Tuppence stood there frowning, and then, suddenly, quite unexpectedly, the door opened.
Tuppence drew back a step and gasped. The person confronting her was the last person in the world she expected to see. In the doorway, dressed exactly the same as she had been at Sunny Ridge, and smiling the same way with that air of vague amiability, was Mrs. Lancaster in person.
“Oh,” said Tuppence.
“Good morning. Were you wanting Mrs. Perry?” said Mrs. Lancaster. “It’s market day, you know. So lucky I was able to let you in. I couldn’t find the key for some time. I think it must be a duplicate anyway, don’t you? But do come in. Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea or something.”
Like one in a dream, Tuppence crossed the threshold. Mrs. Lancaster, still retaining the gracious air of a hostess, led Tuppence along into the sitting room.
“Do sit down,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t know where all the cups and things are. I’ve only been here a day or two. Now—let me see . . . But—surely—I’ve met you before, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” said Tuppence, “when you were at Sunny Ridge.”
“Sunny Ridge, now, Sunny Ridge. That seems to remind me of something. Oh, of course, dear Miss Packard. Yes, a very nice place.”
“You left it in rather a hurry, didn’t you?” said Tuppence.
“People are so very bossy,” said Mrs. Lancaster. “They hurry you so. They don’t give you time to arrange things or pack properly or anything. Kindly meant, I’m sure. Of course, I’m very fond of dear Nellie Bligh, but she’s a very masterful kind of woman. I sometimes think,” Mrs. Lancaster added, bending forward to Tuppence, “I sometimes think, you know, that she is not quite—” she tapped her forehead significantly. “Of course it does happen. Especially to spinsters. Unmarried women, you know. Very given to good works and all that but they take very odd fancies sometimes. Curates suffer a great deal. They seem to think sometimes, these women, that the curate has made them an offer of marriage but really he never thought of doing anything of the kind. Oh yes, poor Nellie. So sensible in some ways. She’s been wonderful in the parish here. And she was always a first-class secretary, I believe. But all the same she has some very curious ideas at times. Like taking me away at a moment’s notice from dear Sunny Ridge, and then up to Cumberland—a very bleak house, and, again quite suddenly, bringing me here—”
“Are you living here?” said Tuppence.
“Well, if you can call it that. It’s a very peculiar arrangement altogether. I’ve only been here two days.”
“Before that, you were at Rosetrellis Court, in Cumberland—”
“Yes, I believe that was the name of it. Not such a pretty name as Sunny Ridge, do you think? In fact I never really settled down, if you know what I mean. And it wasn’t nearly as well run. The service wasn’t as good and they had a very inferior brand of coffee. Still, I was getting used to things and I had found one or two interesting acquaintances there. One of them who knew an aunt of mine quite well years ago in India. It’s so nice, you know, when you find connections.”
“It must be,” said Tuppence.
Mrs. Lancaster continued cheerfully.
“Now let me see, you came to Sunny Ridge, but not to stay, I think. I think you came to see one of the guests there.”
“My husband’s aunt,” said Tuppence, “Miss Fanshawe.”
“Oh yes. Yes of course. I remember now. And wasn’t there something about a child of yours behind the chimney piece?”
“No,” said Tuppence, “no, it wasn’t my child.”
“But that’s why you’ve come here, isn’t it? They’ve had trouble with a chimney here. A bird got into it, I understand. This place wants repairing. I don’t like being here at all. No, not at all and I shall tell Nellie so as soon as I see her.”
“You’re lodging with Mrs. Perry?”
“Well, in a way I am, and in a way I’m not. I think I could trust you with a secret, couldn’t I?”
“Oh yes,” said Tuppence, “you can trust me.”
“Well, I’m not really here at all. I mean not in this part of the house. This is the Perrys’ part of the house.” She leaned forward. “There’s another one, you know, if you go upstairs. Come with me. I’ll take you.”
Tuppence rose. She felt that she was in rather a crazy kind of dream.
“I’ll just lock the door first, it’s safer,” said Mrs. Lancaster.
