Читать книгу Blue Hand - Edgar Wallace - Страница 9

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THE first few days of her engagement were very trying to Eunice Weldon.

Mrs. Groat did not overwork her, indeed Eunice’s complaint was that the old woman refused to give her any work at all. On the third day at breakfast she spoke on the matter to Digby Groat.

“I’m afraid I am not very much use here, Mr. Groat,” she said; “it is a sin to take your money.”

“Why?” he asked quickly.

“Your mother prefers to write her own letters,” she said, “and really those don’t seem to be very many!”

“Nonsense,” he said sharply, and seeing that he had startled the girl he went on in a much gentler tone: “You see, my mother is not used to service of any kind. She’s one of those women who prefer to do things for themselves, and she has simply worn herself to a shadow because of this independence of hers. There are hundreds of jobs that she could give you to do! You must make allowance for old women, Miss Weldon. They take a long time to work up confidence in strangers.”

“I realize that,” she nodded.

“Poor mother is rather bewildered by her own magnificence,” he smiled, “but I am sure when she gets to know you you will find your days very fully occupied.”

He left the morning-room and went straight into his mother’s little parlour, and found her in her dressing-room crouching over a tiny fire. He closed the door carefully and walked across to her and she looked up with a little look of fear in her eyes.

“Why aren’t you giving this girl work to do?” he asked sharply.

“There’s nothing for her to do,” she wailed. “My dear, she is such an expense, and I don’t like her.”

“You’ll give her work to do from to-day,” he said, “and don’t let me tell you again!”

“She’ll only spy on me,” said Mrs. Groat fretfully, “and I never write letters, you know that. I haven’t written a letter for years until you made me write that note to the lawyer.”

“You’ll find work for her to do,” repeated Digby Groat. “Do you understand? Get all the accounts that we’ve had for the past two years, and let her sort them out and make a list of them. Give her your bank account. Let her compare the cheques with the counterfoils. Give her anything. Damn you! You don’t want me to tell you every day, do you?”

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it, Digby,” she said hurriedly. “You’re very hard on me, my boy. I hate this house,” she said with sudden vehemence. “I hate the people in it. I looked into her room this morning and it is like a palace. It must have cost us thousands of pounds to furnish that room, and all for a work-girl—it is sinful!”

“Never mind about that,” he said. “Find something to occupy her time for the next fortnight.”

The girl was surprised that morning when Mrs. Groat sent for her.

“I’ve one or two little tasks for you, miss——I never remember your name.”

“Eunice,” said the girl, smiling.

“I don’t like the name of Eunice,” grumbled the old woman. “The last one was Lola! A foreign girl. I was glad when she left. Haven’t you got another name?”

“Weldon is my other name,” said the girl good-humouredly, “and you can call me ‘Weldon’ or ‘Eunice’ or anything you like, Mrs. Groat.”

The old woman sniffed.

She had in front of her a big drawer packed with cheques which had come back from the bank.

“Go through these,” she said, “and do something with them. I don’t know what.”

“Perhaps you want me to fasten them to the counterfoils,” said the girl.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” said Mrs. Groat. “You don’t want to do it here, do you? Yes, you’d better do it here,” she went on hastily. “I don’t want the servants prying into my accounts.”

Eunice put the drawer on the table, gathered together the stubs of the cheque books, and with a little bottle of gum began her work, the old woman watching her.

When, for greater comfort, the girl took off the gold wristwatch which she wore, a present from her dead father, Mrs. Groat’s greedy eyes focussed upon it and a look of animation came into the dull face.

It looked like being a long job, but Eunice was a methodical worker, and when the gong in the hall sounded for lunch, she had finished her labours.

“There, Mrs. Groat,” she said with a smile, “I think that is the lot. All your cheques are here.”

She put away the drawer and looked round for her watch, but it had disappeared. It was at that moment that Digby Groat opened the door and walked in.

“Hullo, Miss Weldon,” he said with his engaging smile. “I’ve come back for lunch. Did you hear the gong, mother? You ought to have let Miss Weldon go.”

But the girl was looking round.

“Have you lost anything?” asked Digby quickly.

“My little watch. I put it down a few minutes ago, and it seems to have vanished,” she said.

“Perhaps it is in the drawer,” stammered the old woman, avoiding her son’s eye.

Digby looked at her for a moment, then turned to Eunice.

“Will you please ask Jackson to order my car for three o’clock?” he asked gently.

He waited until the door closed behind the girl and then:

“Where is that watch?” he asked.

“The watch, Digby?” quavered the old woman.

“The watch, curse you!” he said, his face black with rage.

She put her hand into her pocket reluctantly and produced it.

“It was so pretty,” she snivelled, and he snatched it from her hand.

A minute later Eunice returned.

“We have found your watch,” he said with a smile. “You had dropped it under the table.”

“I thought I’d looked there,” she said. “It is not a valuable watch, but it serves a double purpose.”

She was preparing to put it on.

“What other purpose than to tell you the time?” asked Digby.

“It hides a very ugly scar,” she said, and extended her wrist. “Look.” She pointed to a round red mark, the size of a sixpence. It looked like a recent burn.

“That’s queer,” said Digby, looking, and then he heard a strangled sound from his mother. Her face was twisted and distorted, her eyes were glaring at the girl’s wrist.

“Digby, Digby!” Her voice was a thin shriek of sound. “Oh, my God!”

And she fell across the table and before he could reach her, had dropped to the floor in an inert heap.

Digby stooped over his mother and then turned his head slowly to the frightened girl.

“It was the scar on your hand that did it,” he said slowly. “What does it mean?”