Patricia Wentworth - Grey Mask

Her way lay along one of the darker streets. She felt an odd, rough disappointment as she walked along it alone. She had certainly expected that Charles would thrust his company upon her. She had told him to go; but she had not expected him to go. He was not at all a biddable person. If he let her go home alone, it was because he didn’t to want to come with her. Margaret held her head a little higher. The old desk was a most uncomfortable thing to carry; some-times the edge of it ran into her side, and sometimes into her arm.

In the darkest patch of the road she bumped into someone. Her “Oh, I’m so sorry!” received no answer except a sort of half sob.

“Did I hurt you?”

The distressing little sound was repeated. Margaret began to wonder what was the matter. She could just see someone standing against the brick wall that bordered the tiny front gardens of the houses on this side of the road. The dark figure seemed to be leaning against the wall in a helpless half crouching attitude.

“What is it? Are you ill?”

The figure moved. A girl’s voice said shakily, “I- don’t-know.”

“What’s the matter?”

It was abominably stupid to ask the question-the girl would certainly beg from her.

“I haven’t anywhere to go.”

Margaret moved, and at once two despairing hands caught at her.

“Don’t go away! Don’t leave me!”

Margaret told herself she had been a fool, but she was in for it now. She took the girl by the arm, and felt that her sleeve was soaked.

“Good gracious! You’re wet through.!”

“It rained.” The voice was one of utter misery.

“Come along as far as the lamp-post-we can’t talk in the dark.”

The lamplight showed Margaret a girl with drenched fair hair hanging in wispy curls. The girl was very pretty indeed; even with a tear-stained face and limp hair she was very pretty. Her dark blue coat was beautifully cut, and drenched though it was, Margaret could both feel and see that the stuff had been expensive. It had a grey fox collar, draggled and discouraged-looking, but a fine skin for all that.

The girl looked at her out of blue, tear-washed eyes set round with astonishingly black lashes.

“Have you lost your way?” said Margaret gravely.

“Yes-I have-but-”

“Where do you live?”

The girl gulped down a sob.

“I can’t go back-I can’t.”

She couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. Margaret’s eyes travelled down to her feet. Expensive shoes-real Milanese stockings. “The little idiot has had a row with her people and run away.” She spoke firmly:

“Where do you live? You must go home at once.”

“I can’t. I haven’t got a home.”

“Where have you come from?”

“I can’t go back. They’ll do something dreadful to me if I go back.”

“Do you mean they’ll be angry with you?”

The girl shook her head.

“There isn’t anyone to be angry. I haven’t got anyone- really I haven’t. They’ll do something dreadful to me. I heard them making a plan-I did really. I hid behind the sofa and I heard them. They said it would be safer to remove me.” She shuddered violently. “Oh, what do you think they meant?”

Margaret was puzzled. This might be delusion; but the girl didn’t look unhinged. She looked frightened, and she was certainly soaked to the skin.

“Haven’t you any friends you could go to for tonight?”

“Papa wouldn’t let me have any friends, except at school.”

“Where was your school?”

“In Switzerland.”

“What on earth am I to do with you?” said Margaret. “What’s your name.”

“Esther Brandon,” said the girl.

The desk that Margaret was carrying fell on the pavement with a crash. The name was like a blow. She looked at the girl’s brimming eyes and quivering mouth, and saw them as if they were a long way off, a very long way off. She had to put her hand on the standard of the lamp and lean hard on it for a moment before she could find voice enough to speak.

“What did you say?”

“Esther Brandon,” said the girl.

Margaret felt quite numb and stupid. She bent down and picked up the desk. It had been Esther Brandon’s desk when she was a girl, no older than this girl. And Esther Brandon had become Esther Langton, and afterwards Esther Pelham. Margaret straightened herself, holding the desk as if it weighed heavily. Then she spoke suddenly and sharply:

“Where did you get that name?”

The girl didn’t answer. She had looked frightened when Margaret caught at the lamp-post. Now all of a sudden a vague look came over her face; her eyes clouded. She put out her hand and said “Oh!” then she took a wavering step forward and went down all in a heap on the pavement.

Mr. Charles Moray loomed up out of the darkness.

“Charles-thank goodness!”

“What’s up?” said Charles. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know. Be an angel and get me a taxi.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“Take her back with me.”

Charles whistled.

“My dear girl, you can’t go about London collecting strange young females.”

Margaret was on her knees. The girl moved a little and drew a choking breath.

Charles bent nearer.

“Take her to a hospital, Margaret.”

“I can’t.”

She turned her face up to him, and it was as white as paper.

“My dear girl-”

“Charles-I can’t.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “She says her name-Charles, she says her name is Esther Brandon.”

Charles whistled again.

Margot sat curled up in the one easy chair. She had a novel in her lap. The room was pleasantly warm, because before Margaret went out she had lighted the fire. There were no chocolates, and no one to talk to until Margaret got back at half past one. If it hadn’t been Saturday, Margaret would not have been back till nearly seven. Margot thought it was a very good thing that it was Saturday.

She was wearing a jumper and skirt of Margaret’s, and a pair of Margaret’s shoes and stockings. She was also wearing Margaret’s underclothes. Her own wet things were all in a heap inside the bedroom. It simply did not occur to her to pick them up and hang them in front of the fire to dry. After a night of profound slumber in Margaret’s bed she looked very little the worse for her fright and her wetting.

She wished she had some chocolates, and she wished Margaret would come back. The book was rather a dull one. Besides she didn’t want to read; she wanted to talk. It was frightful not to have anyone to talk to after the sort of things that had happened yesterday.

Margaret came home at half past one. She proceeded to get lunch. She had brought the lunch with her-a tin of bully beef, a loaf of bread, and a cream cheese.

“I’m hungry,” said Margot.

Margaret considered the beef and the cheese. They were meant to last over the week-end. Well, with any luck the girl would be off her hands to-day-she must be. She looked at Margot placidly eating beef and decided to wait until she had finished.

Margot announced a passion for cream cheese. She ate a good deal of it, and did not notice that Margaret ate bread and scrap; she was too busy talking about Stephanie and the skating parties they had had last winter-“I didn’t come home for the Christmas holidays”; and how Mrs. Beauchamp had taken her to Paris for Easter-“I got my coat there. Do you like it? Of course you haven’t seen it properly yet, because it’s all wet; but it’s rather nice, really, and Mrs. Beauchamp said it suited me.”

“Who is Mrs. Beauchamp?” said Margaret. She looked at the loaf, and decided that she had better not have a second piece of bread.