Wicked Uncle

by Patricia Wentworth

  She glanced down at the trellised diamonds and said,

  “How should I know?”

  If it was meant for a question, there was no direct answer.

  “Then I can continue to show off. My little book mentions these bracelets. Napoleon gave them to Josephine on rather a special occasion. Just turn to the inside of the clasp and you will see the N surmounted by the imperial crown.”

  There was no interest in face or manner as she turned the clasp. The crowned N looked at her from the pale gold.

  Gregory Porlock had come over to stand beside her.

  “Now turn it and you’ll see the date at the other end of the clasp, rather faint but legible-Fri. 10. 1804.”

  She said, “What does it mean?”

  “The tenth of Frimaire, eighteen hundred and four. That is, December the first, the date on which Josephine at last induced Napoleon to go through the religious ceremony of marriage with her. He cheated, because by deliberately omitting the presence of the parish priest he left a loophole of which he availed himself later on when he applied for a declaration of nullity. The bracelets were a wedding present. The imperial N is there because December the first was the eve of their coronation. Didn’t you really know the story?”

  She looked up with a startling anger in her eyes.

  “What has it got to do with me?”

  He went back to the fire.

  “I can tell you that too. Josephine died in eighteen-fourteen. The bracelets are not specifically mentioned in her will. In fact they disappear for about forty years, when the second Earl of Pemberley bought them in Paris as a wedding present for his bride. Where they had been in the interval does not transpire, but Lord Pemberley was, apparently, satisfied as to their history, and they have been handed down in the family ever since. The title is now extinct, but the widow of the last Earl survives. You are connected with her, I think, through your mother.”

  “So that is why I am supposed to know about the bracelets!”

  He nodded.

  “We are getting to the point. About ten years ago I had the pleasure of meeting Lady Pemberley at a charity ball-she was one of the patronesses. Imagine my interest when I saw that she was wearing the Josephine bracelets. I ventured to remark on them, and when she found that I knew their history she was kind enough to take them off and show me the initial and the date-the same on each. So you see, when I encountered the bracelet which you have in your hand-”

  She broke in with a raised voice, “What has this got to do with me?”

  “I’m boring you? I’ve really almost done. A friend of mine who knows my hobby told me he had come across a bracelet of very beautiful workmanship. I went to see it, and of course recognized it at once. I needn’t tell you the name of the shop, because of course you know it. What you probably didn’t know was that the proprietor knew perfectly well from whom he was buying the bracelet. You see, you figure quite a lot in the Society papers, and he recognized you. In point of fact, he would not have bought so valuable a piece of jewellery, from an unknown client. Knowing your family connections, he did not hesitate.”

  There was a long pause during which he watched an averted face-brows drawn together, lips pressed into a rigid line.

  When he thought the silence had lasted long enough he broke it.

  “I’m your friend, you know. There’s no need to look like that.”

  The colour rushed back into her face. She swung round on him, eyes wide and glowing.

  “Greg-”

  His smile had never been more charming.

  “That’s better!”

  “Greg-she gave it to me. I don’t know what you’ve been thinking-”

  He laughed.

  “Well, I bought it. I won’t tell you what I paid, because there’s always a revolting difference between the buying and the selling price, and I don’t want to rub it in. Anyhow, now it’s my property there’s nothing to stop my making a gesture and sending it back to Lady Pemberley, is there?”

  “You can’t do that! I naturally don’t want her to know I sold it.”

  “Oh, naturally! Have you got the other one-or did you sell that too?”

  “She only gave me one.”

  He shook his head.

  “My dear girl, it won’t do. You know, and I know. And you know that I know. What’s the good of keeping up this farce? If I were to go to Lady Pemberley and say that I had recognized her bracelet in a sale room, what do you suppose would happen? There would be a bit of a crash, wouldn’t there? She wouldn’t run you in-oh, no! We don’t wash our dirty linen in public. But I think Miss Lane’s name would come out of Lady Pemberley’s will, and I shouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t get round the family that dear Moira had spilt rather a lot of ink on her copybook. In fact, in the language of melodrama, ‘Social Ruin Looms.’ ”

  Moira Lane got to her feet. She put the bracelet down on the corner of the writing-table and said rather quietly,

  “What good would that do you?”

