The Complete Tommy and Tuppence

by Agatha Christie

  “I thought perhaps the missus—”

  “She’s all right,” said Tommy. “She always is. Probably gone haring off after some wildcat clue or other—You know what she’s like. I’m not going to worry any more. Take away this plate of chicken—You’ve been keeping it hot in the oven and it’s inedible. Bring me some coffee. And then I’m going to bed.

  “There will probably be a letter tomorrow. Delayed in the post—you know what our posts are like—or there will be a wire from her—or she’ll ring up.”

  But there was no letter next day—no telephone call—no wire.

  Albert eyed Tommy, opened his mouth and shut it again several times, judging quite rightly that gloomy predictions on his part would not be welcomed.

  At last Tommy had pity on him. He swallowed a last mouthful of toast and marmalade, washed it down with coffee, and spoke—

  “All right, Albert, I’ll say it first—Where is she? What’s happened to her? And what are we going to do about it?”

  “Get on to the police, sir?”

  “I’m not sure. You see—” Tommy paused.

  “If she’s had an accident—”

  “She’s got her driving licence on her—and plenty of identifying papers—Hospitals are very prompt at reporting these things—and getting in touch with relatives—all that. I don’t want to be precipitate—she—she mightn’t want it. You’ve no idea—no idea at all, Albert, where she was going—Nothing she said? No particular place—or county. Not a mention of some name?”

  Albert shook his head.

  “What was she feeling like? Pleased?—Excited? Unhappy? Worried?”

  Albert’s response was immediate.

  “Pleased as Punch—Bursting with it.”

  “Like a terrier off on the trail,” said Tommy.

  “That’s right, sir—you know how she gets—”

  “On to something—Now I wonder—” Tommy paused in consideration.

  Something had turned up, and, as he had just said to Albert, Tuppence had rushed off like a terrier on the scent. The day before yesterday she had rung up to announce her return. Why, then, hadn’t she returned? Perhaps, at this moment, thought Tommy, she’s sitting somewhere telling lies to people so hard that she can’t think of anything else!

  If she were engrossed in pursuit, she would be extremely annoyed if he, Tommy, were to rush off to the police bleating like a sheep that his wife had disappeared—He could hear Tuppence saying “How you could be so fatuous as to do such a thing! I can look after myself perfectly. You ought to know that by this time!” (But could she look after herself?)

  One was never quite sure where Tuppence’s imagination could take her.

  Into danger? There hadn’t, so far, been any evidence of danger in this business—Except, as aforesaid, in Tuppence’s imagination.

  If he were to go to the police, saying his wife had not returned home as she announced she was going to do—The police would sit there, looking tactful though possibly grinning inwardly, and would then presumably, still in a tactful way, ask what men friends his wife had got!

  “I’ll find her myself,” declared Tommy. “She’s somewhere. Whether it’s north, south, east or west I’ve no idea—and she was a silly cuckoo not to leave word when she rang up, where she was.”

  “A gang’s got her, perhaps—” said Albert.

  “Oh! be your age, Albert, you’ve outgrown that sort of stuff years ago!”

  “What are you going to do, sir?”

  “I’m going to London,” said Tommy, glancing at the clock. “First I’m going to have lunch at my club with Dr. Murray who rang me up last night, and who’s got something to say to me about my late deceased aunt’s affairs—I might possibly get a useful hint from him—After all, this business started at Sunny Ridge. I am also taking that picture that’s hanging over our bedroom mantelpiece up with me—”

  “You mean you’re taking it to Scotland Yard?”

  “No,” said Tommy. “I’m taking it to Bond Street.”

  Eleven

  BOND STREET AND DR. MURRAY

  Tommy jumped out of a taxi, paid the driver and leaned back into the cab to take out a rather clumsily done up parcel which was clearly a picture. Tucking as much of it as he could under his arm, he entered the New Athenian Galleries, one of the longest established and most important picture galleries in London.

  Tommy was not a great patron of the arts but he had come to the New Athenian because he had a friend who officiated there.

  “Officiated” was the only word to use because the air of sympathetic interest, the hushed voice, the pleasurable smile, all seemed highly ecclesiastical.

