Читать книгу Latter End - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 12

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It was about a fortnight after this that Miss Maud Silver received a visitor. As he did not come by appointment, she was not expecting him. Her mind was, in fact, pleasantly occupied with family affairs. Her niece Ethel, whose husband was a bank manager in the Midlands, had written her a most gratifying account of the way her son Johnny was settling down at school. Very pleasant—very pleasant indeed. One did not like to think of a child being homesick. But Johnny was so sensible—a good steady lad and likely to do well.

Altogether, she felt deep cause for gratitude. Not only had she herself been preserved without injury throughout the war, but her flat in Montague Mansions had suffered no damage, for one really could not count a few broken windows. The curtains had suffered, it is true, but they had done long and honourable service, and she had now been able to replace them in just the right shade of blue to go with her carpet—that rather bright shade which she still called peacock, but which now went by the name of petrol. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but a colour by such an ugly name as petrol lost half its charm, to the ear at any rate. Miss Silver continued to speak of her curtains as peacock blue.

The worn edge of the carpet was now very well hidden by the bookcase, and the carpet itself would do for another two or three years, but she was contemplating new coverings for the waisted Victorian chairs with their wide laps, their bow legs, and their carved walnut edges. She would have had them this summer if it had not been for Johnny going to school, but it had been a real pleasure to help Ethel with his outfit.

She sat very upright in one of the chairs that was going to be re-covered, precise and old-fashioned from the hair with its tightly curled fringe in front and its neat coils behind, to the small feet placed primly side by side. The hair was rigidly controlled by a net, and the feet enclosed in black thread stockings—in winter they would have been wool—and black beaded slippers. Where she procured the latter was a mystery as deep as any she had been called upon to solve in her professional career. Detective Sergeant Abbott of Scotland Yard, who was her devoted slave, declared it to be insoluble. For the rest, she wore a dress of artificial silk in a hard shade of brown with dreadful little orange and green dots and dashes disposed in aimless groups upon its surface. It had been new two years ago, and it was not wearing very well. Frank Abbott hoped for its early decease. It was fastened at the neck by a bog-oak brooch in the form of a rose with a pearl at the centre. She also wore a thin gold chain supporting a pince-nez. As she only used glasses for fine print, the chain was looped to the left side of her bodice and fastened there with a gold bar brooch. Except for the fact that her skirt cleared the floor by several inches, she might have stepped directly out of a photograph-album of the late nineteenth century. That this was still her spiritual home was made abundantly clear by furniture of the middle fifties, and by the pictures which hung upon her patterned walls, these being reproductions of some of the most famous paintings of the Victorian age. From time to time she shifted them round, exchanging them with those which decorated her bedroom. At the moment Bubbles hung above the fireplace, with The Black Brunswicker and The Monarch of the Glen on either side, whilst Hope, The Soul’s Awakening, and The Huguenot decorated the other walls. The mantel-shelf, the top of the bookcase, and various occasional tables were thronged with photographs in plush and silver frames. Sometimes the two were combined—silver filagree on plush. But the photographs were of the young—for the most part the very young. There were babies of all ages—the babies who might never have been born if Miss Silver had not intervened to bring some hidden cause of evil to light and deliver the innocent. The fathers and mothers of the babies were there too—strong young men and pretty girls, all owing some debt of gratitude to the little dowdy spinster with the neat features and the mouse-coloured hair. It was her portrait-gallery and the record of her cases, and it grew fuller every year.

Miss Silver read the postscript to Ethel Burkett’s letter again:

‘I can’t thank you enough for everything. Johnny shouldn’t need any more stockings this year, but if you have any of the grey wool left, I shall be so grateful for some for Derek. He is growing so fast.’

She smiled as she put the letter back into its envelope. The wool for Derek’s stockings was already wound, and half an inch of ribbing on the needles.

As she got up to put Ethel’s letter away, the door opened and her invaluable Emma announced,

‘Mr. Latter——’

She saw a slight, fresh-complexioned man with a worried air. That was her first impression of Jimmy Latter—his slightness, his fresh colour, and his worry. By the time she had him sitting opposite to her and her fingers were busy with her knitting-needles, she had placed him as a country gentleman who didn’t spend very much of his time in London. His clothes had come from a good tailor, but they were not new—oh, by no means. They were pre-war. Material as good as that had only become available quite recently.

