He weren’t there long either. What they called a gentleman farmer. That’s why he liked the house, I suppose, but the farming land wasn’t much use to him, and he didn’t know how to deal with it. So he sold it again. Changed hands ever so many times it has – Always builders coming along and making alterations – new bathrooms – that sort of thing – A couple had it who were doing chicken farming. I believe, at one time. But it got a name, you know, for being unlucky. But all that’s a bit before my time. I believe Mr Boscowan himself thought of buying it at one time. That was when he painted the picture of it.’
‘What sort of age was Mr Boscowan when he was down here?’
‘Forty, I would say, or maybe a bit more than that. He was a good-looking man in his way. Run into fat a bit, though.
Great one for the girls, he was.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Copleigh. It was a warning grunt this time.
‘Ah well, we all know what artists are like,’ said Mrs Copleigh, including Tuppence in this knowledge. ‘Go over to
France a lot, you know, and get French ways, they do.’
‘He wasn’t married?’
‘Not then he wasn’t. Not when he was first down here. Bit keen he was on Mrs Charrington’s daughter, but nothing came of k. She was a lovely girl, though, but too young for him. She wasn’t more than twenty-five.’
‘Who was Mrs Charrington?’ Tuppence felt bewildered at this introduction of new characters.
‘What the hell am I doing here, anyway?’ she thought suddenly as waves of fatigue swept over her – ‘I’m just listening to a lot of gossip about people, and imagining things like murder which aren’t true at all. I can see now – It started when a nice but addle-headed old pussy got a bit mixed up in her head and began reminiscing about stories this Mr Boscowan, or someone like him who may have given the picture to her, told about the house and the legends about it, of someone being walled up alive in a fireplace and she thought it was a child for some reason. And here I am going round investigating mares’ nests. Tommy told me I was a fool, and he was quite right – I am a fool.’
She waited for a break to occur in Mrs Copleigh’s even flow of conversation, so that she could rise, say good night politely and go upstairs to bed.
Mrs Copleigh was still in full and happy spate.
‘Mrs Charrington? Oh, she lived in Watermead for a bit,’ said Mrs Copleigh. ‘Mrs Charrington, and her daughter. She was a nice lady, she was, Mrs Charrington. Widow of an army officer, I believe. Badly off, but the house was being rented cheap. Did a lot of gardening. She was very fond of gardening.
Not much good at keeping the house clean, she wasn’t. I went and obliged for her, once or twice, but I couldn’t keep it up. I had to go on my bicycle, you see, and it’s over two miles.
Weren’t any buses along that road.’
‘Did she live there long?’
‘Not more than two or three years, I think. Got scared, I expect, after the troubles came. And then she had her own troubles about her daughter, too. Lilian I think her name was.’
Tuppence took a draught of the strong tea with which the meal was fortified, and resolved to get finished with Mrs Charrington before seeking repose.
‘What was the trouble about the daughter? Mr Boscowan?’ ‘No, it wasn’t Mr Boscowan as got her into trouble. I’ll never believe that. It was the other one.’
‘Who was the other one?’ asked Tuppence. ‘Someone else who lived down here?’
‘I don’t think he lived down in these parts. Someone she’d met up in London. She went up there to study ballet dancing, would it be? Or art? Mr Boscowan arranged for her to join some school there. Slate I think its name was.’
‘Slade?’ suggested Tuppence.
‘May have been. That sort of name. Anyway, she used to go up there and that’s how she got to know this fellow, whoever he was. Her mother didn’t like it. She forbade her to meet him.