AGATHA CHRISTIE. By the Pricking of My Thumbs

The picture was signed, but the signature of the artist was illegible – All that could be said was that it began with B.

Turning away from the picture, Tuppence checked her paraphernalia: an A.B.C. and its attached railway map; a selection of ordnance maps; tentative names of places -Medchester, Westleigh – Market Basing – Middlesham -Inchwell – Between them, they enclosed the triangle that she had decided to examine. With her she took a small overnight bag since she would have a three hours’ drive before she even arrived at the area of operations, and after that, it meant, she judged a good deal of slow driving along country roads and lanes looking for likely canals.

After stopping in Medchester for coffee and a snack, she pushed on by a second-class road adjacent to a railway line, and leading through wooded country with plenty of streams.

As in most of the rural districts of England, signposts were plentiful, bearing names that Tuppence had never heard of, and seldom seeming to lead to the place in question. There seemed to be a certain cunning about this part of the road system of England. The road would twist off from the canal, and when you pressed on hopefully to where you thought the canal might have taken itself, you drew a blank. If you had gone in the direction of Great Michelden, the next signpost you came to offered you a choice of two roads, one to Pennington Sparrow and the other to Farlingford. You chose Farlingford and managed actually to get to such a place but almost immediately the next signpost sent you back fu-mly to Medchester, so that you practically retraced your steps.

Actually Tuppence never did fred Great Michelden, and for a long time she was quite unable to fred the lost canal. If she had had any idea of which village she was looking for, things might have gone more easily. Tracking canals on maps was merely puzzling. Now and again she came to the railway which cheered her up and she would then push on hopefully for Bees Hill, South Winterton and Farrell St Edmund. Farrell St Edmund had once had a station, but it had been abolished some time ago! ‘If only,’ thought Tuppence, ‘there was some well behaved road that ran alongside a canal, or alongside a railway line, it would make it so much easier.’ The day wore on and Tuppence became more and more baffled. Occasionally she came upon a farm adjacent to a canal but the road having led to the farm insisted on having nothing more to do with the canal and went over a hill and arrived at something called Westpenfold which had a church with a square tower which was no use at all.

From there when disconsolately pursuing a rutted road which seemed the only way out of Westpenfold and which to Tuppence’s sense of direction (which was now becoming increasingly unreliable) seemed to lead in the opposite direction to anywhere she could possibly want to go, she came abruptly to a place where two lanes forked right and left. There was the remains of a signpost between them, the arms of which had both broken off.

‘Which way?’ said Tuppence. ‘Who knows? I don’t.’ She took the left hand one.

It meandered on, winding to left and to right. Finally it shot round a bend, widened out and climbed a hill, coming out of woods into open downlike country. Having surmounted the crest it took a steep downward course. Not very far away a plaintive cry sounded ‘Sounds like a train,’ said Tuppence, with sudden hope. ‘It was a wain – Then below her was the railway fine and on k a goods train uttering cries of distress as it puffed along. And beyond it was the canal and on the other side of the canal was a house that Tuppence recognized and, leading across the canal was a small hump-backed, pink-bricked bridge. The road dipped under the railway, came up, and made for the bridge.

Tuppence drove very gently over the narrow bridge. Beyond it the road went on with the house on the fight hand side of it.

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