Patricia Wentworth - Wicked Uncle

“As soon as he spoke I knew that it was Geoffrey. He was talking in a sort of whispering way, but you can’t mistake your own brother’s voice. I stood behind the curtain. Mr. Carroll came down, feeling his way like I had done. He climbed out of the window and went to where Geoffrey was. Geoffrey said very quick, ‘What’s that behind you?’ Mr. Carroll turned round, and Geoffrey hit him. I couldn’t see what he had in his hand. He hit him, and Mr. Carroll fell down. He called out Mr. Oakley’s name and he fell down. After that he didn’t make a sound and he didn’t move. Geoffrey came running to the window and got in. He shut it, and he drew the curtain over it, all in the dark. I thought he would touch me, and then he would kill me too, but he just pulled the curtain and went out of the door and along the passage to the hall. I don’t know why he went there, because he came back almost at once. I heard him go up the back stairs. I didn’t move for a long time. I think I fainted, because when I began to think again I was half sitting, half kneeling on the window-seat and there was someone out in the court with a torch in his hand. I went along the passage to the hall and upstairs to my room. I took off my dress and put on my dressing-gown because it was warm-but I can’t get warm.”

The inquest was over. Verdict, wilful murder by Geoffrey Masterman. Dispersal of the guests at the Grange. Miss Masterman to a nursing-home. The Totes to the expensive and uncomfortable house in which she always felt a stranger. Moira Lane to the three-roomed flat which she shared with a friend. Miss Silver would stay to keep Dorinda company until after the funeral, when she too would return to town.

It was Dorinda’s destination which was in doubt. She could return to the Heather Club and look for another job. But on the other hand why should she? Two murders and a legacy which she had no intention of keeping didn’t really interfere with the fact that she was Mrs. Oakley’s secretary. She put the point to Moira Lane, and Moira blew a smoke-ring and said,

“Too right.” Then she laughed and said, “Ask Justin!”

Dorinda asked him. At least that is not quite the way to put it. She just said of course there wasn’t any reason why she shouldn’t go back to the Oakleys, and he said, “What a mind!” and walked out of the room. He didn’t slam the door, because Pearson was coming in with the tea-tray, but Dorinda got the impression that if it hadn’t been for that, he might have banged it quite hard.

After tea she walked up to the Mill House and was ushered by Doris into the pink boudoir, where the Oakleys had been having tea. Doris took the tray. Martin Oakley shook hands and edged out of the room. She was left with Linnet, in one of her rose-coloured negligées, reclining on the sofa propped up with pink and blue cushions. Dorinda thought she resembled a Dresden china figure, a little the worse for wear but obviously cheering up. The stamp of tragedy, so ill-suited to her type, was gone. The shadow under the forget-me-not blue eyes no longer suggested a bruise. Some slight natural colour was evident beneath a delicate artificial tint. She was affectionate to the point of warmth. She held Dorinda’s hand for quite a long time whilst she gazed at her with swimming eyes and said how dreadful it had all been.

Dorinda agreed, and came straight to the point.

“I could come back any day now-”

It was at this moment that her hand was released. A lace-bordered handkerchief came into play. Between dabs Mrs. Oakley murmured that it was all so difficult.

“You don’t want me to come?”

There were more dabs.

“Oh, it isn’t that-”

“Won’t you tell me what it is?”

It took quite a long time. Dorinda was reminded of trying to catch a bird with a damaged wing-just as you thought you had got it, it flapped off and you had to start all over again. But in the end out it came. There was a lot of “Martin thinks,” and “Painful associations,” and a very fluttery bit about “the dead past.” But, in much plainer and more brutal English than Linnet Oakley would permit herself, what it amounted to was that Dorinda knew too much. There were little sobs, and little gasps, and little dabs, but it all came down to that.

“Of course, we shall get married again at once, and nobody need ever know. The Scotland Yard Inspector promised us that, unless it was necessary for the case against the murderer. And it couldn’t be, could it? So as Martin says, it’s just to go through the ceremony again, and then we can forget all about it. I’m sure you’ll understand that. You see, it’s been so dreadful, because I did think perhaps Martin had done it-not Mr. Carroll, you know, but Glen. And Martin thought perhaps I had, which was very, very stupid of him, because I shouldn’t have had the strength, besides not being so dreadfully wicked. And you know, there was a time when I was very, very fond of Glen-I really was-and I couldn’t ever have done anything to hurt him. I can’t say that to Martin, because he has a very, very jealous temperament-that was why I was so frightened.”

She gave a last dab and reached for her powder compact.

“I mustn’t cry-it makes me look such a fright. And I really ought to be thankful-the way it’s turned out, I mean-its not being Martin. Because if it had been-” The hand with the powder-puff drooped. The blue eyes swam with tears again. A sobbing breath caught in her throat. “If you’ve been in love with anyone and been married to him you can’t feel just the same as if he was anyone else. And I was in love with Glen- anyone could have been. There was something about him, you know, though he wasn’t even kind to me after all the money had gone. And he went away and didn’t care whether I starved or not-and I very nearly did. But there was something about him-”

Dorinda remembered Aunt Mary dying grimly and saying with a bitter tang in her voice, “What’s the good of asking why? I was a fool-but there was something about him.” There couldn’t be two more different women anywhere in the world, but they had this one thing in common-neither of them had known how to say no to the man who was Glen Porteous and Gregory Porlock. She said in a calm, soothing voice,

“I wouldn’t go on thinking about it-and you’re making your eyes red. You haven’t really told me whether you want me to come back to you. I don’t think you do, but it’s better to get it quite clear, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Oakley dabbed with the powder-puff and said,

“Oh, yes.”

“You see, I must know, because of getting another job.”

Linnet stared.

“But Glen left you all his money.”

“There isn’t very much, and anyhow I can’t keep it. All I want to know is whether you want me-and I think you don’t.”

It seemed that she was right.

“Not because we don’t like you and all that, because we do. But you see, you know, and we should always know that you knew, and I don’t think we could bear it. So if you don’t mind-”

Dorinda came back to the Grange and informed Mr. Justin Leigh that she was out of a job.

“I shall go back to the Heather Club and look about me. I’ve got a month’s salary in hand, and as I shan’t have done a stroke of work for it, it’s not too bad. In a way it’s a relief that the Oakleys don’t want me back, because I think it would be nice to go where no one had ever heard of Uncle Glen. It’s stupid of me, but I’ve rather got that feeling.”

Mr. Leigh, extended full length in the easiest of the study chairs, neither raised his head nor fully opened his eyes. He might have been asleep, only Dorinda felt perfectly sure that he was not. After a short lapse of time he murmured enquiringly,