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Postern of Fate. Агата Кристи
Читать онлайн.Название Postern of Fate
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007422739
Автор произведения Агата Кристи
Жанр Зарубежные детективы
Издательство HarperCollins
‘I am so very pleased that you and your husband have come here to live, Mrs Beresford,’ said Mrs Griffin, as she poured out tea. ‘Sugar? Milk?’
She pressed forward a dish of sandwiches, and Tuppence helped herself.
‘It makes so much difference, you know, in the country where one has nice neighbours with whom one has something in common. Did you know this part of the world before?’
‘No,’ said Tuppence, ‘not at all. We had, you know, a good many different houses to go and view—particulars of them were sent to us by the estate agents. Of course, most of them were very often quite frightful. One was called Full of Old World Charm.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Griffin, ‘I know exactly. Old world charm usually means that you have to put a new roof on and that the damp is very bad. And “thoroughly modernized”—well, one knows what that means. Lots of gadgets one doesn’t want and usually a very bad view from the windows of really hideous houses. But The Laurels is a charming house. I expect, though, you have had a good deal to do to it. Everyone has in turn.’
‘I suppose a lot of different people have lived there,’ said Tuppence.
‘Oh yes. Nobody seems to stay very long anywhere nowadays, do they? The Cuthbertsons were here and the Redlands, and before that the Seymours. And after them the Joneses.’
‘We wondered a little why it was called The Laurels,’ said Tuppence.
‘Oh well, that was the kind of name people liked to give a house. Of course, if you go back far enough, probably to the time of the Parkinsons, I think there were laurels. Probably a drive, you know, curling round and a lot of laurels, including those speckled ones. I never liked speckled laurels.’
‘No,’ said Tuppence, ‘I do agree with you. I don’t like them either. There seem to have been a lot of Parkinsons here,’ she added.
‘Oh yes. I think they occupied it longer than anyone else.’
‘Nobody seems able to tell one much about them.’
‘Well, it was a long time ago, you see, dear. And after the—well, I think after the—the trouble you know, and there was some feeling about it and of course one doesn’t wonder they sold the place.’
‘It had a bad reputation, did it?’ said Tuppence, taking a chance. ‘Do you mean the house was supposed to be insanitary, or something?’
‘Oh no, not the house. No, really, the people you see. Well of course, there was the—the disgrace, in a way—it was during the first war. Nobody could believe it. My grandmother used to talk about it and say that it was something to do with naval secrets—about a new submarine. There was a girl living with the Parkinsons who was said to have been mixed up with it all.’
‘Was that Mary Jordan?’ said Tuppence.
‘Yes. Yes, you’re quite right. Afterwards they suspected that it wasn’t her real name. I think somebody had suspected her for some time. The boy had, Alexander. Nice boy. Quite sharp too.’
Tuppence was selecting birthday cards. It was a wet afternoon and the post office was almost empty. People dropped letters into the post box outside or occasionally made a hurried purchase of stamps. Then they usually departed to get home as soon as possible. It was not one of those crowded shopping afternoons. In fact, Tuppence thought, she had chosen this particular day very well.
Gwenda, whom she had managed to recognize easily from Beatrice’s description, had been only too pleased to come to her assistance. Gwenda represented the household shopping side of the post office. An elderly woman with grey hair presided over the government business of Her Majesty’s mails. Gwenda, a chatty girl, interested always in new arrivals to the village, was happy among the Christmas cards, valentines, birthday cards, comic postcards, note paper and stationery, various types of chocolates and sundry china articles of domestic use. She and Tuppence were already on friendly terms.
‘I’m so glad that the house has been opened again. Princes Lodge, I mean.’
‘I thought it had always been The Laurels.’
‘Oh no. I don’t think it was ever called that. Houses change names a lot around here. People do like giving new names to houses, you know.’
‘Yes, they certainly seem to,’ said Tuppence thoughtfully. ‘Even we have thought of a name or two. By the way, Beatrice told me that you knew someone once living here called Mary Jordan.’
‘I didn’t know her, but I have heard her mentioned. In the war it was, not the last war. The one long before that when there used to be zeppelins.’
‘I remember hearing about zeppelins,’ said Tuppence.
‘In 1915 or 1916—they came over London.’
‘I remember I’d gone to the Army & Navy Stores one day with an old great-aunt and there was an alarm.’
‘They used to come over at night sometimes, didn’t they? Must have been rather frightening, I should think.’
‘Well, I don’t think it was really,’ said Tuppence. ‘People used to get quite excited. It wasn’t nearly as frightening as the flying bombs—in this last war. One always felt rather as though they were following you to places. Following you down a street, or something like that?’
‘Spend all your nights in the tube, did you? I had a friend in London. She used to spend all the nights in the tubes. Warren Street, I think it was. Everyone used to have their own particular tube station.’
‘I wasn’t in London in the last war,’ said Tuppence. ‘I don’t think I’d have liked to spend all night in the tube.’
‘Well, this friend of mine, Jenny her name was, oh she used to love the tube. She said it was ever so much fun. You know, you had your own particular stair in the tube. It was kept for you always, you slept there, and you took sandwiches in and things, and you had fun together and talked. Things went on all night and never stopped. Wonderful, you know. Trains going on right up to the morning. She told me she couldn’t bear it when the war was over and she had to go home again, felt it was so dull, you know.’
‘Anyway,’ said Tuppence, ‘there weren’t any flying bombs in 1914. Just the zeppelins.’
Zeppelins had clearly lost interest for Gwenda.
‘It was someone called Mary Jordan I was asking about,’ said Tuppence. ‘Beatrice said you knew about her.’
‘Not really—I just heard her name mentioned once or twice, but it was ages ago. Lovely golden hair she had, my grandmother said. German she was—one of those Frowlines as they were called. Looked after children—a kind of nurse. Had been with a naval family somewhere, that was up in Scotland, I think. And afterwards she came down here. Went to a family called Parks—or Perkins. She used to have one day off a week, you know, and go to London, and that’s where she used to take the things, whatever they were.’
‘What sort of things?’ said Tuppence.
‘I don’t know—nobody ever said much. Things she’d stolen, I expect.’
‘Was she discovered stealing?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. They were beginning to suspect, but she got