about the picture she gave to Aunt Ada.’
‘I really don’t think you need worry, Mrs Beresford. I expect she’s forgotten all about it by now. I don’t think she prized it particularly. She was just pleased that Miss Fanshawe admired it and was glad for her to have it, and I’m sure she’d be glad for you to have it because you admire it. It’s a nice picture, I thought so myself. Not that I know much about pictures.’
‘I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write to Mrs Johnson if you’ll give me her address, and just ask if it’s all right to keep it.’
‘The only address I’ve got is the hotel in London they were going to—the Cleveland, I think it was called. Yes, the Cleveland Hotel, George Street, W1. She was taking Mrs Lancaster there for about four or five days and after that I think they were going to stay with some relations in Scotland. I expect the Cleveland Hotel will have a forwarding address.’
‘Well, thank you—And now, about this fur stole of Aunt Ada’s.’
‘I’ll go and bring Miss O’Keefe to you.’
She went out of the room.
‘You and your Mrs Blenkensops,’ said Tommy.
Tuppence looked complacent.
‘One of my best creations,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I was able to make use of her—I was just trying to think of a name and suddenly Mrs Blenkensop came into my mind. What fun it was, wasn’t it?’
‘It’s a long time ago—No more spies in wartime and counter-espionage for us.’
‘More’s the pity. It was fun—living in that guest house—inventing a new personality for myself—I really began to believe I was Mrs Blenkensop.’
‘You were lucky you got away safely with it,’ said Tommy, ‘and in my opinion, as I once told you, you overdid it.’
‘I did not. I was perfectly in character. A nice woman, rather silly, and far too much taken up with her three sons.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Tommy. ‘One son would have been quite enough. Three sons were too much to burden yourself with.’
‘They became quite real to me,’ said Tuppence. ‘Douglas, Andrew and—goodness, I’ve forgotten the name of the third one now. I know exactly what they looked like and their characters and just where they were stationed, and I talked most indiscreetly about the letters I got from them.’
‘Well, that’s over,’ said Tommy. ‘There’s nothing to find out in this place—so forget about Mrs Blenkinsop. When I’m dead and buried and you’ve suitably mourned me and taken up your residence in a home for the aged, I expect you’ll be thinking you are Mrs Blenkinsop half of the time.’
‘It’ll be rather boring to have only one role to play,’ said Tuppence.
‘Why do you think old people want to be Marie Antoinette, and Madame Curie and all the rest of it?’ asked Tommy.
‘I expect because they get so bored. One does get bored. I’m sure you would if you couldn’t use your legs and walk about, or perhaps your fingers get too stiff and you can’t knit. Desperately you want something to do to amuse yourself so you try on some public character and see what it feels like when you are it. I can understand that perfectly.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ said Tommy. ‘God help the home for the aged that you go to. You’ll be Cleopatra most of the time, I expect.’
‘I won’t be a famous person,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ll be someone like a kitchenmaid at Anne of Cleves’ castle retailing a lot of spicy gossip that I’d heard.’
The door opened, and Miss Packard appeared in company with a tall, freckle-faced young woman in nurse’s dress and a mop of red hair.
‘This is Miss O’Keefe—Mr and Mrs Beresford. They have something to tell you. Excuse me, will you? One of the patients is asking for me.’
Tuppence duly made the presentation of Aunt Ada’s fur stole and Nurse O’Keefe was enraptured.
‘Oh! It’s lovely. It’s too good for me, though. You’ll be wanting it yourself—’
‘No, I don’t really. It’s on the big side for me. I’m too small. It’s just right for a tall girl like you. Aunt Ada was tall.’
‘Ah! she was the grand old lady—she must have been very handsome as a girl.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Tommy doubtfully. ‘She must have been a tartar to look after, though.’
‘Oh, she was that, indeed. But she had a grand spirit. Nothing got her down. And she was no fool either. You’d be surprised the way she got to know things. Sharp as a needle, she was.’
‘She had a temper, though.’
‘Yes, indeed. But it’s the whining kind that gets you down—all complaints and moans. Miss Fanshawe was never dull. Grand stories she’d tell you of the old days—Rode a horse once up the staircase of a country house when she was a girl—or so she said—Would that be true now?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past her,’ said Tommy.
‘You never know what you can believe here. The tales the old dears come and tell you. Criminals that they’ve recognized—We must notify the police at once—if not, we’re all in danger.’
‘Somebody was being poisoned last time we were here, I remember,’ said Tuppence.
‘Ah! that was only Mrs Lockett. It happens to her every day. But it’s not the police she wants, it’s a doctor to be called—she’s that crazy about doctors.’
‘And somebody—a little woman—calling out for cocoa—’
‘That would be Mrs Moody. Poor soul, she’s gone.’
‘You mean left here—gone away?’
‘No—it was a thrombosis took her—very sudden. She was one who was very devoted to your Aunt—not that Miss Fanshawe always had time for her—always talking nineteen to the dozen, as she did—’
‘Mrs Lancaster has left, I hear.’
‘Yes, her folk came for her. She didn’t want to go, poor thing.’
‘What was the story she told me—about the fireplace in the sitting-room?’
‘Ah! she’d lots of stories, that one—about the things that happened to her—and the secrets she knew—’
‘There was something about a child—a kidnapped child or a murdered child—’
‘It’s strange it is, the things they think up. It’s the TV as often as not that gives them the ideas—’
‘Do you find it a strain, working here with all these old people? It must be tiring.’
‘Oh