She led Tuppence up a rather narrow staircase to the first floor. She took her through a double bedroom with signs of occupation—presumably the Perrys’ room—and through a door leading out of that into another room next door. It contained a washstand and a tall wardrobe of maple wood. Nothing else. Mrs. Lancaster went to the maple wardrobe, fumbled at the back of it, then with sudden ease pushed it aside. There seemed to be castors on the wardrobe and it rolled out from the wall easily enough. Behind the wardrobe there was, rather strangely, Tuppence thought, a grate. Over the mantelpiece there was a mirror with a small shelf under the mirror on which were china figures of birds.
To Tuppence’s astonishment Mrs. Lancaster seized the bird in the middle of the mantelshelf and gave it a sharp pull. Apparently the bird was stuck to the mantelpiece. In fact, by a swift touch Tuppence perceived that all the birds were firmly fastened down. But as a result of Mrs. Lancaster’s action there was a click and the whole mantelpiece came away from the wall and swung forward.
“Clever, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Lancaster. “It was done a long time ago, you know, when they altered the house. The priest’s hole, you know, they used to call this room but I don’t think it was really a priest’s hole. No, nothing to do with priests. I’ve never thought so. Come through. This is where I live now.”
She gave another push. The wall in front of her also swung back and a minute or two later they were in a large attractive-looking room with windows that gave out on the canal and the hill opposite.
“A lovely room, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Lancaster. “Such a lovely view. I always liked it. I lived here for a time as a girl, you know.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Not a lucky house,” said Mrs. Lancaster. “No, they always said it wasn’t a lucky house. I think, you know,” she added, “I think I’ll shut up this again. One can’t be too careful, can one?”
She stretched out a hand and pushed the door they had come through back again. There was a sharp click as the mechanism swung into place.
“I suppose,” said Tuppence, “that this was one of the alterations they made to the house when they wanted to use it as a hiding place.”
“They did a lot of alterations,” said Mrs. Lancaster. “Sit down, do. Do you like a high chair or a low one? I like a high one myself. I’m rather rheumatic, you know. I suppose you thought there might have been a child’s body there,” added Mrs. Lancaster. “An absurd idea really, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, perhaps.”
“Cops and robbers,” said Mrs. Lancaster, with an indulgent air. “One is so foolish when one is young, you know. All that sort of thing. Gangs—big robberies—it has such an appeal for one when one is young. One thinks being a gunman’s moll would be the most wonderful thing in the world. I thought so once. Believe me—” she leaned forward and tapped Tuppence on the knee “—believe me, it’s not true. It isn’t really. I thought so once, but one wants more than that, you know. There’s no thrill really in just stealing things and getting away with it. It needs good organization, of course.”
“You mean Mrs. Johnson or Miss Bligh—whichever you call her—”
“Well, of course, she’s always Nellie Bligh to me. But for some reason or other—to facilitate things, she says—she calls herself Mrs. Johnson now and then. But she’s never been married, you know. Oh no. She’s a regular spinster.”
A sound of knocking came to them from below.
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Lancaster, “that must be the Perrys back again. I’d no idea they were going to be back so soon.”
The knocking went on.
“Perhaps we ought to let them in,” suggested Tuppence.
“No, dear, we won’t do that,” said Mrs. Lancaster. “I can’t stand people always interfering. We’re having such a nice little talk up here, aren’t we? I think we’ll just stay up here—oh dear, now they’re calling under the window. Just look out and see who it is.”
Tuppence went to the window.
“It’s Mr. Perry,” she said.
From below, Mr. Perry shouted,
“Julia! Julia!”
“Impertinence,” said Mrs. Lancaster. “I don’t allow people like Amos Perry to call me by my Christian name. No, indeed. Don’t worry, dear,” she added, “we’re quite safe here. And we can have a nice little talk. I’ll tell you all about myself—I’ve really had a very interesting life—Eventful—Sometimes I think I ought to write it down. I was mixed up, you see. I was a wild girl, and I was mixed up with—well, really just a common gang of criminals. No other word for it. Some of them very undesirable people. Mind you, there were nice people among them. Quite good class.”
“Miss Bligh?”
“No, no, Miss Bligh never had anything to do with crime. Not Nellie Bligh. Oh no, she’s very churchy, you know. Religious. All that. But there are different ways of religion. Perhaps you know that, do you?”
