Wicked Uncle

by Patricia Wentworth

  “I’ve got a sitting-room of my own.”

  It was across the passage from her bedroom, next to the nursery on the third floor. Except that the ceiling was lower, it was the same size and shape as Mrs. Oakley’s boudoir, and it was quite comfortably furnished, with an electric fire which she could turn on when she wanted to. It was glowing red now and the room was beautifully warm. She thought it must be immediately over the boudoir, but strange houses were difficult until you got your bearings. She began to try and make them out. The boudoir was at the end of a passage on the left, and so was this. She went to the window, dividing the curtains and letting them fall to behind her so as to cut off the light.

  At first she couldn’t see anything at all. Like another curtain, the darkness hung close up to the other side of the glass, but after a little it seemed to get thinner, to melt away, to dissolve into a sort of glimmering dusk. The sky was cloudy, as it had been all day, but somewhere behind the cloud she thought the moon must be up, because now that her eyes had got accustomed to the changed light she could see where the trees cut the sky, and the dark line of the drive, and the gravelled square on which the house stood. This window looked out to the side. Yes, that was the boudoir window just below, and the study underneath that again. Mrs. Oakley had told her she could go there and get herself a book if she wanted to, and that is how she had described it- “At the end of the passage, right underneath this room.” And “this room” was the boudoir.

  She could see that there was a light in the boudoir. A faint rosy glow came through the curtains. The study curtains were red. If there had been a light behind them, she wondered whether it would have filtered through to stain the dusk outside. Perhaps it wouldn’t. The curtains were very thick scarlet velvet with deep pelmets, and the furniture all chromium-plated tubes, except the desk, which was quite comfortable and ordinary.

  She was thinking she would get tired of those surgical-looking chairs and all that scarlet leather, even with a black marble mantelpiece and a black carpet to tone it down, when someone loomed up on the gravel square. One minute he wasn’t there and the next he was. She didn’t see where he came from, she just saw him against the gravel because it was lighter than he was. She couldn’t really see that it was a man, but it never occurred to her for a moment that it wasn’t-something about the outline, something about the way he moved-a quick, thrusting way. He came right up to the study window and turned round and went back again. There was hardly a check, there certainly wasn’t any pause. He went away across the gravel square and over the edge on to the grass, where she lost him. She thought it was very odd.

  As she drew back into the lighted room, Doris came in with a tray.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Oakley will be dining together, Miss Brown, so I’ve brought your dinner up.”

  Chapter XI

  Mr. and Miss Masterman were the first of Gregory Porlock’s guests to arrive for the week-end. They were rather better than their word, for having said that they would aim at four o’clock, they actually entered the hall at the Grange as the clock struck half past three.

  Gregory Porlock came to meet them with a good deal of warmth.

  “My dear Miss Masterman! Now what would you like to do-a little rest before tea? Do you know, I think that would be the thing for you, and your brother and I can get our business over before anyone else arrives. That will suit you, Masterman, won’t it?… All right then. Gladys, will you take Miss Masterman upstairs and see she has everything she wants.” His genial laugh rang out. “I’m afraid that would be rather a tall-order for some of us-eh, Masterman?”

  Miss Masterman, following a maid in a very becoming dark red uniform, had no answering smile. Her handsome haggard face was stamped with fatigue. She looked as if she had forgotten how to sleep. When Gladys had left her in the comfortable, well-appointed bedroom she walked slowly towards the hearth, as if drawn by the warmth of the fire. She had removed her gloves and had unfastened a rather shabby fur coat. Gregory Porlock had noticed it as she came in-but Gregory Porlock noticed everything. Standing like that, she felt the warmth of the fire beat against the cold of her body. No, it wasn’t just her body that was cold. It was something no fire could ever warm again.

  There was a chintz-covered chair drawn up to the hearth. She sank down on it and buried her face in her hands.

  In the study Gregory Porlock was pouring out drinks.

  “Glad you were able to make it early. More satisfactory to get the business out of the way.”

  Geoffrey Masterman resembled his sister rather strongly. No one seeing them together could be in any doubt as to their relationship. Both were tall, dark, and without quite enough flesh to cover their rather decided bones. Of the two the brother was the better looking, the rather bold cast of the family features being more suited to a man than to a woman. Both had fine eyes and strong dark hair with a tendency to curl. Either might have been just under or just over fifty years of age.

  Masterman drank from his glass and set it down. If anyone had been watching him very closely-shall we say as closely as Gregory Porlock-it might have been observed that this simple action was rather carefully controlled. In the result, no one could have said that the hand which set the glass down had shaken-no one could have said for certain whether it did not shake because it had no inclination to shake, or because Masterman had not permitted it to do so. From the depths of a comfortable chair he looked across at his host and said,

  “My sister told me that you said you had found a satisfactory solution. I should like to know what it is.”

  Gregory laughed.

  “I told her to say that you needn’t worry. I thought you might be having rather a bad time. By the way, how much does she know?”

  “Look here, Porlock, I resent that tone. The fact that someone with a hideously suspicious mind thinks they can make money out of a perfectly baseless charge does not entitle you to talk to me as if either I or my sister were involved in anything of a- well, of a discreditable nature.”