  He could admire her, and he did. Courage appealed to him, and the breeding which set him at a distance. She wouldn’t cry or make any appeal, she wouldn’t break. He looked at her approvingly.

  “That’s where we really get down to brass tacks. And the answer is, it wouldn’t do me any good at all. There’s nothing in the world I want less than to hurt you. All I want is for us to stop playing comedies and get to business.”

  “What business?”

  He came up to the table and gave her another cocktail.

  “Better have a drink. You look played out. Now, Moira, listen! I could ruin you. But why should I want to? I don’t. I admire you very much, and I like to think that we are friends. I’ll go farther and tell you I’d like to have you as a partner.”

  Standing there, glass in hand, she looked at him with a little scorn. She finished her cocktail, put the glass back on the tray, and waited, her eyebrows delicately raised.

  He stood perhaps a yard away, easy and smiling.

  “I told you I was a collector of odd bits of information. When people know you like them they come your way, sometimes in a very surprising manner. But that sort of thing has to be very carefully checked. It doesn’t do to slip up. Some of it-rather an important part-comes from the circles of which you are a privileged member. Exclusive circles, very intimately linked. It would be a great advantage to me to have what I might call a consultant who was in and out of those very exclusive circles.”

  The eyebrows rose a little higher still.

  “You used the word partner just now. You are asking me to be your partner in a blackmailing business?”

  He put up a deprecatory hand.

  “Now, Moira-what’s the good of talking like that? It may relieve your feelings, but I assure you it doesn’t do anything at all to mine. They have acquired a complete resistance to sarcasm, so you are wasting your time. If, on the other hand, you did by any chance succeed in making me angry, the results might be unfortunate-” He paused and added, “For you. I think that my use of the word partner was not a very happy one. It implies responsibility, and you would have none. Consultant is a much more accurate description. All I should ever ask you to do would be to keep me straight as to facts, and to assist me with your personal specialized knowledge of the people concerned. To give you a simple illustration. Certain things admitted to be facts might in one case be extremely compromising, whereas in another no one would attach the slightest importance to them. That is where your personal contacts would come in. I needn’t say that the whole thing would be completely confidential and sufficiently remunerative. As far as Josephine’s bracelet is concerned, it is yours to do what you like with. If I might make a suggestion, it would be that you should find some opportunity of restoring it to Lady Pemberley. It would be better not to run any further risk. It is the future that matters now.”

  The last words set her blood storming. The future-and what a future! If she could have killed him then, she might have done it. Perhaps he guess
ed that. The sudden brilliance of her glance, the sudden scarlet in the cheeks which had been so pale, declared an inner fire. He could have no possible doubt as to its nature, but he gave her marks for self-control.

  It was not until the flame had dropped from flaring-point that she let herself speak. When she did, it was any guest to any host.

  “My dear Greg, you’re too flattering. But I’m afraid I shouldn’t be any good at business-I expect you have to be born that way. Too kind of you to let me have my bracelet back. You must let me know what you paid for it. I shouldn’t like my cousin to know that I had sold her present. The fact is, I was in a frightful hole just then, and I simply had to have the money.”

  The bracelet was on her wrist as she spoke, withdrawn from the table and slipped over her left hand so swiftly and smoothly that Gregory Porlock would hardly have had time to intervene. In point of fact he made no move to do so, but laughed and said,

  “Well, don’t sell it again! It’s a bit too dangerous. Someone else might recognize it next time-you never know.” Then, as she turned to go, he came a step nearer, took her by the wrist, his big hand closing down over the diamond trellis, pressing it into her flesh. “I’ve got the receipted bill, you know. It describes the bracelet. You can have till Monday morning to make up your mind. Meanwhile we’ll call a truce.”

