Patricia Wentworth - The Fingerprint

“Uncle Jonathan-”

He lifted a hand from his knee.

“I am speaking. What I want you to do is to listen. I suppose like everyone else you have taken it for granted that whatever I have will come to you?”

“Uncle Jonathan, please -”

He rapped out, “I have told you that I am speaking! All I want you to do is to listen! There is nothing more offensive than the intrusion of emotion into matters of business. This is a matter of business. It concerns my will. I don’t wish you to be under any misapprehension as to its terms. I have never embarrassed you or myself by discussing them with you, but since I have recently decided to make certain alterations, I feel that you should be informed. I don’t want you to think that my decision has been made in a hurry, or because of any indignation which I may be feeling at the moment. I came to the conclusion some time ago that my present will no longer expressed my wishes. I am therefore proposing to make certain alterations. In the main the legacies to the household staff and to charities will remain as they are, but there will be important changes in some other directions. I intend to make provision for Mirrie.”

Georgina drew in her breath. She said quickly and warmly,

“But of course, Uncle Jonathan.”

There was a faint sarcastic lift of the black brows which made so decorative a contrast with his thick grey hair. He said,

“Very nice of you, I am sure, but I would ask you not to interrupt. I intend to provide for Mirrie by making her secure and independent. This will make a considerable difference in what under my present will is left to you.”

“Uncle Jonathan-”

“Disinterestedness can be overdone, my dear. Are you going to pretend you wouldn’t care if I cut you off without a penny?”

She said in a quick indignant voice,

“Of course I should care! It would mean that you were terribly angry, or that you didn’t care for me any more-of course I should care! But not about Mirrie. I should be very glad about your providing for Mirrie. Oh, darling, please wake up and stop thinking dreadful things about me! I don’t see how we can be talking to each other like this. It’s like some frightful dream-it really is! What has put such horrible ideas into your head?”

He said,

“They are facts, and facts are inconvenient things. You can’t get away from them by calling them dreams. If a thing is plain enough for you to be getting anonymous letters about it, it’s time something was done. You’ve been jealous of that poor child from the first, and I was a fool not to see it.”

Georgina said slowly,

“Who has been putting these things into your mind? Is it Mirrie?”

There was bleak anger in his eyes.

“Mirrie? No, it wasn’t Mirrie, poor child. She thinks you have meant to be kind to her. It’s been all, ‘Look how kind Georgina is! She has given me an old dress of hers-such a pretty colour,’ or, ‘Isn’t she kind! She says I can come out for a walk with her and Anthony, but of course I knew she would rather be alone with him, so I didn’t go.’

“There was something about that in your letter, wasn’t there? Something about A.H. getting too fond of her. Now, my dear, I’ll give you a bit of advice, and if you’ve any sense you’ll take it. There’s nothing any man dislikes more than a jealous, spiteful woman, so if you are interested in Anthony Hallam, I would advise you to be careful how you show your jealousy of Mirrie.”

She did not know what to do or what to say. Her every word and look seemed only to feed that strange unnatural anger. It was no use talking to him whilst he was like this- she had better go. But if she said nothing, the whole thing went by default. She made an effort and spoke.

“I never thought of being jealous.”

“Then you had better do so without delay! It is a bad fault and you should try to correct it. If you married it could wreck your life. I tell you frankly that there is nothing which puts a man off so much.”

It wasn’t any good. He had worked himself into a state of exasperation where there was nothing she could do or say. She said,

“It isn’t any good my saying anything, is it, but I haven’t really thought about Mirrie like that. I don’t know what has happened between us. I don’t know what you want me to do. I think I had better go.”

Her voice had got slower and slower. Now it just left off. She turned with the letter in her hand and went across the room to the door. She had her back to him as she went, and all at once she had the feeling that there was something behind her, something that was an enemy. There was the old, old instinct that it wasn’t wise to turn your back upon an enemy. She came to the door and found it unlatched and went out. She thought that she had shut it behind her when she came into the room. But it was unlatched now.

ANTHONY HALLAM was coming down the stairs. Because he always looked at Georgina when she was there to look at he looked across at her now, and saw at once that something had happened. For one thing there was no colour in her face, just absolutely none, and for another the way she was coming towards him across the hall she might have been blind. Her eyes were fixed, but not on him, and if she wasn’t exactly feeling her way, she had one hand a little out in front of her and it gave that effect. It was her left hand and it was empty. Her right hand hung down with a letter in it. He ran down the rest of the stairs and met her as she came to the bottom step.

“ Georgina -what is it? Have you had bad news?”

He was one step above her. She looked up at him as if she had only just seen that he was there and said, “Yes.” He could see right down into her eyes, and they had a lost look.

“What is it?”

The hand which had been stretched out took hold of the baluster. The other one, the one that held the letter, motioned him to let her pass. He stepped aside, and she went on up the stair without turning her head. He went up behind her, but she did not seem to know that he was there. She had her own sitting-room on the first floor. It was along a passage to the left, a bright room looking south-east with a view over the terrace to the garden with its sloping lawn and the great cedar which had been there since the house was built. He went in with her, and the first time she noticed him was when she put out a hand to shut the door and it touched his own. She moved away at once and said,

“I want to be alone.”

“I’ll go if you want me to. But can’t you tell me what is the matter? You look-”

She went over to a table and put down the letter she was holding. Then she took a yellow linen handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket and rubbed her hand with it. He had the impression that she was wiping something off. He said quickly,

“Is it that letter?”

There was a movement that said, “Yes.”

“Who is it from?”

“I don’t know. Anthony-”

“Don’t send me away. I can’t go-I want to help you. Won’t you tell me what has happened?”

She moved her head in a gesture which indicated the letter.

“Do you mean I am to read it?”

She had a moment of indecision. She had shut her doors. There was an impulse to bolt them against him, there was an impulse to throw them wide and let him in. There was no conscious thought behind the pressure of these two things. Each had its own urge, its own force. And then quite suddenly she was letting the second impulse have its way. She hadn’t known what she was going to do until she was doing it. She heard herself say,

“Yes, read it.”

Whilst he was reading it she watched him. She was tall, but he stood half a head above her. He had a tanned skin and pleasantly irregular features, eyes between blue and grey, eyebrows dark with a sort of quirk in them, a good strong line of jaw, and a firm-set mouth and chin. There floated vaguely on the surface of her mind an old and comforting impression that he didn’t look as if he would ever let anyone down.