  A fair-haired young man detached himself and came forward, his face lighting up with a smile of recognition.

  “Hullo, Tommy,” he said. “Haven’t seen you for a long time. What’s that you’ve got under your arm? Don’t tell me you’ve been taking to painting pictures in your old age? A lot of people do—results usually deplorable.”

  “I doubt if creative art was ever my long suit,” said Tommy. “Though I must admit I found myself strongly attracted the other day by a small book telling in the simplest terms how a child of five can learn to paint in water colours.”

  “God help us if you’re going to take to that. Grandma Moses in reverse.”

  “To tell you the truth, Robert, I merely want to appeal to your expert knowledge of pictures. I want your opinion on this.”

  Deftly Robert took the picture from Tommy and skilfully removed its clumsy wrappings with the expertise of a man accustomed to handle the parcelling up and deparcelling of all different-sized works of art. He took the picture and set it on a chair, peered into it to look at it, and then withdrew five or six steps away. He turned his gaze towards Tommy.

  “Well,” he said, “what about it? What do you want to know? Do you want to sell it, is that it?”

  “No,” said Tommy, “I don’t want to sell it, Robert. I want to know about it. To begin with, I want to know who painted it.”

  “Actually,” said Robert, “if you had wanted to sell it, it would be quite saleable nowadays. It wouldn’t have been, ten years ago. But Boscowan’s just coming into fashion again.”

  “Boscowan?” Tommy looked at him inquiringly. “Is that the name of the artist? I saw it was signed with something beginning with B but I couldn’t read the name.”

  “Oh, it’s Boscowan all right. Very popular painter about twenty-five years ago. Sold well, had plenty of shows. People bought him all right. Technically a very good painter. Then, in the usual cycle of events, he went out of fashion. Finally, hardly any demand at all for his works but lately he’s had a revival. He, Stitchwort, and Fondella. They’re all coming up.”

  “Boscowan,” repeated Tommy.

  “B-o-s-c-o-w-a-n,” said Robert obligingly.

  “Is he still painting?”

  “No. He’s dead. Died some years ago. Quite an old chap by then. Sixty-five, I think, when he died. Quite a prolific painter, you know. A lot of his canvases about. Actually we’re thinking of having a show of him here in about four or five months’ time. We ought to do well over it, I think. Why are you so interested in him?”

  “It’d be too long a story to tell you,” said Tommy. “One of these days I’ll ask you out to lunch and give you the doings from the beginning. It’s a long, complicated and really rather an idiotic story. All I wanted to know is all about this Boscowan and if you happen to know by any chance where this house is that’s represented here.”

  “I couldn’t tell you the last for a moment. It’s the sort of thing he did paint, you know. Small country houses in rather isolated spots usually, sometimes a farmhouse, sometimes just a cow or two around. Sometimes a farm cart, but if so, in the far distance. Quiet rural scenes. Nothing sketchy or messy. Sometimes the surface looks almost like enamel. It was a peculiar technique and people liked it. A good many of the things he painted were in France, Normandy mostly. Churches. I’ve got one picture
of his here now. Wait a minute and I’ll get it for you.”

  He went to the head of the staircase and shouted down to someone below. Presently he came back holding a small canvas which he propped on another chair.

  “There you are,” he said. “Church in Normandy.”

  “Yes,” said Tommy, “I see. The same sort of thing. My wife says nobody ever lived in that house—the one I brought in. I see now what she meant. I don’t see that anybody was attending service in that church or ever will.”

  “Well, perhaps your wife’s got something. Quiet, peaceful dwellings with no human occupancy. He didn’t often paint people, you know. Sometimes there’s a figure or two in the landscape, but more often not. In a way I think that gives them their special charm. A sort of isolationist feeling. It was as though he removed all the human beings, and the peace of the countryside was all the better without them. Come to think of it, that’s maybe why the general taste has swung round to him. Too many people nowadays, too many cars, too many noises on the road, too much noise and bustle. Peace, perfect peace. Leave it all to Nature.”

  “Yes, I shouldn’t wonder. What sort of a man was he?”

