Patricia Wentworth - The Case of William Smith

‘Well, let me see – it would be about six weeks ago.’

‘Yes, I saw him the last time I was at the office. He seemed quite well then. What was it?’

‘He was knocked down in the street – not looking where he was going, I’m afraid. They took him to hospital, but he never recovered consciousness.’

Katharine said, ‘I am so very sorry – I didn’t know.’ The receiver felt cold and heavy in her hand. She said, ‘What day was it – when did it happen?’

Miss Jones’ voice sharpened a little.

‘I don’t know that I could say offhand.’

‘It would be very kind of you if you would find out. The date on his ledger would show when he stopped coming – wouldn’t it? I should like to know.’

‘Oh, certainly.’

As she stood waiting, the receiver in her hand became colder and heavier still. She heard Miss Jones go away. She heard her come back. She heard her voice, hard and efficient, with that something which wasn’t quite an accent – a little more noticeable on the telephone than it was when you were with her.

‘The date would be the sixth of December. That was the last time Mr. Davies was at the office.’

Katharine said, ‘Thank you, Miss Jones,’ and rang off.

An hour later she looked up from her painting to say to William Smith,

‘Do you remember the date you went to Eversleys and saw Miss Jones?’

William frowned.

‘It was just before Mr. Tattlecombe had his accident.’

‘Well, when did Mr. Tattlecombe have his accident?’

‘The seventh of December.’

She put down her brush because her hand wasn’t quite steady.

‘When you say just before, what do you mean, William? Do you mean that it was the day before?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes. Why – does it matter?’

‘I don’t know.’ She picked up her brush again. ‘I just wanted to know.’

William had become absorbed. Only a small portion of his mind had been on what he was saying. Now the whole of it was concentrated upon putting the finishing touches to the first of the Krow models. Should there, or should there not, be a touch of metallic green on the head? Nothing that you could swear to, but just the suggestion of a sheen.

He referred the question to Katharine and they debated it earnestly.

Tattlecombe’s shut at half-past five, and William drove her home. Miss Cole, who had put on her hat and coat and walked briskly away in the opposite direction, took the first turning to the right, and the first to the right again, which brought her into the narrow cut immediately behind the shop. William did not see her because he had to back his car out of the shed in which it lived, but by walking very fast indeed and occasionally breaking into a short run she was able to reach the corner in time to see him stop, lean sideways to open the near door, and let that Miss Eversley in, after which they drove away together.

‘And not for the first time, Mr. Tattlecombe!’ said Miss Cole, in tones which trembled with moral indignation.

Mrs. Salt hadn’t wanted to let her in, but she had got in. A really determined woman can always get in if she wants to. It is just a question of how many of the finer feelings she is prepared to disregard, and how much driving-power she can develop. Miss Cole walked past Abigail Salt at her own door and said she had come to see Mr. Tattlecombe. On being told that in his sister’s opinion he should be kept quiet and not encouraged to upset himself about the business, she sniffed and said that he would be a great deal more upset if the business got a bad name, and see him she must. Abigail was displeased, but, handicapped by her ignorance of what had happened and a suspicion that Abel would indeed upset himself if he thought she was interfering between him and his business, she gave way, ushered Miss Cole into her spare room, and left her there. Tempted to close the door sharply, she restrained herself and went down to the parlour, where she applied herself to playing hymn tunes on the harmonium. Her momentary indecision about the door may have resulted in its failing to latch. The tongue of steel engaged and slipped out again, the door remained ajar.

Miss Cole sat in an upright chair beside Mr. Tattlecombe’s bed and poured out her soul. She wore a ginger-coloured hat and a thick black coat. Her sallow skin glistened in the gaslight. She washed it night and morning with yellow soap, and considered face-powder immoral. Her hands in black woollen gloves were tightly clasped upon her knee. Her voice trembled with earnest disapproval.

‘Every day and all day long – painting at the same table, and their heads as good as touching!’

Abel Tattlecombe leaned against his pillow and said,

‘The painting has got to be done, Miss Cole.’

‘Very true, Mr. Tattlecombe, and I’m not denying it. But when I say that I understood Miss Eversley was engaged to help me in the shop I’m only saying what was clearly understood at the time. And what happens? The very second day she is there Mr. Smith takes her out of the shop and puts her in the workshop and gives her the painting to do, which is what he wouldn’t let anyone lay a finger on. Because I offered, and he said, ‘oh no, he could manage very nicely.’ She gave a really dreadful sniff and repeated this telling phrase in a loud tone of scorn. ‘He could manage very nicely! And how does he manage, Mr. Tattlecombe?’ She sniffed again. ‘Him and her with no more than the width of a table between them, and for all I know dipping their brushes in the same paint-pot! And that boy away at the other end of the shop taking it all in!’

Miss Cole was a fellow chapel member. Abel Tattlecombe gazed at her mildly.

‘William Smith is a single young man,’ he said, ‘and Miss Eversley is a single young woman. I have spoken to William on the subject of marriage. If he is thinking of Miss Eversley in the light of that conversation, there would be nothing wrong about it.’

Miss Cole tossed her head.

‘You didn’t see her when she came about the place! Painted she was, and no other word for it, and I told her straight out it wasn’t what you’d approve of! I wouldn’t have engaged her if it had been left to me, but Mr. Smith pushed in and said she was just what we were looking for – right over my head!’

Abel said sharply, ‘She doesn’t wear paint in the shop.’

Miss Cole sniffed.

‘There’s no saying what she might have done if I hadn’t spoken up. I told her you wouldn’t allow it, and I’ve kept a pretty sharp look-out to see she didn’t get round what I said.’

Abel was becoming weary of the bickering voice. He said, ‘Well, that’s all right,’ and immediately became aware that the remark was optimistic.

Miss Cole looked at him in a pitying manner.

‘If you call it all right for him to drive her away in his car and stay out till all hours!’

Abel’s temper slipped a little.

‘What do you call all hours? And how do you know how long he stays out?’

Miss Cole bridled.

‘I suppose Mrs. Bastable has a tongue in her head! Eleven one night, and half-past eleven another, and before we know where we are there’s no saying whether he’ll come home at all! It’s not what I call respectable!’

Mr. Tattlecombe was a good deal more disquieted than he wished it to appear. He put Miss Cole down for a meddlesome old maid. But the respectability of his shop was very dear to him. It should be beyond question or comment, and here was Miss Cole gossiping with Mrs. Bastable, and both of them questioning and commenting just about as hard as they could go. He wished, as many a man has wished, that something could be done to stop women talking, and he remembered that when he was twenty-four he had taken a girl on the river in June and not brought her back until midnight, and what a blazing row there had been. She was a pretty girl, and she had married a stout middle-aged shopwalker at Prentice & Biddle’s and had seven or eight children, all the image of their father. And he had married Mary Sturt and been very happy with her until the Lord took her… He fixed his blue eyes on Miss Cole’s face and said,