Patricia Wentworth - Miss Silver Comes To Stay

James Lessiter sat up straight and formidable.

“Who says I can’t prove it? I will if I can.”

Mr. Holderness looked shocked all over again. His colour did not mount so vigorously as before, nor did it attain to quite so deep a shade. He stopped rolling the pencil and said,

“Really-”

James nodded.

“I know, I know-you think I ought to let it slide. Well, I’m not going to. I have an extreme dislike for being taken for a fool, and an even more extreme dislike for being done down- I can assure you that very few people have ever got away with it. I’ve got an idea that there’s been quite a lot going on behind my back. Well, I mean to get to the bottom of it, and when I do, anyone who thought he could take advantage of my absence is going to find himself in Queer Street.”

Mr. Holderness put up a hand.

“My dear James, I hope you don’t mean that you suspect the Mayhews. Your mother had every confidence-”

James Lessiter laughed.

“If there weren’t so much confidence, there would be no room for the confidence trick, would there? Now I’m going to tell you something. You say I can’t prove my suspicions because my mother held her tongue and didn’t put anything in her will. What she did do was to write to me a couple of days before she died. Would you like to know what she said?”

“I should indeed.”

“I can give it you verbatim. ‘I have not troubled you with letters about business as I hope you will soon be coming home. Meanwhile, in case of accident, I should like you to know that I have kept a careful note of everything.’ A careful note of everything-that should tell us what we want to know, shouldn’t it?”

“It might,” said Mr. Holderness slowly.

“Oh, I think you are too cautious. I think we may assume that it would. I haven’t found the note yet. My mother, like so many women, had a profound distrust of banks and office safes. It would, of course, have been a great deal more sensible-and convenient-if she had left this memorandum in your hands, but she didn’t. I have been through the drawers of her writing-table and a filing-cabinet which she had in the library, but for a special paper of this kind she may have had some special hiding-place. I have every hope that I shall find it, and when I do-”

Mr. Holderness lifted his eyes and looked steadily and gravely across the table.

“You sound vindictive.”

James laughed easily.

“Oh, yes.”

“You would really proceed to extremes?”

“I should prosecute.”

Mrs. Voycey’s tea-party went off as tea-parties do. Homemade scones were partaken of, and home-made quince preserve offered with modest pride.

“My dear mother’s recipe. A lovely colour, isn’t it? It reminds me of that deep red dress of yours, Rietta. But what I would like to know is how to keep the pale green colour of the fruit as they do in Portugal. I stayed out there for a month when I was a girl, and they made a most delicious quince cheese which they called marmalada, the colour of green grapes and turned out of a jelly-mould. You ate it in slabs, and it was crystallized all over the top-quite terribly good. But I never met anyone who could tell me how it was done. The minute I boil quinces with sugar they behave like traffic lights-first they go amber, and then they go red.”

Mrs. Voycey laughed very heartily at her own joke and proceeded to terrible disclosures about Portuguese plumbing. Whilst Miss Silver shared her views as to up-to-date sanitation, it was, in her opinion, a subject not at all suited to the tea-table. She coughed and endeavoured to change the topic, but it was some time before she was able to do so, and then, a good deal to her distaste, she found her professional activities the next topic on Cecilia’s rattling tongue. The whole story of the extraordinary affair of the Eternity Earring as retailed by Miss Alvina Grey was poured out.

No use for Miss Silver to say with her slight admonitory cough, “I prefer not to talk about it,” or even, “My dear Cecilia, I never discuss my cases.” Even as a schoolgirl it had always been very difficult to stop Cissy Christopher. As an elderly woman in her own house it was quite impossible to check or deflect Cecilia Voycey. Miss Silver sighed and gave up the attempt. At the earliest possible opportunity she introduced the subject of education, and found herself able to exchange views in a very interesting manner with Miss Rietta Cray.

“I spent twenty years in the scholastic profession.”

Something stirred at the back of Rietta’s mind and vanished again in the shadows. A little later it was there again-something just on the edge of being remembered. And then all at once, in the middle of Catherine being plaintive about the cost of living, Mrs. Voycey urging everyone to have more tea, and Miss Silver interrupting a quotation from Tennyson to say, “No, thank you, dear,” it came to her.

‘ “Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers,’ as Lord Tennyson so aptly says.”

Rietta said, “Oh-” And then abruptly, “Are you Randal March’s Miss Silver?”

Miss Silver smiled in a gratified manner.

“He and his sisters were pupils of mine. The friendship has, I am glad to say, been maintained. Do you know the Marches?”

“I was at school with Isabel and Margaret. They were big girls when I was a little one. Miss Atkinson always said how well grounded they were. Randal was younger of course- about my age. He’s Chief Constable of the county now.”

“Yes. I had the pleasure of lunching with him in town not long ago. Isabel has married, you know. A widower with several children-extremely suitable. In my experience these late marriages are often very happy. People have learned to appreciate companionship. Margaret, of course, married in her early twenties, but it has turned out very well.”

They went on talking about the Marches.

Catherine and Rietta walked home together. It was deep dusk. There were no lights except a distant yellow gleam here and there where a curtain had been carelessly drawn in one of the cottages which bordered the Green. When they had gone a little way Catherine said with sudden energy,

“Rietta, what did James say to you last night? Did he talk about me?”

Rietta considered. There seemed to be no reason why she should hold her tongue. She said,

“He asked me whether I knew what arrangement his mother had made with you about the Gate House.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I didn’t know.”

Catherine took a quick breath.

“Anything else?”

“He asked me about the furniture.”

“What about it?”

“Whether it was given or lent.”

“And what did you say?”

“Just what I said before-I didn’t know.”

Catherine brought her hands together in sharp exasperation.

“Aunt Mildred gave me the furniture-you know she did- I’ve told you a dozen times! Why couldn’t you say so?”

Rietta said in her brusque way,

“What you’ve told me isn’t evidence.”

“You mean you don’t believe me when I tell you-when I tell you that she gave me the things?”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean just what I said-what you told me isn’t evidence.”

“And what evidence do you want?”

How exactly like Catherine to make a scene about nothing. Rietta wondered, as she had often wondered before, whether the old friendship was really worth while. Only when you have known someone all your life and live practically next door each other in a village, there isn’t much you can do about it except to try and keep your temper. She said as coolly as she could,

“It isn’t what I want-it’s James. And what he wants is evidence-something to show his mother’s intention. He asked whether she had ever said anything.”