By the Pricking of My Thumbs. Agatha Christie

talking about. Are you going to stand here all day talking about time and not even ring the bell?—Aunt Ada isn’t here, for one thing. That’s different.’ He pressed the bell.

      ‘That’s the only thing that will be different. My old lady will be drinking milk and talking about fireplaces, and Mrs Somebody-or-other will have swallowed a thimble or a teaspoon and a funny little woman will come squeaking out of a room demanding her cocoa, and Miss Packard will come down the stairs, and—’

      The door opened. A young woman in a nylon overall said: ‘Mr and Mrs Beresford? Miss Packard’s expecting you.’

      The young woman was just about to show them into the same sitting-room as before when Miss Packard came down the stairs and greeted them. Her manner was suitably not quite as brisk as usual. It was grave, and had a kind of semi-mourning about it—not too much—that might have been embarrassing. She was an expert in the exact amount of condolence which would be acceptable.

      Three score years and ten was the Biblical accepted span of life, and the deaths in her establishment seldom occurred below that figure. They were to be expected and they happened.

      ‘So good of you to come. I’ve got everything laid out tidily for you to look through. I’m glad you could come so soon because as a matter of fact I have already three or four people waiting for a vacancy to come here. You will understand, I’m sure, and not think that I was trying to hurry you in any way.’

      ‘Oh no, of course, we quite understand,’ said Tommy.

      ‘It’s all still in the room Miss Fanshawe occupied,’ Miss Packard explained.

      Miss Packard opened the door of the room in which they had last seen Aunt Ada. It had that deserted look a room has when the bed is covered with a dust sheet, with the shapes showing beneath it of folded-up blankets and neatly arranged pillows.

      The wardrobe doors stood open and the clothes it had held had been laid on the top of the bed neatly folded.

      ‘What do you usually do—I mean, what do people do mostly with clothes and things like that?’ said Tuppence.

      Miss Packard, as invariably, was competent and helpful.

      ‘I can give you the name of two or three societies who are only too pleased to have things of that kind. She had quite a good fur stole and a good quality coat but I don’t suppose you would have any personal use for them? But perhaps you have charities of your own where you would like to dispose of things.’

      Tuppence shook her head.

      ‘She had some jewellery,’ said Miss Packard. ‘I removed that for safe keeping. You will find it in the right-hand drawer of the dressing-table. I put it there just before you were due to arrive.’

      ‘Thank you very much,’ said Tommy, ‘for the trouble you have taken.’

      Tuppence was staring at a picture over the mantelpiece. It was a small oil painting representing a pale pink house standing adjacent to a canal spanned by a small hump-backed bridge. There was an empty boat drawn up under the bridge against the bank of the canal. In the distance were two poplar trees. It was a very pleasant little scene but nevertheless Tommy wondered why Tuppence was staring at it with such earnestness.

      ‘How funny,’ murmured Tuppence.

      Tommy looked at her inquiringly. The things that Tuppence thought funny were, he knew by long experience, not really to be described by such an adjective at all.

      ‘What do you mean, Tuppence?’

      ‘It is funny. I never noticed that picture when I was here before. But the odd thing is that I have seen that house somewhere. Or perhaps it’s a house just like that that I have seen. I remember it quite well… Funny that I can’t remember when and where.’

      ‘I expect you noticed it without really noticing you were noticing,’ said Tommy, feeling his choice of words was rather clumsy and nearly as painfully repetitive as Tuppence’s reiteration of the word ‘funny’.

      ‘Did you notice it, Tommy, when we were here last time?’

      ‘No, but then I didn’t look particularly.’

      ‘Oh, that picture,’ said Miss Packard. ‘No, I don’t think you would have seen it when you were here the last time because I’m almost sure it wasn’t hanging over the mantelpiece then. Actually it was a picture belonging to one of our other guests, and she gave it to your aunt. Miss Fanshawe expressed admiration of it once or twice and this other old lady made her a present of it and insisted she should have it.’

      ‘Oh I see,’ said Tuppence, ‘so of course I couldn’t have seen it here before. But I still feel I know the house quite well. Don’t you, Tommy?’

      ‘No,’ said Tommy.

      ‘Well, I’ll leave you now,’ said Miss Packard briskly. ‘I shall be available at any time that you want me.’

      She nodded with a smile, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

      ‘I don’t think I really like that woman’s teeth,’ said Tuppence.

      ‘What’s wrong with them?’

      ‘Too many of them. Or too big—“The better to eat you with, my child”—Like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother.’

      ‘You seem in a very odd sort of mood today, Tuppence.’

      ‘I am rather. I’ve always thought of Miss Packard as very nice—but today, somehow, she seems to me rather sinister. Have you ever felt that?’

      ‘No, I haven’t. Come on, let’s get on with what we came here to do—look over poor old Aunt Ada’s “effects”, as the lawyers call them. That’s the desk I told you about—Uncle William’s desk. Do you like it?’

      ‘It’s lovely. Regency, I should think. It’s nice for the old people who come here to be able to bring some of their own things with them. I don’t care for the horsehair chairs, but I’d like that little work-table. It’s just what we need for that corner by the window where we’ve got that perfectly hideous whatnot.’

      ‘All right,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ll make a note of those two.’

      ‘And we’ll have the picture over the mantelpiece. It’s an awfully attractive picture and I’m quite sure that I’ve seen that house somewhere. Now, let’s look at the jewellery.’

      They opened the dressing-table drawer. There was a set of cameos and a Florentine bracelet and ear-rings and a ring with different-coloured stones in it.

      ‘I’ve seen one of these before,’ said Tuppence. ‘They spell a name usually. Dearest sometimes. Diamond, emerald, amethyst, no, it’s not dearest. I don’t think it would be really. I can’t imagine anyone giving your Aunt Ada a ring that spelt dearest. Ruby, emerald—the difficulty is one never knows where to begin. I’ll try again. Ruby, emerald, another ruby, no, I think it’s a garnet and an amethyst and another pinky stone, it must be a ruby this time and a small diamond in the middle. Oh, of course, it’s regard. Rather nice really. So old-fashioned and sentimental.’

      She slipped it on to her finger.

      ‘I think Deborah might like to have this,’ she said, ‘and the Florentine set. She’s frightfully keen on Victorian things. A lot of people are nowadays. Now, I suppose we’d better do the clothes. That’s always rather macabre, I think. Oh, this is the fur stole. Quite valuable, I should think. I wouldn’t want it myself. I wonder if there’s anyone here—anyone who was especially nice to Aunt Ada—or perhaps some special friend among the other inmates—visitors, I mean. They call them visitors or guests, I notice. It would be nice to offer her the stole if so. It’s real sable. We’ll ask Miss Packard. The rest of the things can go to the charities. So that’s all settled, isn’t it? We’ll go and find Miss Packard now. Goodbye, Aunt Ada,’ she remarked aloud, her eyes turning to the bed. ‘I’m glad we came to see