“Jack Smith!” he exclaimed.
“Yes—John Warrington Smith—a nephew of mine.”
Looking vaguely past Lindsay, he handed him the card which he had taken out of his pocket-book.
Lindsay took it with a good deal of curiosity. The lettering was old-fashioned, and the names corresponding to the four initials on the case were sufficiently remarkable. The card was inscribed:
MR BENBOW COLLINGWOOD HORATIO SMITH.
Light broke upon Lindsay Trevor. He had shared a study with Jack Smith, and it was in a frame on that study wall that he had seen Mr Smith’s rather striking features. Some kind of a vague idea emerged that Jack Smith’s uncle was rather a big bug in his way—some connection with the Foreign Office—with public events of the first magnitude. He had written a book—yes, that emerged quite clearly—a book in which he had not only forecast the war, but also its social and economic consequences. He rummaged for the title. … The European Problem—yes, that was it—published somewhere about 1910. Only last week Hamilton Raeburn was quoting from it, and Egerton … no, he couldn’t recall what Egerton had said; but whatever it was, it helped to make a background for Mr Benbow Collingwood Horatio Smith.
Mr Smith had by now unfolded the letter which he had taken out of his pocket and put on the second pair of glasses he had been polishing. With the first pair riding above them on his high white brow, he spoke, gazing sometimes at the space above Lindsay’s head, and sometimes, with an effect of not really seeing it, at the paper in his hand.
“If I had to recognize you from a description, this would, I think, be a good one—and yet a description is at the best a mere catalogue.”
He read: “Lindsay Trevor. Height medium—say five foot nine and a half. Slight build. Light brown hair. Light eyebrows and lashes. Eyes grey to hazel. Distinguishing features none. Marks and scars none.”
He glanced up.
“I have a memorandum here. Confirm this.”
He continued to read from the letter: “Voice of medium timbre. Strong facial resemblance to—er—I think that’s all.”
Lindsay felt a vigorous curiosity. The description was an accurate one. But why describe him? He was neither a celebrity nor an absconding criminal. The unfinished sentence was decidedly intriguing. If he bore a strong facial resemblance to some unspecified person, he not unnaturally desired to know who that person was, and why Mr Smith should have stopped short of the name.
Mr Smith did not seem to be going to impart any more information. He folded the letter and put it away in the pocket-book with the initials. Then he held out his hand for his own card and his nephew’s photograph.
“A little puzzling,” he said. “But then you haven’t answered my question.”
All at once there was something immensely serious in the air. Lindsay could not have described it. He had a moment of confused thought such as is apt to follow upon a shock. In the confusion was a mingling of curiosity, excitement, and apprehension, with a hard-running undercurrent of something which threatened to take him off his feet and out of his depth. He did not know what this something was.
Mr Smith was putting away his pocket-book. Lindsay made a movement and spoke.
“I’ve heard of you, sir. Jack and I were at school together—I expect you know that. Why did you ask me that question? Were you serious?”
“Oh, entirely—entirely.” He did not look at Lindsay. “I am a very serious person, and any question I ask is undoubtedly a serious affair.” He paused, and added in a perfectly casual manner, “It might be serious for you.”
“I suppose it would be—if I died.”
It was a laughable thing to say, but Lindsay did not feel like laughing. He felt that current catch him by the feet.
“Yes—yes,” said Mr Smith. And then, after a silence, “You have not answered my question.”
A serious question, seriously asked—would he, Lindsay Trevor, like to die for his country? Theoretically, every decent citizen is prepared to do so—a good many of them did it in the war—Lindsay had taken his chance with the rest for two years. …
It was a long time ago. A junior partner in a publishing firm isn’t really in the running for laurel wreaths. He said so.
Mr Smith nodded.
“Publishing … just so … an adventurous business.”
“Not always.”
“If I had to read some of the books you publish, I should be inclined to welcome death!” said Mr Smith.
Lindsay wondered more than ever what he was driving at.—
“What are you asking me to do?”