  He let go of her, and she turned and went out of the room without a word.

  She was half way up the stairs, when she heard the front door open and shut. The cold of the outer air came in and followed her, with the sound of Leonard Carroll’s voice. The last of the house-party had arrived.

  Without turning her head she went on past the door of Miss Masterman’s room to her own. A short distance, a short time, from door to door, from the study to this small charming bedroom with its pale blue curtains drawn, its clean fresh chintzes with their flowery pattern picking up the colour of the curtains and blending it with purple and rose, its warm sparkling fire. But in that distance, in that time, Moira Lane had made up her mind what she was going to do.

  Chapter XIV

  The Grange was an old house. The drawing-room, long and low, its four rather narrow windows curtained in a pale flowered brocade which toned charmingly with the ivory panelled walls, its chairs and couches repeating the same soft shades, preserved the formal delicacy of another day. Gregory Porlock, awaiting the arrival of his guests, considered, not for the first time, how much better the scene would have been suited by an older style of dress. For the women piled curls and spreading hoops, with knee-breeches and coloured coats for the men. He could have fancied himself very well in a prune velvet, with a touch of powder in the hair.

  His mood was a buoyant one. He felt the exhilaration of a man who drives a difficult team over a dangerous course. If there were no difficulties, no dangers, there would be no pleasure in doing it. The hairsbreadth turn, the moment when everything was in the balance, the bending of nerve and will to curb, to guide, to master a straining team, gave adventure its zest and made every risk worth while. He was taking risks tonight. Linnet would always be a risk. Women at the best were incalculable -women with nerves, like the crazy compass in a magnetic storm. For all he knew, Linnet might even now be having hysterics and breaking it to Martin Oakley that she was a bigamist. Imagining the scene, he permitted himself to be amused. But he rather thought she would hold out a little longer. That opened up the possibility of her arriving for dinner only to faint into her soup-plate. He must see that she had a cocktail when she arrived. And he must be very, very nice to her. Linnet always responded to kindness. If the period of their marriage had not coincided with the lowest depths of his fortunes, she might have been adoring him still, but the sweetest temper may turn sour in a slum, and the whole business had become wretchedly sordid. He recalled it with distaste.

  Dorinda Brown was another risk. She had not, of course, been intended to accompany the Oakleys tonight. It had amused him to invite her warmly, whilst taking steps to ensure that she would not be able to come. Just where the plan had slipped, and how, he didn’t know, but he meant to find out. Dorinda should have had another engagement-not so pleasant, but one which would have admitted of no excuse. He didn’t like his plans going wrong. They were always very carefully laid, and if they didn’t come off, he made it his business to see that someone got into trouble. Apart from annoyance on this point, the fact that Dorinda would presently arrive in the wake of the Oakleys served to heighten the interest of the occasion.

  He allowed himself some amused speculation as to what she would be like. Seven years is quite a time, and the seven years between fourteen and twenty-one are longer than is warranted by the mere months and years. He remembered a child with a rosy face, a thick bright plait, and round eyes. No, that would be earlier still. At fourteen the plait had gone, but the face was still rosy, and the eyes the eyes of a child. He had a sudden memory of them meeting his own in a long, grave stare. Mary had aggravated him into swearing at her, and Dorinda had walked in on them. She had opened the door and stood there looking at him with that shocked, solemn stare. Come to think of it, it was the last time he had seen her, and the question was, would she remember him, or would she not? In his own estimation he was not an easy person to forget. He rather flattered himself that no woman would ever quite forget the memories he had given her. But a child might forget-or might not. There was no counting on it. Suppose she remembered him… He was of the opinion that it really didn’t matter very much. A girl who had been brought up by Mary would certainly not be so ill-bred as to make a scene, and when all was said and done, she couldn’t be sure. Reluctant as he was to admit the possibility that he might have a double, such things were not uncommon, and doubt once planted could be so fostered as to bring in a satisfactory crop. He felt a swelling confidence in his ability to deal with Dorinda Brown.

