Patricia Wentworth - Beggar’s Choice

Bobby Markham-I can’t make out whether it was he who interviewed me in the hut. Anna certainly gave me to understand that it was Bobby-but that’s a good enough reason for its being some one else. Then there’s the question of whether Bobby could have been in the hut to meet me after spending the evening with the Tarrants. I don’t think so much of this point as I did, because I hadn’t a watch, and though I think we were at the hut by eleven I may be mistaken. It oughtn’t to take more than an hour from Putney to Linwood, but I was thinking of other things. I didn’t notice how fast we were going, and I suspect the driver went out of the way on purpose. Then Isobel says Bobby didn’t go away till about twenty past, after starting to say good-night at eleven. That’s vague too. I can imagine time hanging a bit heavy whilst a fathead like Bobby was making pretty speeches. I suppose he could have got to the hut in ten minutes if he took the path through the woods.

All the same it sticks in my mind that it wasn’t Bobby. I wonder if it was Arbuthnot. If Anna had never met Arbuthnot before, how did she get to the point of telling him to keep me away from the Tarrants, all in about half an hour? She spoke as if she was accustomed to giving him orders, too-I noticed that. She might have been speaking to the butler, and he took it the same way, as if it was a matter of course that she should fire orders at him out of a taxi. No, I couldn’t believe that it was the first time they’d met. And if it wasn’t, why go through the farce of an introduction, unless they particularly wanted me to think that they were strangers?

Well that’s all I can get out of Bobby for the moment.

Then there’s Fay. All the threads that connect Fay with this affair are as indefinite as the spider’s threads that you get blown across your face on a dewy morning-you can’t see them, and you can’t find them, but you keep on feeling that they’re there. Why should Fay want five hundred pounds just when five hundred pounds is being dangled in front of me? And then why should she afterwards go back on all that and swear she never said she was in a hole at all? And why did Isobel’s letter disappear, and Z.10’s first letter? And why did Fay cut her dance with me, just when cutting it obliged me to dance with Anna? It looks damned silly written down. Gossamer threads.

The post has just come in. Miss Willy has asked me to go down to them next Tuesday. That’s one letter. The other is a registered one with twenty five-pound notes in it and not a line of writing. If any one had told me a week ago that I should have a hundred pounds spread out in front of me on this table, it would have sounded like something out of Grimm’s fairy tales. And if they’d gone on to say that all I wanted to do with it was to send it back, I should have told them that they were talking through the back of their neck. A week ago I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from, or how long my last pair of boots would hold together. Now I’ve got into a kind of twisted fairy story in which bank-notes come tumbling out of letters like the diamonds and pearls which dropped from the mouth of the wretched child with the fairy godmother in Grimm. I remember, even in the nursery, thinking how beastly it must have been, and wondering whether she got any of her teeth broken on the diamonds.

I am writing to Miss Willy to say I won’t come. And this is what I’m going to write to Z.10:

Dear Sir,

I have just received £100 in five-pound notes. I suppose these are the funds spoken of in the note I received last night. [There are too many “received’s” but I want to keep it stiff,] I should be glad to be given some work to do. I want to make it clear that I cannot continue to receive money which I have not earned. I was willing to accept a retaining fee for a reasonable time, but a sum of £100 does not come under that heading. I shall therefore return it, unless in the course of the next week I am satisfied that I have done, or am doing, something to earn such a salary.

Yours faithfully,

Carthew Fairfax.

A Letter from Corinna Lee to Peter Lymington:

Peter honey, go right out and buy yourself a pair of yellow stockings. Did you know that meant being jealous? I didn’t until Mrs. Bell, who is my cousin Car’s landlady, told me. There’s a girl in the same house-and isn’t she a friend of yours, and why didn’t you tell me about her? Her name is Fay Everitt, and she’s pretty but very bad style, and she hates me like I hate cold water down the back of my neck, and I couldn’t think why until Mrs. Bell said, “It’s just her yellow stockings, Miss.” Well, I thought she was color blind, and I said, “They’re not yellow, Mrs. Bell, -they’re taupe.” And she laughed and laughed, and told me, “yellow stockings is just a way of saying folks is jealous, miss.” She said Fay Everitt “wears them constant.” I don’t think she likes my being friends with my cousin Car.

Peter, he is a perfect lamb. So now you know why you’ve got to go out right away and buy yourself those yellow stockings. Isn’t it a pity he’s got a girl already?

Why didn’t you tell me about her? I’m not wearing yellow stockings, because I love her too. She is an enchanting person called Isobel Tarrant, and she lives with a perfectly fierce aunt in a real old cottage with 1675 over the door. Why didn’t you tell me about Isobel? I can’t think why you didn’t fall in love with her. Perhaps you didn’t know her-that would be a good reason. Or perhaps you didn’t want to snatch her from Car. Or perhaps you are secretly in love with her all the time. Please tell me about this when you write. If there are any dark secrets in your past, I would like to know about them right away, and not find them out afterwards like they always do in books. I think I have used the wrong adjective. Isobel couldn’t be a dark secret-she isn’t that sort. But even if she’s a bright secret, I would want to know about her.

I am going down to Linwood to stay. I love Linwood and my cousin John, but I am glad that Anna Lang is not my cousin. She is only Cousin John’s wife’s niece, and not my relation at all. Car says he is glad about this too. I love Car. But perhaps you needn’t be very jealous-I have just mailed a letter to Poppa to tell him that if he thinks I’m forgetting you over here, he’s just got to think again. I’d be very lonely without you if I didn’t think a lot about how real nice it was going to be when I get back.

Do you think about me every day? I hope you do. Poppa said I wasn’t to write you love letters whilst I was over here. He couldn’t call this one a love letter, could he-not reasonably? But it kind of feels as if it was going to turn into one, so I should think I had better stop.

Corinna

If I hadn’t promised Poppa, I would send you my love and a lot of kisses.

Dear Peter, I send you my kind regards. I will tell Poppa I sent them.

Isobel Tarrant came down through the woods walking slowly. In a few minutes she would be clear of the trees. She walked more slowly still. The path was narrow, and on either side of it were the straight black trunks of pine trees frosted with gray-green lichen. It was a bright, clear morning. The sky above the pine trees was a very pale blue. The patches of sunlight which flecked the path were a very pale gold. It was still in the wood.

Isobel stood for a moment and let the stillness in. She had wept until she could weep no more; but now the pain that had made her weep had ceased. She felt as if her tears had washed it away and left an empty place where it had been. She shrank piteously from this emptiness. It was as if she had had Car in her heart all these years, and as if now he had gone and there was only an empty place. It would not have been so hard to bear if she had not allowed herself to hope. For three years she had not hoped. She had lived one day at a time and kept her eyes from the future. And then all at once the future had been irradiated with hope. Car was to come to Linwood to meet his uncle-to step back into his old place-to come back to them. She did not say he was coming back to her, but the thought lay warm at her heart. And then in a flash the radiance had gone and the dark closed down. Car wouldn’t come.