“Oh—a job.” He folded his hands on his book and looked up. They were beautiful hands, very white and carefully kept. They looked strong too. “Yes, decidedly a job—for, if we take the definition given in the Oxford Dictionary, a job is—’ a piece of work, especially one done for hire or profit’—the labourer being worthy of his hire, and the profits accruing to the state. The second definition would, I think, have to be inverted. The dictionary gives it as a transaction in which duty is sacrificed to private advantage’; where-as—” he paused, removed the upper of the two pairs of spectacles he was wearing, and balancing them between his thumb and forefinger, continued—“in your case it is your private advantage which you are being asked to sacrifice. The word duty has a highfalutin sound, but—well, there it is.”
Lindsay was watching him closely. He was being played, as an angler plays a fish. The question was, would he allow himself to be played, or would he break the line and make off? He could, naturally, at any time. The fact was, he did not want to. The whole business had a lure, and in other circumstances he would probably have jumped at it. As it was—
“You’re offering me a job of some sort—a dangerous job?”
“Well—” said Mr Smith in non-committal tones.
All at once the line snapped.
“I’m afraid, sir, that I have got a previous engagement.”
Mr Smith swung his spectacles by the bridge.
“Engagement?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” Lindsay hesitated, and then put himself out of temptation’s way. “I’m being married next week, sir.”
The spectacles swung on Mr Smith’s finger. He gazed at them earnestly. After a moment he spoke:
“Ah—yes—married. That is rather a pity—but I suppose you will not think so. May I congratulate the lady?”
“You may congratulate me,” said Lindsay.
“Ah yes—of course,” said Mr Smith.
He put the spectacles away in his waistcoat pocket, picked up the shabby book which he had been reading, and leaning back in his corner, retreated into the classic past. Lindsay could no more have addressed him than he could have addressed the emperor Marcus Aurelius with whom Mr Smith was engaged.
He too sat back in his corner. It was astonishing how hard temptation had tugged at him. A job—a dangerous job. Why? It was just as if the clock had been set back twelve years. His mind filled suddenly with pictures of his two years’ work under Garratt in the Secret Service. The pictures came with such a rush that they ran one into another, quivering, blending, breaking; but each broken bit was astonishingly alive.
Lindsay sat and wondered at himself. If it hadn’t been for Marian …
The train slid into Waterloo station. Mr Smith dropped his shabby brown book into his pocket and drifted out of the carriage in the same way that he had drifted in. On the platform he turned, however, and put out his hand, not in conventional farewell, but in a gesture vague yet arresting.
“If you change your mind—” he murmured.
“I only wish I could.”
The words had spoken themselves. Lindsay had certainly not meant to say them, and he was aware of something like contrition. But Mr Smith had already turned and was making his way down the platform, a tall figure with a certain air of old-world distinction.
Lindsay Trevor watched him go. He had not meant what he had said; it had just slipped out. He put the whole thing
from his mind and tried to realize that by this time next week he and Marian would have been married for nearly two days. It did not seem possible, He went on trying to make it seem possible.
CHAPTER III
THE LETTER CAME NEXT day.
Lindsay woke up to the sound of Poole drawing up the blind. He must have been sleeping more soundly than usual, for, as a rule, if the knock at the door did not rouse him, the firm manner in which Poole put down the tray with his early cup of tea did. The tray was already by his side, and, propped against the edge of it, a letter from Marian Rayne. He hated reading letters in bed, but it was Poole’s habit to pick out Miss Rayne’s letters and bring them in with the tea. He could, of course, have told Poole not to do this; but he was aware that if he did so, he would drop tremendously in his estimation. Sometimes he felt as if living up to Poole was rather a strain. He ran the flat and all that was in it, and there were times when Lindsay suspected that he ran Lindsay Trevor, and times when he wondered how Poole and Marian were going to get on together.
Poole was the perfect servant, but like all perfect servants he had very strong views as to how this perfection should be maintained. He had saved Lindsay’s life twice in the last year of the war, and had looked upon him, respectfully but quite firmly, as his own property ever since.
When he had pulled up the blind, he turned from the window, displaying a pale clean-shaven face, sandy hair rather thin on the top, short sandy lashes, grey eyes, and a rather wooden cast of countenance. He told Lindsay the time and withdrew. In exactly a quarter of an hour Lindsay would hear him turning on the bath water.