“I suppose there are a lot of different sects,” Tuppence suggested.
“Yes, there have to be, for ordinary people. But there are others besides ordinary people. There are some special ones, under special commands. There are special legions. Do you understand what I mean, my dear?”
“I don’t think I do,” said Tuppence. “Don’t you think we ought to let the Perrys into their own house? They’re getting rather upset—”
“No, we’re not going to let the Perrys in. Not till—well, not till I’ve told you all about it. You mustn’t be frightened, my dear. It’s all quite—quite natural, quite harmless. There’s no pain of any kind. It’ll be just like going to sleep. Nothing worse.”
Tuppence stared at her, then she jumped up and went towards the door in the wall.
“You can’t get out that way,” said Mrs. Lancaster. “You don’t know where the catch is. It’s not where you think it is at all. Only I know that. I know all the secrets of this place. I lived here with the criminals when I was a girl until I went away from them all and got salvation. Special salvation. That’s what was given to me—to expiate my sin—The child, you know—I killed it. I was a dancer—I didn’t want a child—Over there, on the wall—that’s my picture—as a dancer—”
Tuppence followed the pointing finger. On the wall hung an oil painting, full length, of a girl in a costume of white satin leaves with the legend “Waterlily.”
“Waterlily was one of my best roles. Everyone said so.”
Tuppence came back slowly and sat down. She stared at Mrs. Lancaster. As she did so words repeated in her head. Words heard at Sunny Ridge. “Was it your poor child?” She had been frightened then, frightened. She was frightened now. She was as yet not quite sure what she was frightened of, but the same fear was there. Looking at that benignant face, that kindly smile.
“I had to obey the commands given me—There have to be agents of destruction. I was appointed to that. I accepted my appointment. They go free of sin, you see. I mean, the children went free of sin. They were not old enough to sin. So I sent them to Glory as I was appointed to do. Still innocent. Still not knowing evil. You can see what a great honour it was to be chosen. To be one of the specially chosen. I always loved children. I had none of my own. That was very cruel, wasn’t it, or it seemed cruel. But it was retribution really for what I’d done. You know perhaps what I’d done.”
“No,” said Tuppence.
“Oh, you seem to know so much. I thought perhaps you’d know that too. There was a doctor. I went to him. I was only seventeen then and I was frightened. He said it would be all right to have the child taken away so that nobody would ever know. But it wasn’t all right, you see. I began to have dreams. I had dreams that the child was always there, asking me why it had never had life. The child told me it wanted companions. It was a girl, you know. Yes, I’m sure it was a girl. She came and she wanted other children. Then I got the command. I couldn’t have any children. I’d married and I thought I’d have children, then my husband wanted children passionately but the children never came, because I was cursed, you see. You understand that, don’t you? But there was a way, a way to atone. To atone for what I’d done. What I’d done was murder, wasn’t it, and you could only atone for murder with other murders, because the other murders wouldn’t be really murders, they would be sacrifices. They would be offered up. You do see the difference, don’t you? The children went to keep my child company. Children of different ages but young. The command would come and then—” she leaned forward and touched Tuppence “—it was such a happy thing to do. You understand that, don’t you? It was so happy to release them so that they’d never know sin like I knew sin. I couldn’t tell anyone, of course, nobody was ever to know. That was the thing I had to be sure about. But there were people sometimes who got to know or to suspect. Then of course—well, I mean it had to be death for them too, so that I should be safe. So I’ve always been quite safe. You understand, don’t you?”
“Not—not quite.”
“But you do know. That’s why you came here, isn’t it? You knew. You knew the day I asked you at Sunny Ridge. I saw by your face. I said ‘Was it your poor child?’ I thought you’d come, perhaps because you were a mother. One of those whose children I’d killed. I hoped you’d come back another time and then we’d have a glass of milk together. It was usually milk. Sometimes cocoa. Anyone who knew about me.”
She moved slowly across the room and opened a cupboard in a corner of the room.
“Mrs. Moody—” said Tuppence, “was she one?”
“Oh, you know about her—she wasn’t a mother—she’d been a dresser at the theatre. She recognized me so she had to go.” Turning suddenly she came towards Tuppence holding a glass of milk and smiling persuasively.
