Will O’ the Wisp

by Patricia Wentworth

  “It come back to me after you’d gone, all of a sudden-like, when I was dusting. I’d me duster in me hand, and it come over me just like a flash.”

  “Will you tell me about it?” said David patiently.

  Mrs. Perrott began to tell him:

  “You remember Masterson, Mr. David, that was postman before Brooks, and gave up Christmas four years ago and went down Bournemouth way to a daughter that was married to a wheelwright?”

  David said he remembered Masterson.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Perrott in her slow, even tones, “I was dusting me hyacinths, and I suppose it was they put me in mind of Masterson. His wife couldn’t abide the smell of them, so he never raised any. But he always noticed mine, and when they come into bloom he used to go through into the sitting-room a-purpose to sniff at them. He used to say he liked a real good scent that you didn’t have to guess at. So I suppose it was seeing the buds on my hyacinths made me think of him, and then it all come back.”

  “Yes?” said David in an encouraging voice. He had known Mrs. Perrott for twenty-five years, and he knew that when she started to tell a story she had to be let alone to tell it her own way.

  “I was quite took aback,” said Mrs. Perrott comfortably. She settled herself in her chair and crossed her arms. “It come over me as plain as plain. Masterson he come in with the afternoon post-bag, and he lumps it down on the counter, and he says to me, ‘Missis,’ he says, ‘I hopes as you haven’t no letters that’s any way special this afternoon, because I’m fair done.’ And sure enough he did look bad. Well, I opened the bag, and there were half a dozen things that were no matter if the people didn’t get them for a month o’ Sundays—and so I told him. And then, at the bottom of the bag, if there wasn’t a letter for you, Mr. David! Well, I looked at it, and I saw that it was foreign—Cape Town was the postmark—same as you was asking about. Well, when I saw that, I said, ‘This one’ll have to go up to Ford, whether or no.’ And poor old Masterson he catches hold of the counter and he says, ‘Missis, I’m done!’ It fair gave me a turn the way he said it.”

  “Well?” said David.

  Mrs. Perrott heaved a large sigh.

  “Well it was in the end, but it gave me a turn at the time. I got him into a chair and I give him a drink, and by-and-by he come round a bit. And then I began to think about the letter, and it come to me as I’d take it up to Ford myself and let Masterson mind the shop. Etta was away staying with her mother’s sister that spoils her so.”

  “You took the letter yourself?”

  David felt that unless he spoke quickly he would probably have to listen to the life-history of Etta’s mother’s sister.

  Mrs. Perrott was recalled to her tale.

  “I took it,” she said. “I put on me hat and I went up across the fields, and, my goodness, wasn’t it hot! I didn’t wonder as Masterson—”

  David interrupted her.

  “Hot!” he exclaimed.

  Mrs. Perrott nodded.

  “The heat was that heavy I was pretty near melted. If I hadn’t had my numbrella, I don’t know what I should have done.”

  “Hot!” repeated David. “In December, Mrs. Perrott?”

  “I didn’t say nothing about December, Mr. David. It was September—the last week of September, and as hot as an oven on baking-day.”

  “September!”

  “Last week of September.”

  David pulled out his pocket-book, extracted the receipt, and pushed it across to Mrs. Perrott. She picked it up and looked at it, a puzzled frown gathering on her large placid face. She read, “December the seventh,” and repeated the words twice over. In the end she said firmly:

  “September it was, and there’s no getting from it.”

  “Then it wasn’t this letter,” said David.

  “Seems as if it couldn’t ha’ been,” Mrs. Perrott agreed.

  David’s thoughts were racing. He had not received any South African letter in the latter part of 1922; the last communication from the Cape Town solicitor had reached him in June. If Mrs. Perrott remembered a letter with the Cape Town postmark in September—in the last week in September—The words broke off in his mind. The thought broke off. Other words came—Erica’s first letter; not the second one which she had registered, but that first one, posted in September.

