Hole and Corner

by Patricia Wentworth

  The only thing she could do now was to take her courage in both hands and ring up Revelston Crescent. She could disguise her voice—at least she hoped she could—and if Anthony was there, she would just say, “Don’t do anything at all until you have seen me again.” Perhaps she might say, “Something else has turned up.” She didn’t see how it could do any harm to say that. Anthony was as quick as lightning—he would know what she meant.

  She got through very quickly to Revelston Crescent, and it was Bessie Wood who answered the telephone. Shirley knew her quiet, toneless voice at once—quite different from Possett’s agitated bleat. She tried to make her own voice sound elderly and fat as she asked for Mr Leigh.

  Bessie Wood held the receiver a little away from her and bit her lip. The telephone was in the hall. At certain hours of the day it was her duty to answer it, and if necessary to switch the caller through to the extension in Mrs Huddleston’s bedroom or the drawing-room. After eleven o’clock the telephone usually stayed switched through to the drawing-room until it was time for Mrs Huddleston’s rest. She had been a bit later than usual this morning, and Mr Leigh was in there with her now. And here was this voice asking for him. Well, that was a bit of an odd start, wasn’t it? Mr Leigh was supposed to be out of town for the week-end. He had given her the surprise of her life when he walked in not five minutes ago. Her eyes went to the fern in its ornamental pot on the hall table. It was a good hiding-place, and there was nothing to connect her with it whatever happened. The emeralds she had hidden under the fern were perfectly safe, and so was she.

  She felt a thrumming in the receiver as she held it away from her. A faint ghostly thread of a voice said “Mr Leigh,” and all at once she knew whose voice it was. She hadn’t anything to go by, but she was quite sure it was Miss Dale who was ringing up. She put the mouth-piece to her lips and said in her toneless voice,

  “I beg your pardon?”

  In the telephone-box at the Station Hotel Shirley mumbled,

  “Is that 15 Revelston Crescent? Is Mr Leigh there? I want to speak to him.”

  Bessie’s voice came back to her without hesitation.

  “Oh no, ma’am, Mr Leigh isn’t here. Can I take a message?”

  A giggle caught in Shirley’s throat. What sort of message could she leave for Anthony? Suppose she said, “Shirley Dale speaking. Please tell Mr Leigh that I’ve got Mrs Huddleston’s emeralds, and will he please come and fetch them at once.” It would be so nice and simple if she only could. What would Bessie do—scream and tell the police, or just say politely “Very well, miss—is that all?” What was the good of thinking about it? She couldn’t possibly leave a message for Anthony.

  She said, “No, there’s no message,” and rang off.

  As Bessie hung up the receiver, Anthony Leigh opened the drawing-room door and looked out.

  “Mrs Huddleston wanted to know who was ringing up,” he said. She turned, quite cool and glib.

  “Just a wrong number, sir—someone wanting a Mrs Bartholomew.”

  Shirley felt quite distracted. What on earth was Anthony doing? If he wasn’t at his chambers, or at Revelston Crescent, where was he? Somewhere between the two, she supposed—and how on earth was she going to get hold of him? If she hadn’t been hiding from the police, she could have left a message and the telephone number of the hotel and asked him to ring her up as soon as he arrived. But if she did that, Bessie would tell Mrs Huddleston, and Mrs Huddleston would tell the police, and the next thing that happened would be a Ledlington policeman coming to arrest her. And how was anyone going to believe that she hadn’t stolen the emeralds if they were found in her suit-case—no, Anthony’s suit-case? They would probably think that she had stolen his pyjamas as well. No, the only thing she could do now was to wait in this blighted hotel until Anthony came. After all, he had promised to try and get down to lunch. It was eleven o’clock—no, it must be about ten past by now. Suppose he didn’t reach Revelston Crescent till half past.… That was nonsense—he must get there before that. Well, suppose he didn’t. How long would it take him to soothe Mrs Huddleston?… She dismissed several gloomy estimates, and decided that he wouldn’t let it take more than an hour because of coming down to fetch her. If he got away at half-past twelve, he would be here by two, and if he really trod on the gas, it might be any time after half-past one.

