“However,” thought Tuppence to herself, “I can’t do it this time.” No amount of eavesdropping, of ingenuity, or anything else would take her to the recesses of Hush Hush Manor or to participation in the intricacies of I.U.A.S. Just an Old Boys Club, she thought resentfully. Without Tommy the flat was empty, the world was lonely, and “What on earth,” thought Tuppence, “am I to do with myself?”
The question was really purely rhetorical for Tuppence had already started on the first steps of what she planned to do with herself. There was no question this time of intelligence work, of counterespionage or anything of that kind. Nothing of an official nature. “Prudence Beresford, Private Investigator, that’s what I am,” said Tuppence to herself.
After a scrappy lunch had been hastily cleared away, the dining room table was strewn with railway timetables, guidebooks, maps, and a few old diaries which Tuppence had managed to disinter.
Some time in the last three years (not longer, she was sure) she had taken a railway journey, and looking out of the carriage window, had noticed a house. But, what railway journey?
Like most people at the present time, the Beresfords travelled mainly by car. The railway journeys they took were few and far between.
Scotland, of course, when they went to stay with their married daughter Deborah—but that was a night journey.
Penzance—summer holidays—but Tuppence knew that line by heart.
No, this had been a much more casual journey.
With diligence and perseverance, Tuppence had made a meticulous list of all the possible journeys she had taken which might correspond to what she was looking for. One or two race meetings, a visit to Northumberland, two possible places in Wales, a christening, two weddings, a sale they had attended, some puppies she had once delivered for a friend who bred them and who had gone down with influenza. The meeting place had been an arid-looking country junction whose name she couldn’t remember.
Tuppence sighed. It seemed as though Tommy’s solution was the one she might have to adopt—Buy a kind of circular ticket and actually travel over the most likely stretches of railway line.
In a small notebook she had jotted down any snatches of extra memories—vague flashes—in case they might help.
A hat, for instance—Yes, a hat that she had thrown up on the rack. She had been wearing a hat—so—a wedding or the christening—certainly not puppies.
And—another flash—kicking off her shoes—because her feet hurt. Yes—that was definite—she had been actually looking at the House—and she had kicked off her shoes because her feet hurt.
So, then, it had definitely been a social function she had either been going to, or returning from—Returning from, of course—because of the painfulness of her feet from long standing about in her best shoes. And what kind of a hat? Because that would help—a flowery hat—a summer wedding—or a velvet winter one?
Tuppence was busy jotting down details from the Railway timetables of different lines when Albert came in to ask what she wanted for supper—and what she wanted ordered in from the butcher and the grocer.
“I think I’m going to be away for the next few days,” said Tuppence. “So you needn’t order in anything. I’m going to take some railway journeys.”
“Will you be wanting some sandwiches?”
“I might. Get some ham or something.”
“Egg and cheese do you? Or there’s a tin of pâté in the larder—it’s been there a long while, time it was eaten.” It was a somewhat sinister recommendation, but Tuppence said,
“All right. That’ll do.”
“Want letters forwarded?”
“I don’t even know where I’m going yet,” said Tuppence.
“I see,” said Albert.
The comfortable thing about Albert was that he always accepted everything. Nothing ever had to be explained to him.
He went away and Tuppence settled down to her planning—what she wanted was: a social engagement involving a hat and party shoes. Unfortunately the ones she had listed involved different railway lines—One wedding on the Southern Railway, the other in East Anglia. The christening north of Bedford.
If she could remember a little more about the scenery . . . She had been sitting on the right-hand side of the train. What had she been looking at before the canal—Woods? Trees? Farmland? A distant village?
Straining her brain, she looked up with a frown—Albert had come back. How far she was at that moment from knowing that Albert standing there waiting for attention was neither more nor less than an answer to prayer—
“Well, what is it now, Albert?”
“If it’s that you’re going to be away all day tomorrow—”
“And the day after as well, probably—”
“Would it be all right for me to have the day off?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It’s Elizabeth—come out in spots she has. Milly thinks it’s measles—”
“Oh dear.” Milly was Albert’s wife and Elizabeth was the youngest of his children. “So Milly wants you at home, of course.”
Albert lived in a small neat house a street or two away.
“It’s not that so much—She likes me out of the way when she’s got her hands full—she doesn’t want me messing things up—But it’s the other kids—I could take ’em somewhere out of her way.”
“Of course. You’re all in quarantine, I suppose.”
“Oh! well, best for ’em all to get it, and get it over. Charlie’s had it, and so has Jean. Anyway, that’ll be all right?”
Tuppence assured him that it would be all right.
Something was stirring in the depths of her subconscious—A happy anticipation—a recognition—Measles—Yes, measles. Something to do with measles.
But why should the house by the canal have anything to do with measles . . . ?
