Postern of Fate. Агата Кристи

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       CHAPTER 2

       Introduction to Mathilde, Truelove and KK

      Tuppence, on the following morning, went in search of that well-known public character in the village known usually as Old Isaac, or, on formal occasions if one could remember, Mr Bodlicott. Isaac Bodlicott was one of the local ‘characters’. He was a character because of his age—he claimed to be ninety (not generally believed)—and he was able to do repairs of many curious kinds. If your efforts to ring up the plumber met with no response, you went to old Isaac Bodlicott. Mr Bodlicott, whether or not he was in any way qualified for the repairs he did, had been well acquainted for many of the years of his long life with every type of sanitation problem, bath-water problems, difficulties with geysers, and sundry electrical problems on the side. His charges compared favourably with a real live qualified plumber, and his repairs were often surprisingly successful. He could do carpentering, he could attend to locks, he could hang pictures—rather crookedly sometimes—he understood about the springs of derelict armchairs. The main disadvantage of Mr Bodlicott’s attentions was his garrulous habit of incessant conversation slightly hampered by a difficulty in adjusting his false teeth in such a way as to make what he said intelligible in his pronunciation. His memories of past inhabitants of the neighbourhood seemed to be unlimited. It was difficult, on the whole, to know how reliable they might be. Mr Bodlicott was not one to shirk giving himself the pleasure of retailing some really good story of past days. These flights of fancy, claimed usually as flights of memory, were usually ushered in with the same type of statement.

      ‘You’d be surprised, you would, if I could tell you what I knew about that one. Yes indeed. Well, you know, everybody thought they knew all about it, but they were wrong. Absolutely wrong. It was the elder sister, you know. Yes, it was. Such a nice girl, she seemed. It was the butcher’s dog that gave them all the clue. Followed her home, he did. Yes. Only it wasn’t her own home, as you might say. Ah well, I could tell you a lot more about that. Then there was old Mrs Atkins. Nobody knew as she kept a revolver in the house, but I knew. I knew when I was sent for to mend her tallboy—that’s what they call those high chests, isn’t it? Yes. Tallboys. Well, that’s right. Well, there she was, seventy-five, and in that drawer, the drawer of the tallboy as I went, you know, to mend—the hinges had gone, the lock too—that’s where the revolver was. Wrapped up, it was, with a pair of women’s shoes. No. 3 size. Or, I’m not sure as it wasn’t No. 2. White satin. Tiny little foot. Her great-grandmother’s wedding shoes, she said. Maybe. But somebody said she bought them at a curiosity shop once but I don’t know about that. And there was the revolver wrapped up too. Yes. Well, they said as her son had brought it back. Brought it back from East Africa, he did. He’d been out there shooting elephants or something of that kind. And when he come home he brought this revolver. And do you know what that old lady used to do? Her son had taught her to shoot. She’d sit by her drawing-room window looking out and when people came up the drive she’d have her revolver with her and she’d shoot either side of them. Yes. Got them frightened to death and they ran away. She said she wouldn’t have anyone coming in and disturbing the birds. Very keen on the birds, she was. Mind you, she never shot a bird. No, she didn’t want to do that. Then there was all the stories about Mrs Letherby. Nearly had up, she was. Yes, shoplifting. Very clever at it, so they say. And yet as rich as they make them.’

      Having persuaded Mr Bodlicott to replace the skylight in the bathroom, Tuppence wondered if she could direct his conversation to any memory of the past which would be useful to Tommy and herself in solving the mystery of the concealment in their house of some treasure or interesting secret of whose nature they had no knowledge whatever.

      Old Isaac Bodlicott made no difficulties about coming to do repairs for the new tenants of the place. It was one of his pleasures in life to meet as many newcomers as possible. It was in his life one of the main events to be able to come across people who had not so far heard of his splendid memories and reminiscences. Those who were well acquainted with them did not often encourage him to repeat these tales. But a new audience! That was always a pleasant happening. That and displaying the wonderful amount of trades that he managed to combine among his various services to the community in which he lived. It was his pleasure to indulge in a running commentary.

      ‘Luck it was, as old Joe didn’t get cut. Might have ripped his face open.’

      ‘Yes, it might indeed.’

      ‘There’s a bit more glass wants sweeping up on the floor still, missus.’

      ‘I know,’ said Tuppence, ‘we haven’t had time yet.’

      ‘Ah, but you can’t take risks with glass. You know what glass is. A little splinter can do you all the harm in the world. Die of it, you can, if it gets into a blood vessel. I remember Miss Lavinia Shotacomb. You wouldn’t believe…’

      Tuppence was not tempted by Miss Lavinia Shotacomb. She had heard her mentioned by other local characters. She had apparently been between seventy and eighty, quite deaf and almost blind.

      ‘I suppose,’ said Tuppence, breaking in before Isaac’s reminiscences of Lavinia Shotacomb could begin, ‘that you must know a lot about all the various people and the extraordinary things that have happened in this place in the past.’

      ‘Aw, well, I’m not as young as I was, you know. Over eighty-five, I am. Going on ninety. I’ve always had a good memory. There are things, you know, you don’t forget. No. However long it is, something reminds you of it, you know, and brings it all back to you. The things I could tell you, you wouldn’t believe.’