  She pushed open the door of the telephone-box and bent to pick up the suit-case. Voices reached her from a half open bedroom door. There were two girls on the other side of it. She heard the sound of a bed being moved. One of the girls said with a giggle and a strong local drawl,

  “What would you do if the police was after you, Vi’let?”

  Another, shriller voice said,

  “Go on! What are you talking about?”

  The first girl giggled again.

  “They’ll get her all right—the police have got a clue. You know—that girl that’s in all the headlines. She had a nerve, I don’t think. Walked off as bold as brass with the stuff in a suit-case, and not her suit-case neither. They say there’s a man mixed up with it. The Sunday papers are full of it. I got a chance at the News of the World while 17 was having his bath.”

  “You’ll be getting us into a row talking like that with the door open,” said the second girl.

  The door banged.

  Shirley clutched the brass handle of the door of the telephone-box with one hand and Anthony’s suit-case with the other. Her feet and hands were cold, and her forehead was wet.

  It was a frightful thing to have a guilty conscience. She hadn’t seen the Sunday papers, and therefore knew nothing about the mysterious affair of the Disappearing Typist and the Missing Bearer Bonds. She tiptoed out of the telephone-box and past the bedroom door. At the top of the stairs she made herself stand still. She had got to get away. She hadn’t left anything in her room, but Anthony’s treasury notes were pinned to the elastic of her knickers. She couldn’t unpin them here or in the office, and she had got to unpin them before she could pay her bill—and to run away without paying her bill would be asking for trouble.

  She went back to her room, detached two pound notes, and then descended the stairs feeling horribly cold and sick. Suppose they wouldn’t let her go. Suppose they pretended to let her go and sent a policeman after her. Suppose they searched the suit-case …

  None of these things happened. She paid her bill, put the change in her jumper pocket, and walked out of the hotel.

  The Station Hotel has two entrances, one upon the station yard and the other upon Albert Road. Shirley came out into Albert Road. Facing her across the way was one of those small crowded shops which sell sweets, tobacco, and newspapers. In the middle of a Sunday morning, when all other shops were closed, this one had an open door. It also had a row of posters with starting headlines. Shirley only saw one of them. If seemed to leap at her as she came down the steps. It said in big black letters:

  DISAPPEARING GIRL. IMPORTANT CLUE.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bessie Wood might have felt surprised when she opened the door and admitted Mr Anthony Leigh, who was supposed to be away in the country for the week-end, but her face remained as passive and uninterested as usual. That was one of the things that had made her so useful to Ted—no matter what happened, she could keep a straight face and not let on that she so much as noticed there was anything to get upset about. She hung up Anthony’s hat and coat, and saw him go through to the drawing-room with an indifferent eye, yet behind this appearance of calm she was both angry and frightened. Mr Leigh must have been sent for, and that Possett must have known that he had been sent for. Mrs Huddleston would never have put through a trunk call herself—a deal too much trouble for her. Possett must have done it for her, and Possett must have known he was coming back, and she’d kept a close mug about it, damn her!

  Bessie wondered whether Mrs Huddleston suspected her. If she didn’t suspect Shirley Dale, she was bound to suspect Bessie Wood. Well, if there wasn’t any risk about the j
ob, Al Phillips wouldn’t be paying her a hundred pounds for doing it. It was a bit awkward Mr Anthony turning up like this. It was as plain as the nose on your face that he was in love with Miss Dale. Meant her no good most likely, but he wouldn’t want her to go to prison till he was finished with her.

  She stood there frowning at the drawing-room door. Things weren’t going just the way they’d planned them. Mr Leigh was to have been out of the way until the girl was safe in stir. Once the police had their hands on her, it’d be too late for Mr Anthony to get his aunt to call the show off. But it wasn’t going right. The girl had gone off into the blue, and here was Mr Anthony shoving his oar in. She made a small clicking sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. And then the telephone bell rang and Shirley’s call came through.

