By the Pricking of My Thumbs - Agatha Christie [50]
Albert went away to release the chicken from its possible fate of cremation in the oven.
Tommy, who had been about to follow him, stopped and looked towards the mantelpiece. He walked slowly to it and looked at the picture that hung there. Funny, her being so sure that she had seen that particular house before. Tommy felt quite certain that he hadn’t seen it. Anyway, it was quite an ordinary house. There must be plenty of houses like that.
He stretched up as far as he could towards it and then, still not able to get a good view, unhooked it and took it close to the electric lamp. A quiet, gentle house. There was the artist’s signature. The name began with a B though he couldn’t make out exactly what the name was. Bosworth–Bouchier–He’d get a magnifying glass and look at it more closely. A merry chime of cowbells came from the hall. Albert had highly approved of the Swiss cowbells that Tommy and Tuppence had brought back some time or other from Grindelwald. He was something of a virtuoso on them. Dinner was served. Tommy went to the dining-room. It was odd, he thought, that Tuppence hadn’t turned up by now. Even if she had had a puncture, which seemed probable, he rather wondered that she hadn’t rung up to explain or excuse her delay.
‘She might know that I’d worry,’ said Tommy to himself. Not, of course, that he ever did worry–not about Tuppence. Tuppence was always all right. Albert contradicted this mood.
‘Hope she hasn’t had an accident,’ he remarked, presenting Tommy with a dish of cabbage, and shaking his head gloomily.
‘Take that away. You know I hate cabbage,’ said Tommy. ‘Why should she have had an accident? It’s only half past nine now.’
‘Being on the road is plain murder nowadays,’ said Albert. ‘Anyone might have an accident.’
The telephone bell rang. ‘That’s her,’ said Albert. Hastily reposing the dish of cabbage on the sideboard, he hurried out of the room. Tommy rose, abandoning his plate of chicken, and followed Albert. He was just saying ‘Here, I’ll take it,’ when Albert spoke.
‘Yes, sir? Yes, Mr Beresford is at home. Here he is now.’ He turned his head to Tommy. ‘It’s a Dr Murray for you, sir.’
‘Dr Murray?’ Tommy thought for a moment. The name seemed familiar but for the moment he couldn’t remember who Dr Murray was. If Tuppence had had an accident–and then with a sigh of relief he remembered that Dr Murray had been the doctor who attended the old ladies at Sunny Ridge. Something, perhaps, to do with Aunt Ada’s funeral forms. True child of his time, Tommy immediately assumed that it must be a question of some form or other–something he ought to have signed, or Dr Murray ought to have signed.
‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘Beresford here.’
‘Oh, I’m glad to catch you. You remember me, I hope. I attended your aunt, Miss Fanshawe.’
‘Yes, of course I remember. What can I do?’
‘I really wanted to have a word or two with you sometime. I don’t know if we can arrange a meeting, perhaps in town one day?’
‘Oh I expect so, yes. Quite easily. But–er–is it something you can’t say over the phone?’
‘I’d rather not say it over the telephone. There’s no immediate hurry. I won’t pretend there is but–but I should like to have a chat with you.’
‘Nothing wrong?’ said Tommy, and wondered why he put it that way. Why should there be anything wrong?
‘Not really. I may be making a mountain out of a molehill. Probably am. But there have been some rather curious developments at Sunny Ridge.’
‘Nothing to do with Mrs Lancaster, is it?’ asked Tommy.
‘Mrs Lancaster?’ The doctor seemed surprised. ‘Oh no. She left some time ago. In fact–before your aunt died. This is something quite different.’
‘I’ve been away–only just got back. May I ring you up tomorrow morning–we could fix something then.’
‘Right. I’ll give you my telephone number. I shall be at my surgery until ten a.m.’
‘Bad news?’ asked Albert as Tommy returned to the dining-room.
‘For God’s sake, don’t croak, Albert,’ said Tommy irritably. ‘No–of course it isn’t bad news.’
‘I thought perhaps the missus–’
‘She