By the Pricking of My Thumbs. Agatha Christie

see,’ said Tuppence. She meditated. ‘I wish I were in it, too.’

      Tommy looked apologetic.

      ‘I expect you’ll find something to do while I’m away.’

      ‘I might at that,’ said Tuppence meditatively.

      Her husband looked at her with the vague apprehension that Tuppence could always arouse in him.

      ‘Tuppence—what are you up to?’

      ‘Nothing, yet—So far I’m only thinking.’

      ‘What about?’

      ‘Sunny Ridge. And a nice old lady sipping milk and talking in a scatty kind of way about dead children and fireplaces. It intrigued me. I thought then that I’d try and find out more from her next time we came to see Aunt Ada—But there wasn’t a next time because Aunt Ada died—And when we were next in Sunny Ridge—Mrs Lancaster had—disappeared!’

      ‘You mean her people had taken her away? That’s not a disappearance—it’s quite natural.’

      ‘It’s a disappearance—no traceable address—no answer to letters—it’s a planned disappearance. I’m more and more sure of it.’

      ‘But—’

      Tuppence broke in upon his ‘But’.

      ‘Listen, Tommy—supposing that sometime or other a crime happened—It seemed all safe and covered up—But then suppose that someone in the family had seen something, or known something—someone elderly and garrulous—someone who chattered to people—someone whom you suddenly realized might be a danger to you—What would you do about it?’

      ‘Arsenic in the soup?’ suggested Tommy cheerfully. ‘Cosh them on the head—Push them down the staircase—?’

      ‘That’s rather extreme—Sudden deaths attract attention. You’d look about for some simpler way—and you’d find one. A nice respectable Home for Elderly Ladies. You’d pay a visit to it, calling yourself Mrs Johnson or Mrs Robinson—or you would get some unsuspecting third party to make arrangements—You’d fix the financial arrangements through a firm of reliable solicitors. You’ve already hinted, perhaps, that your elderly relative has fancies and mild delusions sometimes—so do a good many of the other old ladies—Nobody will think it odd—if she cackles on about poisoned milk, or dead children behind a fireplace, or a sinister kidnapping; nobody will really listen. They’ll just think it’s old Mrs So-and-So having her fancies again—nobody will take any notice at all.’

      ‘Except Mrs Thomas Beresford,’ said Tommy.

      ‘All right, yes,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ve taken notice—’

      ‘But why did you?’

      ‘I don’t quite know,’ said Tuppence slowly. ‘It’s like the fairy stories. By the pricking of my thumbs—Something evil this way comes—I felt suddenly scared. I’d always thought of Sunny Ridge as such a normal happy place—and suddenly I began to wonder—That’s the only way I can put it. I wanted to find out more. And now poor old Mrs Lancaster has disappeared. Somebody’s spirited her away.’

      ‘But why should they?’

      ‘I can only think because she was getting worse—worse from their point of view—remembering more, perhaps, talking to people more, or perhaps she recognized someone—or someone recognized her—or told her something that gave her new ideas about something that had once happened. Anyway, for some reason or other she became dangerous to someone.’

      ‘Look here, Tuppence, this whole thing is all somethings and someones. It’s just an idea you’ve thought up. You don’t want to go mixing yourself up in things that are no business of yours—’

      ‘There’s nothing to be mixed up in according to you,’ said Tuppence. ‘So you needn’t worry at all.’

      ‘You leave Sunny Ridge alone.’

      ‘I don’t mean to go back to Sunny Ridge. I think they’ve told me all they know there. I think that that old lady was quite safe whilst she was there. I want to find out where she is now—I want to get to her wherever she is in time—before something happens to her.’

      ‘What on earth do you think might happen to her?’

      ‘I don’t like to think. But I’m on the trail—I’m going to be Prudence Beresford, Private Investigator. Do you remember when we were Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives?’

      ‘I was,’ said Tommy. ‘You were Miss Robinson, my private secretary.’

      ‘Not all the time. Anyway, that’s what I’m going to do while you’re playing at International Espionage at Hush Hush Manor. It’s the “Save Mrs Lancaster” that I’m going to be busy with.’

      ‘You’ll probably find her perfectly all right.’

      ‘I hope I shall. Nobody would be better pleased than I should.’

      ‘How do you propose to set about it?’

      ‘As I told you, I’ve got to think first. Perhaps an advertisement of some kind? No, that would be a mistake.’

      ‘Well, be careful,’ said Tommy, rather inadequately.

      Tuppence did not deign to reply.

      On Monday morning, Albert, the domestic mainstay of the Beresfords’ life for many long years, ever since he had been roped into anti-criminal activities by them as a carroty-haired lift-boy, deposited the tray of early morning tea on the table between the two beds, pulled back the curtains, announced that it was a fine day, and removed his now portly form from the room.

      Tuppence yawned, sat up, rubbed her eyes, poured out a cup of tea, dropped a slice of lemon in it, and remarked that it seemed a nice day, but you never knew.

      Tommy turned over and groaned.

      ‘Wake up,’ said Tuppence. ‘Remember you’re going places today.’

      ‘Oh Lord,’ said Tommy. ‘So I am.’

      He, too, sat up and helped himself to tea. He looked with appreciation at the picture over the mantelpiece.

      ‘I must say, Tuppence, your picture looks very nice.’

      ‘It’s the way the sun comes in from the window sideways and lights it up.’

      ‘Peaceful,’ said Tommy.

      ‘If only I could remember where it was I’d seen it before.’

      ‘I can’t see that it matters. You’ll remember sometime or other.’

      ‘That’s no good. I want to remember now.’

      ‘But why?’

      ‘Don’t you see? It’s the only clue I’ve got. It was Mrs Lancaster’s picture—’

      ‘But the two things don’t tie up together anyway,’ said Tommy. ‘I mean, it’s true that the picture once belonged to Mrs Lancaster. But it may have been just a picture she bought at an exhibition or that somebody in her family did. It may have been a picture that somebody gave her as a present. She took it to Sunny Ridge with her because she thought it looked nice. There’s no reason it should have anything to do with her personally. If it had, she wouldn’t have given it to Aunt Ada.’

      ‘It’s the only clue I’ve got,’ said Tuppence.

      ‘It’s a nice peaceful house,’ said Tommy.

      ‘All the same, I think it’s an empty house.’

      ‘What do you mean, empty?’

      ‘I don’t think,’ said Tuppence, ‘there’s anybody living in it. I don’t think anybody’s ever going to come out of