Patricia Wentworth - Poison In The Pen

She knitted in silence for a little, and then said,

“I do not, unfortunately, know anyone in the vicinity. It would be of no use for me to go down unless my visit could be contrived to appear a natural one.”

“The Miss Waynes occasionally took in a paying guest. One of them was a Miss Cutler, now living in Chiswick. It could be arranged for you to meet her in a casual manner, after which it would be child’s play to induce her to recommend a country lodging. You could then write to Miss Wayne and enquire whether she would be prepared to take you in.”

After a moment she said,

“Miss Wayne is not to know?”

“No one is to know, except Joyce. Miss Wayne least of all. She is constitutionally timid and would never have a happy moment if she thought she had a detective in the house.”

She looked at him gravely.

“I do not know. I do not like the idea of my hostess being in ignorance. It is in fact repugnant.”

“My dear ma’am, if your advent is to be broadcast!”

Her glance reproved him.

“It would be a grave responsibility for Mrs. Rodney. Is she prepared to undertake it?”

“She rang me up this morning from a call-box in Ledlington. She is very much worried, very much upset about Doris Pell, very much afraid that there may be further trouble. I had talked to her about you when she first told me about the letters. She asked me if you could not come down, and suggested this paying guest business. It seems Miss Wayne had been speaking about Miss Cutler and saying she really thought she must repeat what had been a very pleasant experience. So you see, it would be quite easy.”

She drew upon her ball of wool.

“Perhaps. But I would prefer that she should receive at the very least some hint that my visit was a professional one.”

He said, “Impossible!” and then relaxed into a laugh.

“The fact is she has one of those tongues which never really stop. You know-the gentle trickle just going on and on. She wouldn’t mean to give anything away-she probably wouldn’t know she was doing it-but you can’t talk all the time and be safe with a secret. Joyce said it would be hopeless, and that she really would be frightened to death. She is terrified already about the letters-gets up in the night to see that the doors are locked, doesn’t like being left alone in the house, all that sort of thing. Joyce says she will jump at having an extra person there. And you know, you couldn’t really do better. She has a cottage on the edge of the Green-neighbours to right and to left of her, the village shop within a stone’s throw, the entrance to the Manor just on the other side of the Green, and church and parsonage beyond. When I tell you that the chief village busybody, a Miss Eccles, lives next door on the one side, and the chief village mystery on the other, you will realize that you simply can’t refuse such a marvellous opportunity.”

“And pray who or what is the chief village mystery?”

“He is a gentleman of the name of Barton, a quiet, harmless old boy who keeps cats and doesn’t invite any of the ladies to tea. He doesn’t even have a woman to do for him, so naturally there is a general feeling that he must have something to conceal. He does his own cooking and cleaning, if any, and he keeps his door locked, which is a thing even Miss Wayne hasn’t done until lately.”

In the course of her professional career Miss Silver had frequently been obliged to embark upon a course of action to which as a private gentlewoman she would not have committed herself. She began to consider the desirability of making Miss Cutler’s acquaintance.

Elderly ladies cannot easily be hurried. It took a little time to contrive the kind of approach which Miss Cutler would consider to be pleasant and natural. A mutual friend, or someone who could play that part-a drawing-room humming with conversation, tea-cups poised and cake and biscuits in circulation-in such a setting it was easy enough to talk of country holidays, to mention Ledshire, and to be immediately the recipient of Miss Cutler’s interested comments upon the shocking fatality which had so recently taken place at Tilling Green-“Where I stayed, I actually stayed, Miss Silver, only just a year ago.”

“Indeed?”

Miss Cutler nodded vigorously. She had a bony intelligent face and hair which had shaded from red to so very pale a gold that it might almost have been taken for grey. It still curled, and she had long ago given up any attempt to control its exuberance.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “I was there for three months with the Miss Waynes at Willow Cottage. That poor girl who committed suicide made me a couple of blouses. Such a nice quiet creature-I was quite dreadfully shocked.”

Miss Silver heard all about the Miss Waynes.

“You have never been back again?”

“Well, no. Miss Esther died-very suddenly, poor thing. Though I’m sure I don’t know why one should be sorry for people who die suddenly. It is unpleasant for their families of course, but much happier for them. Anyhow it must have been a great shock for Miss Renie. She depended on her for everything. Really quite painful to see a grown woman so subservient. I hear she has a widowed niece living with her now.”

“And does she still take in guests?”

“I really don’t know. They were not at all well off, and if the niece is dependent… I have sometimes thought of going down again, but I don’t know what the housekeeping would be like now, unless the niece does it. Miss Renie was not a good cook! On the other hand, there was a very pleasant social circle at Tilling Green. Horrid for them all having this poison-pen business. And just as that charming girl at the Manor is getting married! There was another young man on the tapis when I was down there. She wasn’t engaged to him, but they all thought she was going to be. He was the parson’s nephew, Jason Leigh. Such an odd name-and rather an odd young man. Anyhow nothing came of it, and she is marrying the other one next week, I believe. I made friends with a Miss Eccles when I was down there, and she wrote and told me. We still correspond occasionally.” She went on talking about Tilling Green and the people whom she had met there. “Colonel Repton at the Manor, married to quite a young wife- very pretty, but not very popular. The people bore her, and they don’t like it… Valentine Grey has a lot of money. Gilbert Earle, the man she is marrying, is the heir to a title… Miss Eccles says Colonel Repton will be put to it to go on living at the Manor without the allowance which her trustees have been paying him while she lives there. She is herself some kind of distant connection of the family, so I suppose she knows. She says they are having a rehearsal of the wedding ceremony. I don’t know that I care about the idea. I know it is very generally done, but it seems to me to detract from the sacred nature of the occasion. I may be wrong, but that is how it seems to me.” Miss Cutler’s loud, decided voice continued with hardly a break, but she contrived to make a very good tea.

Miss Silver was, of course, the perfect listener. She was interested, she was agreeable. When encouragement seemed desirable she supplied it. By the time she left she had quite a clear picture of Tilling Green and its inhabitants, together with a number of unrelated details which she memorized without effort and which she could rely upon herself to reproduce at will. She went home and wrote a letter which she addressed to Miss Wayne, Willow Cottage, Tilling Green, Ledshire. It began:

“Dear Madam

“An acquaintance of mine, Miss Cutler, has told me of the very pleasant holiday she spent with you some time ago. I am encouraged to write and ask you whether you would consider allowing me to come to you as a paying guest for a short time. The quiet surroundings of a village…”