Postern of Fate. Агата Кристи
‘Come here,’ said Tuppence.
Tommy came and sat on the arm of the chair. Tommy read: ‘“Matcham could not restrain a little cry and even died starter started with surprise and dropped the window from his fingers the two big fellows on the—something I can’t read—shell was an expected signal. They were all afoot together tightening loosing sword and dagger.” It’s mad,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘that’s what I thought at first. It was mad. But it isn’t mad, Tommy.’
Some cowbells rang from downstairs.
‘That’s supper in.’
‘Never mind,’ said Tuppence, ‘I’ve got to tell you this first. We can get down to things about it later but it’s really so extraordinary. I’ve got to tell you this straight away.’
‘Oh, all right. Have you got one of your mare’s nests?
‘No, I haven’t. It’s just that I took out the letters, you see. Well—on this page, you see, well—the M of “Matcham” which is the first word, the M is underlined and the A and after that there are three more, three or four more words. They don’t come in sequence in the book. They’ve just been picked out, I think, and they’ve been underlined—the letters in them—because they wanted the right letters and the next one, you see, is the R from “restrain” underlined and the Y of “cry”, and then there’s J from “Jack”, O from “shot”, R from “ruin”, D from “death” and A from “death” again, N from “murrain”—’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Tommy, ‘do stop.’
‘Wait,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ve got to find out. Now you see because I’ve written out these, do you see what this is? I mean if you take those letters out and write them in order on this piece of paper, do you see what you get with the ones I’ve done first? M-A-R-Y. Those four were underlined.’
‘What does that make?’
‘It makes Mary.’
‘All right,’ said Tommy, ‘it makes Mary. Somebody called Mary. A child with an inventive nature, I expect, who is trying to point out that this was her book. People are always writing their names in books and things like that.’
‘All right. Mary,’ said Tuppence. ‘And the next thing that comes underlined makes the word J-o-r-d-a-n.’
‘You see? Mary Jordan,’ said Tommy. ‘It’s quite natural. Now you know her whole name. Her name was Mary Jordan.’
‘Well, this book didn’t belong to her. In the beginning it says in a rather silly, childish-looking writing, it says “Alexander”, Alexander Parkinson, I think.’
‘Oh well. Does it really matter?’
‘Of course it matters,’ said Tuppence.
‘Come on, I’m hungry,’ said Tommy.
‘Restrain yourself,’ said Tuppence, ‘I’m only going to read you the next bit until the writing stops—or at any rate stops in the next four pages. The letters are picked from odd places on various pages. They don’t run in sequence—there can’t be anything in the words that matters—it’s just the letters. Now then. We’ve got M-a-r-y J-o-r-d-a-n. That’s right. Now do you know what the next four words are? D-i-d n-o-t, not, d-i-e n-a-t-u-r-a-l-y. That’s meant to be “naturally”, but they didn’t know it had two “ls”. Now then, what’s that? Mary Jordan did not die naturally. There you are,’ said Tuppence. ‘Now the next sentence made is: It was one of us. I think I know which one. That’s all. Can’t find anything else. But it is rather exciting, isn’t it?’
‘Look here, Tuppence,’ said Tommy, ‘you’re not going to get a thing about this, are you?’
‘What do you mean, a thing, about this?’
‘Well, I mean working up a sort of mystery.’
‘Well, it’s a mystery to me,’ said Tuppence. ‘Mary Jordan did not die naturally. It was one of us. I think I know which one. Oh, Tommy, you must say that it is very intriguing.’
‘Tuppence!’ Tommy called, as he came into the house.
There was no answer. With some annoyance, he ran up the stairs and along the passage on the first floor. As he hastened along it, he nearly put his foot through a gaping hole, and swore promptly.
‘Some other bloody careless electrician,’ he said.
Some days before he had had the same kind of trouble. Electricians arriving in a kindly tangle of optimism and efficiency had started work. ‘Coming along fine now, not much more to do,’ they said. ‘We’ll be back this afternoon.’ But they hadn’t been back that afternoon; Tommy was not precisely surprised. He was used, now, to the general pattern of labour in the building trade, electrical trade, gas employees and others. They came, they showed efficiency, they made optimistic remarks, they went away to fetch something. They didn’t come back. One rang up numbers on the telephone but they always seemed to be the wrong numbers. If they were the right numbers, the right man was not working at this particular branch of the trade, whatever it was. All one had to do was to be careful to not rick an ankle, fall through a hole, damage yourself in some way or another. He was far more afraid of Tuppence damaging herself than he was of doing the damage to himself. He had had more experience than Tuppence. Tuppence, he thought, was more at risk from scalding herself from kettles or disasters with the heat of the stove. But where was Tuppence now? He called again.
‘Tuppence! Tuppence!’
He worried about Tuppence. Tuppence was one of those people you had to worry about. If you left the house, you gave her last words of wisdom and she gave you last promises of doing exactly what you counselled her to do: No, she would not be going out except just to buy half a pound of butter, and after all you couldn’t call that dangerous, could you?
‘It could be dangerous if you went out to buy half a pound of butter,’ said Tommy.
‘Oh,’ said Tuppence, ‘don’t be an idiot.’
‘I’m not being an idiot,’ Tommy had said. ‘I am just being a wise and careful husband, looking after something which is one of my favourite possessions. I don’t know why it is—’
‘Because,’ said Tuppence, ‘I am so charming, so good-looking, such a good companion and because I take so much care of you.’
‘That also, maybe,’ said Tommy, ‘but I could give you another list.’
‘I don’t feel I should like that,’ said Tuppence. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think you have several saved-up grievances. But don’t worry. Everything will be quite all right. You’ve only got to come back and call me when you get in.’
But now where was Tuppence?
‘The little devil,’ said Tommy. ‘She’s gone out somewhere.’
He went on into the room upstairs where he had found her before. Looking at another child’s book, he supposed. Getting excited again about some silly words that a silly child had underlined in red ink. On the trail of Mary Jordan, whoever she was. Mary Jordan, who hadn’t died a natural death. He couldn’t help wondering. A long time ago, presumably, the people who’d had the house and sold it to them had been named Jones. They hadn’t been there very long, only three or four years. No, this child of the Robert Louis Stevenson book dated from further back than that. Anyway, Tuppence wasn’t here in this room. There seemed to be no loose books lying about with signs