Patricia Wentworth: Grey Mask

Miss Maud Silver Mystery – #01, 1928

Mr. Packer dangled the heavy bunch of keys for a moment before laying it on the table.

“Four years is a long time to be away,” he said.

His voice was so drily polite that Charles Moray could not fail to be aware that in the eyes of his solicitor four years absence, and a consequent neglect of all the business arising out of his father’s death and his own succession, was a dereliction. An only son who succeeded to a large estate had no business to walk the uttermost parts of the earth. He should step into his place as a citizen, stand for Parliament in the constituency represented by three generations of his family, and-settle down.

Charles picked up the bunch of keys, looked at them with an odd fleeting frown, and put them in his pocket.

“You won’t be going to the house to-night, I suppose,” said Mr. Packer.

“No. I’m staying at The Luxe. I just thought I’d look in and get the keys.”

“I asked because I believe-in fact I know-that the caretaker, Lattery, is out. He is always out on Thursday evening. I am aware of the fact, because it is his practice to call at this office for his wages; he comes very punctually at five o’clock. And I thought that if you had any intention of calling at the house, his absence might surprise you.”

“No, I shan’t go round there to-night,” said Charles. He glanced at his watch. “Haven’t time-Millar’s dining with me. I expect you remember him.”

Mr. Packer remembered Mr. Millar; not, apparently, with enthusiasm.

Charles got up.

“Well, I’ll be round in the morning. I can sign anything you want me to then. I hope I haven’t kept you. I’d no idea it was so late.”

He walked back to The Luxe in the dusk of the October evening-dampish, coldish-a gloomy, depressing sort of climate to welcome a man who has had four years of tropical sunshine.

Charles sniffed the cold wet air and found it good. It was surprisingly good to be at home again. The rage and pain which had driven him out of England four years ago were gone, burnt to the ash of forgetfulness by the very fierceness of their own flame. He could think of Margaret Langton now without either pain or anger. She was married of course; a girl doesn’t turn a man down like that on the very eve of their wedding unless there’s another man. No, Margaret must be married. Very likely they would meet. He told himself that it would be quite an interesting meeting for them both.

At The Luxe a telegram from Archie Millar-“Awfully sorry. My Aunt Elizabeth has wired for me. She does it once a month or so. Hard luck she hit on to-night. Cheerio. Archie.”

Charles ate his dinner alone. During the soup he regretted Archie Millar, but with the fish the regret passed. He did not want Archie or Archie’s company; he did not want to go to a theatre or do a show; he wanted vehemently and insistently to go to the house which was now his own house, and to go to it whilst it stood empty of everything except its memories. He didn’t want to hear Lattery’s account of his stewardship, or to listen to Mrs. Lattery deploring the way that the damp got into things. “No matter what you do, sir, or how much you air-and I’m sure I’m such a one for airing as never was.” Her high-pitched, querulous voice rang sharply in his ears. No, he didn’t want to talk to Mrs. Lattery. But he wanted to see the house.

His impatience grew as he walked westward facing a soft wind that was full of rain. The house drew him. And why not? His great-grandfather had built it; his grandfather and his father had been born there; he himself had been born there-four generations of them-four generations of memories. And the house stood empty, waiting for him to come to it.

A hundred years ago Thorney Lane was a real lane, whose hedgerows were thick with thorn that blossomed white as milk in May and set its dark red haws for birds to peck at in October. It was a paved walk now, running from one busy thoroughfare to another, with wooden posts set across it at either end to show that it was for the use of foot passengers only. When Mr. Archibald Moray built his big house the thoroughfares were country roads.

Half way up Thorney Lane a narrow alley separated the houses which looked on to Thornhill Square from the houses of the more modern George Street. The old lane had wandered pleasantly between high banks where the alley ran straight between high brick walls. No. 1, Thornhill Square was the corner house.

Charles Moray, walking up Thorney Lane turned to the right and proceeded for about a dozen yards along the alley-way. He stopped in front of the door in the brick wall and took out the bunch of keys which Mr. Packer had given him. This key, at least, he thought he could find in the dark. How many times had he and Margaret walked the narrow alley in the twilight, in the dusk, in the dark?

He wondered if the Pelhams were still at 12 George Street, and if Freddy Pelham had learned any new stories in the last four years-Freddy and his interminable pointless tales about nothing! Even when he had been at the height of his love for Margaret it had been hard work to put up with Margaret’s stepfather. Well, he wouldn’t have to laugh at Freddy’s stories now.

He ran his fingers over the keys until they touched the one he wanted; it had a nick in it half way down the shaft. He let the other keys fall away from it and put out his left hand to feel for the keyhole. His fingers touched the cold, wet wood and slid down on to the colder iron. Under the pressure of his hand the door moved. He pushed, and it swung. There was no need for him to use his key on a door that had stood not only unlocked but unlatched. Lattery had grown slack indeed if he made a practice of going out by the back way and leaving the door ajar.

It was very dark in the garden. The high brick wall cut off the last glimmer of the lamp which was supposed to light Thorney Lane and the alley that ran into it.

Charles walked down the flagged path with as much assurance as if he had had daylight to show him what only his mind was showing him now. Here the thorn tree, a seedling eighty years ago, dropped from some survivor of the old hedge. Next, lavender bushes, sweet in the dark as he brushed them by. The garden was of a good size, and had been larger before his grandfather built out a ball-room upon what had once been a formal terrace.

Charles passed the long dark windows with slender fluted columns between them. It was inevitable that he should think of the June night which had seen every window brilliant, open to the soft summer dusk. The dancers had only to step out from between the pillars and descend to marble steps to find themselves amongst flowers.

He frowned and walked on; then threw up his head and stopped. What was that June evening to him now, that he should shirk the remembrance of it? If the past had any ghosts, it was better to look them in the face and bid them begone for ever. The June night rose vividly. The last hours of his engagement to Margaret rose; he saw himself and her; her father, proud and pleased; Margaret in white and silver, radiant and for once beautiful. He could have sworn that the radiance and the beauty flowed from some lamp of joy within; and, with their wedding day only a week ahead, he had not doubted what flame burned high in that lamp of joy. Yet next day she had sent him back his ring.

Charles stared at the dark shadows. What a fool he had been! His incredulity was the measure of his folly. He could not believe Margaret’s own words in her own writing-not till the telephone had failed him; not till he had forced an entrance into the Pelhams’ house, only to hear that Margaret had left town; not till he read in every newspaper the cold announcement that “the marriage arranged between Mr. Charles Moray and Miss Margaret Langton will not take place.”