Patricia Wentworth - The Case of William Smith

‘Yes, you said so. But I don’t know why it should make you think of Satterbee.’

‘It might – you can’t tell with names. Or it mightn’t have been an L after all. Something made me think of Marriott just then. No, that was Cousin Barbara’s companion who went off her head in the middle of a tea-party and broke four of her best Rockingham cups – that lovely apple-green. Grim, wasn’t it? So it wasn’t Marriott. But it might nave been Carlton – oh, no, it wasn’t. I’ll tell you what it was – it just came in a flash. Do you find things come to you like that? They do to me. It was Elliot! That’s where I got the L from!’ She paused for breath, and added doubtfully, ‘But I’ve got a feeling it might be Lester after all.’

‘Have you?’ Frank had a sardonic gleam in his eye.

Mildred pouted.

‘Anyhow George admired her so much that I nearly broke off the engagement – didn’t I, George?’

George Darcy, having finished a detailed and painstaking conference with the waiter, turned back to his wife and guest.

‘Didn’t you what?’

‘Nearly broke off our engagement because you fell so hard for that Lester girl at the Latimers’ party just before we were married.’

George looked a little sulky.

‘I haven’t an idea.’

‘Well then, I did nearly break it off. And I must say she was awfully pretty.’ She went back to Frank. ‘He can say what he likes now, but he fell for her like anything. But of course she was engaged to Bill and no one else got a look in. They danced together practically the whole evening. I can’t remember whether they were just engaged, or whether it happened that evening, but I know they were married quite soon after that, because Aunt Sophy – if it was Aunt Sophy – told me so. But of course it may have been Cousin Barbara, or Miss Mackintosh, because they were both about a good deal just then.’

With his well-known talent for taking up the least important point in any preceding speech, George enquired,

‘Who was Miss Mackintosh?’

Mildred poured out information about Miss Mackintosh, who was quite old and kept poodles which had to be combed every day and it took hours, and who couldn’t, after all, have imparted any information about Bill and the Lester girl – if she was the Lester girl and not Lyall, Linkwater, Satterbee, Marriott, Carlton, or Rockingham. No – Rockingham was the china smashed by the mad Miss Marriott who was Cousin Barbara’s companion.

Frank Abbott extracted an exasperated humour from the proceedings, but he obtained no further enlightenment on the subject of William Smith.

Later on, when he was saying good night, he asked quite seriously,

‘Look here, Mildred, how sure are you about that chap Bill having got married? Never mind the girl’s name or anything of that sort – just concentrate on whether he married her.

She looked up at him doubtfully.

‘Well, I think he did – ’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘Well, I remember Aunt Sophy writing out and saying she was giving them some china. She had stacks of it, you know.’

‘You really remember that?’

‘Yes, I do, because I wondered which of the sets she was giving them. There was one I wanted myself, and I always hoped she was going to leave it to me.’

‘If she wrote and told you she was giving them a wedding present she must have mentioned their names.’

‘Oh, yes, she did.’

‘Well, then?’

She wrinkled up her forehead, a trick that was going to leave ugly lines, and before very long too. She said,

‘You know, I was thinking about the china. The tea-set I wanted was a pet – those little bunches of flowers and a blue edge, and a nubble on the top of the teapot shaped like a strawberry. I didn’t really bother about the names, but of course she must have said them.’

‘Try and think what she did say.’

‘She said, “I’m giving them one of the china tea-sets”.’

If Frank ground his teeth, he did it silently.

‘Never mind about the tea-set – she didn’t begin like that.’

‘Oh, no – she said I’d be interested to hear they were getting married, because I’d fallen for Bill – I told her I had, you know.’

‘She did say Bill?’

‘Oh, yes – I keep telling you she did.’

‘Then she would have said the girl’s name too. What was it?’

‘Darling, I’ve forgotten.’

‘You’re sure it was that Bill and that girl?’

‘Oh, yes!’ This time she was quite whole-hearted.

‘Are you sure they got married?’

‘Oh, yes, I am, because Aunt Sophy went to the wedding – she couldn’t have done that if they hadn’t got married. And I remember she did go, because she wore her sable cape, and I got her letter telling me about it on a simply sweltering day, and I remember thinking how frightful it sounded – and anyhow sable and Aunt Sophy – too, too grim!’

‘And still you don’t remember their names?’

‘There was Bill – ’

‘Thank you – I got that myself. It’s Bill’s surname and the girl’s names that I want. If you don’t know them yourself, what about your Aunt Sophy?’

‘Darling, she died five years ago. And she did leave me a tea-set, only I don’t know if it’s the one I wanted.’

‘Can you think of anyone else who would know?’

The wrinkles deepened. She shook her head.

‘Honestly, darling, I can’t. You see, such a lot of people are dead – Cousin Barbara – and the Latimers – and Jim and Bob Barrett – I remember they were there, because Jim said I looked like a rosebud, and George was furious. Does it matter?’

Frank Abbott said, ‘It might.’

William took Katharine round to see Mr. Tattlecombe after the shop closed next day, and found that the visit was in the nature of an Occasion. Mr. Tattlecombe had come out of his splint that morning and had moved across the landing to the upstairs parlour, which dated from the time before Abigail’s marriage when old Mrs. Salt had lived with her son and for the best part of fifteen years had never gone downstairs. The carpet was the one she had chosen, and so were the plush armchairs. The crochet antimacassars were her own handiwork. A photographic enlargement of her in a Victorian widow’s cap looked down from over the mantelpiece.

Mr. Tattlecombe sat in the largest of the armchairs with his leg up on a foot-rest and a brown and white striped woollen shawl spread over it. Abigail Salt had put on her Sunday dress. There was tea, and cake, and sandwiches, and a cold fish mould, and a jelly, and a trifle, and a plate of Abigail’s famous cheese straws, and a pot of her cousin Sarah Hill’s famous apple honey.

Mr. Tattlecombe was as pleased as Punch. If favour was deceitful and beauty was vain, it was nevertheless pleasant to the eye. He found Miss Eversley pleasant to the eye. And not one of the flaunting kind – a very modest, quiet-spoken, ladylike young woman. And fond of William – you couldn’t be in the room with them without getting hold of that. Abigail Salt agreed. A nice girl, if she was any judge of girls, and she thought she was. Something about her that made you wonder why she hadn’t looked higher than William Smith. But easy to see that they were in love. Funny how a thing like that came out when they weren’t so much as looking at each other and the talk was all about the shop, and those painted toys, and Abel’s leg, and Sarah’s apple honey, and how did she get her cheese straws so light. She found herself giving Katharine the recipe, which was a thing she wouldn’t have believed if anyone had told her.

Then, when everything was going as well as it possibly could, who should open the door and look in on them but poor Emily? Not that she wasn’t welcome – Abigail Salt would never have allowed herself to harbour the thought that Emily’s room was preferable to her company. If such a thought presented itself, it would be turned out and the door banged in its face. But she didn’t know when Emily had done such a thing as join them when there was company. Go away down to the kitchen was what she would do, and make her own tea and go picking over the larder for something to eat. And many a time Abigail had been obliged to make it the subject of prayer, for to have your larder picked over was what would try the patience of a saint. If Abby wasn’t a saint she was a kind-hearted woman, and she had put up with Emily and her ways for the best part of thirty years. She lifted her eyes placidly to the tall black figure in the doorway and said,