Patricia Wentworth: Miss Silver Deals With Death

“It is very important to get the right impression about everyone. Things are not always what they seem-are they?”

Mrs. Underwood’s eyelids came down. It was as if she had pulled down a blind, but not quite quickly enough. In the instant before it fell terror had stared out of the window-the sheer naked terror of the creature in a trap.

Miss Silver looked across her knitting and said,

“What are you afraid of, Mrs. Underwood?”

Plump gloved hands fumbled in a shiny bag. A handkerchief came out. The powdered face was dabbed. The voice which had been so high and sharp fell to a murmur about the heat.

“So warm-so very close-”

There were little glistening beads of sweat on the upper lip. The handkerchief dabbed, and came away stained with lipstick. Tragedy in caricature-rather horrid. The lady was so plump, so smart, so underbred, so frightened . Miss Silver preferred a client who engaged her sympathies, but her sense of duty was inexorable. She said in a kind, firm tone,

“Something has frightened you. You came here to tell me about it, did you not? Will you not do so?”

Mrs. Underwood gave a little gasp.

“I don’t know, I’m sure. Well, really it’s nothing. It’s such a very warm day, don’t you think?”

“I think that something has frightened you,” said Miss Silver, “and I think that you had better tell me about it. If we share our troubles we halve them.”

Mabel Underwood drew a long breath. With a sudden drop into simplicity she said,

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Miss Silver smiled. She said,

“I can believe anything, Mrs. Underwood.”

But the moment of simplicity had passed. The pearls rose and fell rapidly.

“I’m sure I can’t think why I said that. Girls do walk in their sleep once in a way, and it’s nothing to make a to-do about.”

“Has your niece been walking in her sleep?”

“Oh, no-not Meade. But I’m sure if it were, it wouldn’t be at all surprising, poor girl, after all she’s been through.”

Miss Silver had picked up her knitting again. The needles clicked encouragement.

“Indeed?”

“Oh, yes. She was torpedoed, you know-at least the ship was. She took her brother’s children out to America last year, after he was killed in France. Their mother is American, and she was out there visiting her people and quite distracted, poor thing, so Meade took the children out to her. And then, of course, she couldn’t get home again, not till June. And the ship was torpedoed and she was all smashed up, poor girl, and lost her fiancé as well-at least they hadn’t given it out, but she met him in the States. He was on one of those hush-hush missions- something about tanks, I believe, but perhaps I oughtn’t to say so, though I don’t suppose it matters now, because he was drowned. Of course it was a most dreadful shock for Meade.”

Mrs. Underwood had certainly found her tongue. Miss Silver recalled Charles Moray’s “A gushing gasbag!” and Margaret’s “Charles, darling -gas doesn’t gush!” She gave a slight cough and said,

“Naturally. But you say it is not your niece who walks in her sleep.”

Mrs. Underwood dabbed at her lips.

“Well, I don’t know-I didn’t think about it being Meade-I thought it might be Ivy.”

“Ivy?”

“The maid, you know-Ivy Lord. I wouldn’t keep her, but they’re so scarce and difficult to get, you have to put up with anything.”

The needles clicked. Miss Silver said,

“What makes you think this girl is walking in her sleep?”

Mrs. Underwood gulped.

“There was a letter on my floor.”

Miss Silver said, “Yes?” and saw the mauvish colour run up into the plump, pale cheeks.

“How could it have got there? I keep on trying to think of ways, but there aren’t any. I mean it wasn’t there when I went to bed and that’s flat. And if it wasn’t there then, who put it there-that’s what I want to know. The flat was all locked up for the night, and there was just me and Meade and Ivy inside, and the very first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning was that bit of paper lying right under the window.”

“A bit of paper, or a letter?”

Mrs. Underwood dabbed her forehead.

“It was a bit torn off my own letter, and it was lying there right under the window. And someone must have come into my room in the night and dropped it, for it wasn’t there when I went to bed-I can swear to that.” The dabbing hand was shaking. She dropped it into her lap and it lay there, clutching the handkerchief.

Miss Silver leaned forward.

“Why does this frighten you so much? Is it because of something in the letter?”

The hand had stopped twitching and was clenched. Mrs. Underwood said in a quick, breathless voice,

“Oh, no-of course not-it was just a bit of a business letter- it wasn’t important at all. I just didn’t know how it got there, and that frightened me. Very stupid, I’m sure-but this close weather and the war-well, it plays tricks with your nerves, don’t you think?”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I am not troubled with nerves, I am thankful to say. They must be very disagreeable. Was it a letter you had received, or a letter you had written?”

Mrs. Underwood had taken out her powder compact and was attending to her face.

“Oh, one that I had written-nothing of any importance- just a torn piece, you know.”

“And you had not posted it?”

The compact sagged in a shaking hand.

“I-well, I-”

“It had been posted then? It is really better to tell me the truth, Mrs. Underwood. The letter had been posted, and that is why you were alarmed at finding a piece of it on your bedroom floor.”

Mrs. Underwood opened her mouth and shut it again. Miss Silver was reminded of a fish gasping. Not an attractive resemblance. She said in her kind, firm voice,

“If anyone is blackmailing you-”

Mrs. Underwood put out both hands as if to push something away and said,

“How did you know?”

Miss Silver smiled. It was a perfectly kind smile.

“It is my business to know that sort of thing. You are frightened about a letter. That naturally suggests blackmail.”

Put like that, it seemed quite simple. Mrs. Underwood experienced a sort of relief. The worst, or almost the worst, was over. She had not thought that she could tell anyone-not even when she got the address from Margaret, not even when she came up in the lift and rang the bell-but since this dowdy, governessy person had guessed, there was no doubt that it would be a relief to talk about it. She needn’t tell her everything. Something in her shuddered and said, “Oh, no- never !” But they could talk it over from the outside, as it were-they needn’t go farther than that. Like an echo of her thought, she heard Miss Silver say,

“You need not tell me anything you do not want to.”

She sat back in her chair and said in her natural voice,

“Well then, if you must know, I had posted it. That’s what gave me such a turn.”

“You had posted a letter of which a fragment was found on your bedroom floor?”

“Well, yes, I had. And that is what upset me.”

“Dear me!” said Miss Silver. “You wrote a letter and you posted it, and afterwards a piece of that letter was found lying under your window.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you post the letter yourself, or did you give it to your maid?”

“Oh, no-I posted it myself, with my own hand.”

“Did you make more than one copy of the letter?”

Mrs. Underwood shook her head.

“It was as much as I could do to write it once.”

Miss Silver knitted. After a moment she said,