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By the Pricking of My Thumbs
Agatha Christie
An old woman in a nursing home speaks of a child buried behind the fireplace…When Tommy and Tuppence visited an elderly aunt in her gothic nursing home, they thought nothing of her mistrust of the doctors; after all, Ada was a very difficult old lady.But when Mrs Lockett mentioned a poisoned mushroom stew and Mrs Lancaster talked about ‘something behind the fireplace’, Tommy and Tuppence found themselves caught up in an unexpected adventure involving possible black magic…
By the Pricking of My Thumbs
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by
Collins 1968
Agatha Christie® Tommy & Tuppence® By the Pricking of My Thumbs™
Copyright © 1968 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.
www.agathachristie.com (http://www.agathachristie.com)
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers/Agatha Christie Ltd 2015
Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007590629
Ebook Edition © Jan 2015 ISBN: 9780007422180
Version: 2017-04-17
This book is dedicated to the many readers in this and in other countries who write to me asking: ‘What has happened to Tommy and Tuppence? What are they doing now?’ My best wishes to you all, and I hope you will enjoy meeting Tommy and Tuppence again, years older, but with spirit unquenched!
By the pricking of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes.
—Macbeth
Contents
Cover (#u00395e5e-aec0-591f-983d-ba692c801f1d)
Title Page (#uceaba95a-a4c5-5258-9a9c-f013e7db4e78)
Copyright (#u44344cff-f5c6-5b70-a902-0a6c84b8adb3)
Dedication (#ud5d47aa8-01a1-5ba8-902d-61e63de96788)
Epigraph (#u991f9bd0-3f55-53e8-8dec-f1e28b1ab96e)
BOOK 1: Sunny Ridge (#u28f6336a-ae6f-5799-86c8-143044cc4def)
CHAPTER 1: Aunt Ada (#u2462b12c-d326-5bd1-9e6d-03ee82d1527a)
CHAPTER 2: Was It Your Poor Child? (#u792c9271-6b27-5d92-b200-0da7ee157300)
CHAPTER 3: A Funeral (#ufb12b762-ebf6-5748-9456-a5093cfc1d4d)
CHAPTER 4: Picture of a House (#ub8d52b7c-8051-5268-85ab-2af3502d1590)
CHAPTER 5: Disappearance of an Old Lady (#u8a05b0c2-d173-5e2a-ba6a-b6fa35731e8b)
CHAPTER 6: Tuppence on the Trail (#uf8d79de8-294b-5da1-8dfe-bf667c79e245)
BOOK 2: The House on the Canal (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 7: The Friendly Witch (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 8: Sutton Chancellor (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 9: A Morning in Market Basing (#litres_trial_promo)
BOOK 3: Missing—A Wife (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 10: A Conference—and After (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 11: Bond Street and dr Murray (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 12: Tommy Meets an Old Friend (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 13: Albert on Clues (#litres_trial_promo)
BOOK 4: Here is a Church and here is the Steeple Open the Doors and there are the People (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 14: Exercise in Thinking (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 15: Evening at the Vicarage (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 16: The Morning After (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 17: Mrs Lancaster (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Agatha Christie (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
BOOK 1 (#udb4cef93-17d4-59a0-9d65-dd81fe5d7410)
CHAPTER 1 (#udb4cef93-17d4-59a0-9d65-dd81fe5d7410)
Aunt Ada (#udb4cef93-17d4-59a0-9d65-dd81fe5d7410)
Mr and Mrs Beresford were sitting at the breakfast table. They were an ordinary couple. Hundreds of elderly couples just like them were having breakfast all over England at that particular moment. It was an ordinary sort of day too, the kind of day that you get five days out of seven. It looked as though it might rain but wasn’t quite sure of it.
Mr Beresford had once had red hair. There were traces of the red still, but most of it had gone that sandy-cum-grey colour that red-headed people so often arrive at in middle life. Mrs Beresford had once had black hair, a vigorous curling mop of it. Now the black was adulterated with streaks of grey laid on, apparently at random. It made a rather pleasant effect. Mrs Beresford had once thought of dyeing her hair, but in the end she had decided that she liked herself better as nature had made her. She had decided instead to try a new shade of lipstick so as to cheer herself up.
An elderly couple having breakfast together. A pleasant couple, but nothing remarkable about them. So an onlooker would have said. If the onlooker had been young he or she would have added, ‘Oh yes, quite pleasant, but deadly dull, of course, like all old people.’
However, Mr and Mrs Beresford had not yet arrived at the time of life when they thought of themselves as old. And they had no idea that they and many others were automatically pronounced deadly dull solely on that account. Only by the young of course, but then, they would have thought indulgently, young people knew nothing about life. Poor dears, they were always worrying about examinations, or their sex life, or buying some extraordinary clothes, or doing extraordinary things to their hair to make them more noticeable. Mr and Mrs Beresford from their own point of view were just past the prime of life. They liked themselves and liked each other and day succeeded day in a quiet but enjoyable fashion.
There were, of course, moments, everyone has moments. Mr Beresford opened a letter, glanced through it and laid it down, adding it to the small pile by his left hand. He picked up the next letter but forbore to open it. Instead he stayed with it in his hand. He was not looking at the letter, he was looking at the toast-rack. His wife observed him for a few moments before saying,
‘What’s the matter, Tommy?’
‘Matter?’ said Tommy vaguely. ‘Matter?’
‘That’s what I said,’ said Mrs Beresford.
