Читать книгу Miss Silver Deals with Death - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 4

Table of Contents

In a moment of relaxation Miss Silver rested her hands upon the Air Force sock which she was in process of knitting and contemplated her surroundings. A feeling of true thankfulness possessed her. So many poor people had been bombed out of their homes and had lost everything, but her modest flat in Montague Mansions remained unscathed—not even a window broken.

“Quite providential,” was her comment as she looked about her and noted the blue plush curtains, their colour a little dimmed after three years of wear but they had cleaned remarkably well; the brightly patterned Brussels carpet; the wallpaper with its floral design, a trifle faded but not noticeably so unless one of the pictures was removed. She saw all these things and admired them. Her eye wandered from the engraving of Landseer’s Monarch of the Glen in a contemporary frame of yellow maple to similarly framed reproductions of Bubbles, The Soul’s Awakening, and The Black Brunswicker. Her heart was really quite full of thankfulness. A comfortable and tasteful room in a comfortable and tasteful flat. During the years when she had worked as a governess for the meagre salary which was all that a governess could then command she had never had any grounds for hoping that such comfort would be hers. If she had remained a governess, there would have been no plush curtains, no Brussels carpet, no steel engravings, no easy chairs upholstered in blue and green tapestry with curving walnut legs, Victorian waists, and wide well-padded laps. By a strange turn of events she had ceased to be a governess, and had become a private investigator, and so successful had the investigations proved that they had made possible the plush, the tapestry, the walnut, and the Brussels pile. Deeply and sincerely religious, Miss Silver thanked what she was accustomed to call Providence for her preservation throughout two years of war.

She was about to resume the sock, which she was knitting for her youngest nephew Alfred who had just entered the Air Force, when the door opened and her valuable middle-aged Emma announced, “Mrs. Underwood.” There came in one of those plump women whose clothes fit them with unbecoming exactness. Mrs. Underwood’s black cloth suit moulded her too frankly. She wore a little too much face powder, a little too much lipstick, and it would have been better if she had dispensed altogether with eye shadow. The waves of her hair, under one of the odd hats just then affected by the ultra smart, were too set, too formal, too fresh from the hairdresser’s hands. Her skirt was too short and her stockings too thin for a pair of buxom legs, and if her shoes were not so tight as to be excruciatingly painful they very much belied their appearance. She advanced with a bright smile and an extended hand.

“Oh, Miss Silver, I am sure you have not the least idea who I am, but we met a few weeks ago at Mrs. Moray’s—Mrs. Charles Moray—dear Margaret—such a charming person—and as I happened to be passing I thought I must come in and see you! Now don’t say you have forgotten our meeting, for I should never have forgotten you!”

Miss Silver smiled and shook hands. She remembered Mrs. Underwood very well, and Charles Moray saying, “Poor old Godfrey Underwood’s fiasco and the most crashing silly bore in the Home Counties. She hangs round Margaret’s neck like the Ancient Mariner and the albatross. No resolution—that’s what’s the matter with Margaret. Does she take the woman out and push her under a tram? No, she asks her to tea, and I shall probably throw the milk-jug at her if it goes on.”

Miss Silver said briskly,

“How do you do, Mrs. Underwood? I remember you very well.”

The lady sat down. There were two rows of pearls upon her bosom. They rose and fell a little more rapidly than was natural. Their owner had presumably come up in the lift, yet from the evidence of the pearls she might very well have taken the three flights of stairs at a run.

Rejecting such an absurd supposition, Miss Silver wondered why Mrs. Underwood should be nervous, and whether her visit was to be regarded as a professional one. She said, breaking in upon some negligible remark about the weather,

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Underwood, but it is always best to come straight to the point. Had you any special reason for wishing to see me, or is this merely a friendly call?”

Mrs. Underwood changed colour. It was not a becoming change. Beneath the powder her skin was suffused with an ugly pinkish mauve. She laughed on rather a high note.

