By the Pricking of My Thumbs - Agatha Christie [35]
‘The whole thing’s impossible, so far as I can see,’ said Miss Bligh. ‘You ought never to have said you would do such a thing, Vicar. It’s monstrous, suggesting anything of the kind.’
‘The poor fellow seems very upset,’ said the vicar. ‘A sad history altogether, so far as I can make out. But I mustn’t keep you.’
Tuppence thought to herself as she was shepherded by Miss Bligh that no matter what the reputation of Mrs Copleigh for talking, she could hardly talk more than Miss Bligh did. A stream of pronouncements both rapid and dictatorial poured from her lips.
Mrs Copleigh’s cottage proved to be a pleasant and roomy one set back from the village street with a neat garden of flowers in front, a whitened doorstep and a brass handle well polished. Mrs Copleigh herself seemed to Tuppence like a character straight out of the pages of Dickens. She was very small and very round, so that she came rolling towards you rather like a rubber ball. She had bright twinkling eyes, blonde hair rolled up in sausage curls on her head and an air of tremendous vigour. After displaying a little doubt to begin with–‘Well, I don’t usually, you know. No. My husband and I say “summer visitors, that’s different”. Everyone does that if they can nowadays. And have to, I’m sure. But not this time of year so much, we don’t. Not until July. However, if it’s just for a few days and the lady wouldn’t mind things being a bit rough, perhaps–’
Tuppence said she didn’t mind things being rough and Mrs Copleigh, having surveyed her with close attention, whilst not stopping her flow of conversation, said perhaps the lady would like to come up and see the room, and then things might be arranged.
At that point Miss Bligh tore herself away with some regret because she had not so far been able to extract all the information she wanted from Tuppence, as to where she came from, what her husband did, how old she was, if she had any children and other matters of interest. But it appeared that she had a meeting at her house over which she was going to preside and was terrified at the risk that someone else might seize that coveted post.
‘You’ll be quite all right with Mrs Copleigh,’ she assured Tuppence, ‘she’ll look after you, I’m sure. Now what about your car?’
‘Oh, I’ll fetch it presently,’ said Tuppence. ‘Mrs Copleigh will tell me where I had better put it. I can leave it outside here really because it isn’t a very narrow street, is it?’
‘Oh, my husband can do better than that for you,’ said Mrs Copleigh. ‘He’ll put it in the field for you. Just round the side lane here, and it’ll be quite all right, there. There’s a shed he can drive it into.’
Things were arranged amicably on that basis and Miss Bligh hurried away to her appointment. The question of an evening meal was next raised. Tuppence asked if there was a pub in the village.
‘Oh, we have nothing as a lady could go to,’ said Mrs Copleigh, ‘but if you’d be satisfied with a couple of eggs and a slice of ham and maybe some bread and homemade jam–’
Tuppence said that would be splendid. Her room was small but cheerful and pleasant with a rosebud wallpaper and a comfortable-looking bed and a general air of spotless cleanliness.
‘Yes, it’s a nice wallpaper, miss,’ said Mrs Copleigh, who seemed determined to accord Tuppence single status. ‘Chose it we did so that any newly married couple should come here on honeymoon. Romantic, if you know what I mean.’
Tuppence agreed that romance was a very desirable thing.
‘They haven’t got so much to spend nowadays, newly marrieds. Not what they used to. Most of them you see are saving for a house or are making down payments already. Or they’ve got to buy some furniture on the hire purchase and it doesn’t leave anything over for having a posh honeymoon or anything of that kind. They’re careful, you know, most of the young folk. They don’t go bashing all their money.’
She clattered downstairs again talking briskly as she went. Tuppence lay down on the bed to have half an hour’s sleep after a somewhat tiring day. She had, however, great hopes of Mrs Copleigh,