Patricia Wentworth - Grey Mask

“Papa got her to look after me in the holidays. Can I have some more cheese?”

“And where is Mrs. Beauchamp?”

“Well, I expect she’s got to Australia by now. She was going out to see her son. Fancy! She’d never seen her grandchild-and it had the dinkiest curly hair! Don’t you call that frightfully hard?”

When Margaret had put away what was left of the loaf, the beef and the cheese, she planted herself squarely in front of Margot who had returned to the easy chair.

“Look here, we’ve got to talk. Is your name really Esther Brandon?”

Margot gazed at her ingenuously.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Then why did you say it was?”

“I thought it was a romantic name, and I thought if I was a penniless orphan and going out to earn my own living, I might just as well have a romantic name.”

“Where did you get it from?” Margaret’s deep voice was almost harsh. She sat forward in her chair and kept her eyes on Margot’s face.

Margot giggled.

“I found it on a bit of paper-a bit of a letter, you know. It was in an old desk. I expect it was my mother’s.”

Margaret drew a breath of relief. It was just a chance-a bit of some letter her mother had written long ago, perhaps to this girl’s mother, perhaps to some other relative. It didn’t really matter. She spoke again in an easier tone.

“You were going out to earn your living? How?”

Margot told her.

“I was going to be a secretary. I answered an advertisement. And he said to send my photograph, so I sent a little snapshot M’amselle took. I’ve never really had my photograph taken you know-Papa wouldn’t let me because of its getting into the papers. And the man said I’d do splendidly, and I was going there today.”

Margaret heaved a sigh of relief.

“Then you’ve got work to go to.”

“No, I haven’t-not now.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Oh!” said Margot. “He was a beast. Shall I tell you about it?”

“I think you’d better.”

Where shall I begin? Shall I begin with Egbert?”

“Who is Egbert?”

“Well, he is my cousin, and he said he wanted to marry me. And then I hid behind the sofa, and I heard him planning awful things about removing me.”

This was what she had said last night. Margaret tried to disentangle it.

“What made you hide behind the sofa?”

Margot giggled.

“Egbert said it would be a frightfully good thing for me if I married him, and I said I’d rather marry an organ-grinder, and I banged out of the room and went and posted my letter to Stephanie. And when I came back I wanted my book which I’d left in the drawing-room, and I just opened the door to see if Egbert was there. And he was. He was standing on a chair looking at one of those frightful pictures of Papa’s which are supposed to be worth such a lot of money-you know, Lely, and Rubens, and Turner, and all that lot-only Egbert says some of them aren’t-not really. He says Papa got taken in over them.”

Turner-Lely-Reubens.

Margaret said, “Go on.”

“Well, Egbert was standing on a chair, so I didn’t think he’d see me; but he got down, and I had to hide. And then he rang the bell.”

“Well?”

“It was William’s bell. He’s new since last time I was home. He’s the stupidest footman we’ve ever had.”

“Well? What about it?”

Margot leaned forward. She looked frightened.

“Egbert rang the bell, and someone came-but it couldn’t have been William, because Egbert told him all about proposing to me, and he said he expected I should have to be removed.” She shivered and caught at Margaret’s dress. “Margaret, what do you think he meant?”

“I don’t know. You’re not making this up?”

Margot giggled.

“I can’t make things up-I’m not a bit good at it. But I’m quite good at remembering. Even M’amselle said I was good at that. I can tell you every word they said if you like.”

Encouraged by a nod, Margot proceeded to repeat the conversation which she had overheard.

“What do you think they meant?”

“I don’t know. Go on.”

“Well, I just packed my box and sent the other footman for a taxi. I thought I wouldn’t send William, and I thought I wouldn’t stay till to-day in case of anybody trying to remove me. It had a frightfully horrid sort of sound-it did really-so I thought I wouldn’t stay. And I thought Mr. Percy Smith might just as well let me come a day earlier, so I took a taxi-only I didn’t go straight to his house because I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“What did you do?”

Margot looked innocently pleased with herself.

“I told the man to go to Waterloo, and when he’d gone away, I took another taxi-to Mr. Percy Smith’s. And that took every bit of the money I had except a shilling. I’ve got the shilling still.”

“And what happened at Mr. Percy Smith’s?” said Margaret gravely.

Margot blushed scarlet.

“He was a beast.”

“You’d better tell me what happened.”

“He had a horrid face-a frightfully horrid face. And he said he was awfully pleased to see me. And he took me into a room, and he said now I must have a cocktail. And I said I’d rather not. And then he said a lot of other things, and I didn’t like them. Need I tell you the things he said?”

“No,” said Margaret.

“I don’t want to. I think he was a frightfully horrid sort of man.”

“How did you get away?” said Margaret violently.

Margot stared and giggled.

“He went out of the room-he said he wouldn’t be a minute. And as soon as he’d gone, I got so frightened that I opened the window. And there was an area, so I didn’t think I could get out that way, and I was just thinking what could I do, when the postman came up to the door. And when I saw him, I ran out of the room, and I got to the front door, and I opened it, and the postman was gone. And I heard someone call out behind me, and I was frightfully afraid and I ran. Do you think it was silly of me?”

“I should think it was probably the only sensible thing you’d ever done in your life,” said Margaret.

Margot giggled again.

“You said that just like M’amselle, only she used to say, ‘You are von little fool, Margot.’ ”

The name dropped out negligently, Margaret hardly needed it; the papers had been too full lately of Mr. Standing’s affairs. That he had a collection of valuable pictures, and a nephew with the unusual name of Egbert was public property. Margot Standing’s name and the fact that she had just returned from Switzerland were public property too.

The bell of the flat rang sharply.

Margaret went to the door.

The flat consisted of two small rooms with a strip of passage between them. Two thirds of the passage had been walled off to make a kitchen about the size of a boot-cupboard. The front door and the doors of the two rooms opened into the remaining third; there was just room for them and no more.

Margaret shut the sitting-room and opened the front door. Charles Moray stood there.

“Well?” he said.

“She’s in there.” Margaret indicated the sitting-room with a nod.

“Have you found out whether she’s a long-lost relation?”

“She isn’t.”

“Look here, I want to talk to you.”

“We’ll go over to Agatha Carthew’s flat-she’s away for the week end and I’ve got the key.”

They proceeded across the landing to Miss Carthew’s flat. It appeared to be devoted to the rigours of the simple life. There was linoleum on the floor and distemper on the walls; there were two Windsor chairs and a gate-leg table; and that was all.

Charles shut the door with a bang.

“I suppose she had your bed last night, and you slept on the floor,” he began accusingly.