Of course! Anthea. Anthea was Tuppence’s goddaughter—and Anthea’s daughter Jane was at school—her first term—and it was Prize Giving and Anthea had rung up—her two younger children had come out in a measle rash and she had nobody in the house to help and Jane would be terribly disappointed if nobody came—Could Tuppence possibly?—
And Tuppence had said of course—She wasn’t doing anything particular—she’d go down to the school and take Jane out and give her lunch and then go back to the sports and all the rest of it. There was a special school train.
Everything came back into her mind with astonishing clarity—even the dress she’d worn—a summer print of cornflowers!
She had seen the house on the return journey.
Going down there she had been absorbed in a magazine she had bought, but coming back she had had nothing to read, and she had looked out of the window until, exhausted by the activities of the day, and the pressure of her shoes, she had dropped off to sleep.
When she had woken up the train had been running beside a canal. It was partially wooded country, an occasional bridge, sometimes a twisting lane or minor road—a distant farm—no villages.
The train began to slow down, for no reason it would seem, except that a signal must be against it. It drew jerkily to a halt by a bridge, a little humpbacked bridge which spanned the canal, a disused canal presumably. On the other side of the canal, close to the water, was the house—a house that Tuppence thought at once was one of the most attractive houses she had ever seen—a quiet, peaceful house, irradiated by the golden light of the late afternoon sun.
There was no human being to be seen—no dogs, or livestock. Yet the green shutters were not fastened. The house must be lived in, but now, at this moment, it was empty.
“I must find out about that house,” Tuppence had thought. “Someday I must come back here and look at it. It’s the kind of house I’d like to live in.”
With a jerk the train lurched slowly forwards.
“I’ll look out for the name of the next station—so that I’ll know where it is.”
But there had been no appropriate station. It was the time whe
n things were beginning to happen to railways—small stations were closed, even pulled down, grass sprouted on the decayed platforms. For twenty minutes—half an hour—the train ran on, but nothing identifiable was to be seen. Over fields, in the far distance, Tuppence once saw the spire of a church.
Then had come some factory complex—tall chimneys—a line of prefab houses, then open country again.
Tuppence had thought to herself—That house was rather like a dream! Perhaps it was a dream—I don’t suppose I’ll ever go and look for it—too difficult. Besides, rather a pity, perhaps—
Someday, maybe, I’ll come across it by accident!
And so—she had forgotten all about it—until a picture hanging on a wall had reawakened a veiled memory.
And now, thanks to one word uttered unwittingly by Albert, the quest was ended.
Or, to speak correctly, a quest was beginning.
Tuppence sorted out three maps, a guidebook, and various other accessories.
Roughly now she knew the area she would have to search. Jane’s school she marked with a large cross—the branch railway line, which ran into the main line to London—the time lapse whilst she had slept.
The final area as planned covered a considerable mileage—north of Medchester, southeast of Market Basing which was a small town, but was quite an important railway junction, west probably of Shaleborough.
She’d take the car, and start early tomorrow morning.
She got up and went into the bedroom and studied the picture over the mantelpiece.
Yes, there was no mistake. That was the house she had seen from the train three years ago. The house she had promised to look for someday—
Someday had come—Someday was tomorrow.
BOOK 2
THE HOUSE
ON THE CANAL
Seven
THE FRIENDLY WITCH
Before leaving the next morning, Tuppence took a last careful look at the picture hanging in her room, not so much to fix its details firmly in her mind, but to memorize its position in the landscape. This time she would be seeing it not from the window of a train but from the road. The angle of approach would be quite different. There might be many humpbacked bridges, many similar disused canals—perhaps other houses looking like this one (but that Tuppence refused to believe).
The picture was signed, but the signature of the artist was illegible—All that could be said was that it began with B.
Turning away from the picture, Tuppence checked her paraphernalia: an A.B.C. and its attached railway map; a selection of ordnance maps; tentative names of places—Medchester, Westleigh—Market Basing—Middlesham—Inchwell—Between them, they enclosed the triangle that she had decided to examine. With her she took a small overnight bag since she would have a three hours’ drive before she even arrived at the area of operations, and after that, it meant, she judged, a good deal of slow driving along country roads and lanes looking for likely canals.
After stopping in Medchester for coffee and a snack, she pushed on by a second-class road adjacent to a railway line, and leading through wooded country with plenty of streams.
