Chapter 9

Miss Silver looked up from her writing-table as a slight sound met her ear. After a pause had convinced her that the client whom she was expecting had not yet arrived, and that the sound must have proceeded from some cause other than the opening and closing of her front door, she sat back in her chair and returned to the letter which she had been reading. It was from her niece, Ethel Burkett, whose husband was a bank manager at Birleton. Her three boys now attended the excellent grammar school in that town. After some preliminaries in which a recent illness of little Josephine’s was described-the one cherished girl, a good deal younger than the boys-she wrote:

“When Dr. Anderson said sea air if possible, you can just imagine how I felt, because of course I could not see any way in which it could be contrived. And then, the next morning, there was Muriel Lester’s letter-you may remember I was at school with her. She had heard about Josephine. A cousin of hers has a flat in this building-Muriel wrote to me, and I was able to tell her about it before it got on to house-agents’ books, so they have always felt very grateful. Well, Muriel wrote so very kindly and said she and her husband were obliged to go over to the Channel Islands to settle up his mother’s estate-quite complicated under the old French law-and she wondered if I would care to occupy their house while they were away. They would not care to let, but would be glad not to leave it empty-really the number of burglaries is quite dreadful. It seemed like a direct answer to prayer, and I wired my grateful acceptance. She rang up last night after seven, and it is all fixed. John’s unmarried sister, Mabel, will come in and take full charge here. Josephine and I go south tomorrow.

“Dearest Auntie, can you, will you, join us at Farne? It would be so delightful. Could you possibly shut the flat and bring Hannah? I cannot tell you what a comfort it would be. Farne is a small seaside place not very far from Ledstow but farther along the coast. I think you have friends in the neighbourhood…”

There followed an address, details of trains, and the request that a reply should be sent by telegram.

Since this had already been done, and an affectionate acceptance indicated, Miss Silver was able to continue her rereading of Mrs. Burkett’s letter without any sense of hurry. When she had finished she put it back in its envelope and bestowed the envelope in a drawer.

Her client had still not arrived. She allowed her gaze to rest with pleasure upon the comfortable sitting-room of her flat in Montague Mansions. As always when her thoughts turned that way, they became penetrated with gratitude to the Providence, which had so blessed her work as to establish her in this modest comfort. When she left school to become a governess at the scanty salary then obtaining, she had had no other expectation than to work hard all her life in other people’s houses and in the end retire to some sordid back room. The contrast of this expectation with her pleasant four-roomed flat, served by a convenient lift and kept in spotless order by her faithful Hannah Meadows, never failed to stir her deepest feelings.

She sat there, her neat mousy hair arranged in a deep curled fringe very competently controlled by a net, her small slight person arrayed in a dress of olive-green wool made high to the chin by means of a cream net front with a collar supported by small strips of whalebone after the manner of her Edwardian youth. There was an old-fashioned gold chain about her neck from which depended a sizable locket upon which the initials of her parents, long deceased, were entwined in high relief.

The events which had led her to abandon what she herself called the scholastic profession for the much more lucrative work of private detection had long ago receded into the quite distant past. Her comfortable room was a subject for present gratitude. She considered it, as she always did, with approval. The carpet was getting shabby, but everyone’s carpets were shabby now, and the really worn edge was well hidden by the bookcase. The affair of Lady Portington’s pearls had enabled her to replace the old peacock-blue curtains which had weathered the war. After much faithful service they had suddenly shown signs of complete disintegration, and she had been most fortunate in finding some stuff of very nearly the same colour in a shop at Ledbury. It really toned in very well indeed with the upholstery of her walnut chairs and with the old carpet. The chairs were Victorian. They had spreading laps and odd-shaped arms and legs with a good deal of yellow carving about them, but they were surprisingly comfortable to sit in.

Miss Silver glanced at the watch which she wore pinned to the left side of her dress by an old-fashioned bar brooch set with small seed pearls. Her client was late.

As the thought passed through her mind, the door opened and Hannah announced, “Miss Adrian-”

Helen Adrian brought the scent of violets into the room. Her large blue eyes took in Miss Silver and her surroundings at a glance. With no perceptible pause she smiled and said, “How do you do?” and took the chair on the other side of the writing-table, all with an air of being very completely at her ease.

Miss Silver had not risen. She said, “Good-morning,” and she inclined her head. Then she picked up the useful grey stocking which she was making for her niece Ethel Burkett’s second boy, Derek, and began to knit, holding the needles in the continental manner, her hands low in her lap and her eyes quite free to observe her visitor.

They told her a good deal. First, and quite obviously, Helen Adrian was a rather spectacularly beautiful young woman. About thirty years old, or perhaps a little less. Or even perhaps a little more. Rather fairer than most fair women, with eyes that were larger and bluer than most blue eyes, and a complexion which may have been originated by nature but had been most exquisitely cultivated by art. It was really impossible to say which of the two owed more to the other. A perfectly tailored black coat and skirt displayed the excellence of Miss Adrian’s figure. A glimpse of the ivory tailored silk of the shirt bespoke the excellence of Miss Adrian’s taste. A small black hat in the latest mode emphasized the burnished gold of Miss Adrian’s hair.

Miss Silver took in all these things and waited for her client to speak. She had not long to wait. In the manner of one who endeavours to put a social inferior at her ease, Miss Adrian said,

“It is very kind of you to see me, but I am afraid I may be just wasting your time. A friend of mine told me that Lady Portington-I don’t know her myself, but she is a very intimate friend of my friend’s-”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I was able to be of some help to Lady Portington.”

Miss Adrian smiled encouragement.

“Oh, you are too modest. The pearls are heirlooms.”

Miss Silver knitted for a moment in silence. Then she said,

“I think you did not come here to discuss Lady Portington’s pearls. What can I do for you, Miss Adrian?”

Helen Adrian said, “Well, I don’t know-” She had the sensation that you have when you find that you have missed a step in the dark. She felt as if she had come down hard on something she didn’t know was there. She had been thinking that Miss Silver was a scream, and so was her room, and that she would get a good laugh out of the show if she didn’t get anything else. And then, with a cough, a something in her voice, an odd sort of look in those very ordinary greyish eyes, this governessy little old maid was making her feel snubbed, uncertain. She hadn’t felt like this since her first term at school. The thought just went through her mind, and was pushed out. She said, “Well, I don’t know,” and looked down at her immaculately gloved hands. They were holding her bag too tightly. It was Fred Mount’s latest present and very expensive-black suede, with ivory fittings. She relaxed her hold on it and looked up, to see that Miss Silver was watching her.