  Again the thought broke. Heather Down hadn’t said when that first letter was posted; but if the second one was registered on December 7th after Erica had waited in vain for a reply, that would certainly put the first letter somewhere in September. How long would she wait before she wrote again? Two months certainly, perhaps three—probably somewhere between two and three months. September—yes, the first letter might have come to Fordwick post office on that hot day in the last week of September. Once again, and with the same sense of shock, it came to David that he was believing Heather Down—he was accepting her account of the letters as true.

  All this passed very quickly whilst Mrs. Perrott was fingering the faded receipt. She looked up from it now and repeated slowly: “It seems as if it couldn’t ha’ been this one.”

  “Mrs. Perrott,” said David earnestly, “go back to that hot day you were telling me about. Just put yourself right back there and go over what happened. You took the letter out of the bag, and you saw that it was addressed to me. Can you remember anything about the writing on the envelope?”

  Mrs. Perrott shut her eyes.

  “The bag was on the counter, just about here.” She reached out a groping hand. “An’ I put my hand in and felt around, and out come the letter. Yes, that was it—one of those longish envelopes like bills come in—white—yes, it were a white envelope. That’s come back to me quite plain, that it were white.”

  “Was it registered?” The question came quick and low.

  Mrs. Perrott opened her eyes in surprise.

  “Why, if I hadn’t clean forgotten that it was a registry letter you was asking about! Well, that settles it—don’t it?”

  “It wasn’t registered?”

  “Oh no,” said Mrs. Perrott. She looked vexed. “To think of me being so stupid, now! I can’t think what’s come to me or what made me think it was, and I’m sure I’m sorry to have troubled you for nothing.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t troubled me for nothing,” said David. “Will you go on and tell me just what happened after you said you’d take the letter for Masterson?”

  “There isn’t anything more to tell,” said Mrs. Perrott, in a flustered, disappointed manner. “I’m sure I’m that vexed at being so stupid—and however I done it I can’t think.” She pushed the receipt across the counter. “Here’s your paper, sir, and I’m sure I’m very sorry.”

  David took up the receipt and put it away in his pocket-book.

  “Don’t you bother about that, Mrs. Perrott. You took the letter for Masterson and you went up to Ford with it. And when you got to the house, I hope they gave you a cup of tea after your walk. Did they? And can you remember who you gave the letter to?”

  Mrs. Perrott blinked at him.

  “Well, to be sure, if that isn’t kind! And I’m sure Mrs. Williams and me is always the best of friends, and many’s the cup of tea I’ve had with her, and she with me.”

  “Did you give the letter to Mrs. Williams?”

  “’Twould ha’ been to Williams I’d ha’ given it if I’d ha’ got to the house, because, seeing I’d come up with a letter, I should ha’ gone to the front door with it.”

  “Well, didn’t you?”

  “I should ha’ done if I’d got so far as the house. But being such a hot afternoon, I was glad enough to be saved the quarter of a mile.”

  “You didn’t go up to the house?”

  “Not when there wasn’t no need to, though any other time I’d ha’ been pleased enough to see Mrs. Williams.”

  David very nearly banged on the counter.

  “Mrs. Perrott, for the Lord’s sake, what did you do with that letter?”

  Mrs. Perrott stared at
him in rebuke. She didn’t hold with young gentlemen losing their tempers. She said, in a dignified, offended tone:

  “Some might say that I done wrong; but my own feeling was as how I ought to get back to poor old Masterson just as quick as ever I could, and I took Miss Betty for a godsend, and no mistake.”

  “Miss Betty!”

  “Mrs. Lester, I should say.” Mrs. Perrott was still on her dignity.

  “Did you give the letter to my sister?”

  “I give it to Mrs. Lester,” said Mrs. Perrott, relaxing a little. “And I’m sure I took her for a godsend, as I said. I was that hot with hurrying, and when I see Miss Betty coming down the drive and out of the gate, I just took and give her the letter and got home again as quick as I could.”

  There was a pause. Then David said:

  “You’re quite sure you gave the letter to Mrs. Lester?”