  “I didn’t know him personally. Before my time. Pleased with himself by all accounts. Thought he was a better painter than he was, probably. Put on a bit of side. Kindly, quite likeable. Eye for the girls.”

  “And you’ve no idea where this particular piece of countryside exists? It is England, I suppose.”

  “I should think so, yes. Do you want me to find out for you?”

  “Could you?”

  “Probably the best thing to do would be to ask his wife, his widow rather. He married Emma Wing, the sculptor. Well known. Not very productive. Does quite powerful work. You could go and ask her. She lives in Hampstead. I can give you the address. We’ve been corresponding with her a good deal lately over the question of this show of her husband’s work we’re doing. We’re having a few of her smaller pieces of sculpture as well. I’ll get the address for you.”

  He went to the desk, turned over a ledger, scrawled something on a card and brought it back.

  “There you are, Tommy,” he said. “I don’t know what the deep dark mystery is. Always been a man of mystery, haven’t you? It’s a nice representation of Boscowan’s work you’ve got there. We might like to use it for the show. I’ll send you a line to remind you nearer the time.”

  “You don’t know a Mrs. Lancaster, do you?”

  “Well, I can’t think of one off-hand. Is she an artist or something of the kind?”

  “No, I don’t think so. She’s just an old lady living for the last few years in an old ladies’ home. She comes into it because this picture belonged to her until she gave it away to an aunt of mine.”

  “Well I can’t say the name means anything to me. Better go and talk to Mrs. Boscowan.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “She was a good bit younger than he was, I should say. Quite a personality.” He nodded his head once or twice. “Yes, quite a personality. You’ll find that out I expect.”

  He took the picture, handed it down the staircase with instructions to someone below to do it up again.

  “Nice for you having so many myrmidons at your beck and call,” said Tommy.

  He looked round him, noticing his surroundings for the first time.

  “What’s this you’ve got here now?” he said with distaste.

  “Paul Jaggerowski—Interesting young Slav. Said to produce all his works under the influence of drugs—Don’t you like him?”

  Tommy concentrated his gaze on a big string bag which seemed to have enmeshed itself in a metallic green field full of distorted cows.

  “Frankly, no.”

  “Philistine,” said Robert. “Come out and have a bite of lunch.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got a meeting with a doctor at my club.”

  “Not ill, are you?”

  “I’m in the best of health. My blood pressure is so good that it disappoints every doctor to whom I submit it.”

  “Then what do you want to see a doctor for?”

  “Oh,” said Tommy cheerfully—“I’ve just got to see a doctor about a body. Thanks for your help. Goodbye.”

  II

  Tommy greeted Dr. Murray with some curiosity—He presumed it was some formal matter to do with Aunt Ada’s decease, but why on earth Dr. Murray would not at least mention the subject of his visit over the telephone, Tommy couldn’t imagine.

  “I’m afraid I’m a little late,” said Dr. Murray, shaking hands, “but the traffic was pretty bad and I wasn’t exactly sure of the locality. I don’t know this part of London very well.”

  “Well, too bad you had to come all the way here,” said Tommy. “I could have met you somewhere more convenient, you know.”

  “You’ve time on your hands then just now?”

  “Just at the moment, yes. I’ve been away for the last week.”

  “Yes, I believe someone told me so when I rang up.”

  Tommy indicated a chair, suggested refreshment, placed cigarettes and matches by Dr. Murray’s side. When the two men had established themselves comfortably Dr. Murray opened the conversation.

  “I’m sure I’ve aroused your curiosity,” he said, “but as a matter of fact we’re in a spot of trouble at Sunny Ridge. It’s a difficult and perplexing matter and in one way it’s nothing to do with you. I’ve no earthly right to trouble you with it but there’s just an off chance that you might know something which would help me.”

  “Well, of course, I’ll do anything I can. Something to do with my aunt, Miss Fanshawe?”

  “Not directly, no. But in a way she does come into it. I can speak to you in confidence, can’t I, Mr. Beresford?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “As a matter of fact I was talking the other day to a mutual friend of ours. He was telling me a few things about you. I gather that in the last war you had rather a delicate assignment.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t put it quite as seriously as that,” said Tommy, in his most noncommittal manner.

