Patricia Wentworth - The Clock Strikes Twelve

She looked from him to the portrait over the mantelpiece.

“Is that the late Mrs. Paradine?”

“It is-covered with diamonds.”

Miss Silver gazed earnestly at the portrait. Fair and placid, Clara Paradine looked down upon the room. Ruby velvet and the diamonds of her husband’s choice-a plump white neck and shoulders- fair hair of an even shade-blue eyes rather widely set under colourless brows-a kindly mien… Miss Silver considered her with attention, then turned again to Elliot.

“Was she English, Mr. Wray?”

He looked at her.

“What makes you ask that?”

“It is not quite an English type. I wondered whether she had been Dutch, or German.”

Elliot said, “German.”

“And her first husband, Mr. Ambrose?”

“Oh, English.”

After a slight pause Miss Silver dismissed the subject. She said, “Please go on with the rest of the party, Mr. Wray,” and saw him frown.

“Well, that’s very nearly the lot. You’ve seen Lydia Pennington. She’s the sort you can depend on. Mr. Paradine used to make a show of disapproving of her, but it’s my opinion he liked her quite a lot-I just give it to you for what it’s worth. Miss Paradine will tell you that he loathed her. Her sister Irene is married to Frank Ambrose. Quite candidly, she’s a bit of a fool-hasn’t two ideas in her head. No, that’s wrong-she has just two, little Jimmy and little Rena. She rams them down everybody’s throat. I should say that Mr. Paradine put up with her because he’d got to. That brings us to Albert Pearson- the perfect secretary and the perfect bore. He’s some sort of third cousin. Mr. Paradine found him about three years ago supporting a widowed mother and improving his mind at evening classes.”

“Very praiseworthy,” said Miss Silver in her most decorous voice. “May I ask how he was supporting his mother?”

“He was a jeweller’s assistant, I believe. His mother died, and Mr. Paradine brought him here as his secretary. He had mugged up shorthand and typing.”

“And was Mr. Paradine attached to him?”

Elliot laughed.

“Nobody could possibly be attached to Albert,” he said.

Miss Silver dined with the family and afterwards sat with them in the crimson and gold drawing-room, which she admired very much. A grandly proportioned room-such warm colouring-such rich brocades-such a deep-piled carpet-the crystal chandeliers too, the finest of their kind. She approved Mr. Paradine’s taste, and sincerely regretted his demise. Now, all too probably, these handsome and dignified furnishings would be replaced by chintz or linen.

Dinner had been a particularly trying meal. Since Miss Silver especially desired to see the entire family and Mark had made a point of this, they were all there, but nobody had dressed. The men were in their day clothes, Irene, Lydia and Brenda in coats and skirts, Phyllida in her grey dress; but Miss Paradine had put on a long black gown, high and plain in the neck. Miss Silver, as was her custom, had changed into a two-year-old summer dress-green artificial silk with a distressing pattern of orange dots and dashes, the front adorned by a large cameo brooch depicting an apocryphal Greek gentleman in a helmet. The removal of her hat showed her to possess a good deal of soft mousey hair done up in braids behind and tightly curled into a fringe upon her forehead, both braids and fringe controlled by a hair-net. In addition to the cameo brooch she wore small golden studs in her ears, a gold chain about her neck, and a bar brooch set with seed pearls to loop up the pince-nez which she occasionally required for reading. She still wore the warm ribbed grey stockings which she found so comfortable in winter, but had changed her laced outdoor shoes for a pair of black glacé slippers with beaded toes. Elliot’s conviction that he had encountered her in an Edwardian film became intensified every time he looked at her-only the dress should have been longer-right down to her feet.

He had been placed as far from Phyllida as the table would allow-Grace Paradine had seen to that. She had seen to it too that he had never had five minutes alone with her all day. And she was trying to hoof him out. All right, let her try. He had been dragged in, and now he was going to stay, and Grace Paradine could pull all the strings she liked. It was Mark’s house and not hers, and somehow he didn’t think she’d get Mark to the point of telling him to go.

His preoccupation with this theme kept him silent through the greater part of the meal. Not that he was remarkable in this-Frank Ambrose spoke exactly twice, and Mark could not be said to have spoken at all. The meal was too much yesterday’s party in caricature. Hashed turkey, fried plum-pudding, the empty place at the head of the table which nobody cared to take. A detective sitting with them to watch how they looked, spoke, ate, drank, thought. These things were not conducive to conversation. Even Dicky’s flow of talk had dried. Women have more social sense than men. Phyllida went on trying to talk to Frank on one side of her, and to Mark on the other, until it was so obviously useless to expect an answer that she gave it up. Lydia and Dicky exchanged a few low-toned remarks and then fell silent. Miss Paradine, at the foot of the table, was a dignified figure of grief. The long black dress with its high neck and falling sleeves enhanced the effect. There were dark shadows under her eyes, the line from brow to cheek had sharpened. There was no longer any anger in her look. Her eyes were sad. There was no resentment in her manner. She was the considerate hostess, anxious to make things easy for her guests, veiling her private sorrow. She spoke tenderly to Phyllida, with conventional courtesy to Miss Silver, kindly to everyone except Elliot Wray who might not have been there at all.

Miss Silver, placed beside Albert Pearson, received the full benefit of his conversation. It took more than a murder in the house to inhibit his passion for imparting information. But she was to learn that it must be information of his own choosing. Having received a sketch of his early history from Mark Paradine, she attempted to engage him upon a topic with which he might be supposed to be particularly conversant.

She had herself an interest in curious and unusual jewels, but when she addressed a question upon the subject to Albert it met with no response. Instead she was favoured over the hashed turkey with a concise history of Birleton from Saxon times until the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The pudding afforded an opportunity of bringing the story up to date. The founding of the Paradine works by Benjamin Paradine- “grandfather of the late Mr. Paradine, and my own great-grandfather”-was interrupted by Miss Paradine giving the signal for the ladies to retire.

In the drawing-room Miss Silver found herself engaged by her hostess.

“I hope you have everything you want.”

“Indeed yes, Miss Paradine.”

“You must tell me if there is anything I can do.”

Miss Paradine was being very gracious. If there was a hint of condescension in her manner, a trace of the pride that apes humility, it was very carefully restrained. Yet it is indisputable that Miss Silver was reminded of Royalty opening a bazaar. She took up her knitting-bag, a Christmas present from Ethel, extracted her needles and a ball of dark grey wool, and said,

“You are very good.”

About half an inch of the nether part of little Roger’s suit depended from three of the needles. Miss Silver inserted the fourth needle and began to knit with great swiftness and dexterity. After a slight hesitation Miss Paradine sat down in the opposite corner of the settee.

“We all hope so much that this terrible business may be cleared up as soon as possible.”