Patricia Wentworth: Wicked Uncle

“I’ve met Oakley.”

Gregory Porlock laughed.

“But not his wife? Then we’re in the same boat. They won’t be in the house-party because they’ve just moved into a house of their own quite near me. Horrible great barrack of a place. But don’t tell Oakley I said so-he thinks it’s bracing. I’ll get them to come over and dine. They’re my nearest neighbours, so I must contrive to meet Mrs. Oakley. I’m told she’s pretty. Well now, you’ll come-won’t you?”

Mr. Tote was heard to swallow.

“I don’t know that we can-”

“My dear Tote! Oh, by the way, you have that memorandum I sent you? The address? And the date? Well, I have one or two more that might interest you. I thought we might talk the whole thing over in a friendly spirit if you came down. I really think it would be a good plan-don’t you?… Oh, splendid! I shall look forward to it so much. Goodbye.”

He hung up, and almost immediately dialled another number. This time it was a woman’s voice that answered.

“ Moira Lane speaking.” A pretty voice, a good deal farther up the social scale than Mr. Tote’s.

Gregory Porlock announcing himself, compliments were exchanged. Miss Lane was invited to join the week-end party, and accepted with alacrity.

“I’d love to! Who else have you got?”

“The Totes. You won’t know them, and you won’t want to. I want to talk over a bit of business with him.”

“Isn’t he one of our Newest Rich?”

“That’s it. Her jewellery has to be seen to be believed.”

Moira laughed. It was a pretty sound.

“What is she like?”

“A white mouse.”

“My dear Greg!”

“You needn’t talk to her. The others in the house will be a Mr. and Miss Masterman-brother and sister-just come in for a lot of money from an old cousin.”

“Some people have all the luck,” said Miss Lane in a heartfelt manner.

He laughed.

“Perhaps there’ll be enough to go round-you can’t tell, can you?”

“Anyone else?”

“Oh, yes-Leonard Carroll for you.”

“Greg, darling! Why for me?”

“The nearest approach to a fellow bright young thing.”

“My poor sweet! We’re both of us going to be thirty as soon as makes no difference.”

He laughed.

“A delightful age. If I may use a nursery metaphor, you have got past the bread and butter and begun on the cake.”

He could hear her blow him a kiss.

“Is Len really coming? Last time I saw him he told me he was booked up for months. What it is to be a popular Entertainer!”

“The popular Entertainer, isn’t it? I don’t think he’d care about that ‘a’ somehow. But-oh, yes, he’ll come. Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

He hung up, smiling pleasantly.

After a moment he dialled again.

“Is that the Luxe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh-has Mr. Leonard Carroll finished his turn in the cabaret?”

“Well, sir, I think he has, just about.”

“Could you send someone to tell him I’d like a word with him?… Gregory Porlock. I’ll hold on.”

He had a little time to wait. He beguiled it by humming the air of an old Scotch song. Presently the humming broke into words:

“The love that I had chosen

Was to my heart’s content.

The salt sea shall be frozen

Before that I repent.

Repent it will I never

Until the day I dee,

But the Lowlands of Holland

Have twined my love and me.”

A lovely minor air, rendered softly in an agreeable baritone. There was time to repeat the refrain before Leonard Carroll said, “Hullo!”

Gregory Porlock noted that he seemed a little out of breath.

“My dear fellow, I hope I haven’t hurried you.”

“Not at all. What do you want?”

“My dear fellow!” There was some good-humoured protest in Gregory’s tone. “But there-I expect you are up to the eyes. No time for me-eh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Gregory laughed.

“Well, I hope you didn’t mean it. Joking apart, I’ve rung up to find out if you’ll come down to my place for the week end.”

“I can’t possibly.”

“My dear Carroll, you’re so impulsive. You know, I’ve got a feeling that it’s overwork, and that if you are not careful you’ll be finding you are having to take a very long rest. In your own interests you shouldn’t let it come to that-the proverbial stitch in time. I’ll be expecting you on Saturday.”

“I tell you, I can’t come.” Carroll really wasn’t troubling to be polite.

Gregory continued to smile.

“What a pity! By the way, if you ever have time for reading, I’ve got something that’s right up your street. Fellow called Tauscher. Extraordinary revelations. But there-I don’t suppose you’ve time.”

There was rather a long pause before Carroll said in a slow, dragging voice,

“Not unless I get away for a week-end.”

“Well then, my dear fellow it’s easy-come along down to me on Saturday and I’ll fix you up with Tauscher.”

There was another pause. The slow voice said,

“All right.”

“Gregory Porlock heard a click at the other end of the line. Leonard Carroll had hung up.

He had one more call to make. When a woman’s voice answered he asked for Mr. Masterman. The voice replied without bonhommie,

“He’s engaged. I can take a message.”

Gregory Porlock gave a laugh of the lighter social kind.

“Of course-it’s Miss Masterman! How stupid of me! I didn’t recognize your voice. It’s Gregory Porlock.”

“Oh, yes. What is it, Mr. Porlock?” There was some slight evidence of a thaw.

“Well, I just rang up to say how much I’m looking forward to seeing you at the week-end. I hope you can get down to tea?”

“I don’t know-I shall have to ask my brother-”

“All right, I’ll hold on if you don’t mind. Will you tell him that with regard to the matter of business he was consulting me about, I think I’ve worked out a very satisfactory solution. I really don’t think he need worry about it any more.”

A telephone is a very sensitive instrument. Miss Masterman was quite five miles away, but Gregory Porlock distinctly heard her catch her breath. He might have been mistaken, but he did not think so. The sound told him something which he wanted to know. It informed him that she was in her brother’s confidence. He had thought so, but it was always better to be quite sure of your ground.

When she came back presently and said that they would try to be down at the Grange by four o’clock, he was the delighted, genial host.

“Splendid! I hope you’ll like the party. All pleasant people, and one famous one. Leonard Carroll is coming, so we oughtn’t to be dull. Then there’s a very charming girl, Moira Lane. And the Totes-nice simple people. And some near neighbours thrown in. Well, all the best to your brother.”

Miss Masterman said, “Thank you,” and sounded as if she meant it.

Gregory Porlock hung up and burst out laughing.

Justin Leigh took Dorinda to one of those places which is just going to be the rage. When it actually did become the rage he would probably say it was vulgar and go somewhere else. He was a beautiful and immaculate young man on the opinionated side of thirty, with a job in the Ministry of Reconstruction. No one, to look at him, could have believed it possible that he had spent nearly six years in a more or less constant condition of being dirty, unshaved, and soaked to the skin, with excursions into being baked and frozen. There were also considerable periods when his immediate surroundings were going up in smoke. If you survived, it left you even filthier than before. All very incredible when you looked at the dark soigné young man with his air of careless elegance and the poise which always gave Dorinda a slight feeling of being back in the schoolroom. She didn’t give way to this feeling, because if you once let yourself start an inferiority complex with Justin, he would become simply intolerable, and that would be a pity because, umpteenth cousin or no, he was the only relation she had left.