Tommy stared at her.
‘Out of a window,’ said Tuppence breathlessly. ‘Out of a car window? No, no, that would be the wrong angle. Running alongside the canal… and a little hump-backed bridge and the pink walls of the house, the two poplar trees, more than two. There were lots more poplar trees. Oh dear, oh dear, if I could—’
‘Oh, come off it, Tuppence.’
‘It will come back to me.’
‘Good Lord,’ Tommy looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to hurry. You and your déjà vu picture.’
He jumped out of bed and hastened to the bathroom. Tuppence lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes, trying to force a recollection that just remained elusively out of reach.
Tommy was pouring out a second cup of coffee in the dining-room when Tuppence appeared flushed with triumph.
‘I’ve got it—I know where I saw that house. It was out of the window of a railway train.’
‘Where? When?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think. I remember saying to myself: “Someday I’ll go and look at that house”—and I tried to see what the name of the next station was. But you know what railways are nowadays. They’ve pulled down half the stations—and the next one we went through was all torn down, and grass growing over the platforms, and no name board or anything.’
‘Where the hell’s my brief-case? Albert!’
A frenzied search took place.
Tommy came back to say a breathless goodbye. Tuppence was sitting looking meditatively at a fried egg.
‘Goodbye,’ said Tommy. ‘And for God’s sake, Tuppence, don’t go poking into something that’s none of your business.’
‘I think,’ said Tuppence, meditatively, ‘that what I shall really do, is to take a few railway journeys.’
Tommy looked slightly relieved.
‘Yes,’ he said encouragingly, ‘you try that. Buy yourself a season ticket. There’s some scheme where you can travel a thousand miles all over the British Isles for a very reasonable fixed sum. That ought to suit you down to the ground, Tuppence. You travel by all the trains you can think of in all the likely parts. That ought to keep you happy until I come home again.’
‘Give my love to Josh.’
‘I will.’ He added, looking at his wife in a worried manner, ‘I wish you were coming with me. Don’t—don’t do anything stupid, will you?’
‘Of course not,’ said Tuppence.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Tuppence, ‘oh dear.’ She looked round her with gloomy eyes. Never, she said to herself, had she felt more miserable. Naturally she had known she would miss Tommy, but she had no idea how much she was going to miss him.
During the long course of their married life they had hardly ever been separated for any length of time. Starting before their marriage, they had called themselves a pair of ‘young adventurers’. They had been through various difficulties and dangers together, they had married, they had had two children and just as the world was seeming rather dull and middle-aged to them, the second war had come about and in what seemed an almost miraculous way they had been tangled up yet again on the outskirts of the British Intelligence. A somewhat unorthodox pair, they had been recruited by a quiet nondescript man who called himself ‘Mr Carter’, but to whose word everybody seemed to bow. They had had adventures, and once again they had had them together. This, by the way, had not been planned by Mr Carter. Tommy alone had been recruited. But Tuppence displaying all her natural ingenuity, had managed to eavesdrop in such a fashion that when Tommy had arrived at a guest house on the sea coast in the role of a certain Mr Meadowes, the first person he had seen there had been a middle-aged lady plying knitting needles, who had looked up at him with innocent eyes and whom he had been forced to greet as Mrs Blenkinsop. Thereafter they had worked as a pair.
‘However,’ thought Tuppence to herself, ‘I can’t do it this time.’ No amount of eavesdropping, of ingenuity, or anything else would take her to the recesses of Hush Hush Manor or to participation in the intricacies of I.U.A.S. Just an Old Boys Club, she thought resentfully. Without Tommy the flat was empty, the world was lonely, and ‘What on earth,’ thought Tuppence, ‘am I to do with myself?’
The question was really purely rhetorical for Tuppence had already started on the first steps of what she planned to do with herself. There was no question this time of intelligence work, of counter-espionage or anything of that kind. Nothing of an official nature. ‘Prudence Beresford, Private Investigator, that’s what I am,’ said Tuppence to herself.
After a scrappy lunch had been hastily cleared away, the dining-room table was strewn with railway timetables, guide-books, maps, and a few old diaries which Tuppence had managed to disinter.
Some time in the last three years (not longer, she was sure) she had taken a railway journey, and looking out of the carriage window, had noticed a house. But, what railway journey?
Like most people at the present time, the Beresfords travelled mainly by car. The railway journeys they took were few and far between.
Scotland, of course, when they went to stay with their married daughter Deborah—but that was a night journey.
Penzance—summer holidays—but Tuppence knew that line by heart.
No, this had been a much more casual journey.
With diligence and perseverance, Tuppence had made a meticulous list of all the possible journeys she had taken which might correspond to what she was looking for. One or two race meetings, a visit to Northumberland, two possible places in Wales, a christening, two weddings, a sale they had attended, some puppies she had once delivered for a friend who bred them and who had gone down with influenza. The meeting place had been an arid-looking country junction whose name she couldn’t remember.
Tuppence sighed. It seemed as though Tommy’s solution was the one she might have to adopt—Buy a kind of circular ticket and actually travel over the most likely stretches of railway line.
In a small notebook she had jotted down any snatches of extra memories—vague flashes—in case they might help.
A hat, for instance—Yes, a hat that she had thrown up on the rack. She had been wearing a hat—so—a wedding or the christening—certainly not puppies.
And—another flash—kicking off her shoes—because her feet hurt. Yes—that was definite—she had been actually looking at the House—and she had kicked off her shoes because her feet hurt.
So, then, it had definitely been a social function she had either been going to, or returning from—Returning from, of course—because of the painfulness of her feet from long standing about in her best shoes. And what kind of a hat? Because that would help—a flowery hat—a summer wedding—or a velvet winter one?
Tuppence was busy jotting down details from the Railway timetables of different lines when Albert came in to ask what she wanted for supper—and what she wanted ordered in from the butcher and the grocer.
‘I think I’m going to be away for the next few days,’ said Tuppence. ‘So you needn’t order in anything. I’m going to take some railway journeys.’
‘Will you be wanting some sandwiches?’
‘I might. Get some ham or something.’
‘Egg