  All the time the call was going on she was getting more and more sure that it was Miss Dale on the line, and if it was, she had got to find out where she was speaking from. But here again things went wrong. First Mrs Huddleston wanting to know who was calling, and sending Mr Anthony to find out. And then Cook coming half way up the back stair to ask if she’d taken in a parcel of groceries last night, because if she had, where had she put them, and if she hadn’t, they were clean out of coffee, and Mr Anthony staying to lunch as like as not.

  By the time she got back to the telephone and on to Trunks nobody seemed to have the least idea where the call had come from. She put the receiver gently back on its hook and went downstairs with rage in her heart and an expression of dull indifference on her face.

  In the drawing-room Anthony was receiving a series of shocks. Mrs Huddleston’s diamond brooch was no longer in his pocket, because at the moment of stooping over the sofa to kiss her, he had pushed it down as far as it would go between the padded back and the equally padded seat. There was a space quite six inches deep into which the loose cover was tucked, and it seemed to him an admirable way of disposing of Aunt Agnes’ diamonds. Pleased and exhilarated, he drew up a chair and sat down.

  Mrs Huddleston instantly prepared for the first blow by sniffing at a new and very powerful bottle of smelling salts and then dabbing at the resulting tears with one of those handkerchiefs edged with Honiton lace which used to be showered upon Victorian brides.

  “Oh, my dear boy—such a shock!”

  “Has anything happened, Aunt Agnes?”

  “Such a terrible shock!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “That wicked, wicked girl!” said Mrs Huddleston with sudden energy.

  So far the conversation reminded Anthony of one of those duets in which each of the singers has different words and a different tune and just goes on perseveringly with his own part. He had to wait for a lead, because officially he was completely in the dark.

  “What wicked girl, Aunt Agnes?” he inquired with no more than a fleeting frown.

  Mrs Huddleston sniffed against the handkerchief.

  “It only shows that you can’t trust anyone. I couldn’t, couldn’t have believed it.”

  “What couldn’t you believe?”

  “I’m forced to,” said Mrs Huddleston with a fine gloomy stare.

  “My dear, if I had the slightest idea what you were talking about—”

  “I’ve always been far too foolishly trusting—your poor uncle always said so. And I never really liked the girl. I remember saying so to Possett right at the very beginning when she first came to me—”

  “When Possett first came to you?”

  Mrs Huddleston waved that away with a sweep of the hand. Three diamond rings flashed in the firelight.

  “No, no, not Possett—Miss Dale. And I wish you would go and ask Bessie who that is ringing up. If it’s the police and they’ve arrested her—”

  Anthony went out into the hall, glad of an excuse to hide his face. He thought his Aunt Agnes the silliest woman in England, but generally speaking he had an affection for her. Just at this moment it would have given him the greatest possible pleasure to shake her till her teeth rattled in her head.

  It wouldn’t help Shirley if his feelings showed in his face. He came back and sat down again.

  “It was only a wrong number. What’s all this about Miss Dale? You haven’t told me what’s happened yet.”

  She began to tell him in detail. Nothing so exciting had happened to her for years—a thief in her own household, her jewellery stolen, the police called in. She meant to extract the ultimate thrill from all these things. The smelling-salts were kept in action. Tears of sensibility flowed. The Honiton lace handkerchief was pressed against long dark lashes.

  Anthony let her run on until she stopped for breath. Then he said firmly,

  “But it couldn’t possibly be Miss Dale, Aunt Agnes.”

  “She put the brooch on the mantelpiece,” moaned Mrs Huddleston. “She told me it was hanging crooked, and when I gave it to her to look at she said the catch was damaged. I expect it was all part of the plot really. And I told her to put it on the mantelpiece, and when Possett came in it was gone.”

  “It must be somewhere in the room. It’s impossible that Miss Dale can have taken it. Have you looked for it? Anyone may have moved it, or it may have fallen down. Where have you looked?”

  “Everywhere,” said Mrs Huddleston with a despairing gesture. “It was the first thing I said. And Possett is so thorough. She and Bessie have had the carpet up and all the covers off, and there wasn’t a sign of anything at all.”

  Anthony felt himself blenching.

