘Yes. Thomas or Tommy.’

‘Never heard of you,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘I only had one nephew and he was called William. Killed in the last war. Good thing, too. He’d have gone to the bad if he’d lived. I’m tired,’ said Aunt Ada, leaning back on her pillows and turning her head towards Miss Packard. ‘Take ’em away. You shouldn’t let strangers in to see me.’

‘I thought a nice little visit might cheer you up,’ said Miss Packard unperturbed.

Aunt Ada uttered a deep bass sound of ribald mirth.

‘All right,’ said Tuppence cheerfully. ‘We’ll go away again. I’ll leave the roses. You might change your mind about them. Come on, Tommy,’ said Tuppence. She turned towards the door.

‘Well, goodbye, Aunt Ada. I’m sorry you don’t remember me.’

Aunt Ada was silent until Tuppence had gone out of the door with Miss Packard and Tommy following her.

‘Come back, you,’ said Aunt Ada, raising her voice. ‘I know you perfectly. You’re Thomas. Red-haired you used to be. Carrots, that’s the colour your hair was. Come back. I’ll talk to you. I don’t want the woman. No good her pretending she’s your wife. I know better. Shouldn’t bring that type of woman in here. Come and sit down here in this chair and tell me about your dear mother. You go away,’ added Aunt Ada as a kind of postscript, waving her hand towards Tuppence who was hesitating in the doorway.

Tuppence retired immediately.

‘Quite in one of her moods today,’ said Miss Packard, unruffled, as they went down the stairs. ‘Sometimes, you know,’ she added, ‘she can be quite pleasant. You would hardly believe it.’

Tommy sat down in the chair indicated to him by Aunt Ada and remarked mildly that he couldn’t tell her much about his mother as she had been dead now for nearly forty years. Aunt Ada was unperturbed by this statement.

‘Fancy,’ she said, ‘is it as long as that? Well, time does pass quickly.’ She looked him over in a considering manner. ‘Why don’t you get married?’ she said. ‘Get some nice capable woman to look after you. You’re getting on, you know. Save you taking up with all these loose women and bringing them round and speaking as though they were your wife.’

‘I can see,’ said Tommy, ‘that I shall have to get Tuppence to bring her marriage lines along next time we come to see you.’

‘Made an honest woman of her, have you?’ said Aunt Ada.

‘We’ve been married over thirty years,’ said Tommy, ‘and we’ve got a son and a daughter, and they’re both married too.’

‘The trouble is,’ said Aunt Ada, shifting her ground with dexterity, ‘that nobody tells me anything. If you’d kept me properly up to date—’

Tommy did not argue the point. Tuppence had once laid upon him a serious injunction. ‘If anybody over the age of sixty-five finds fault with you,’ she said, ‘never argue. Never try to say you’re right. Apologize at once and say it was all your fault and you’re very sorry and you’ll never do it again.’

It occurred to Tommy at this moment with some force that that would certainly be the line to take with Aunt Ada, and indeed always had been.

‘I’m very sorry, Aunt Ada,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid, you know, one does tend to get forgetful as time goes on. It’s not everyone,’ he continued unblushingly, ‘who has your wonderful memory for the past.’

Aunt Ada smirked. There was no other word for it. ‘You have something there,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I received you rather roughly, but I don’t care for being imposed upon. You never know in this place. They let in anyone to see you. Anyone at all. If I accepted everyone for what they said they were, they might be intending to rob and murder me in my bed.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s very likely,’ said Tommy.

‘You never know,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘The things you read in the paper. And the things people come and tell you. Not that I believe everything I’m told. But I keep a sharp look-out. Would you believe it, they brought a strange man in the other day—never seen him before. Called himself Dr Williams. Said Dr Murray was away on his holiday and this was his new partner. New partner! How was I to know he was his new partner? He just said he was, that’s all.’

‘Was he his new partner?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ said Aunt Ada, slightly annoyed at losing ground, ‘he actually was. But nobody could have known it for sure. There he was, drove up in a car, had that little kind of black box with him, which doctors carry to do blood pressure—and all that sort of thing. It’s like the magic box they all used to talk about so much. Who was it, Joanna Southcott’s?’

‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘I think that was rather different. A prophecy of some kind.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, my point is anyone could come into a place like this and say he was a doctor, and immediately all the nurses would smirk and giggle and say yes, Doctor, of course, Doctor, and more or less stand to attention, silly girls! And if the patient swore she didn’t know the man, they’d only say she was forgetful and forgot people. I never forget a face,’ said Aunt Ada firmly. ‘I never have. How is your Aunt Caroline? I haven’t heard from her for some time. Have you seen anything of her?’

Tommy said, rather apologetically, that his Aunt Caroline had been dead for fifteen years. Aunt Ada did not take this demise with any signs of sorrow. Aunt Caroline had after all not been her sister, but merely her first cousin.

‘Everyone seems to be dying,’ she said, with a certain relish. ‘No stamina. That’s what’s the matter with them. Weak heart, coronary thrombosis, high blood pressure, chronic bronchitis, rheumatoid arthritis—all the rest of it. Feeble folk, all of them. That’s how the doctors make their living. Giving them boxes and boxes and bottles and bottles of tablets. Yellow tablets, pink tablets, green tablets, even black tablets, I shouldn’t be surprised. Ugh! Brimstone and treacle they used to use in my grandmother’s day. I bet that was as good as anything. With the choice of getting well or having brimstone and treacle to drink, you chose getting well every time.’ She nodded her head in a satisfied manner. ‘Can’t really trust doctors, can you? Not when it’s a professional matter—some new fad—I’m told there’s a lot of poisoning going on here. To get hearts for the surgeons, so I’m told. Don’t think it’s true, myself. Miss Packard’s not the sort of woman who would stand for that.’

Downstairs Miss Packard, her manner slightly apologetic, indicated a room leading off the hall.

‘I’m so sorry about this, Mrs Beresford, but I expect you know how it is with elderly people. They take fancies or dislikes and persist in them.’