Postern of Fate (Tommy and Tuppence Series) - Agatha Christie [38]
‘Hush, Tuppence,’ said Tommy, ‘I don’t really think I can stand any more.’
‘Well, anyway I thought it might be interesting. It dates back, you know. It dates back, I should think, quite a long time.’
‘And what do you hope to get from all these discoveries?’
‘Well, the only thing with possibilities is the birthday book. In it I see there is a mention of somebody called Winifred Morrison.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, Winifred Morrison, I gather, was the maiden name of old Mrs Griffin. That’s the one I went to tea with the other day. She’s one of the oldest inhabitants, you know, and she remembers or knows about a lot of things that happened before her time. Well, I think she might remember or have heard of some of the other names in the birthday book. We might get something from that.’
‘We might,’ said Tommy still sounding doubtful. ‘I still think–’
‘Well, what do you still think?’ said Tuppence.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Tommy. ‘Let’s go to bed and sleep. Don’t you think we’d better give this business up altogether? Why should we want to know who killed Mary Jordan?’
‘Don’t you want to?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Tommy. ‘At least–oh I give in. You’ve got me involved now, I admit.’
‘Haven’t you found out anything?’ asked Tuppence.
‘I hadn’t time today. But I’ve got a few more sources of information. I put that woman I told you about–you know, the one who’s quite clever about research–I put her on to a few things.’
‘Oh well,’ said Tuppence, ‘we’ll still hope for the best. It’s all nonsense, but perhaps it is rather fun.’
‘Only I’m not so sure it’s going to be as much fun as you think,’ said Tommy.
‘Oh well. No matter,’ said Tuppence, ‘we’ll have done our best.’
‘Well, don’t go on doing your best all by yourself,’ said Tommy. ‘That’s exactly what worries me so much–when I’m away from you.’
Chapter 6
Mr Robinson
‘I wonder what Tuppence is doing now,’ said Tommy, sighing.
‘Excuse me, I didn’t quite hear what you said.’
Tommy turned his head to look at Miss Collodon more closely. Miss Collodon was thin, emaciated, had grey hair which was slowly passing through the stage of recovering from a peroxide rinse designated to make her look younger (which it had not done). She was now trying various shades of artistic grey, cloudy smoke, steel blue and other interesting shades suitable for a lady between sixty and sixty-five, devoted to the pursuit of research. Her face represented a kind of ascetic superiority and a supreme confidence in her own achievements.
‘Oh, it was nothing really, Miss Collodon,’ said Tommy. ‘Just–just something I was considering, you know. Just thinking of.’
And what is it, I wonder, thought Thomas, being careful this time not to utter the words aloud, that she can be doing today. Something silly, I bet. Half killing herself in that extraordinary, obsolete child’s toy that’ll come to pieces carrying her down the hill, and she’ll probably end up with a broken something or other. Hips, it seems to be nowadays, though I don’t see why hips are more vulnerable than anything else. Tuppence, he thought, would at this moment be doing something silly or foolish or, if not that, she would be doing something which might not be silly or foolish but would be highly dangerous. Yes, dangerous. It was always difficult keeping Tuppence out of danger. His mind roved vaguely over various incidents in the past. Words of a quotation came into his mind, and he spoke them aloud:
‘Postern of Fate…
Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing.
Have you heard
That silence where the birds are dead, yet something
pipeth like a bird?’
Miss Collodon