Postern of Fate (Tommy & Tuppence 5)

'I wonder what Tuppence is doing now,' said Tommy, sighing.

'Excuse me, I didn't quite hear what you said.'

Tommy turned his head to look at Miss Collodon more closely. Miss Collodon was thin, emaciated, had grey hair which was slowly passing through the stage of recovering from a peroxide rinse designated to make her look younger (which it had not done). She was now trying various shades of artistic grey, cloudy smoke, steel blue and other interesting shades suitable for a lady between sixty and sixty-five, devoted to the pursuit of research. Her face represented a kind of ascetic superiority and a supreme confidence in her own achievements.

'Oh it was nothing really, Miss Collodon,' said Tommy. 'Just - just something I was considering, you know. Just thinking of.'

And what is it, I wonder, thought Thomas, being careful this time not to utter the words aloud, that she can be doing today. Something silly, I bet. Half killing herself in that extraordinary, obsolete child's toy that'll come to pieces carrying her down the hill, and she'll probably end up with a broken something or other. Hips, it seems to be nowadays, though I don't see why hips are more vulnerable than anything else. Tuppence, he thought, would at this moment be doing something silly or foolish or, if not that, she would be doing something which might not be silly or foolish but would be highly dangerous. Yes, dangerous. It was always difficult keeping Tuppence out of danger. His mind roved vaguely over various incidents in the past. Words of a quotation came into his mind, and he spoke them aloud:

'Postern of Fate...

Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing. Have you heard

That silence where the birds are dead, yet something pipeth like a bird?'

Miss Collodon responded immediately, giving Tommy quite a shock of surprise.

'Flecker,' she said. 'Flecker. It goes on:

"Death's Caravan... Disaster's Cavern, Fort of Fear."

Tommy stared at her, then realized that Miss Collodon had thought he was bringing her a poetic problem to be researched, full information on where a certain quotation came from and who the poet had been who had uttered it. The trouble with Miss Collodon was that her research covered such a broad field.

'I was just wondering about my wife,' said Tommy apologetically.

'Oh,' said Miss Collodon.

She looked at Tommy with a rather new expression in her eye. Marital trouble in the home, she was deducing. She would presently probably offer him the address of a marriage advice bureau wherein he might seek adjustment in his matrimonial affairs and troubles.

Tommy said hurriedly, 'Have you had any success with that enquiry I spoke to you about the day before yesterday?'

'Oh yes. Not very much trouble in that. Somerset House is very useful, you know, in all those things. I don't think, you know, that there is likely to be anything particular that you want there, but I've got the names and addresses of certain births, marriages and deaths.'

'What, are they all Mary Jordans?'

'Jordan, yes. A Mary. A Maria and a Polly Jordan. Also a Mollie Jordan. I don't know if any of them are likely to be what you want. Can I pass this to you?'

She handed him a small typewritten sheet.

'Oh, thank you. Thank you very much.'

'There are several addresses, too. The ones you asked me for. I have not been able to find out the address of Major Dalrymple. People change their addresses constantly nowadays. However, I think another two days ought to get that information all right. This is Dr Heseltine's address. He is at present living at Surbiton.'

'Thanks very much,' said Tommy. 'I might start on him, anyway.'

'Any more queries?'

'Yes. I've got a list here of about six. Some of them may not be in your line.'

'Oh well,' said Miss Collodon, with complete assurance, 'I have to make things my line, you know. You can easily find out first just where you can find out, if that isn't a rather foolish way of speech. But it does explain things, you know. I remember - oh, quite a long time ago, when I was first doing this work, I found how useful Selfridge's advice bureau was. You could ask them the most extraordinary questions about the most extraordinary things and they always seemed to be able to tell you something about it or where you could get the information quickly. But of course they don't do that sort of thing nowadays. Nowadays, you know, most enquiries that are made are - well, you know, if you want to commit suicide, things like that. Samaritans. And legal questions about wills and a lot of extraordinary things for authors, of course. And jobs abroad and immigration problems. Oh yes, I cover a very wide field.'

'I'm sure you do,' said Tommy.

'And helping alcoholics. A lot of societies there are who specialize in that. Some of them are much better than others. I have quite a list - comprehensive - and some most reliable -'

'I'll remember it,' Tommy said, 'if I find myself shaping that way any time. It depends how far I get today.'

'Oh, I'm sure, Mr Beresford, I don't see any signs of alcoholic difficulties in you.'

'No red nose?' said Tommy.

'It's worse with women,'said Miss Collodon. 'More difficult, you know, to get them off it, as you might say. Men do relapse, but not so notably. But really, some women, they seem quite all right, quite happy drinking lemonade in large quantities and all that, and then some evening, in the middle of a party - well, it's all there again.'

In turn, she looked at her watch.

'Oh dear, I must go on to my next appointment. I have to get to Upper Grosvenor Street.'

'Thank you very much,' said Tommy, 'for all you've done.'

He opened the door politely, helped Miss Collodon on with her coat, went back into the room and said,

'I must remember to tell Tuppence this evening that our researches so far have led me to impress a research agent with the idea that my wife drinks and our marriage is breaking up because of it. Oh dear, what next!'

What next was an appointment at an inexpensive restaurant in the neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road.

'Well I never!' said an elderly man, leaping up from his seat where he was sitting waiting. 'Carroty Tom, on my life. Shouldn't have known you.'

'Possibly not,' said Tommy. 'Not much carrots left about me. It's grey-haired Tom.'

'Ah well, we're all that. How's your health?'

'Much the same as I always was. Cracking. You know. Decomposing by degrees.'

'How long is it since I've seen you? Two years? Eight years? Eleven years?'

'Now you're going too far,' said Tommy. 'We met at the Maltese Cats dinner last autumn, don't you remember?'

'Ah, so we did. Pity that broke up, you know. I always thought it would. Nice premises, but the food was rotten. Well, what are you doing these days, old boy? Still in the espionage-up-to-date do?'

'No,' said Tommy, 'I'm nothing to do with espionage.'

'Dear me. What a waste of your activities.'

'And what about you, Mutton-Chop?'

'Oh, I'm much too old to serve my country in that way.'

'No espionage going on nowadays?'

'Lots of it, I expect. But probably they put the bright boys on to it. The ones who come bursting out of universities needing a job badly. Where are you now? I sent you a Christmas card this year. Well, I didn't actually post it till January but anyway it came back to me with "Not known at this address".'

'No. We've gone to the country to live now. Down near the sea. Hollowquay.'

'Hollowquay. Hollowquay? I seem to remember something. Something in your line going on there once, wasn't there?'

'Not in my time,' said Tommy. 'I've only just got to hear of it since going to live there. Legends of the past. At least sixty years ago.'

'Something to do with a submarine, wasn't it? Plans of a submarine sold to someone or other. I forget who we were selling to at that time. Might have bee

n the Japanese, might have been the Russians - oh, and lots of others. People always seemed to meet enemy agents in Regent's Park or somewhere like that. You know, they'd meet someone like a third Secretary from an Embassy. Not so many beautiful lady spies around as there used to be once in fiction.'

'I wanted to ask you a few things, Mutton-Chop.'