‘Nothing is the matter,’ said Mr Beresford. ‘What should it be?’
‘You’ve thought of something,’ said Tuppence accusingly.
‘I don’t think I was thinking of anything at all.’
‘Oh yes, you were. Has anything happened?’
‘No, of course not. What should happen?’ He added, ‘I got the plumber’s bill.’
‘Oh,’ said Tuppence with the air of one enlightened. ‘More than you expected, I suppose.’
‘Naturally,’ said Tommy, ‘it always is.’
‘I can’t think why we didn’t train as plumbers,’ said Tuppence. ‘If you’d only trained as a plumber, I could have been a plumber’s mate and we’d be raking in money day by day.’
‘Very short-sighted of us not to see these opportunities.’
‘Was that the plumber’s bill you were looking at just now?’
‘Oh no, that was just an Appeal.’
‘Delinquent boys—Racial integration?’
‘No. Just another Home they’re opening for old people.’
‘Well, that’s more sensible anyway,’ said Tuppence, ‘but I don’t see why you have to have that worried look about it.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that.’
‘Well, what were you thinking of?’
‘I suppose it put it into my mind,’ said Mr Beresford.
‘What?’ said Tuppence. ‘You know you’ll tell me in the end.’
‘It really wasn’t anything important. I just thought that perhaps—well, it was Aunt Ada.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Tuppence, with instant comprehension. ‘Yes,’ she added, softly, meditatively. ‘Aunt Ada.’
Their eyes met. It is regrettably true that in these days there is in nearly every family, the problem of what might be called an ‘Aunt Ada’. The names are different—Aunt Amelia, Aunt Susan, Aunt Cathy, Aunt Joan. They are varied by grandmothers, aged cousins and even great-aunts. But they exist and present a problem in life which has to be dealt with. Arrangements have to be made. Suitable establishments for looking after the elderly have to be inspected and full questions asked about them. Recommendations are sought from doctors, from friends, who have Aunt Adas of their own who had been ‘perfectly happy until she had died’ at ‘The Laurels, Bexhill’, or ‘Happy Meadows at Scarborough’.
The days are past when Aunt Elisabeth, Aunt Ada and the rest of them lived on happily in the homes where they had lived for many years previously, looked after by devoted if sometimes somewhat tyrannical old servants. Both sides were thoroughly satisfied with the arrangement. Or there were the innumerable poor relations, indigent nieces, semi-idiotic spinster cousins, all yearning for a good home with three good meals a day and a nice bedroom. Supply and demand complemented each other and all was well. Nowadays, things are different.
For the Aunt Adas of today arrangements have to be made suitable, not merely to an elderly lady who, owing to arthritis or other rheumatic difficulties, is liable to fall downstairs if she is left alone in a house, or who suffers from chronic bronchitis, or who quarrels with her neighbours and insults the tradespeople.
Unfortunately, the Aunt Adas are far more trouble than the opposite end of the age scale. Children can be provided with foster homes, foisted off on relations, or sent to suitable schools where they stay for the holidays, or arrangements can be made for pony treks or camps, and on the whole very little objection is made by the children to the arrangements so made for them. The Aunt Adas are very different. Tuppence Beresford’s own aunt—Great-aunt Primrose—had been a notable troublemaker. Impossible to satisfy her. No sooner did she enter an establishment guaranteed to provide a good home and all comforts for elderly ladies than after writing a few highly complimentary letters to her niece praising this particular establishment, the next news would be that she had indignantly walked out of it without notice.
‘Impossible. I couldn’t stay there another minute!’
Within the space of a year Aunt Primrose had been in and out of eleven such establishments, finally writing to say that she had now met a very charming young man. ‘Really a very devoted boy. He lost his mother at a young age and he badly needs looking after. I have rented a flat and he is coming to live with me. This arrangement will suit us both perfectly. We are natural affinities. You need have no more anxieties, dear Prudence. My future is settled. I am seeing my lawyer tomorrow as it is necessary that I should make some provision for Mervyn if I should pre-decease him which is, of course, the natural course of events, though I assure you at the moment I feel in the pink of health.’
Tuppence had hurried north (the incident had taken place in Aberdeen). But as it happened, the police had arrived there first and had removed the glamorous Mervyn, for whom they had been seeking for some time, on a charge of obtaining money under false pretences. Aunt Primrose had been highly indignant, and had called it persecution—but after attending the Court proceedings (where twenty-five other cases were taken into account)—had been forced to change her views of her protégé.
‘I think I ought to go and see Aunt Ada, you know, Tuppence,’ said Tommy. ‘It’s been some time.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Tuppence, without enthusiasm. ‘How long has it been?’
Tommy considered. ‘It must be nearly a year,’ he said.
‘It’s more than that,’ said Tuppence. ‘I think it’s over a year.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Tommy, ‘the time does go so fast, doesn’t it? I can’t believe it’s been as long as that. Still, I believe you’re right, Tuppence.’ He calculated. ‘It’s awful the way one forgets, isn’t it? I really feel very badly about it.’
‘I don’t think you need,’ said Tuppence. ‘After all, we send her things and we write letters.’
‘Oh yes, I know. You’re awfully good about those sort of things, Tuppence. But all the same, one does read things sometimes that are very upsetting.’
‘You’re thinking of that dreadful book we got from the library,’ said Tuppence, ‘and how awful it was for the poor old dears. How they suffered.’
‘I suppose it was true—taken from life.’
