Patricia Wentworth: Grey Mask

Mr. Hale took no notice of this. Instead, he asked, with a gravity that was almost severe.

“Do you remember your mother at all?”

“No-of course not. I was only two.”

“When she died?”

“I suppose so.”

“Miss Standing, can you tell me your mother’s maiden name?”

She shook her head.

“Come! Surely you must know it!”

“I don’t.” She hesitated and then added, “I think I was called after her.”

“Yes? What are your names?”

“I’ve only got one. I think I was christened Margaret, and I think perhaps it was my mother’s name. I’ve always been called Margot.”

“Miss Standing, did your father never speak about your mother?”

“No, he didn’t. I keep telling you he practically never spoke to me at all. He was always frightfully busy. He never talked to me.”

“Then what makes you think you were called after your mother?”

A slight blush made Miss Standing prettier than before.

“There was a picture that he kept locked. You know-the sort with doors and a keyhole, and a miniature inside. I always wanted to know what was in it.”

“Well?”

Miss Standing shut her lips tightly.

“I don’t know that I ought to tell you,” she said with an air of virtue.

“I think you must tell me,” said Mr. Hale.

Something in his voice frightened her. She drew back, looked at him out of startled eyes, and began to tell him in a hurrying, uncertain voice.

“I wasn’t supposed to go into the study. But one evening I went because I thought he was out. And he wasn’t. And when I heard him coming I had only just time to get behind the curtains. It was frightful, because I thought he was never going to go away, and I thought I should be there all night.”

“Yes? Go on.”

“He wrote letters, and he walked up and down. And then he gave a sort of groan, and I was so frightened I looked out. And he was opening the picture. He opened it with a little key off his watch-chain. And when he’d opened it he went on looking at it for simply ages. And once he gave another groan, and he said ‘Margaret’ twice in a sort of whisper.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Hale.

The colour rushed to Margot’s cheeks.

“Why do you say that, just as if I was telling you about the weather, instead of a frightfully secret, romantic sort of thing like I was telling you about?”

“My dear Miss Standing!”

“It was frightfully thrilling.”

“Did you see the picture?”

“N-no. Well, I just got a peep at it-when he turned round you know.”

“Yes?”

“It was a miniature, and it had little diamonds all round it. They sparkled like anything, and I could just see that she was fair like me. And that’s all. I just saw her for a moment. She was awfully pretty.”

Mr. Hale cleared his throat.

“There is, of course, no evidence to show that the miniature was a portrait of your mother.”

“Why, of course it was!”

“It may have been. May I ask if the picture is in the house?”

“He always took it away with him. Perhaps it’s on the yacht.”

“I’m afraid it went overboard with him. The steward spoke of a portrait such as you describe; he said Mr. Standing carried it about with him. Now, Miss Standing, you are quite sure that you have no knowledge of your mother’s maiden name?”

“I told you I hadn’t.”

“Or where your father met her?”

Margot shook her head.

“You don’t know where they were married?”

“No. I don’t know anything at all-I told you I didn’t.”

“Do you know where you were born?”

“N-no. At least-No, I don’t know.”

“What were you going to say? You were going to say something.”

“Only-no, I don’t know anything-only I don’t think I was born in England.”

“Ah! Can you tell me why?”

“He said-it was long ago when I was a little girl-he said, talking about himself, that he was born in Africa. And I said ‘Where was I born?’ and he said ‘A long way from here.’ So I thought perhaps I wasn’t born in England.”

Mr. Hale made the clicking noise with his tongue which is generally written “Tut-tut!” It expressed contempt for this reminiscence. As evidence it simply didn’t exist. He cleared his throat more portentously than before.

“Miss Standing, if no will is found, and no certificate of your mother’s marriage or of your own birth is forthcoming, your position becomes extremely serious.”

Margot paused with a chocolate on its way to her mouth.

“Why does it become serious? I’m Papa’s daughter.”

“There is no proof even of that,” said Mr. Hale.

Margot burst out laughing.

“Oh!” she said. “How frightfully funny that sounds! Why everyone knows I’m his daughter! How frightfully funny you are! Who do you think I am, if I’m not Margot Standing? Why, it’s too silly!”

Mr. Hale frowned.

“Miss Standing, this is a very serious matter, and I beg that you will treat it seriously. I do not believe that Mr. Standing made a will. I know that he had not made one six weeks ago, for he paid my father a visit on the twentieth of August, and after he had gone my father told me that he had been urging upon Mr. Standing the necessity of making his will. My father then used these words: ‘It is a very strange thing,’ he said, ‘that a man in Mr. Standing’s circumstances should have deferred such a simple and necessary action as the making of a will. And in his daughter’s peculiar circumstances he certainly owes it to her to make sure of her provision.’ Now, Miss Standing, those are the exact words my father used, and I take them to mean that he was cognizant of some irregularity in your position.”

Margot opened her eyes very wide indeed.

“What on earth do you mean?”

“In the absence of any information about your mother, and in the light of what my father said-”

“Good gracious! What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Mr. Hale, “that it is possible that there was no marriage.”

“But good gracious, there’s me!” said Miss Standing.

“It’s possible that you are illegitimate.”

Miss Standing gazed at him in silence. After a moment she repeated the word illegitimate in a tentative way; it seemed to touch a chord. She brightened visibly and said in a tone full of interest,

“Like William the Conqueror-and all those sons of Charles II?”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Hale.

“How frightfully thrilling!” exclaimed Miss Standing.

When Mr. Hale had finished explaining the exact legal position of an illegitimate daughter whose father had died intestate, Miss Standing’s eyes were round with indignation.

“I never heard anything so frightfully unjust in all my life,” she said firmly.

“I’m afraid that doesn’t alter the law.”

“What’s the good of women having the vote then? I thought all those frightful unjust laws were going to be altered at once when women got the vote. Miss Clay always said so.”

Mr. Hale had never heard of Miss Clay, who was in fact an undermistress at Mme. Mardon’s. He himself had always been opposed to women’s suffrage.

“Do you mean to say”-Miss Standing sat bolt upright with her plump hands clasped on her blue serge knee-“do you actually mean to say that I don’t get anything?”

“You are not legally entitled to anything.”

“How absolutely disgraceful! Do you mean to say that Papa had millions and millions, and I don’t get any of it at all? Who gets it if I don’t? I suppose somebody does get it. Or does Government just steal it all?”

“Your cousin, Mr. Egbert Standing, is the heir-at-law. He will-er-doubtless consider the propriety of making you an allowance.”