Patricia Wentworth - The Case of William Smith

She had to laugh then.

‘Darling, what a perfectly appalling prospect!’

Evendon had been a wedding present to Cyril Eversley from his father-in-law, the late Alfred Sherringham Upjohn, who, having accumulated a preposterous fortune, had decided that his daughter and sole heiress would be better off without most of it. He gave her husband what he described as a gentleman’s landed estate, put a comfortable sum in trust for Sylvia, and spent the afternoon of his days in erecting almshouses for the old, and nurseries for the very young. As he had always been perfectly sure that whatever he did was right, it never occurred to him to doubt the wisdom of this proceeding, his only regret being that the war interfered with his building schemes. He was killed by a direct hit from a flying bomb early in ’45, but his trustees were now able to continue the work he had planned. Mavis Jones’ opinion was that he should have been declared insane and placed under restraint, but she had learned not to express this view to Cyril.

As William and Katharine drove in at the entrance gate and followed a winding drive, the trees were leafless overhead, their winter brown and grey broken here and there by clumps of evergreen or the shining mass of holly, berries still clinging to it here and there. The house, placed upon rising ground and set off by terraces, was modern – not too big to be run with a diminished staff, and planned for comfort.

Waiting for Soames to answer the door, Katharine would rather have been anywhere else. She was afraid, and part of her fear was for Cyril Eversley. That Mavis had recognised William, she was sure. That she had told Cyril – was that sure, or wasn’t it? Could Cyril know that William was alive and do nothing about it? Someone who knew William was alive had tried to do something about it – to Mr. Davies – to Mr. Tattlecombe – to William – and to William’s car. It couldn’t be Cyril. She had known him all her life. He wasn’t cruel, or ruthless, or hard. He was a drifter – vague and dreamy. It couldn’t be Cyril. The line of least resistance, yes. A desperate cutting of the Gordian knot, no.

The door swung in. Soames stood there waiting, all his manner gone. He said, ‘Mr. William!’ in a gasping voice. His mouth opened and shut like a fish. He choked and said it again – ‘Mr. William!’

William clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Hold up, Soames – I’m real. Look here, you’d better sit down for a minute. Where’s Mr. Cyril?’

Soames stood by the chair to which he had been led, holding on to it, getting back his breath. He said,

‘The study – ’ And then, ‘I’m all right, Mr. William. It was just – the shock – as you might say – ’

William pushed him down on to the chair.

‘You stay put. We’ll go and find him.’

But Soames was pulling himself up again. He put out his hand to Katharine, and she took it.

‘If I may say, madam, how pleased – how very pleased I am – ’

Cyril Eversley was in the study alone. As far as it was possible to retreat from the complications of this weekend, he had retreated. Whether you study in it or not, any room with that name is from time immemorial the private property of the man of the house, to which women are only admitted on sufferance. When, in addition to its private character, the man has surrounded himself with the Sunday papers, the ‘Keep out!’ sign could hardly be more patently displayed. Cyril was not, however, at all sanguine. Mavis had been free of his private office for too long to consider that the hint could apply to her, and as to Sylvia – when had he ever wished to keep her out? She would come, and she would make a scene. Mavis had made one already. One – if it had stopped at that! The word could really only be used if today’s scene was considered to be a prolongation of yesterday’s.

He held up the Sunday Times, but he didn’t read it. It gave him a very slight feeling of protection against somebody bursting in. Yesterday’s scene had been about giving out their marriage. After saying that there was no hurry, Mavis had suddenly insisted on accompanying him to Evendon as his wife. He had had to announce his marriage to Soames. He had had to ring Sylvia up and break it to her. He hadn’t wanted to do either of these things. The interview with Soames had left a decided chill upon the air. His telephone conversation with Sylvia had been quite disintegrating. This morning’s scene with Mavis – if you were going to separate it from yesterday’s scene – had had Sylvia’s reception of the news as its theme-song. Why in heaven’s name must women be so dramatic? The last thing he wanted was any fuss. Scenes made him feel positively unwell, and there were going to be more of them. Sylvia and Jocko were coming to lunch. Katharine was coming over-

A very faint gleam of light illumined the mental scene. Katharine mightn’t like the idea of his marriage, but she wouldn’t make a scene, and it was not probable, but just barely possible, that she might have a calming effect upon Sylvia.

He heard the door open, looked apprehensively over the top of the paper, and saw Katharine – transformed. He could not have analysed the impression she made on him. There was a glow, a bloom, a brightness. The paper dropped, and as he rose to his feet and she stretched out her hands to him and said, ‘Oh, Cyril, something wonderful has happened!’ William came into the room behind her and shut the door. It was all over in a moment, the rush and glow of emotion – and William, and for the moment the whole unbelievable scene was believable and real. It was as if Katharine had created the kind of illusion which is created on the stage, where an imagined drama moves its audience to laughter or to tears.

Cyril Eversley found himself with a hand on William’s shoulder and a voice that stammered his name. And then, before there was time for anything more, Mavis walked into the room. Whether she had encountered Soames and was prepared, or whether she had just walked in upon the situation, she maintained an extraordinary appearance of calm. She came to Cyril without hurry, allowed her glance to pass indifferently over Katharine, and to rest with a shade of hauteur upon William. Cyril’s hand dropped, he stepped back. She said,

‘Mr. William Smith, I think.’

William smiled his usual pleasant smile.

‘I don’t think you do, Miss Jones.’

‘I am Mrs. Eversley.’ She turned to Cyril. ‘What is this man doing here?’

Cyril put a hand to his head. The moment was over. You didn’t stay in the clouds, you came spinning down to earth with a crash.

He said, ‘It’s William,’ and felt her hand close hard upon his arm.

‘My dear Cyril, pull yourself together! This is Mr. William Smith, an assistant in a shop called Tattlecombe’s Toy Bazaar. He came to see me about the manufacture of some toys for which he has taken out a patent. That must have been about six or seven weeks ago. Naturally I was struck, as you are, by a certain superficial likeness to your cousin William, but – ’

Cyril pulled away.

‘You saw him? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t think the toys would interest you, and I thought you might find the likeness – upsetting.’

William gave a short laugh.

‘I’m sorry to contradict a lady, but it isn’t a likeness. I’m William Eversley.’

‘Then why didn’t you say so?’

‘Because I didn’t know. I’d had a bang on the head and I couldn’t remember anything before ’42. I’m sorry if I’m inconvenient, Cyril old chap, but it’s me.’

Mavis stared at him. Those fine eyes of hers could sustain a very long, cold stare.

‘This story would have been a good deal more convincing if you had produced it before Mrs. William Eversley had been given the opportunity of coaching you for six or seven weeks.’