  “I’m certain sure—Gospel certain sure, Mr. David.”

  David straightened himself up very slowly.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Perrott,” he said in rather an odd voice. “I’m sorry if I was impatient just now, but the letter was such a very important one. Of course”—he half turned to go, and spoke without looking at her—“of course the letter you gave Mrs. Lester wasn’t the one I was inquiring about.”

  “Seems it couldn’t ha’ been,” said Mrs. Perrott in her easy voice.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  David drove slowly up to Ford. Twice in as many days someone had dipped into the tangle of his affairs, pulled out a thread, and laid it in his hand. Folly’s thread and Mrs. Perrott’s thread both led to Betty. That the two threads were entirely disconnected made the coincidence just a trifle startling.

  David was not in a position to disregard anything that might either substantiate or discredit the statements made to him by Heather Down. Heather Down said that there had been two letters, of which the second was posted in Cape Town on December 7th, 1922; and she supported this statement with the documentary evidence of a post office receipt. Mrs. Perrott declared positively that a South African letter with the Cape Town postmark had arrived at Fordwick post office during the last week of September, ’22, and that this letter had been delivered to Betty.

  David left his car at the front door and went into the house in a puzzled, troubled mood. He found Betty at the writing-table in her sitting-room. There was a paper before her with rows of figures on it. This much David saw, and then she pushed a sheet of blotting-paper over it and swung round in her chair with a startled exclamation:

  “David! I hadn’t an idea you were coming down!”

  “Nor had I,” said David.

  He was wondering if those long columns of figures had anything to do with Francis Lester’s affairs. If they represented his debts, there seemed to be plenty of them. He frowned, and noted that Betty was flushed and undeniably cross.

  “I do wish you’d let me know when you’re coming! Your room’s not ready or anything. Of course men never think of such a thing—but in this weather mattresses require to be aired.”

  “Who do you suppose airs the mattress I sleep on in town? Anyhow, I’m not staying—I’ve far too much on hand.”

  “You’re always away now,” said Betty fretfully. “I’m sure I wish I could afford to be away as much as you are. One might as well be buried alive as be down here by oneself in the winter. And really, David, I think you might let me know when you’re coming. I don’t suppose there’s anything for lunch, and it puts the servants out so.”

  “I shan’t be here for lunch.” David’s tone was dry. It was occurring to him that, after all, he was the master of the house, and not a rather tiresome guest, as anyone might have supposed from Betty’s tone.

  “What on earth have you come down for?” said Betty. “You haven’t—there’s nothing wrong, is there? Not—not Francis?”

  “Good Lord, no!” What on earth should be wrong with the fellow? What an ass Betty was about him!

  “It’s so startling your turning up like this. I do think you might let me know!”

  “I’ve come down on business. I want to know if you can help me about it.”

  It was extraordinarily difficult to begin, extraordinarily difficult to put the matter in a way which would not give Betty cause for offence—it was so easy to offend Betty, and so hard to placate her. David made an effort and plunged:

  “I’ve just been told of two very important letters which never reached me.”

  Betty flushed.

  “I’m sure I always send on everything as soon as it comes. I’m most particular about it. You’d better go and talk to Mrs. Perrott. She’s a lazy, careless old thing, and no more fit to run a post office—”

  “The letters I mean ought to have reached me more than four years ago.”

  Betty jerked back her chair and got up.

  “Good gracious! What old history! I shouldn’t have thought any letter was worth worrying about after four years.”

  She went over to the sofa that stood in the window and began to shake up the cushions with her back to David.

  Suddenly and irrelevantly he remembered that it was the click of this window which Folly had heard when she stood barefoot in the dark hall with the house asleep behind her; and, in this room without a light, whispering about him and his affairs, Betty—Betty and Francis Lester.

  He was silent for long enough to make Betty turn and look at him. Her odd, uneasy expression made him say quickly:

  “The letters were so important that I’m bound to try and trace them. I’ve come down to-day because Mrs. Perrott wrote and said she remembered something about one of them. She says she remembers a letter with the Cape Town postmark coming for me one day in the last week of September, ’22.”