  Linnet Oakley sat looking into her mirror with frightened eyes. She was dressed, but she didn’t know even now whether she meant to go or not. She had not been in the same mind about it for half an hour at a time all the day, or all the night, or all the day before, or all the night before that.

  Sometimes she saw herself going-getting into the car, driving a little way, getting out again, going into the Grange, which was a strange house of which she could make no picture-and she felt she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go into that house and meet Glen. She couldn’t touch his hand. Perhaps he would take her in to dinner… She couldn’t, couldn’t do it-not with Martin there-not with Martin looking on.

  Sometimes she saw herself staying at home-saying she felt faint, saying she had a headache. But Glen would know it wasn’t true. Martin would go without her, and how did she know what Glen would do or say? He might be angry… The something inside her which never stopped shaking shook a little more at the thought of Glen’s anger. And Martin would want to know why she had a headache, why she felt faint. He wouldn’t be angry-Martin was never angry with her. He would be kind. And if he was kind, she wouldn’t be able to help crying, and then, however hard she tried, she wouldn’t be able to help telling him.

  Something called out in her, “No-no-no!” She saw Martin turning her out. She saw herself in the street, in the dock, in prison-quite cast off, quite ruined, quite lost.

  She stared into the glass and saw her own reflection in rose and silver. Hooper was a good maid. The fair hair had been made the most of, the delicate make-up had been applied with artistic discretion. It seemed impossible to believe that that pretty tinted image really belonged to the trembling, hunted creature she felt herself to be. In some very feminine way it gave her courage. The things that were frightening her so much didn’t seem to have anything to do with that picture in the glass. It was the first time she had worn the dress. It was very becoming. The new lipstick was just right with it, and the nail polish. She pushed back the dressing-stool and stood up to get the full-length effect. The line was perfect.

  Hooper put one drop of her own special scent on a tiny handkerchief and
gave it to her. It was a new creation-faint, fresh, delicious. Then she remembered that it was called Souviens tu? She put out a hand to the dressing-table to steady herself. She couldn’t go-she couldn’t stay-

  Martin Oakley came into the room, frowning.

  “Damned nuisance having to go out! A nice quiet evening at home-that’s what I feel like.”

  She managed a smile for him. The discreet Hooper had vanished.

  “Do you like my dress?”

  “It’s the one I always do like, isn’t it?”

  “Silly! You’ve never seen it before. It’s new.”

  “All right, let’s have a look. Turn round!”

  She did a graceful dancing turn and dropped into a curtsey.

  “Do you really like it?”

  She didn’t need to ask-not when he looked at her like that. He put both arms round her and held her close. The terrible trembling was stilled. She could go with Martin. Martin would take care of her. She needn’t be frightened any more. Martin wouldn’t let anyone hurt her.

  Chapter XV

  Dorinda followed the Oakleys into the big old hall with its great beams, its deep roomy hearth, and jutting chimney-breast. A log fire burned between iron dogs. The old flagstones under foot were softened by rugs, the sconces on the panelled walls now held electric candles. Otherwise she was seeing what any winter guest might have seen any time in the last three hundred years. The thought came to her as she slipped out of the fur coat which Mrs. Oakley had lent her. She would have liked to go up the staircase and follow the gallery which ran round three sides of the hall, but Mrs. Oakley was saying, “Oh, no-we have come such a little way.”

  The stair ran up on the left-hand side with bare polished treads as black as the old beams. She dropped her coat on a big carved chair and turned reluctantly to follow Mrs. Oakley’s rose-and-silver to the drawing-room. It was a pretty dress, and it had probably cost the earth. She wondered whether Mrs. Oakley ever wore anything but pink. You’d think she’d get tired of it- just one pink thing after another. Why not blue for a change, or green-