By the Pricking of My Thumbs

‘I’m sorry she’s left. I had a feeling when I was talking to her that I’d met her before—her face seemed familiar to me. And then afterwards it came back to me that I’d met her with an old friend of mine, a Mrs Blenkinsop. I thought when I came back here again to visit Aunt Ada, that I’d find out from her if that was so. But of course if she’s gone back to her own people, that’s different.’

‘I quite understand, Mrs Beresford. If any of our visitors can get in touch with some of their old friends or someone who knew their relations at one time, it makes a great difference to them. I can’t remember a Mrs Blenkinsop ever having been mentioned by her, but then I don’t suppose that would be likely to happen in any case.’

‘Can you tell me a little more about her, who her relations were, and how she came to come here?’

‘There’s really very little to tell. As I said, it was about six years ago that we had letters from Mrs Johnson inquiring about the Home, and then Mrs Johnson herself came here and inspected it. She said she’d had mentions of Sunny Ridge from a friend and she inquired the terms and all that and—then she went away. And about a week or a fortnight later we had a letter from a firm of solicitors in London making further inquiries, and finally they wrote saying that they would like us to accept Mrs Lancaster and that Mrs Johnson would bring her here in about a week’s time if we had a vacancy. As it happened, we had, and Mrs Johnson brought Mrs Lancaster here and Mrs Lancaster seemed to like the place and liked the room that we proposed to allot her. Mrs Johnson said that Mrs Lancaster would like to bring some of her own things. I quite agreed, because people usually do that and find they’re much happier. So it was all arranged very satisfactorily. Mrs Johnson explained that Mrs Lancaster was a relation of her husband’s, not a very near one, but that they felt worried about her because they themselves were going out to Africa—to Nigeria I think it was, her husband was taking up an appointment there and it was likely they’d be there for some years before they returned to England, so as they had no home to offer Mrs Lancaster, they wanted to make sure that she was accepted in a place where she would be really happy. They were quite sure from what they’d heard about this place that that was so. So it was all arranged very happily indeed and Mrs Lancaster settled down here very well.’

‘I see.’

‘Everyone here liked Mrs Lancaster very much. She was a little bit—well, you know what I mean—woolly in the head. I mean, she forgot things, confused things and couldn’t remember names and addresses sometimes.’

‘Did she get many letters?’ said Tuppence. ‘I mean letters from abroad and things?’

‘Well, I think Mrs Johnson—or Mr Johnson—wrote once or twice from Africa but not after the first year. People, I’m afraid, do forget, you know. Especially when they go to a new country and a different life, and I don’t think they’d been very closely in touch with her at any time. I think it was just a distant relation, and a family responsibility, and that was all it meant to them. All the financial arrangements were done through the lawyer, Mr Eccles, a very nice, reputable firm. Actually we’d had one or two dealings with that firm before so that we new about them, as they knew about us. But I think most of Mrs Lancaster’s friends and relations had passed over and so she didn’t hear much from anyone, and I think hardly anyone ever came to visit her. One very nice-looking man came about a year later, I think. I don’t think he knew her personally at all well but he was a friend of Mr Johnson’s and had also been in the Colonial service overseas. I think he just came to make sure she was well and happy.’

‘And after that,’ said Tuppence, ‘everyone forgot about her.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Miss Packard. ‘It’s sad, isn’t it? But it’s the usual rather than the unusual thing to happen. Fortunately, most visitors to us make their own friends here. They get friendly with someone who has their own tastes or certain memories in common, and so things settle down quite happily. I think most of them forget most of their past life.’

‘Some of them, I suppose,’ said Tommy, ‘are a little—’ he hesitated for a word ‘—a little—’ his hand went slowly to his forehead, but he drew it away. ‘I don’t mean—’ he said.

‘Oh, I know perfectly what you mean,’ said Miss Packard. ‘We don’t take mental patients, you know, but we do take what you might call borderline cases. I mean, people who are rather senile—can’t look after themselves properly, or who have certain fancies and imaginations. Sometimes they imagine themselves to be historical personages. Quite in a harmless way. We’ve had two Marie Antoinettes here, one of them was always talking about something called the Petit Trianon and drinking a lot of milk which she seemed to associate with the place. And we had one dear old soul who insisted that she was Madame Curie and that she had discovered radium. She used to read the papers with great interest, especially any news of atomic bombs or scientific discoveries. Then she always explained it was she and her husband who had first started experiments on these lines. Harmless delusions are things that manage to keep you very happy when you’re elderly. They don’t usually last all the time, you know. You’re not Marie Antoinette every day or even Madame Curie. Usually it comes on about once a fortnight. Then I suppose presumably one gets tired of keeping the play-acting up. And of course more often it’s just forgetfulness that people suffer from. They can’t quite remember who they are. Or they keep saying there’s something very important they’ve forgotten and if they could only remember it. That sort of thing.’

