Postern of Fate (Tommy and Tuppence Series) - Agatha Christie [56]
‘Not necessarily,’ said Tuppence. ‘We want to turn it upside down so that we can get at the hole there and pull things out.’
‘You mean pull things out from inside her, as you might say? Who’s been putting that idea into your head?’
‘Yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘that’s what we do mean to do.’
‘What do you think you’ll find there?’
‘Nothing but rubbish, I expect,’ said Tommy. ‘But it would be nice,’ he said in a rather doubtful voice, ‘if things were cleared up a bit, you know. We might want to keep other things in here. You know–games, perhaps, a croquet set. Something like that.’
‘There used to be a crookey lawn once. Long time ago. That was in Mrs Faulkner’s time. Yes. Down where the rose garden is now. Mind you, it wasn’t a full size one.’
‘When was that?’ asked Tommy.
‘What, you mean the crookey lawn? Oh, well before my time, it was. There’s always people as wants to tell you things about what used to happen–things as used to be hidden and why and who wanted to hide them. Lot of tall stories, some of them lies. Some maybe as was true.’
‘You’re very clever, Isaac,’ said Tuppence, ‘you always seem to know about everything. How do you know about the croquet lawn?’
‘Oh, used to be a box of crookey things in here. Been there for ages. Shouldn’t think there’s much of it left now.’
Tuppence relinquished Mathilde and went over to a corner where there was a long wooden box. After releasing the lid with some difficulty as it had stuck under the ravages of time, it yielded a faded red ball, a blue ball and one mallet bent and warped. The rest of it was mainly cobwebs.
‘Might have been in Mrs Faulkner’s time, that might. They do say, you know, as she played in the tournaments in her time,’ said Isaac.
‘At Wimbledon?’ said Tuppence, incredulous.
‘Well, not exactly at Wimbledon, I don’t think it was. No. The locals, you know. They used to have them down here. Pictures I’ve seen down at the photographer’s–’
‘The photographer’s?’
‘Ah. In the village, Durrance. You know Durrance, don’t you?’
‘Durrance?’ said Tuppence vaguely. ‘Oh, yes, he sells films and things like that, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Mind you, he’s not the old Durrance, as manages it now. It’s his grandson, or his great-grandson, I shouldn’t wonder. He sells mostly postcards, you know, and Christmas cards and birthday cards and things like that. He used to take photographs of people. Got a whole lot tucked away. Somebody come in the other day, you know. Wanted a picture of her great-grandmother, she said. She said she’d had one but she’d broken it or burnt it or lost it or something, and she wondered if there was the negative left. But I don’t think she found it. But there’s a lot of old albums in there stuck away somewhere.’
‘Albums,’ said Tuppence thoughtfully.
‘Anything more I can do?’ said Isaac.
‘Well, just give us a bit of a hand with Jane, or whatever her name is.’
‘Not Jane, it’s Mathilde, and it’s not Matilda either, which it ought by rights to be, I should say. I believe it was always called Mathilde, for some reason. French, I expect.’
‘French or American,’ said Tommy, thoughtfully. ‘Mathilde. Louise. That sort of thing.’
‘Quite a good place to have hidden things, don’t you think?’ said Tuppence, placing her arm into the cavity in Mathilde’s stomach. She drew out a dilapidated indiarubber ball, which had once been red and yellow but which now had gaping holes in it.
‘I suppose that’s children,’ said Tuppence. ‘They always put things in like this.’
‘Whenever they see a hole,’ said Isaac. ‘But there was a young gentleman once as used to leave his letters in it, so I’ve heard. Same as though it was a post box.’
‘Letters? Who were they for?’
‘Some young lady, I’d think. But it was before my time,’ said Isaac, as usual.
‘The things that always happened long before Isaac’s time,’ said Tuppence, as Isaac, having adjusted Mathilde into a good position, left them on the pretext of having to shut up the frames.
Tommy removed his jacket.
‘It’s incredible,’ said Tuppence, panting a little as she