N or M_ - Agatha Christie [29]
‘Ag do–bah pit–soo–soodah–putch–’
Released to fly back to its own perplexities, Tuppence’s mind forgot the child. The words of the nursery rhyme seemed to mock at her.
‘Goosey–goosey, gander, whither shall ye wander?’
Whither indeed? Goosey, that was her, Gander was Tommy. It was, at any rate, what they appeared to be! Tuppence had the heartiest contempt for Mrs Blenkensop. Mr Meadowes, the thought, was a little better–stolid, British, unimaginative–quite incredibly stupid. Both of them, she hoped, fitting nicely into the background of Sans Souci. Both such possible people to be there.
All the same, one must not relax–a slip was so easy. She had made one the other day–nothing that mattered, but just a sufficient indication to warn her to be careful. Such an easy approach to intimacy and good relations–an indifferent knitter asking for guidance. But she had forgotten that one evening, her fingers had slipped into their own practised efficiency, the needles clicking busily with the even note of the experienced knitter. Mrs O’Rourke had noticed it. Since then, she had carefully struck a medium course–not so clumsy as she had been at first–but not so rapid as she could be.
‘Ag boo bate?’ demanded Betty. She reiterated the question: ‘Ag boo bate?’
‘Lovely, darling,’ said Tuppence absently. ‘Beautiful.’
Satisfied, Betty relapsed into murmurs again.
Her next step, Tuppence thought, could be managed easily enough. That is to say with the connivance of Tommy. She saw exactly how to do it–
Lying there planning, time slipped by. Mrs Sprot came in, breathless, to seek for Betty.
‘Oh, here she is. I couldn’t think where she had got to. Oh, Betty, you naughty girl–oh, dear, Mrs Blenkensop, I am so sorry.’
Tuppence sat up in bed. Betty, with an angelic face, was contemplating her handiwork.
She had removed all the laces from Tuppence’s shoes and had immersed them in a toothglass of water. She was prodding them now with a gleeful finger.
Tuppence laughed and cut short Mrs Sprot’s apologies.
‘How frightfully funny. Don’t worry, Mrs Sprot, they’ll recover all right. It’s my fault. I should have noticed what she was doing. She was rather quiet.’
‘I know,’ Mrs Sprot sighed. ‘Whenever they’re quiet, it’s a bad sign. I’ll get you some more laces this morning, Mrs Blenkensop.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Tuppence. ‘They’ll dry none the worse.’
Mrs Sprot bore Betty away and Tuppence got up to put her plan into execution.
Chapter 6
Tommy looked rather gingerly at the packet that Tuppence thrust upon him.
‘Is this it?’
‘Yes. Be careful. Don’t get it over you.’
Tommy took a delicate sniff at the packet and replied with energy.
‘No, indeed. What is this frightful stuff?’
‘Asafoetida,’ replied Tuppence. ‘A pinch of that and you will wonder why your boy-friend is no longer attentive, as the advertisements say.’
‘Shades of BO,’ murmured Tommy.
Shortly after that, various incidents occurred.
The first was the smell in Mr Meadowes’ room.
Mr Meadowes, not a complaining man by nature, spoke about it mildly at first, then with increasing firmness.
Mrs Perenna was summoned into conclave. With all the will to resist in the world, she had to admit that there was a smell. A pronounced unpleasant smell. Perhaps, she suggested, the gas tap of the fire was leaking.
Bending down and sniffing dubiously, Tommy remarked that he did not think the smell came from there. Nor from under the floor. He himself thought, definitely–a dead rat.
Mrs Perenna admitted that she had heard of such things–but she was sure there were no rats at Sans Souci. Perhaps a mouse–though she herself had never seen a mouse.
Mr Meadowes said with firmness that he thought the smell indicated at least a rat–and he added, still more firmly, that he was not going to sleep another night in the room until the matter had been seen to. He would ask Mrs Perenna to change his room.
Mrs Perenna said, ‘Of course, she had just been about to