“Oh, but of course—any friend of dear Margaret’s—and I just happened to be passing. Quite a coincidence in its way. There I was, walking down the street, and when I looked up and saw Montague Mansions just across the way I felt I really couldn’t pass you by.”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked. The Air Force sock revolved. She reflected on the sad prevalence of untruthfulness—a distressing fault which should be wisely and firmly corrected in the young. She said a little primly,

“And how did you know that I lived here, Mrs. Underwood?”

That unbecoming flush came up again.

“Oh, Margaret Moray mentioned it, you know—she just happened to mention it—and I felt I could not pass your very doorstep without coming in. What a nice flat you have here. A flat is so much more convenient than a house—don’t you think so? No stairs. I don’t wonder maids won’t go to those basement houses. And then if you want to go away you have only to put your front door key in your pocket, and there you are.”

Miss Silver said nothing. Her needles clicked. She supposed that her visitor would presently come to the point. Not a very agreeable speaking voice—high-pitched, and with something of the sound given out by china with a crack in it.

Mrs. Underwood continued to talk.

“Of course there are drawbacks. When I lived in the country I adored my garden. I delighted in a garden, but my husband was obliged to be nearer his work—the Air Ministry, you know. And then when he was ordered up north, well, there I was with the flat on my hands, and if it hadn’t been for the war, I could have let it a dozen times over, but of course nobody wants to take flats in London now. Not that it’s really in London—Putney, you know—one of those delightful old houses which used to be right in the country. It belonged to Vandeleur, the artist, who made such a lot of money painting the royal family when Queen Victoria had all those children, so of course he became the rage and made a fortune, which artists hardly ever do but I think he had private means as well. It must have been a dreadfully expensive house to keep up. I believe it stood empty for a long time after he died, and then they turned it into flats. But the garden isn’t what it was—of course gardeners are almost impossible to get—and I would like to be nearer my husband, but as for getting anything reasonable, well, I did go and see a bungalow just the other day—three rooms and a kitchen, and they were asking five and a half guineas a week for it—”

“These exorbitant prices should be controlled,” said Miss Silver briskly.

“So I decided to stay where I was.”

“Very sensibly, I am sure.”

“Though, as I said, there are drawbacks, living at such close quarters with other people. There are eight flats, and—well, I expect you know how it is, you come up in the lift with people, so you can’t help knowing them by sight, can you?”

Miss Silver supposed not.

The pearls rose and fell. Mrs. Underwood went on.

“So in a way you know them, and in a way you don’t. And the ones you wouldn’t mind being friendly with aren’t always the ones that want to be friendly with you. Miss Garside now—I don’t know who she is to give herself such airs, but she’s got a way of looking across the lift at you as if you were on the other side of the street and she’d never seen you before and wouldn’t know you from Adam if she met you again. Downright rude I call it. Then on the other hand there are people you don’t know anything about—and I’m sure I haven’t got anything against anybody, and you can’t be too careful what you say, but Meade is a very attractive girl, and though she’s my husband’s niece and not mine, I don’t make any difference on that account, and I’m very pleased to give her a home while she wants one—but having a girl in the flat, well, you have to be more careful than you would be on your own account.”

Miss Silver began to see a glimmer of light.

“Has anyone been annoying your niece?”

“Well, she’s my husband’s niece—I told you that, didn’t I—but as I said, I don’t let it make any difference. Oh, no, nobody’s been annoying her, and I’m sure the flats are all let to a very good class of people—I wouldn’t like to give a wrong impression about that.”

Miss Silver wondered just what impression she did wish to convey. Whilst she had been talking about the late Mr. Vandeleur and his house her breathing had been normal. Now it was becoming hurried again. That there was something on her mind was certain. Whatever it was, it had been sufficiently urgent to take her through the successive stages of applying to Margaret Moray for Miss Silver’s address and then bringing her from Putney to Montague Mansions. But there the impulse appeared to have failed. It was not the first time that a visitor who might have been a client had come as Mrs. Underwood had come, and in the end gone nervously away with a fear unspoken or a call for help withheld.

The idea that this plump, fashionable lady might be the prey of some secret terror brought no smile to Miss Silver’s lips. She knew fear when she saw it. Mrs. Underwood was certainly afraid. She said,

“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?”