By the Pricking of My Thumbs - Agatha Christie [32]
‘What about the Warrenders?’ asked Tuppence, her mind going back to the names in the church. ‘The church seems full of tablets to them and their names are on lots of gravestones out here.’
‘Ah, that family’s died out by now. They had a fine property, an old fourteenth-century Priory. It was burnt down–oh, nearly a hundred years ago now, so I suppose any Warrenders there were left, went away and didn’t come back. A new house was built on the site, by a rich Victorian called Starke. A very ugly house but comfortable, they say. Very comfortable. Bathrooms, you know, and all that. I suppose that sort of thing is important.’
‘It seems a very odd thing,’ said Tuppence, ‘that someone should write and ask you about a child’s grave. Somebody–a relation?’
‘The father of the child,’ said the vicar. ‘One of these war tragedies, I imagine. A marriage that broke up when the husband was on service abroad. The young wife ran away with another man while the husband was serving abroad. There was a child, a child he’d never seen. She’d be grown up by now, I suppose, if she were alive. It must be twenty years ago or more.’
‘Isn’t it a long time after to be looking for her?’
‘Apparently he only heard there was a child quite recently. The information came to him by pure chance. Curious story, the whole thing.’
‘What made him think that the child had been buried here?’
‘I gather somebody who had come across his wife in wartime had told him that his wife had said she was living at Sutton Chancellor. It happens, you know. You meet someone, a friend or acquaintance you haven’t seen for years, and they sometimes can give you news from the past that you wouldn’t get in any other way. But she’s certainly not living here now. Nobody of that name has lived here–not since I’ve been here. Or in the neighbourhood as far as I know. Of course, the mother might have been going by another name. However, I gather the father is employing solicitors and inquiry agents and all that sort of thing, and they will probably be able to get results in the end. It will take time–’
‘Was it your poor child?’ murmured Tuppence.
‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’
‘Nothing,’ said Tuppence. ‘Something somebody said to me the other day. “Was it your poor child?” It’s rather a startling thing to hear suddenly. But I don’t really think the old lady who said it knew what she was talking about.’
‘I know. I know. I’m often the same. I say things and I don’t really know what I mean by them. Most vexing.’
‘I expect you know everything about the people who live here now?’ said Tuppence.
‘Well, there certainly aren’t very many to know. Yes. Why? Is there someone you wanted to know about?’
‘I wondered if there had ever been a Mrs Lancaster living here.’
‘Lancaster? No, I don’t think I recollect that name.’
‘And there’s a house–I was driving today rather aimlessly–not minding particularly where I went, just following lanes–’
‘I know. Very nice, the lanes round here. And you can find quite rare specimens. Botanical, I mean. In the hedges here. Nobody ever picks flowers in these hedges. We never get any tourists round here or that sort of thing. Yes, I’ve found some very rare specimens sometimes. Dusty Cranesbell, for instance–’
‘There was a house by a canal,’ said Tuppence, refusing to be side-tracked into botany. ‘Near a little hump-backed bridge. It was about two miles from here. I wondered what its name was.’
‘Let me see. Canal–hump-backed bridge. Well…there are several houses like that. There’s Merricot Farm.’
‘It wasn’t a farm.’
‘Ah, now, I expect it was the Perrys’ house–Amos and Alice Perry.’
‘That’s right,’ said Tuppence. ‘A Mr and Mrs Perry.’
‘She’s a striking-looking woman, isn’t she? Interesting, I always think. Very interesting. Medieval face, didn’t you think so? She’s going to play the witch in our play we’re getting up. The school children, you know. She looks rather like a witch, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Tuppence. ‘A friendly witch.’
‘As you say,