Meanwhile Lindsay took a look at the weather, and thought what a beastly day it was—one of those unconvinced sort of fogs that are havering about whether they will turn to rain or settle down into a real peasouper. He thought December was a pretty good month to be getting out of England, and wondered where they would fetch up for Christmas. They hadn’t been able to make up their minds about that.
Then he yawned, stretched, sat up, and reached for Marian Rayne’s letter. It was very light and thin. She usually wrote as she talked, just running on and on. This envelope couldn’t possibly hold more than a single sheet. He felt a little cheated as he switched on his reading-lamp and opened the letter. There was only one sheet, and on that sheet there were only a few blotted lines:
“Lin, I can’t marry you. It’s no use—I can’t. If you love me the least little bit, don’t try and make me change my mind. I can’t do it.
“Marian.”
He read the words, and then he read them again. He read them very slowly. He read them for the third time. Everything seemed to have come to a full stop.
He went on reading the letter, but he couldn’t make himself feel that it had anything to do with Lindsay Trevor. It was like something read in a book. Afterwards it reminded him of trying to read Dutch—if you know English and German, the words all look perfectly clear and plain, and yet you can’t make a page of it mean anything. He couldn’t make Marian’s letter mean anything.
He put it down and drank his tea. Then he took the letter up and began to read it all over again. Marian wasn’t going to marry him; he had hold of the words. But she didn’t say why. She only said, “Lin, I can’t marry you.” Why? She didn’t say why; she just said, “I can’t marry you—I can’t.”
He found that the hand in which he was holding the letter had started to shake a good deal. He tried holding it with the other hand, but it wasn’t any better, so he put the letter down. There is nothing that makes you feel more of a fool than to see your own hand shaking like a bit of rag in the wind.
Then all at once the thing got through to where he could feel it. Marian—Marian wasn’t going to marry him. It had got right through like fire that has been smouldering in a garment and suddenly reaches the
Lindsay sat there with the letter in his hand and the words of it burning themselves slowly into his consciousness—slowly, deeply, surely. The moments slid into minutes, very long minutes. And then, when realization was full, he forced himself to face it.
It was a relief to find that he could think quite clearly. The feeling of shock and pain seemed to be quite separate from his thinking. He looked again at the letter. Marian was not going to marry him. She gave no reason, and he knew of none—he knew of none. Something surged up in him at the word. There are words that touch the springs of agony. No reason—none—none. Other words pressed in through the breach made by this surging something—No more—never. He beat them back, closed down the breach, and turned ordered thought upon the catastrophe.
He had spent the week-end with the Raynes—the house very full, and so not much time alone with Marian; but no quarrel, no coldness—or none of which he had been aware. Marian was pale. He saw her for a moment like that, looking in, as it were, upon the havoc she had made—watching it; a little pale, a little pensive; black hair just pushed from her forehead, black lashes just drooping over grey-green eyes. The impression was startlingly distinct. He went resolutely back to the week-end. She was pale. Mr Rayne had joked about it—“Too many dressmakers!” he said. “Why does a girl want ten times as many dresses as usual just because she’s going to get married? She can’t wear more than one of them at a time—can she?”
It shocked him horribly to realize that he was looking back to the week-end of only two days ago as if it were something far away in the past. He was separated from it by a dim gulf. It was far—it was endlessly far away. It was like a country which one has left behind one long ago.
He got out of bed and put Marian’s letter away in a dispatch-box. As he turned the key, the worst of the stunned feeling went. The fighting thing in him got up, raging. If she thought she could just chuck him over like that without a word—well, he would show her she couldn’t. Half a dozen lines on a blotted sheet. … He would show her. If she’d got a reason, she was damned well going to give him the reason. And, if she hadn’t got a reason—if she hadn’t got a reason. … His thoughts seemed to run slower. If she hadn’t got a reason, wasn’t he well rid of a woman who would break a man’s life for a whim?
He said it, and tried to mean it; but he couldn’t—not at once—not quite at once. This was Tuesday. They were going to have been married on Saturday. … “I can’t marry you, Lin—I can’t.”
He heard the bath water running.
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About the Author
Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1929 by Patricia Wentworth
Cover design by Maurcio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3314-5
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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