By the Pricking of My Thumbs - Agatha Christie [9]
‘Well, that’s over,’ said Tommy with a sigh, as he got into the car. ‘We shan’t need to come again for at least six months.’
But they didn’t need to go and see her in six months, for three weeks later Aunt Ada died in her sleep.
Chapter 3
A Funeral
‘Funerals are rather sad, aren’t they?’ said Tuppence.
They had just returned from attending Aunt Ada’s funeral, which had entailed a long and troublesome railway journey since the burial had taken place at the country village in Lincolnshire where most of Aunt Ada’s family and forebears had been buried.
‘What do you expect a funeral to be?’ said Tommy reasonably. ‘A scene of mad gaiety?’
‘Well, it could be in some places,’ said Tuppence. ‘I mean the Irish enjoy a wake, don’t they? They have a lot of keening and wailing first and then plenty of drink and a sort of mad whoopee. Drink?’ she added, with a look towards the sideboard.
Tommy went over to it and duly brought back what he considered appropriate. In this case a White Lady.
‘Ah, that’s more like it,’ said Tuppence.
She took off her black hat and threw it across the room and slipped off her long black coat.
‘I hate mourning,’ she said. ‘It always smells of moth balls because it’s been laid up somewhere.’
‘You don’t need to go on wearing mourning. It’s only to go to the funeral in,’ said Tommy.
‘Oh no, I know that. In a minute or two I’m going to go up and put on a scarlet jersey just to cheer things up. You can make me another White Lady.’
‘Really, Tuppence, I had no idea that funerals would bring out this party feeling.’
‘I said funerals were sad,’ said Tuppence when she reappeared a moment or two later, wearing a brilliant cherry-red dress with a ruby and diamond lizard pinned to the shoulder of it, ‘because it’s funerals like Aunt Ada’s that are sad. I mean elderly people and not many flowers. Not a lot of people sobbing and sniffing round. Someone old and lonely who won’t be missed much.’
‘I should have thought it would be much easier for you to stand that than it would if it were my funeral, for instance.’
‘That’s where you’re entirely wrong,’ said Tuppence. ‘I don’t particularly want to think of your funeral because I’d much prefer to die before you do. But I mean, if I were going to your funeral, at any rate it would be an orgy of grief. I should take a lot of handkerchiefs.’
‘With black borders?’
‘Well, I hadn’t thought of black borders but it’s a nice idea. And besides, the Burial service is rather lovely. Makes you feel uplifted. Real grief is real. It makes you feel awful but it does something to you. I mean, it works it out like perspiration.’
‘Really, Tuppence, I find your remarks about my decease and the effect it will have upon you in exceedingly bad taste. I don’t like it. Let’s forget about funerals.’
‘I agree. Let’s forget.’
‘The poor old bean’s gone,’ said Tommy, ‘and she went peacefully and without suffering. So, let’s leave it at that. I’d better clear up all these, I suppose.’
He went over to the writing table and ruffled through some papers.
‘Now where did I put Mr Rockbury’s letter?’
‘Who’s Mr Rockbury? Oh, you mean the lawyer who wrote to you.’
‘Yes. About winding up her affairs. I seem to be the only one of the family left by now.’
‘Pity she hadn’t got a fortune to leave you,’ said Tuppence.
‘If she had had a fortune she’d have left it to that Cats’ Home,’ said Tommy. ‘The legacy that she’s left to them in her will will pretty well eat up all the spare cash. There won’t be much left to come to me. Not that I need it or want it anyway.’
‘Was she so fond of cats?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so. I never heard her mention them. I believe,’ said Tommy thoughtfully, ‘she used to get rather a lot of fun out of saying to old friends of hers when they came to see her “I’ve left you a little something in my will, dear” or