  Gregory Porlock finished his own glass, leaned forward, and put it back on the table.

  “My dear Masterman, of course not. A thousand apologies if I conveyed any such meaning. But you see, my dear fellow, it isn’t a case of what you say or I think. It’s a case of a witness who has just not quite decided whether she will go to the police. If you don’t mind her going-well, that’s that. But you know how it is, if you get pitch thrown at you, some of it sticks.”

  Geoffrey Masterman made an abrupt movement.

  “Who is this woman?”

  Gregory Porlock was lighting a cigarette. He waited till the smoke curled up, and said casually,

  “I’m going to tell you. In our previous very short conversation I informed you that owing to an odd set of circumstances I had come into possession of some rather curious evidence with regard to the death of an elderly cousin of yours, Miss Mabel Ledbury. When I said that the evidence was in my possession, I didn’t of course mean that literally. What I meant was that I had been consulted by the person who said she had this evidence. Well, of course when you hear a thing like that about a friend you can do no less than let him know. I began to tell you about it and we were interrupted. On receiving your note asking for a further interview-really, my dear fellow, it was extremely incautious of you to write-I thought it best to ring up and suggest your coming down here, where we can, I hope, dispose of the whole thing in the most satisfactory manner.”

  Masterman reached for his glass, took another drink, and said,

  “How?”

  “That’s what I’m coming to. But before we go any farther I had better just remind you of what this woman says she saw. I think I told you that she was lying in bed with a broken leg in an upper room in one of the houses in the street next to yours. The backs of the houses in these two streets look at each other across short strips of garden. Your cousin occupied a room exactly opposite that in which this woman lay-I will call her Annie. She had all the time in the world, lying there,
and she was deeply interested in her neighbours-she used to watch them through a pair of opera glasses. She became especially interested in Miss Mabel Ledbury, and she formed the impression that you were not being very kind to her.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Miss Ledbury was not bedridden, but she spent most of her time in bed. Sometimes she got up and pottered about the room, On several occasions Annie saw her rummage in a biscuit tin and produce from under the biscuits a long, folded legal-looking document. Annie says with the glasses she could read the words ‘Last Will and Testament’ plainly endorsed upon the envelope.”

  “What’s all this flapdoodle?” Geoffrey Masterman’s voice was a shade higher than it should have been. He had not put down his glass again, he sat holding it between his two hands.

  Gregory Porlock’s black eyebrows lifted.

  “My dear fellow, don’t you think you’d better just listen to what she’s got to say? You can’t meet a thing in the dark- can you?”

  “Oh, there’s more of it, is there?”

  “Naturally, or I shouldn’t have troubled you. Annie says that on the fourteenth of October last she saw you come into Miss Ledbury’s room, Miss Ledbury being up in her dressing-gown sitting at the table by the window with this paper which Annie says was a will in front of her. The old lady was deaf, was she not? Annie says she didn’t seem to hear you come in, or to know that you were there. She says you stood behind her looking over her shoulder. And she says-if you’ll excuse my mentioning it-that you looked like a devil. Women have a natural tendency to melodrama-it compensates for the dullness of their lives.”

  He paused with his eyes on Masterman’s rigid face and allowed a slight deprecatory laugh to escape him.

  “To continue with what Annie saw. Really that would make a suggestive headline, wouldn’t it?-‘What Annie Saw.’ I can imagine its having quite a wide appeal. She says Miss Ledbury turned round suddenly and saw you, and that there was what she described as a scene-you very angry, Miss Ledbury very much frightened, and you snatching the will and holding it up out of her reach while she tried to get it back. She says you took hold of the old lady by the shoulders and pushed her on to the bed, and that then the door opened and your sister came in. You went out, taking the will with you, and Miss Masterman did her best to sooth Miss Ledbury down. When she had got her quiet she put on the light and drew the curtains, so that Annie didn’t see any more. In the morning the milkman brought the news that Miss Ledbury had been found dead in her bed. There had been a doctor in attendance and he said it wasn’t unexpected, so there wasn’t any fuss or any inquest. And when the will came to be proved it left you and your sister sole legatees with a hundred thousand pounds to divide. Annie went into hospital on the day of the funeral, and she only came out about a month ago. When she heard that you and Miss Masterman had come in for all the money she wondered what had happened to the will she used to see the old lady looking at. Because when you stood there reading it over her shoulder she didn’t think it looked at if it was the sort of will under which you were going to benefit to the tune of fifty thousand pounds. And then she remembered that a friend of hers who used to come in and work for Miss Masterrhan had told her about six months previously that the old lady up at the top of the house had called her in one day when you and your sister were out. She said she wanted her to witness a will, and she must go and find someone else because there must be two witnesses, and she would give them each a ten-shilling note for their trouble. So this Mrs. Wells ran across the road to No. 17 where she knew the cook, and the two of them saw Miss Ledbury sign a big paper, and she told them it was her will.”

  There was a sound of breaking glass. Geoffrey Masterman’s grip upon the tumbler he was holding had tightened in an involuntary jerk.