If the clothes were old, and her visitor middle-aged, she judged the worry to be new. Anxiety of long standing leaves unmistakable marks. Mr. Latter’s fresh skin showed no lines that were not pleasant ones. There were the puckers which laughter leaves about the eyes, and the moulding which it gives to the lips. Whatever the trouble was, it was quite recent. She smiled and said,

‘What can I do for you?’

Jimmy Latter was wondering why he had come, and how he could get away. The smile changed the direction of his thoughts. Nice little woman, friendly little woman. Comfortable. Nice comfortable room. Rather jolly pictures. He remembered that one over the mantelpiece, hanging in Mrs. Mercer’s drawing-room as far back as when he and Minnie were children. Something about this little woman that reminded him of Minnie. Nice quiet way with her—didn’t rush you. Only of course older. He said,

‘Well, I don’t know—I mean, I don’t know that there’s anything you can do. I don’t know that there’s anything to be done.’

‘But you have come to see me, Mr. Latter.’

He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

‘Yes—I know—one does things like that, and then when you get there you feel that you are making a fool of yourself.’

The smile came again.

‘Does that matter very much? I shall not think so.’

He said, ‘Oh, well——’ and began to fidget with a bunch of keys he had fished out of his pocket. ‘You see, I heard about you last year from Stella Dundas—she’s a kind of cousin of mine. She couldn’t say enough about you.’

Miss Silver’s needles clicked. Derek’s sock revolved. She held her hands low, knitting with great rapidity in the continental manner.

‘I was very glad to be able to help Mrs. Dundas. It was quite a trifling matter.’

‘Not to her, it wasn’t—she thought a lot of those pearls. She said it was marvellous the way you spotted the thief.’

Miss Silver inclined her head.

‘Have you had something stolen, Mr. Latter?’

‘Well, no, I haven’t.’ He jingled the keys. ‘As a matter of fact it’s something a good bit more serious than that. Look here, if I tell you about it, it will be all in confidence, won’t it?’

Miss Silver gave her slight cough.

‘Naturally, Mr. Latter. That is understood.’

He hesitated, swinging the key-ring to and fro.

‘I suppose you get told some pretty queer things?’

She smiled again.

‘You must not ask me what my other clients say.’

‘Oh, no, of course not—I didn’t mean that. But this isn’t a thing to be talked about. The fact is, I don’t believe it myself, and it worries me. It’s about Lois—my wife. She thinks someone is trying to poison her.’

Miss Silver said, ‘Dear me!’ And then, ‘What makes her think so?’

Jimmy Latter rumpled his hair.

‘Well, it all began with her going to that fellow Memnon. I expect you’ve heard of him.’

Miss Silver coughed disapprovingly and said, ‘Oh, yes.’

‘Well, he told her to beware of poison. But she didn’t think anything about it, you know—not until she began to have these queer attacks.’

‘What kind of attacks?’

He looked very worried indeed, and he sounded worried too.

‘Nausea and retching. She’s never had anything like them before, and they come on just for nothing at all.’

‘Has she seen a doctor?’

‘No—she won’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘She says what’s the use? If there is someone trying to poison her, he can’t stop them—there isn’t anything one can do—well, is there? That’s what she says.’

‘I cannot agree as to that. I should like to hear a little more about these attacks. When did she have the first one?’

‘About a fortnight ago. She’d been up in town, and she went to see this fellow Memnon, and he warned her like I told you. She came back home—we were having a family party. After dinner, when we were all sitting in the drawing-room, she suddenly ran out of the room. She came back again presently, and I didn’t know what had happened until afterwards, but it seems she had been very sick. That was the first time.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘How long was she away from the room?’

Jimmy dropped the keys and bent to pick them up.

‘About a quarter of an hour—not more.’

‘You noticed that particularly?’

‘I always notice when she isn’t there.’

‘And how did she seem when she returned?’

He said with complete simplicity,

‘I thought how beautiful she looked.’

Miss Silver knitted for a moment in silence. Then she enquired,

‘Did anyone see her during the attack?’

‘Oh, yes, Minnie Mercer did—Miss Mercer.’

‘I will ask you to explain your household presently. You say that you were a family party. Just now I would like to know whether Mrs. Latter had anything to eat or drink which the rest of the family did not.’

‘Only the coffee,’ said Jimmy Latter.