Patricia Wentworth - The Case of William Smith

Katharine wasn’t thinking anything like that. She was thinking rather breathlessly that she had been on the edge of walking enthusiastically over a precipice, and she felt a good deal of gratitude to William’s scruples about Mr. Tattlecombe. Suppose he hadn’t had them. Suppose she had been confronted with the choice of going back on what she had offered or appearing in Cyril’s office as the champion of William Smith. Or, worse than Cyril, Brett. She didn’t wish Mr. Tattlecombe’s sufferings to be in any way prolonged, but she had a feeling that it would be a pity if he were to come back to work too soon. She just wasn’t ready to take William Smith by the hand and lead him into the family circle – yet.

Cyril Eversley put out a hand and touched the bell on his office table. Like everything else about him the hand was long and thin. If his cousin Brett looked like a Georgian squire, he himself had rather the air of a medieval scholar – a flowing robe and a skull-cap would have been much more appropriate than a modern suit. He was seven years older than Brett and the senior partner. No one would have guessed that they were related. Where Brett was dark and florid, Cyril had the thinning fair hair, the pallor, and slight stoop of a delicate man who leads a sedentary life. He might have been an artist, a scholar, a dilettante. He was, as a matter of fact, a little of all three. The rather charming water-colour drawing of his daughter Sylvia which faced him across the room was his own work, he could still read Greek for pleasure, and he was a collector of eighteenth-century miniatures and snuffboxes.

Almost before he had drawn his hand back from the bell the door opened and Miss Jones came in.

‘Yes, Mr. Eversley?’

He looked up with his slight habitual frown and said,

‘Come in and shut the door.’

With the click of the latch her manner changed.

That ‘Yes, Mr. Eversley?’ had been any secretary to any employer – voice, manner, and look all just right – the efficient, trusted employee answering a summons. But as soon as the door was shut she became someone else. It was as if she came in and threw off some drab uniform coat, to display the bright dress which had been hidden under it. She seemed a different woman as she came over to stand by the table and say, ‘What is it?’ William’s description of her may serve – ‘Not young, but a looker.’ A moment ago she might easily have been forty; the change in look and manner took ten years away. Actually she was thirty-seven. There was bright natural colour in the oval face and well cut lips, good lashes to shade the hazel eyes. The tall, upright figure was pleasantly curved, the plain dark dress very well cut. There was some grace of movement, and a noticeable effect of vitality. When it came to the hands and feet, nature had turned suddenly stingy. Neither were well shaped, but she wore good shoes, and did all she could to the hands which a secretary cannot hope to keep out of sight. She groomed them assiduously and used a very discreet nail-polish.

To her, ‘What is it?’ Cyril Eversley replied with a shade of petulance,

‘Why must it be anything?’

She smiled a little.

‘I don’t know, but it is.’

He threw himself back in his chair.

‘For God’s sake sit down! I’m worried to death.’

‘Poor Cyril! As I said before, what is it?’

She was seating herself. If anyone came in, she had writing-pad and pencil before her – a discussion was in progress, presently a decision would be taken and a letter dictated. It had all been going on for so long that every move had become instinctive.

Cyril picked up a letter from his blotting-pad – thick paper covered with a strong, square writing rather reminiscent of cuneiform.

‘It’s Katharine’s trust,’ he said. ‘This is from Admiral Holden, who is the third trustee.’

‘Well?’

‘It isn’t well at all. He was supposed to be dying, and he hasn’t died. He has recovered, and he seems to have heard from Katharine. I don’t know what she said to him, but this is what he writes:

‘Dear Eversley,

I had a letter from Katharine a couple of months ago. She mentioned that she was giving up her flat and looking for something smaller. She also mentioned that she was going to take a job. I could not understand why this should be necessary, but I was not at the time fully recovered, so I thought that I would wait until I could go into the matter with you in person. Katharine has not written again, and I have not her present address. I shall be in town next week and should like to call upon you on Wednesday morning or Thursday afternoon, whichever would be the more convenient to yourself. I could then go into Katharine’s affairs with you and your cousin Brett. After nearly two years of incapacity I should be glad of the opportunity of bringing my trusteeship up to date.

Yours sincerely,

J. G. Holden.” ’

Miss Jones repeated her ‘Well?’

Eversley opened his hand and let the letter fall.

‘What are we going to do?’ he said.

‘The money isn’t there?’

‘You know it isn’t there. You know we had to borrow it in ’45. If things had looked up, we could have paid it back. We had to borrow it – you know that as well as I do. It was either that or a smash, and we’ve always kept up the income payments – until the other day. I told Brett it was folly to cut them, but he’s so extravagant – he won’t cut out anything himself. If we’d gone on paying Katharine her income, there wouldn’t have been any trouble. It’s this cutting her down that is bringing Holden into it. He’s never done anything before except sign what was put in front of him. Of course all through the war he was serving, and then he had that motor smash and nobody thought he’d ever get up off his bed again – and now he says he’s recovered and wants to go into Katharine’s affairs. What are we going to do?’

He had the helpless look of a child who has tumbled down and waits for someone to pick him up. She thought, ‘He’s a drifter – he’s drifted into this. When firms drift they smash. They’ve been drifting for years. You can drift on to the rocks, but you don’t drift off them. But even if there was a smash, there would be pickings. In any case I’m too far in – ’ She said,

‘You say he’s always signed everything you put in front of him.’

‘He won’t now. He’ll want to go into it all. We’ve got to show him figures – he’s got to be convinced. Can’t you put up something that will make him think it’s all right?’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘My dear Cyril, you’re not asking me to fudge the books!’

She saw him wince at the word. Cyril all over. You had to wrap things up for him – make them sound pretty. A plain word for a plain thing and he panicked.

‘Mavis – for heaven’s sake!’

‘Well, that’s what you’re asking me to do, isn’t it?’

He threw out that long, thin hand.

‘Don’t you see I’m only asking for time to get the money paid back? Now Sylvia is married, I can sell Evendon and move into something smaller. Brett must stop taking so much out of the firm – I’ve always told him it wouldn’t stand it. We must both cut down and get the money paid back. And Katharine must have her income. It was the merest folly to cut it down. But we must have time – don’t you see, we must have time.’

She sat there looking at him. He had said, ‘Don’t you see?’ She saw very well. More than he knew – more than he guessed – more than he would have any courage for. She weighed the chances, the probabilities, putting this down on the credit, this on the debit side.

The silence was more than he could bear. He rushed in on it with nervous speech.