  Gregory was all concern.

  “My dear fellow-have you cut yourself?”

  It appeared that he had not. There was no blood upon his hands. Some glass to be picked up, a splash of whisky and soda to be wiped from a trouser leg, and they were back at the point of what Annie might or might not be going to say.

  Masterman leaned forward.

  “Of course the whole thing’s damned nonsense from beginning to end-a pack of lies!”

  “Naturally.”

  “Blackmail-that’s what it is-blackmail!”

  “Well, my dear fellow, if that’s what you think, the only advice I can give you is to go straight to the police. I think the will under which you inherited was several years old. If there wasn’t a later will, the whole thing falls to the ground.”

  Masterman stared past him.

  “If there was another will, she destroyed it herself. Old women are always making wills.”

  “Was there another will?”

  “There may have been. How do I know?”

  Gregory Porlock whistled.

  “That means there was. It’s awkward, you know.”

  “It’s rank blackmail!” said Masterman violently.

  “My dear fellow, she hasn’t asked you for a penny. She is engaged in a struggle with her conscience. If she decides to go to the police-”

  Masterman interrupted.

  “How did she come to go to you?”

  He received a slow, benignant smile.

  “Too long a story to go into-far too long. Really a very curious chain of circumstances. But very fortunate for you.”

  “Was it?” Masterman’s voice was savage.

  “Undoubtedly-or she might have gone to the police. There is a point at which a woman’s conscience simply has to boil over. For the moment I have, as it were, turned down the gas under the pot, but it may reach boiling-point again.”

  Masterman’s control broke. He swore vehemently. He cursed women in general and Annie in particular, and finished by turning furiously upon his host.

  “You said the whole thing could be settled, damn you! And all you do is to go on baiting me! You know as well as I do that I can’t go to the police. However that sort of thing turns out, the mud sticks-you never get clear of it.”

  “And you couldn’t trust your sister in the witness-box-could you?” Gregory Porlock’s voice was sympathetic. “A nervous type. And she won’t touch the money-will she?”

  Into a stricken silence Masterman’s voice came only just above a whisper.

  “Who said so?”

  Gregory Porlock laughed.

  “Her fur coat. If she was handling the money she’d have bought herself a new one.” He let something like a groan go by and resumed briskly. “That being that, we’d better get down to brass tacks. There really isn’t any need to get in a flap. Neither of the two witnesses to that will are going to think anything about it unless someone puts it into their heads. Mrs. Wells has been away with a married daughter, and the cook at No. 17 has left and gone back to the north where she came from. Annie has devoted relations in Canada who have been begging her to join them for years. If she were to go out to them with her passage paid and a little something in her stocking foot, I have a feeling that her conscience would simmer down. Change of air, you know-change of scene-new interests-reunion with a loving family-I don’t suppose she’d ever think about that will again. Of course you wouldn’t appear in the matter at all. There wouldn’t be the slightest connection. She hasn’t asked for anything, and she won’t know where the money comes from. An unknown benefactor supplies a long-felt want and no questions asked. I will see that her passage is taken and that she avails herself of it.”

  Geoffrey Masterman set his teeth and said,

  “How much?”

  “A thousand pounds.”

  Chapter XII

  Mr. and Mrs. Tote and Moira Lane arrived in time for tea, Miss Lane very tall and elegant, with brilliant eyes, a flashing smile, and considerable charm.

  Mrs. Tote presented as great a contrast as it was possible to imagine. A very expensive fur coat having been shed, there appeared a wispy little woman rather like a mouse, with scant grey hair twisted up into a straggly kno
t behind. Do her hair any other way than she had done it ever since she grew up, Mrs. Tote would not. She brushed it neatly, and she put in plenty of pins. It wasn’t her fault if the fur turban which went with the coat was so heavy that it dragged the hair down. She hadn’t wanted the fur turban. She would have liked a nice neat matron’s hat in one of those light felts like she used to get when they had their business in Clapham, before Albert made all that money. The turban made her head ache, like a lot of the things that had happened since they got rich. She would have been glad to take it off like that Miss Lane had done with hers, pulling it off careless, and her hair all shining waves underneath. She liked to see a girl with a nice head of hair, and fair hair paid for dressing. Nice to be able just to pull off your hat like that and feel sure that you were all right underneath. But of course not suitable at her age, and the hairpins dropping out like they always did all the way down in the car.

  Moira Lane ’s clear, light voice broke into Mrs. Tote’s reflections. Gregory Porlock had just said, “Where’s your young man?” and Moira was saying, “He won’t be a moment-he’s just putting the car away. Really angel of you to let me bring him, Greg, because if you hadn’t, I’d have had to come by train, and if there’s one thing that brings my sordid stony-broke state home to me more than another, it is having to travel third-class on this revolting line and grapple with my luggage at the change, whereas if I can float from door to door in somebody’s car I get the heavenly illusion of being not only solvent but more or less in the class of the idle rich. So when I ran into Justin last night and found he was positively dying to meet you-well, it all did seem too good to be wasted, didn’t it?”