  Betty laughed scornfully.

  “My dear David, how on earth could she possibly remember one letter out of hundreds—and all those years ago? It’s perfectly ridiculous!”

  “There weren’t hundreds of letters from South Africa. And she remembers this one because old Masterson was taken ill after he brought her the post-bag, and she started to take the letter up to the house herself.”

  “And dropped it in a ditch on the way, I suppose!” said Betty with another laugh.

  She had half turned back towards the window, and stood against the end of the settee idly turning and poking one of the fat pink cushions. The room was all rather too pink for David’s taste—too garlanded, too floral. The bright rose-colour was very unbecoming to Betty’s sandy hair and Betty’s lines.

  “I suppose she dropped the letter. One doesn’t like to say so.”

  Betty’s repetition of the phrase roused David to speech. He said slowly and heavily:

  “Mrs. Perrott says she gave the letter to you.”

  “To me!” said Betty. Her voice rose sharply. “My dear David!”

  “She says she met you just inside the gates and gave you the letter.”

  Betty picked up the pink cushion and dropped it again.

  “And do you mean to say you believe a word of all that rubbish? As if anyone could remember one letter nearly five years afterwards! The whole thing’s too ridiculous for words! What do you think I did with it if she gave it to me?”

  “I don’t know. You might have put it down somewhere and forgotten it. You might—half a dozen things might have happened. Betty—the letter was so important that I’m bound to ask you if you can’t remember something about it.”

  Betty’s manner changed. Without looking at him, she asked:

  “Who was it from?”

  David hesitated, then plunged again.

  “It was from my wife.”

  “Oh!” said Betty with a sort of gasp. “Your—David! What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone because I thought she was dead—I thought she was drowned. Now I am told she is alive. I am told she wrote me those two letters in the autumn of ’22. I never got either of them.”

  He looked at Betty as he spoke. He could see only the back
of her neck and part of an averted cheek. Both neck and cheek were crimson.

  “Who—told—you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “Who told you she was alive?”

  “There was an advertisement.”

  “Who told you about the letters? There wasn’t anything about them—”

  “In the advertisement? No, there wasn’t, was there? Look here, Betty, what do you know about all this? What do you know about the advertisement?”

  “I—I read it.”

  She had turned round now and was staring at David.

  David came towards her with a look on his face which she had never seen there before.

  “Tell me what you know about it. Tell me at once. Do you hear? Tell me!”

  He had her by the shoulders. The heavy grip, the look on his face, made a stranger of him. She flinched and burst out crying.

  “Don’t look at me like that! You’re hurting me—oh, you’re hurting me!”

  “I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me,” said David in a low, steady voice.

  “I will—I will. David, let go! Oh, you’re hurting me!”

  He let go and stood back as she dropped into the corner of the sofa sobbing. He was full of the shuddering rage of a man betrayed on his own hearth. He stood back from Betty because he could not trust his hands. He was in horror of himself and of her. Betty and Francis plotting against him in this damned pink room! There was a frieze of roses with the heavy heads of bloom dropping down the white paper; there were wreaths of pink and crimson roses on the Aubusson carpet; roses crawled on the chintz of every chair, and the fat pink cushions bulged on top of them. Francis and Betty had stood here whispering in the dark!

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  The silence lasted so long that Betty stopped crying. Her sense of injury and self-pity passed into cold, constraining fear. David hadn’t moved at all; he stood with his hands clenched looking past her. It was David, whom she had never been afraid of in her life; and she was so much afraid that she could not speak. The ticking of the old gilt clock on the mantelpiece seemed to grow louder and louder.

  Betty sat huddled up in the sofa corner just as she had fallen when David thrust her away. The pink cushion that should have been behind her shoulders had slipped sideways and was crunched up under her right elbow. She wanted to move it to shift her position, but the cold fear held her motionless.