‘I see,’ said Tuppence. She hesitated, and then said, ‘Mrs Lancaster—Was it always things about that particular fireplace in the sitting-room she remembered, or was it any fireplace?’

Miss Packard stared—‘A fireplace? I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘It was something she said that I didn’t understand—Perhaps she’d had some unpleasant association with a fireplace, or read some story that had frightened her.’

‘Possibly.’

Tuppence said: ‘I’m still rather worried about the picture she gave to Aunt Ada.’

‘I really don’t think you need worry, Mrs Beresford. I expect she’s forgotten all about it by now. I don’t think she prized it particularly. She was just pleased that Miss Fanshawe admired it and was glad for her to have it, and I’m sure she’d be glad for you to have it because you admire it. It’s a nice picture, I thought so myself. Not that I know much about pictures.’

‘I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write to Mrs Johnson if you’ll give me her address, and just ask if it’s all right to keep it.’

‘The only address I’ve got is the hotel in London they were going to—the Cleveland, I think it was called. Yes, the Cleveland Hotel, George Street, W1. She was taking Mrs Lancaster there for about four or five days and after that I think they were going to stay with some relations in Scotland. I expect the Cleveland Hotel will have a forwarding address.’

‘Well, thank you—And now, about this fur stole of Aunt Ada’s.’

‘I’ll go and bring Miss O’Keefe to you.’

She went out of the room.

‘You and your Mrs Blenkensops,’ said Tommy.

Tuppence looked complacent.

‘One of my best creations,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I was able to make use of her—I was just trying to think of a name and suddenly Mrs Blenkensop came into my mind. What fun it was, wasn’t it?’

‘It’s a long time ago—No more spies in wartime and counter-espionage for us.’

‘More’s the pity. It was fun—living in that guest house—inventing a new personality for myself—I really began to believe I was Mrs Blenkensop.’

‘You were lucky you got away safely with it,’ said Tommy, ‘and in my opinion, as I once told you, you overdid it.’

‘I did not. I was perfectly in character. A nice woman, rather silly, and far too much taken up with her three sons.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ said Tommy. ‘One son would have been quite enough. Three sons were too much to burden yourself with.’

‘They became quite real to me,’ said Tuppence. ‘Douglas, Andrew and—goodness, I’ve forgotten the name of the third one now. I know exactly what they looked like and their characters and just where they were stationed, and I talked most indiscreetly about the letters I got from them.’

‘Well, that’s over,’ said Tommy. ‘There’s nothing to find out in this place—so forget about Mrs Blenkinsop. When I’m dead and buried and you’ve suitably mourned me and taken up your residence in a home for the aged, I expect you’ll be thinking you are Mrs Blenkinsop half of the time.’

‘It’ll be rather boring to have only one role to play,’ said Tuppence.

‘Why do you think old people want to be Marie Antoinette, and Madame Curie and all the rest of it?’ asked Tommy.

‘I expect because they get so bored. One does get bored. I’m sure you would if you couldn’t use your legs and walk about, or perhaps your fingers get too stiff and you can’t knit. Desperately you want something to do to amuse yourself so you try on some public character and see what it feels like when you are it. I can understand that perfectly.’

‘I’m sure you can,’ said Tommy. ‘God help the home for the aged that you go to. You’ll be Cleopatra most of the time, I expect.’

‘I won’t be a famous person,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ll be someone like a kitchenmaid at Anne of Cleves’ castle retailing a lot of spicy gossip that I’d heard.’

The door opened, and Miss Packard appeared in company with a tall, freckle-faced young woman in nurse’s dress and a mop of red hair.

‘This is Miss O’Keefe—Mr and Mrs Beresford. They have something to tell you. Excuse me, will you? One of the patients is asking for me.’

Tuppence duly made the presentation of Aunt Ada’s fur stole and Nurse O’Keefe was enraptured.

‘Oh! It’s lovely. It’s too good for me, though. You’ll be wanting it yourself—’

‘No, I don’t really. It’s on the big side for me. I’m too small. It’s just right for a tall girl like you. Aunt Ada was tall.’

‘Ah! she was the grand old lady—she must have been very handsome as a girl.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Tommy doubtfully. ‘She must have been a tartar to look after, though.’

‘Oh, she was that, indeed. But she had a grand spirit. Nothing got her down. And she was no fool either. You’d be surprised the way she got to know things. Sharp as a needle, she was.’

‘She had a temper, though.’

‘Yes, indeed. But it’s the whining kind that gets you down—all complaints and moans. Miss Fanshawe was never dull. Grand stories she’d tell you of the old days—Rode a horse once up the staircase of a country house when she was a girl—or so she said—Would that be true now?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past her,’ said Tommy.

‘You never know what you can believe here. The tales the old dears come and tell you. Criminals that they’ve recognized—We must notify the police at once—if not, we’re all in danger.’