Patricia Wentworth - Grey Mask

“I think she has reason to be afraid,” said Charles.

“You do think so?”

“Don’t you?”

Margaret grew very much paler.

“Charles-” she said. Then she stopped.

Charles looked at her. His look did not help her. It was hard and steady.

“Charles-” she said again.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Charles, you asked me-what I know-I don’t-know- anything-”

“You mean you don’t know anything that you can tell me?”

“No, I don’t mean that. There’s something-I can’t tell you. But it’s not about Margot. I don’t know anything about Margot.” She paused; and all at once fire and colour came back. “Do you think I’d hurt her?”

Charles did not think anything of the sort. No evidence, not even his own, could make him think Margaret capable of hurting any girl. Every instinct, every memory rose up in her defense. He said soberly,

“No, I don’t think you’d hurt her. There might-be others.”

That struck her. She winced away from it.

“She can’t go back,” said Charles. “Can she stay here-safely?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You know. Is she safe here? Is she safe with you?”

Margaret lifted her head. The proud, familiar gesture plucked at his heart.

“Yes, she’s safe.”

“Will you swear to that?”

“Will you ask me to?”

Something passed between them-a wordless, passionate question; a passionate, wordless answer. Charles felt a rash of emotion that startled him. He said quickly, “No”; and the moment passed.

Margaret smiled. She seemed to relax, to be more the old Margaret than he had seen her yet.

“Do you want me to keep her?”

“Could you-for a day or two?”

“I suppose I could.”

Neither of them seemed to think it strange that Charles should be in charge. If Margot Standing had been a stray kitten, the affair might have passed very much as it was passing now. He led the way out of Miss Carthew’s flat and into Margaret’s. She threw open the sitting-room door and went in.

Miss Standing looked up very much as the kitten might have done; there was the same grace of pose, the same effect of soft roundness, the same wide-eyed innocence.

“This is Charles Moray who helped me to bring you home last night,” said Margaret.

Charles looked at Margot, and Margot gazed at Charles. He saw the prettiest girl he had ever seen in his life. He said,

“How do you do, Miss Standing?”

Margot accepted the name without protest. She blinked those very black lashes, uncurled herself, and stood up. She continued to look at Charles.

The colour in the old green jumper and skirt of Margaret’s turned her pale blue eyes to turquoise green. Sometimes the black lashes darkened them for an instant. Her skin was amazingly fair and fine. The roses in her cheeks were the prettiest pink roses in the world.

She dimpled at Charles and inquired,

“How did you know my name?”

“I guessed.”

“I don’t see how you could guess.”

“Margaret guessed too.”

“Did she? Margaret, how did you guess?”

“If you want to keep your name a secret,” said Charles, “you mustn’t talk about your cousin Egbert.”

“Or your father’s collection of Lelys and Turners.” Margaret’s tone was a little hard.

Margot turned to Charles.

“You won’t make me go back?”

“Tell me why you don’t want to go back?”

Margot told him. The story was the same story that she had told to Margaret, and that Margaret had repeated to him. While she was speaking, he tried to piece together what she had heard Egbert say, and what he himself had overheard. The pieces fitted. But there were gaps which he meant to fill.

“You won’t send me back-will you? It’s such a big house, and what they said about removing me gave me a most frightful sort of creepy feeling. It really did.”

It gave Charles a creepy feeling too.

“No, we won’t send you back. But I think you ought to let your lawyer know where you are.”

Margot turned quite pale.

“Mr. Hale!”

“Is that his name?”

“Mr. James Hale. His father was a friend of poor Papa’s. He said Papa said all sorts of things to his father.”

“Well, I think you ought to tell him where you are.”

“Oh, I don’t want to.”

“Why on earth not?”

She leaned forward whispering.

“I thought-perhaps he was the person who was going to give the orders about removing me.” She shivered a little. “It would be frightful if I told him and he was.”

Charles agreed-he remembered a certain reference to “the lawyer.” Where everything was so uncertain, it was better to take no step than a false one.

“All right. You stay here, and we don’t tell anyone for a day or two. I’ll try and find out about your Mr. Hale. What relations have you got?”

Margot giggled.

“Everybody asks me that. I haven’t any relations except Egbert.”

“What? None at all?”

“Isn’t it funny not to have any? Papa only had one brother, and he only had Egbert. Papa hated Egbert. And if my relations were going to be like him, I’m frightfully glad they never got born.”

“What about your mother?”

Margot looked important.

“I don’t even know her name-not for certain, you know. I think it was Esther Brandon.”

Margaret swooped into the conversation.

“Don’t say that!”

Margot stared at her.

“I do think so. That’s why I took it. I think I’d better be called Esther Brandon-don’t you? Because if I go on being Margot Standing, those people might find me.”

Margaret turned away. She said,

“Don’t talk nonsense! You can’t call yourself Esther Brandon.”

Then she went over to the bookcase, picked up a book at random, and began to flick the pages over.

“Why can’t I? Why is it nonsense?” Margot spoke to Charles, not to Margaret.

“Well, there’s quite a good reason.”

“But I can’t be Margot Standing.”

“No, you can’t-can you? Let’s think of something else. You can be Miss Smith.”

She gave a little shriek.

“No, I can’t! Not Smith! Not after that horrible Percy Smith!”

“Brown then, or Wilson-unless you know any bad Browns or wicked Wilsons.”

Margot giggled.

“I’ll be Wilson -I’d rather be Wilson than Brown.”

“Brown,” said Charles reprovingly, “is a good old Scottish name.”

“I’ll be Wilson. Shall I be Margot Wilson?”

Charles considered the question, and shook his head.

“No, I don’t think so. Margot is too uncommon. We’ll make up something else out of Margaret. I suppose you are Margaret?”

The other Margaret stood with her back to them, flicking over the pages of her book. She had no idea what the book was. Charles and Margot, sitting close together, talking in low confidential tones, playing a foolish game of names. It was her flat, and she had known Charles Moray for fourteen years; but it was she who had the sense of strangeness and intrusion-she, and not Margot. Margot appeared to be perfectly at home. She heard her giggle and protest, “I won’t be Daisy!”

Charles offered her “Rita,” and got a little shriek of “Oh-no!” in reply.

“Why not? It’s a very nice name.”

“It’s not-it’s frightful.”

“Have Madge then.”

“That’s worse.”

“Madge is a perfectly good name.”

“I won’t have it.”

“What about Margie?”

“Frightful! It’s exactly like margarine.”

“Well, there aren’t any others.”

“There’s Meg,” said Margot. “I wouldn’t mind being Meg.”

Margaret felt as if someone had run a sharp knife into her very suddenly. Charles had called her Meg just once or twice-just once or twice. She did not hear what he said. She turned another page and read: “Oh, Greta’s banks are fresh and fair.” She laughed and called over her shoulder,