Postern of Fate (Tommy and Tuppence Series) - Agatha Christie [8]
‘What did you want to look in the cemetery for?’
‘Oh, to see what sort of people were buried there. Lots of people, I mean it’s very, very full up. It goes back a long way. It goes back well in the eighteen hundreds and I think one or two older than that, only the stone’s so rubbed away you can’t really see.’
‘I still don’t see why you wanted to go to the cemetery.’
‘I was making my investigations,’ said Tuppence.
‘Investigations about what?’
‘I wanted to see if there were any Jordans buried there.’
‘Good gracious,’ said Tommy. ‘Are you still on that? Were you looking for–’
‘Well, Mary Jordan died. We know she died. We know because we had a book that said she didn’t die a natural death, but she’d still have to be buried somewhere, wouldn’t she?’
‘Undeniably,’ said Tommy, ‘unless she was buried in this garden.’
‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ said Tuppence, ‘because I think that it was only this boy or girl–it must have been a boy, I think–of course it was a boy, his name was Alexander–and he obviously thought he’d been rather clever in knowing that she’d not died a natural death. But if he was the only person who’d made up his mind about that or who’d discovered it–well, I mean, nobody else had, I suppose. I mean, she just died and was buried and nobody said…’
‘Nobody said there had been foul play,’ suggested Tommy.
‘That sort of thing, yes. Poisoned or knocked on the head or pushed off a cliff or run over by a car or–oh, lots of ways I can think of.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ said Tommy. ‘Only good thing about you, Tuppence, is that at least you have a kindly heart. You wouldn’t put them into execution just for fun.’
‘But there wasn’t any Mary Jordan in the cemetery. There weren’t any Jordans.’
‘Disappointing for you,’ said Tommy. ‘Is that thing you’re cooking ready yet, because I’m pretty hungry. It smells rather good.’
‘It’s absolutely done a` point,’ said Tuppence. ‘So, as soon as you’ve washed, we eat.’
Chapter 4
Lots of Parkinsons
‘Lots of Parkinsons,’ said Tuppence as they ate. ‘A long way back but an amazing lot of them. Old ones, young ones and married ones. Bursting with Parkinsons. And Capes, and Griffins and Underwoods and Overwoods. Curious to have both of them, isn’t it?’
‘I had a friend called George Underwood,’ said Tommy.
‘Yes, I’ve known Underwoods, too. But not Overwoods.’
‘Male or female?’ said Thomas, with slight interest.
‘A girl, I think it was. Rose Overwood.’
‘Rose Overwood,’ said Tommy, listening to the sound of it. ‘I don’t think somehow it goes awfully well together.’ He added, ‘I must ring up those electricians after lunch. Be very careful, Tuppence, or you’ll put your foot through the landing upstairs.’
‘Then I shall be a natural death, or an unnatural death, one of the two.’
‘A curiosity death,’ said Tommy. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’
‘Aren’t you at all curious?’ asked Tuppence.
‘I can’t see any earthly reason for being curious. What have we got for pudding?’
‘Treacle tart.’
‘Well, I must say, Tuppence, it was a delicious meal.’
‘I’m very glad you liked it,’ said Tuppence.
‘What is that parcel outside the back door? Is it that wine we ordered?’
‘No,’ said Tuppence, ‘it’s bulbs.’
‘Oh,’ said Tommy, ‘bulbs.’
‘Tulips,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ll go and talk to old Isaac about them.’
‘Where are you going to put them?’
‘I think along the centre path in the garden.’
‘Poor old fellow, he looks as if he might drop dead any minute,’ said Tommy.
‘Not at all,’ said Tuppence. ‘He’s enormously tough, is Isaac. I’ve discovered, you know, that gardeners are like that. If they’re very good gardeners they seem to come to their prime when they’re over eighty, but if you get a strong, hefty-looking young man about thirty-five who says, “I’ve always wanted to work in a garden,” you may be quite sure that he’s probably no good at all. They’re just prepared to brush up a few leaves now and again and anything you want them to do they always say it’s the wrong time of year, and as one never knows oneself when the right time of year is, at least I don