  He said, “What covers?”—just like that, quite baldly, and Mrs Huddleston explained with her usual wealth of detail.

  “The sofa cover, and all the chairs. Such pretty stuff, don’t you think? Possett saw it last year at Barker’s sale, and she came home quite excited about it and said if I would buy the stuff she would try her hand at making the covers. And they turned out so well—quite professional.”

  Anthony gazed in horror at the faint die-away pattern of the chintz which covered the sofa. He was not concerned with its æsthetic aspect. He was realizing that he had made a most horrible bloomer. If Possett had really had that cover off this morning, he wasn’t going to be able to persuade Aunt Agnes that the diamond brooch had been lurking there all the time. Unfortunately it was lurking there at this moment, and he couldn’t see any way of getting hold of it again. To be sure, its presence there would exonerate Shirley, but he didn’t want to get Possett into trouble. He said, in a tone that he hoped was firm,

  “It must be somewhere.”

  “Not in this house,” said Mrs Huddleston with as much dramatic intensity as if she had been playing Lady-Macbeth. “That wicked, wicked girl took it away in her pocket, and as likely as not everything’s been melted down, or broken up, or whatever it is they do with jewellery when they steal it and don’t want it to be traced.”

  Anthony leaned forward.

  “Aunt Agnes—why are you connecting Miss Dale with all this? It’s quite impossible that she can have anything to do with it.”

  She stared at him with the angry tears running down her face.

  “Then where is she? Can you tell me that? The police went round to her rooms at once, and they didn’t know anything about her there. She hadn’t come in—and she didn’t come in, for I rang up the police this morning on purpose to find out. She never came in at all. And what do you think of that?”

  Anthony smiled his most ingratiating smile.

  “Why, that she had gone out of town for the weekend. Thousands of people do it, you know, and they haven’t all been stealing diamond brooches. I do it myself.”

  “But you don’t go away without any luggage,” said Mrs Huddleston with an indignant sob.

  “How do you know she went away without any luggage?”

  “Oh, my dear boy! Of course it was the very first thing the police asked the landlady—I should have thought, being a barrister, you would have known that—and she hasn’t taken so much as her toothbrush.”

  “It’s always possible to
buy a toothbrush if you have a sudden invitation and want to catch a train. I’ve done that too. You know, Aunt Agnes, you’ve got to be careful about this—you don’t want to be run in for defamation of character. Miss Dale is perfectly free to go away for the week-end when she’s finished with her job here. When did she leave, by the way?”

  “Six o’clock,” said Mrs Huddleston, dabbing her eyes. “I remember the clock struck while she was looking up Mildred Hathaway’s number, and she seemed quite impatient to get off. I thought it very inconsiderate of her at the time, because she knows how anything like a hurry upsets me. I remember it was the thing Dr Pocklington always impressed on me—‘Don’t hurry—never hurry—take things quietly.’”

  Anthony forgot to be tactful. This Saturday afternoon business had riled him for a long time.

  “Well, most girls expect to get off at one o’clock on Saturdays,” he said crisply.

  “So terribly selfish,” sighed Mrs Huddleston.

  He let that pass.

  “Well, if she didn’t leave here till six or a little bit after, and she had any sort of date in the country, she probably had to leg it for her train and hadn’t any time to go home first.”

  “Date?” said Mrs Huddleston faintly, but with a gleam of curiosity.

  “Appointment,” emended Anthony—“engagement—anything you like.”

  Mrs Huddleston repeated the original word.

  “Date,” she said—“date? Oh no, my dear boy—if she had any, what do you call it, date at all, it was with a receiver who was going to get rid of the jewellery for her.”

  Twice during this conversation she had used a phrase which had puzzled Anthony. The word jewellery puzzled him now. Is one diamond brooch jewellery? He did not find himself anxious to investigate the puzzle. He took a mental shy at it and went on.

  “Then why didn’t she go home after the assignation?”

  She cast her eyes to the ceiling.

  “Don’t ask me why that sort of girl does anything. She probably knew the game was up and thought she would get away whilst she could. She must have got a lot of money for the emeralds.”