“Drink it up,” she said. “Just drink it up.”
Tuppence sat silent for a moment, then she leapt to her feet and rushed to the window. Catching up a chair, she crashed the glass. She leaned her head out and screamed:
“Help! Help!”
Mrs. Lancaster laughed. She put the glass of milk down on a table and leant back in her chair and laughed.
“How stupid you are. Who do you think will come? Who do you think can come? They’d have to break down doors, they’d have to get through that wall and by that time—there are other things, you know. It needn’t be milk. Milk is the easy way. Milk and cocoa and even tea. For little Mrs. Moody I put it in cocoa—she loved cocoa.”
“The morphia? How did you get it?”
“Oh, that was easy. A man I lived with years ago—he had cancer—the doctor gave me supplies for him—to keep in my charge—other drugs too—I said later that they’d all been thrown away—but I kept them, and other drugs and sedatives too—I thought they might come in useful some day—and they did—I’ve still got a supply—I never take anything of the kind myself—I don’t believe in it.” She pushed the glass of milk towards Tuppence—“Drink it up, it’s much the easiest way. The other way—the trouble is, I can’t be sure just where I put it.”
She got up from her chair and began walking round the room.
“Where did I put it? Where did I? I forget everything now I’m getting old.”
Tuppence yelled again. “Help!” but the canal bank was empty still. Mrs. Lancaster was still wandering round the room.
“I thought—I certainly thought—oh, of course, in my knitting bag.”
Tuppence turned from the window. Mrs. Lancaster was coming towards her.
“What a silly woman you are,” said Mrs. Lancaster, “to want it this way.”
Her left arm shot out and she caught Tuppence’s shoulder. Her right hand came from behind her back. In it was a long thin stiletto blade. Tuppence struggled. She thought, “I can stop her easily. Easily. She’s an old woman. Feeble. She can’t—”
Suddenly in a cold tide of fear she thought, “But I’m an old woman too. I’m not as strong as I think myself. I’m not as strong as she is. Her hands, her grasp, her fingers. I suppose because she’s mad and mad people, I’ve always heard, are strong.”
The gleaming blade was approaching near her. Tuppence screamed. Down below she heard shouts and blows. Blows now on the doors as though someone were trying to force the doors or windows. “But they’ll never get through,” thought Tuppence. “They’ll never get through this trick doorway here. Not unless they know the mechanism.”
She struggled fiercely. She was still managing to hold Mrs. Lancaster away from her. But the other was the bigger woman. A big strong woman. Her face was still smiling but it no longer had the benignant look. It had the look now of someone enjoying herself.
“Killer Kate,” said Tuppence.
“You know my nickname? Yes, but I’ve sublimated that. I’ve become a killer of the Lord. It’s the Lord’s will that I should kill you. So that makes it all right. You do see that, don’t you? You see, it makes it all right.”
Tuppence was pressed now against the side of a big chair. With one arm Mrs. Lancaster held her against the chair, and the pressure increased—no further recoil was possible. In Mrs. Lancaster’s right hand the sharp steel of the stiletto approached.
Tuppence thought, “I mustn’t panic—I mustn’t panic—” But following that came with sharp insistence, “But what can I do?” To struggle was unavailing.
Fear came then—the same sharp fear of which she had the first indication in Sunny Ridge—
“Is it your poor child?”
That had been the first warning—but she had misunderstood it—she had not known it was a warning.
Her eyes watched the approaching steel but strangely enough it was not the gleaming metal and its menace that frightened her into a state of paralysis; it was the face above it—it was the smiling benignant face of Mrs. Lancaster—smiling happily, contentedly—a woman pursuing her appointed task, with gentle reasonableness.
“She doesn’t look mad,” thought Tuppence—“That’s what’s so awful—Of course she doesn’t because in her own mind she’s sane. She’s a perfectly normal, reasonable human being—that’s what she thinks—Oh Tommy, Tommy, what have I got myself into this time?”
Dizziness and limpness submerged her. Her muscles relaxed—somewhere there was a great crash of broken glass. It swept her away, into darkness and unconsciousness.
