Patricia Wentworth - Wicked Uncle

Another of those trembling nods.

“It’s a bargain which is entirely in your favor. You keep Martin and Martin’s money, you keep your position and reputation, you keep your child and you keep out of prison. It’s quite a lot-isn’t it? In return I only ask you to do two things. The first is to hold your tongue. It will be quite interesting to see if you can do it. The second-” He paused, looking at her with smiling intensity.

Some of the terror had left her. It was like a pain which has ebbed, but which may begin again at any moment. As he sat back in his sofa corner and looked at her in that smiling way, she felt the preliminary stab.

“Listen, Linnet! The second thing is something I want you to do for me. It’s quite simple and easy, and when you’ve done it I won’t bother you any more. Martin and I are in a business deal together. Naturally each of us has his own interest to think of. Now it would be to my advantage if I knew something which Martin knows. When he comes down this afternoon he will have some papers with him which I very much want to see. They’ll be in his attaché case and I want to have a look at them.”

“I can’t-I can’t-I can’t!”

“Now what’s the use of saying that? It’s as easy as kissing your hand. When Martin goes to dress for dinner, where does he generally put that case of his?”

“In the study. But I can’t-and the case is locked-”

“The study-that’s the room under this?”

“But I can’t!”

“My dear Linnet, I don’t want to lose my temper, but if you go on with these senseless repetitions I probably shall, and then you won’t like it. You never did, did you?”

She shuddered from head to foot. The past came up in small, bright pictures, quite clear, quite dreadful, quite terrifying. No one who hadn’t seen Glen lose his temper could possibly believe how dreadful it was.

He laughed.

“All right. You do what you’re told and there won’t be any unpleasantness. This is what you’ve got to do. While Martin is dressing you’ll take that case with the papers in it and put it outside the study window on the window-sill, and you’ll leave the window unlatched. Now that’s absolutely all I’m asking you to do. It won’t take half a minute, and there’s no risk about it at all. The case will be back again on the study table before you’ve finished your dinner, and Martin will never know it’s been out of the house. If you feel like wandering in and fastening the window any time after ten o’clock, it wouldn’t be at all a bad thing.”

She said in a dreadfully frightened voice,

“I can’t do it-”

“Quite easy, you know.”

Her hands twisted in her lap.

“I know I’m stupid about money, but I’m not as stupid as you think. If I let you see those papers, you’ll be making money, and Martin will be losing it.”

“Perfectly correct. Quite a lot of money too. Now just go on being intelligent for a moment. How much do you think Martin would pay to save your reputation and keep you out of the dock? To say nothing about saving his son from being publicly exposed as illegitimate. I should have said he would put his hand pretty deep into his pocket. He’s fond of you, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes-”

“And of the boy?”

“Oh, Glen!”

“If you call me Glen, I really will murder you! Just let’s have that again, and make it ‘Oh, Greg!’ ”

She repeated it in a terrified whisper.

“That’s better! Well now, this sum of money is what Martin is going to pay to keep his wife, his son, and his peace of mind. Do you think he’d grudge it if he knew? You know he wouldn’t -not if it was twice as much. Do you know, like a more famous adventurer, I really am surprised at my own moderation.”

Linnet Oakley gazed at him. She would have to do it-she had known that all along-she couldn’t hold out against Glen. She couldn’t lose Martin. And she couldn’t go to prison. Martin wouldn’t want her to go to prison. He would pay anything for her, or for Marty. It didn’t really matter about the money. She said in a yielding voice,

“If I do it, will you promise-will you really, really promise that Martin won’t know?”

Gregory Porlock laughed heartily.

“My dear, I should think even you would see that I’m not likely to want Martin to know!”

Dorinda had a perfectly silent drive down to the Mill House. Martin Oakley sat in front beside the chauffeur and never uttered. She had the back to herself, with a cushion to tuck into the corner, and a lovely warm rug. As she watched the streets and the people slipping by she had at least one cause for gratitude. Martin Oakley certainly wasn’t the Wicked Uncle. He was just Marty grown up and become a very successful business man. There was the sallow skin, the brooding look which meant mischief when Marty had it, the same quick twitching frown. Not, however, the same flow of conversation, which was an added reason for being grateful.

Dorinda felt very glad indeed that she hadn’t let Justin drag her out of what promised to be a comfortable job. Even in her short experience it had occurred to her that an aloof and silent employer might be worth his weight in gold. So many of them seemed to be afflicted with a coming-on disposition. She told herself that she was in luck’s way, and that it wasn’t any good Justin saying things, because there were a lot of girls wanting jobs just now, and if you had got a reasonably good one you would be a fool not to stick to it.

Her fingers went up to Justin’s brooch. When she had taken it off and looked at it, and put it on again, she felt all warm and glowing. It was wonderful of him to give it to her. She hadn’t thanked him a bit properly, because she had had a dreadful feeling that she might be going to burst into tears. She couldn’t imagine anything that Justin would mind more than having you burst into tears in a public restaurant-it was the sort of thing you would simply never live down. So she hadn’t really dared to speak. She began to plan a letter to write to him after tea.

When she came to write it she didn’t seem able to get it down the way she had planned it. She wasted quite a lot of paper and quite a lot of time. In the end she wrote slap-dash fashion without stopping to think:

“Justin, I wasn’t ungrateful. I do hope you didn’t think I was. I’ve never had such a lovely present. I truly love it. I was afraid I was going to cry because it was so lovely, and if I had you wouldn’t ever have wanted to speak to me again.

Your loving Dorinda.

P.S.-Mrs. Oakley likes the dress.

P.P.S.-Mr. Oakley isn’t a bit like the Wicked Uncle. So far the only thing he has said to me is ‘How do you do, Miss Brown?’ But that’s better than being the other sort.

P.P.P.S.-I do love my brooch.”

When she had finished she changed into her blue dress, but with an uncertain feeling, because she didn’t know whether she was to dine with the Oakleys when Martin Oakley was there or not. She had asked of course, but Mrs. Oakley had merely looked vague and said it would depend on Martin. There was an uncomfortable sense of being on approval, and she felt a passionate preference for a tray in her sitting-room. That was something she hadn’t told Justin. She turned back to the letter and added a fourth postscript:

“I’ve got a sitting-room of my own.”

It was across the passage from her bedroom, next to the nursery on the third floor. Except that the ceiling was lower, it was the same size and shape as Mrs. Oakley’s boudoir, and it was quite comfortably furnished, with an electric fire which she could turn on when she wanted to. It was glowing red now and the room was beautifully warm. She thought it must be immediately over the boudoir, but strange houses were difficult until you got your bearings. She began to try and make them out. The boudoir was at the end of a passage on the left, and so was this. She went to the window, dividing the curtains and letting them fall to behind her so as to cut off the light.