As in most of the rural districts of England, signposts were plentiful, bearing names that Tuppence had never heard of, and seldom seeming to lead to the place in question. There seemed to be a certain cunning about this part of the road system of England. The road would twist off from the canal, and when you pressed on hopefully to where you thought the canal might have taken itself, you drew a blank. If you had gone in the direction of Great Michelden, the next signpost you came to offered you a choice of two roads, one to Pennington Sparrow and the other to Farlingford. You chose Farlingford and managed actually to get to such a place but almost immediately the next signpost sent you back firmly to Medchester, so that you practically retraced your steps. Actually Tuppence never did find Great Michelden, and for a long time she was quite unable to find the lost canal. If she had had any idea of which village she was looking for, things might have gone more easily. Tracking canals on maps was merely puzzling. Now and again she came to the railway which cheered her up and she would then push on hopefully for Bees Hill, South Winterton and Farrell St. Edmund. Farrell St. Edmund had once had a station, but it had been abolished some time ago! “If only,” thought Tuppence, “there was some well-behaved road that ran alongside a canal, or alongside a railway line, it would make it so much easier.”
The day wore on and Tuppence became more and more baffled. Occasionally she came upon a farm adjacent to a canal but the road having led to the farm insisted on having nothing more to do with the canal and went over a hill and arrived at something called Westpenfold which had a church with a square tower which was no use at all.
From there when disconsolately pursuing a rutted road which seemed the only way out of Westpenfold and which to Tuppence’s sense of direction (which was now becoming increasingly unreliable) seemed to lead in the opposite direction to anywhere she could possibly want to go, she came abruptly to a place where two lanes forked right and left. There was the remains of a signpost between them, the arms of which had both broken off.
“Which way?” said Tuppence. “Who knows? I don’t.”
She took the left-hand one.
It meandered on, winding to left and to right. Finally it shot round a bend, widened out and climbed a hill, coming out of woods into open downlike country. Having surmounted the crest it took a steep downward course. Not very far away a plaintive cry sounded—
“Sounds like a train,” said Tuppence, with sudden hope.
It was a train—Then below her was the railway line and on it a goods train uttering cries of distress as it puffed along. And beyond it was the canal and on the other side of the canal was a house that Tuppence recognized and, leading across the canal was a small humpbacked, pink-bricked bridge. The road dipped under the railway, came up, and made for the bridge. Tuppence drove very gently over the narrow bridge. Beyond it the road went on with the house on the right-hand side of it. Tuppence drove on looking for the way in. There didn’t seem to be one. A fairly high wall shielded it from the road.
The house was on her right now. She stopped the car and walked back on to the bridge and looked at what she could see of the house from there.
Most of the tall windows were shuttered with green shutters. The house had a very quiet and empty look. It looked peaceful and kindly in the setting sun. There was nothing to suggest that anyone lived in it. She went back to the car and drove a little farther. The wall, a moderately high one, ran along to her right. The left-hand side of the road was merely a hedge giving on green fields.
Presently she came to a wrought-iron gate in the wall. She parked the car by the side of the road, got out and went over to look through the ironwork of the gate. By standing on tiptoe she could look over it. What she looked into was a garden. The place was certainly not a farm now, though it might have been once. Presumably it gave on fields beyond it. The garden was tended and cultivated. It was not particularly tidy but it looked as though someone was trying rather unsuccessfully to keep it tidy.
From the iron gate a circular path curved through the garden and round to the house. This must be presumably the front door, though it didn’t look like a front door. It was inconspicuous though sturdy—a back door. The house looked quite different from this side. To begin with, it was not empty. People lived there. Windows were open, curtains fluttered at them, a garbage pail stood by the door. At the far end of the garden Tuppence could see a large man digging, a big elderly man who dug slowly and with persistence. Certainly looked at from here the house held no enchantment, no artist would have wanted particularly to paint it. It was just a house and somebody lived in it. Tuppence wondered. She hesitated. Should she go on and forget the house altogether? No, she could hardly do that, not after all the trouble she had taken. What time was it? She looked at her watch but her watch had stopped. The sound of a door opening came from inside. She peered through the gate again.
&n
bsp; The door of the house had opened and a woman came out. She put down a milk bottle and then, straightening up, glanced towards the gate. She saw Tuppence and hesitated for a moment, and then seeming to make up her mind, she came down the path towards the gate. “Why,” said Tuppence to herself, “why, it’s a friendly witch!”
It was a woman of about fifty. She had long straggly hair which when caught by the wind, flew out behind her. It reminded Tuppence vaguely of a picture (by Nevinson?) of a young witch on a broomstick. That is perhaps why the term witch had come into her mind. But there was nothing young or beautiful about this woman. She was middle-aged, with a lined face, dressed in a rather slipshod way. She had a kind of steeple hat perched on her head and her nose and her chin came up towards each other. As a description she could have been sinister but she did not look sinister. She seemed to have a beaming and boundless good will. “Yes,” thought Tuppence, “you’re exactly like a witch, but you’re a friendly witch. I expect you’re what they used to call a ‘white witch.’ ”
The woman came down in a hesitating manner to the gate and spoke. Her voice was pleasant with a faint country burr in it of some kind.
“Were you looking for anything?” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Tuppence, “you must think it very rude of me looking into your garden in this way, but—but I wondered about this house.”