II
“That’s better—you’re coming round—drink this, Mrs. Beresford.”
A glass pressed against her lips—she resisted fiercely—Poisoned milk—who had said that once—something about “poisoned milk?” She wouldn’t drink poisoned milk . . . No, not milk—quite a different smell—
She relaxed, her lips opened—she sipped—
“Brandy,” said Tuppence with recognition.
“Quite right! Go on—drink some more—”
Tuppence sipped again. She leaned back against cushions, surveyed her surroundings. The top of a ladder showed through the window. In front of the window there was a mass of broken glass on the floor.
“I heard the glass break.”
She pushed away the brandy glass and her eyes followed up the hand and arm to the face of the man who had been holding it.
“El Greco,” said Tuppence.
“I beg your pardon.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She looked round the room.
“Where is she—Mrs. Lancaster, I mean?”
“She’s—resting—in the next room—”
“I see.” But she wasn’t sure that she did see. She would see better presently. Just now only one idea would come at a time—
“Sir Philip Starke.” She said it slowly and doubtfully. “That’s right?”
“Yes—Why did you say El Greco?”
“Suffering.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“The picture—In Toledo—Or in the Prado—I thought so a long time ago—no, not very long ago—” She thought about it—made a discovery—“Last night. A party—At the vicarage—”
“You’re doing fine,” he said encouragingly.
It seemed very natural, somehow, to be sitting here, in this room with broken glass on the floor, talking to this man—with the dark agonized face—
“I made a mistake—at Sunny Ridge. I was all wrong about her—I was afraid, then—a—wave of fear—But I got it wrong—I wasn’t afraid of her—I was afraid for her—I thought something was going to happen to her—I wanted to protect her—to save her—I—” She looked doubtfully at him. “Do you understand? Or does it sound silly?”
“Nobody understands better than I do—nobody in this world.”
Tuppence stared at him—frowning.
“Who—who was she? I mean Mrs. Lancaster—Mrs. Yorke—that’s not real—that’s just taken from a rose tree—who was she—herself?”
Philip Starke said harshly:
“Who was she? Herself? The real one, the true one
Who was she—with God’s Sign upon her brow?”
“Did you ever read Peer Gynt, Mrs. Beresford?”
He went to the window. He stood there a moment, looking out—Then he turned abruptly.
“She was my wife, God help me.”
“Your wife—But she died—the tablet in the church—”
“She died abroad—that was the story I circulated—And I put up a tablet to her memory in the church. People don’t like to ask too many questions of a bereaved widower. I didn’t go on living here.”
“Some people said she had left you.”
“That made an acceptable story, too.”
“You took her away when you found out—about the children—”
“So you know about the children?”
“She told me—It seemed—unbelievable.”
“Most of the time she was quite normal—no one would have guessed. But the police were beginning to suspect—I had to act—I had to save her—to protect her—You understand—can you understand—in the very least?”
“Yes,” said Tuppence, “I can understand quite well.”
“She was—so lovely once—” His voice broke a little. “You see her—there,” he pointed to the painting on the wall. “Waterlily—She was a wild girl—always. Her mother was the last of the Warrenders—an old family—inbred—Helen Warrender—ran away from home. She took up with a bad lot—a gaolbird—her daughter went on the stage—she trained as a dancer—Waterlily was her most popular role—then she took up with a criminal gang—for excitement—purely to get a kick out of it—She was always being disappointed—
“When she married me, she had finished with all that—she wanted to settle down—to live quietly—a family life—with children. I was rich—I could give her all the things she wanted. But we had no children. It was a sorrow to both of us. She began to have obsessions of guilt—Perhaps she had always been slightly unbalanced—I don’t know—What do causes matter?—She was—”
He made a despairing gesture.
“I loved her—I always loved her—no matter what she was—what she did—I wanted her safe—to keep her safe—not shut up—a prisoner for life, eating her heart out. And we did keep her safe—for many many years.”
“We?”
“Nellie—my dear faithful Nellie Bligh. My dear Nellie Bligh. She was wonderful—planned and arranged it all. The Homes for the Elderly—every comfort and luxury. And no temptations—no children—keep children out of her way—It seemed to work—these homes were in faraway places—Cumberland—North Wales—no one was likely to recognize her—or so we thought. It was on Mr. Eccles’s advice—a very shrewd lawyer—his charges were high—but I relied on him.”