  “Oh no, I quite realize that it’s not a thing to be talked about.”

  “I don’t really think that matters nowadays. It’s a good long time since the war. My wife and I were younger then.”

  “Anyway, it’s nothing to do with that, that I want to talk to you about, but at least I feel that I can speak frankly to you, that I can trust you not to repeat what I am now saying, though it’s possible that it all may have to come out later.”

  “A spot of trouble at Sunny Ridge, you say?”

  “Yes. Not very long ago one of our patients died. A Mrs. Moody. I don’t know if you ever met her or if your aunt ever talked about her.”

  “Mrs. Moody?” Tommy reflected. “No, I don’t think so. Anyway, not so far as I remember.”

  “She was not one of our older patients. She was still on the right side of seventy and she was not seriously ill in any way. It was just a case of a woman with no near relatives and no one to look after her in the domestic line. She fell into the category of what I often call to myself a flutterer. Women who more and more resemble hens as they grow older. They cluck. They forget things. They run themselves into difficulties and they worry. They get themselves wrought up about nothing at all. There is very little the matter with them. They are not strictly speaking mentally disturbed.”

  “But they just cluck,” Tommy suggested.

  “As you say. Mrs. Moody clucked. She caused the nurses a fair amount of trouble although they were quite fond of her. She had a habit of forgetting when she’d had her meals, making a fuss because no dinner had been served to her when as a matter of fact she had actually just eaten a very good dinner.”

  “Oh,” said Tommy, enlightened, “Mrs. Cocoa.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tommy, “it’s a name my wife and I had for her. She was yelling for Nurse Jane one day when we passed along the passage and saying she hadn�
�t had her cocoa. Rather a nice-looking scatty little woman. But it made us both laugh, and we fell into the habit of calling her Mrs. Cocoa. And so she’s died.”

  “I wasn’t particularly surprised when the death happened,” said Dr. Murray. “To be able to prophesy with any exactitude when elderly women will die is practically impossible. Women whose health is seriously affected, who, one feels as a result of physical examination, will hardly last the year out, sometimes are good for another ten years. They have a tenacious hold on life which mere physical disability will not quench. There are other people whose health is reasonably good and who may, one thinks, make old bones. They on the other hand, catch bronchitis, or ’flu, seem unable to have the stamina to recuperate from it, and die with surprising ease. So, as I say, as a medical attendant to an elderly ladies’ home, I am not surprised when what might be called a fairly unexpected death occurs. This case of Mrs. Moody, however, was somewhat different. She died in her sleep without having exhibited any sign of illness and I could not help feeling that in my opinion her death was unexpected. I will use the phrase that has always intrigued me in Shakespeare’s play, Macbeth. I have always wondered what Macbeth meant when he said of his wife, ‘She should have died hereafter.’ ”

  “Yes, I remember wondering once myself what Shakespeare was getting at,” said Tommy. “I forget whose production it was and who was playing Macbeth, but there was a strong suggestion in that particular production, and Macbeth certainly played it in a way to suggest that he was hinting to the medical attendant that Lady Macbeth would be better out of the way. Presumably the medical attendant took the hint. It was then that Macbeth, feeling safe after his wife’s death, feeling that she could no longer damage him by her indiscretions or her rapidly failing mind, expresses his genuine affection and grief for her. ‘She should have died hereafter.’ ”

  “Exactly,” said Dr. Murray. “It is what I felt about Mrs. Moody. I felt that she should have died hereafter. Not just three weeks ago of no apparent cause—”

  Tommy did not reply. He merely looked at the doctor inquiringly.

  “Medical men have certain problems. If you are puzzled over the cause of a patient’s death there is only one sure way to tell. By a postmortem. Postmortems are not appreciated by relatives of the deceased, but if a doctor demands a postmortem and the result is, as it perfectly well may be, a case of natural causes, or some disease or malady which does not always give outward signs or symptoms, then the doctor’s career can be quite seriously affected by his having made a questionable diagnosis—”