By all that was impossible and unbelievable—Tuppence, calmly knitting in the lounge of Sans Souci.
Her eyes met his—polite, uninterested stranger’s eyes.
His admiration rose.
Tuppence!
How Tommy got through that evening he never quite knew. He dared not let his eyes stray too often in the direction of Mrs Blenkensop. At dinner three more habitués of Sans Souci appeared—a middle-aged couple, Mr and Mrs Cayley, and a young mother, Mrs Sprot, who had come down with her baby girl from London and was clearly much bored by her enforced stay at Leahampton. She was placed next to Tommy and at intervals fixed him with a pair of pale gooseberry eyes and in a slightly adenoidal voice asked: ‘Don’t you think it’s really quite safe now? Everyone’s going back, aren’t they?’
Before Tommy could reply to these artless queries, his neighbour on the other side, the beaded lady, struck in:
‘What I say is one mustn’t risk anything with children. Your sweet little Betty. You’d never forgive yourself and you know that Hitler has said the Blitzkrieg on England is coming quite soon now—and quite a new kind of gas, I believe.’
Major Bletchley cut in sharply:
‘Lot of nonsense talked about gas. The fellows won’t waste time fiddling round with gas. High explosive and incendiary bombs. That’s what was done in Spain.’
The whole table plunged into the argument with gusto. Tuppence’s voice, high-pitched and slightly fatuous, piped out: ‘My son Douglas says—’
‘Douglas, indeed,’ thought Tommy. ‘Why Douglas, I should like to know.’
After dinner, a pretentious meal of several meagre courses, all of which were equally tasteless, everyone drifted into the lounge. Knitting was resumed and Tommy was compelled to hear a long and extremely boring account of Major Bletchley’s experiences on the North-West Frontier.
The fair young man with the bright blue eyes went out, executing a little bow on the threshold of the room.
Major Bletchley broke off his narrative and administered a kind of dig in the ribs to Tommy.
‘That fellow who’s just gone out. He’s a refugee. Got out of Germany about a month before the war.’
‘He’s a German?’
‘Yes. Not a Jew either. His father got into trouble for criticising the Nazi régime. Two of his brothers are in concentration camps over there. This fellow got out just in time.’
At this moment Tommy was taken possession of by Mr Cayley, who told him at interminable length all about his health. So absorbing was the subject to the narrator that it was close upon bedtime before Tommy could escape.
On the following morning Tommy rose early and strolled down to the front. He walked briskly to the pier returning along the esplanade when he spied a familiar figure coming in the other direction. Tommy raised his hat.
‘Good morning,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Er—Mrs Blenkensop, isn’t it?’
There was no one within earshot. Tuppence replied:
‘Dr Livingstone to you.’
‘How on earth did you get here, Tuppence?’ murmured Tommy. ‘It’s a miracle—an absolute miracle.’
‘It’s not a miracle at all—just brains.’
‘Your brains, I suppose?’
‘You suppose rightly. You and your uppish Mr Grant. I hope this will teach him a lesson.’
‘It certainly ought to,’ said Tommy. ‘Come on, Tuppence, tell me how you managed it. I’m simply devoured with curiosity.’
‘It was quite simple. The moment Grant talked of our Mr Carter I guessed what was up. I knew it wouldn’t be just some miserable office job. But his manner showed me that I wasn’t going to be allowed in on this. So I resolved to go one better. I went to fetch some sherry and, when I did, I nipped down to the Browns’ flat and rang up Maureen. Told her to ring me up and what to say. She played up loyally—nice high squeaky voice—you could hear what she was saying all over the room. I did my stuff, registered annoyance, compulsion, distressed friend, and rushed off with every sign of vexation. Banged the hall door, carefully remaining inside it, and slipped into the bedroom and eased open the communicating door that’s hidden by the tallboy.’
‘And you heard everything?’
‘Everything,’ said Tuppence complacently.
Tommy said reproachfully:
‘And you never let on?’
‘Certainly not. I wished to teach you a lesson. You and your Mr Grant.’
‘He’s not exactly my Mr Grant and I should say you have taught him a lesson.’
‘Mr Carter wouldn’t have treated me so shabbily,’ said Tuppence. ‘I don’t think the Intelligence is anything like what it was in our day.’
Tommy said gravely: ‘It will attain its former brilliance now we’re back in it. But why Blenkensop?’
‘Why not?’
‘It seems such an odd name to choose.’
‘It was the first one I thought of and it’s handy for underclothes.’
‘What do you mean, Tuppence?’
‘B, you idiot. B for Beresford. B for Blenkensop. Embroidered on my camiknickers. Patricia Blenkensop. Prudence Beresford. Why did you choose Meadowes? It’s a silly name.’
‘To begin with,’ said Tommy, ‘I don’t have large B’s embroidered on my pants. And to continue, I didn’t choose it. I was told to call myself Meadowes. Mr Meadowes is a gentleman with a respectable past—all of which I’ve learnt by heart.’
‘Very nice,’ said Tuppence. ‘Are you married or single?’
‘I’m a widower,’ said Tommy with dignity. ‘My wife died ten years ago at Singapore.’
‘Why at Singapore?’
‘We’ve all got to die somewhere. What’s wrong with Singapore?’
‘Oh, nothing. It’s probably a most suitable place to die. I’m a widow.’
‘Where did your husband die?’
‘Does it matter? Probably in a nursing home. I rather fancy he died of cirrhosis of the liver.’
‘I see. A painful subject. And what about your son Douglas?’
‘Douglas is in the Navy.’
‘So I heard last night.’
‘And I’ve got two other sons. Raymond is in the Air Force and Cyril, my baby, is in the Territorials.’
‘And suppose someone takes the trouble to check up on these imaginary Blenkensops?’
‘They’re not Blenkensops. Blenkensop was my second husband. My first husband’s name was Hill. There are three pages of Hills in the telephone book. You couldn’t check up on all the Hills if you tried.’
Tommy sighed.
‘It’s the old trouble with you, Tuppence. You will overdo things. Two husbands and three sons. It’s too much. You’ll contradict yourself over the details.’
‘No, I shan’t. And I rather fancy the sons may come in useful. I’m not under orders, remember. I’m a freelance. I’m in this to enjoy myself and I’m going to enjoy myself.’
‘So it seems,’