“Blackmail?” suggested Tuppence.
“I never thought of it like that. He was a friend, and an adviser—”
“Who painted the boat in the picture—the boat called Waterlily?”
“I did. It pleased her. She remembered her triumph on the stage. It was one of Boscowan’s pictures. She liked his pictures. Then, one day, she wrote a name in black pigment on the bridge—the name of a dead child—So I painted a boat to hide it and labelled the boat Waterlily—”
The door in the wall swung open—The friendly witch came through it.
She looked at Tuppence and from Tuppence to Philip Starke.
“All right again?” she said in a matter-of-fact way.
“Yes,” said Tuppence. The nice thing about the friendly witch, she saw, was that there wasn’t going to be any fuss.
“Your husband’s down below, waiting in the car. I said I’d bring you down to him—if that’s the way you want it?”
“That’s the way I want it,” said Tuppence.
“I thought you would.” She looked towards the door into the bedroom. “Is she—in there?”
“Yes,” said Philip Starke.
Mrs. Perry went to the bedroom. She came out again—
“I see—” She looked at him inquiringly.
“She offered Mrs. Beresford a glass of milk—Mrs. Beresford didn’t want it.”
“And so, I suppose, she drank it herself?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Dr. Mortimer will be along later,” said Mrs. Perry.
She came to help Tuppence to her feet, but Tuppence rose unaided.
“I’m not hurt,” she said. “It was just shock—I’m quite all right now.”
She stood facing Philip Starke—neither of them seemed to have anything to say. Mrs. Perry stood by the door in the wall.
Tuppence spoke at last.
“There is nothing I can do, is there?” she said, but it was hardly a question.
“Only one thing—It was Nellie Bligh who struck you down in the churchyard that day.”
Tuppence nodded.
“I’ve realized it must have been.”
“She lost her head. She thought you were on the track of her, of our, secret. She—I’m bitterly remorseful for the terrible strain I’ve subjected her to all these long years. It’s been more than any woman ought to be asked to bear—”
“She loved you very much, I suppose,” said Tuppence. “But I don’t think we’ll go on looking for any Mrs. Johnson, if that is what you want to ask us not to do.”
“Thank you—I’m very grateful.”
There was another silence. Mrs. Perry waited patiently. Tuppence looked round her. She went to the broken window and looked at the peaceful canal down below.
“I don’t suppose I shall ever see this house again. I’m looking at it very hard, so that I shall be able to remember it.”
“Do you want to remember it?”
“Yes, I do. Someone said to me that it was a house that had been put to the wrong use. I know what they meant now.”
He looked at her questioningly, but did not speak.
“Who sent you here to find me?” asked Tuppence.
“Emma Boscowan.”
“I thought so.”
She joined the friendly witch and they went through the secret door and on down.
A house for lovers, Emma Boscowan had said to Tuppence. Well, that was how she was leaving it—in the possession of two lovers—one dead and one who suffered and lived—
She went out through the door to where Tommy and the car were waiting.
She said goodbye to the friendly witch. She got into the car.
“Tuppence,” said Tommy.
“I know,” said Tuppence.
“Don’t do it again,” said Tommy. “Don’t ever do it again.”
“I won’t.”
“That’s what you say now, but you will.”
“No, I shan’t. I’m too old.”
Tommy pressed the starter. They drove off.
“Poor Nellie Bligh,” said Tuppence.
“Why do you say that?”
“So terribly in love with Philip Starke. Doing all those things for him all those years—such a lot of wasted doglike devotion.”
“Nonsense!” said Tommy. “I expect she’s enjoyed every minute of it. Some women do.”
“Heartless brute,” said Tuppence.
“Where do you want to go—The Lamb and Flag at Market Basing?”
“No,” said Tuppence. “I want to go home. HOME, Thomas. And stay there.”
“Amen to that,” said Mr. Beresford. “And if Albert welcomes us with a charred chicken, I’ll kill him!”
Seventeen. Mrs. lancaster