Postern of Fate. Agatha Christie
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Название: Postern of Fate
Автор: Agatha Christie
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
Серия: Tommy & Tuppence
isbn: 9780007422739
isbn:
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.’
‘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?’
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