“We’d better do it with a splash,” said Nicholas, still frowning. “Ask everyone, and go the limit.”
Jenny put up her hand and touched his sleeve.
“Aren’t you going to send me away, Nicko?”
“What would be the good? You’re my wife. We’ve got to stick it out.”
Jenny held his sleeve.
“Nicko—”
“We’ve got to make the best of things. You’re worn out. We’d better have a meal.”
He pulled away from her and went over to the bell.
Jenny sat back in her chair. Everything seemed to have come to a stop. She heard the door open and she heard Nicholas speaking:
“Emmot! We want something to eat. It’s too late for dinner. I think something on a tray in here—soup and something cold. Her ladyship’s a little faint.”
The door shut again. Nicholas lit a cigarette.
Chapter Forty
John came into the drawing-room of Aurora’s flat at a little after seven o’clock. He found Anne alone—Anne rather pale, in a blue and silver dress. She turned to meet him with an anxious “What has happened?”
“You look ripping in that dress,” said John.
Anne caught him by the arm.
“John—please—please, what has happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Haven’t you been down?”
“Yes, I’ve been down. They’d been away for the week-end—Jenny had only just got my letter. I cleared off because I thought I’d be in the way whilst she was telling Nicholas.”
Anne’s hands dropped.
“She won’t tell him,” she said in a low voice.
“Yes, she will. As a matter of fact she had practically told him. She lost her head a bit and said things, and I came away. You will hear from them to-morrow, I expect. Anne darling, don’t look like that!”
“What will Nicholas do?” said Anne in a whisper. “John, he’s proud. If he doesn’t forgive her—Jenny—what’ll happen to Jenny?”
John put his arm round her.
“Nicholas is very fond of Jenny,” he said.” I noticed it a good deal when I stayed there. It’ll be a bit of a facer for him of course. But there you are—Jenny did it; and in the long run it’s much better Nicholas should know. It was pretty bad for Jenny going on telling lies and being everyone’s blue-eyed darling. She’ll be a heap nicer if she can stop lying every second word. I tumbled to it pretty quickly, and I used to want to spank her every time she did it.”
“Oh, John!”
“You bet I did! I hope Nicholas gives it her pretty strong—it’s what she wants. And you needn’t be afraid he won’t come round—Jenny’s a lot too fascinating for that. What I’m afraid of is that he’ll come round a good deal too soon. Jenny’s like that; she gets round you. I’ve been absolutely mad with her myself, and then when I saw her somehow I didn’t want to hurt her. And when she came into the room this afternoon I was downright sorry for her, though she didn’t deserve it.” He laughed a little. “No, you needn’t be afraid. Nicholas’ll put it across her, and she’ll cry and be dreadfully unhappy for a bit; and then she’ll get round him. If she can get round me, you bet she can get round Nicholas. There’s something about Jenny.”
“Yes, there is,” said Anne. Her eyes were shining.
“She’d better stop telling lies though, or she’ll land in a nasty mess. I hope Nicholas doesn’t let her off too easy—that’s all I’m afraid of. That’s enough about Jenny. Kiss me. You haven’t kissed me yet. Have you stopped being a parlour-maid?”
“Oh, John, it was dreadful!” said Anne in his arms.
“What was?”
“She was—Mrs. Fossick-Yates. She started by having me up after breakfast and saying a friend of hers had seen me coming home with a man. John, she must have had sort of X-ray eyes, because you know how dark it was.”
“There are some lamps.”
John became suddenly aware that Anne had a dimple.
“How stupid you are! It wasn’t—I mean you didn’t. John, she couldn’t really have seen anything; but she said she did.”
Anne had a very pretty blush.
“What did she see?”
“She didn’t—she couldn’t! But she told Mrs. Fossick-Yates she saw you kiss me!”
“How horrible!”
“It’s all very well for you to laugh, but it was horrible for me. She talked in capital letters for about half an hour, and she said the most awful things. And as soon as I could get a word in edgeways, I said I thought I’d better not stay any longer. And then she began to think about not having a parlour-maid, and she said I couldn’t go, because I hadn’t worked enough to pay for the dresses she’d had to get me. John, it was horrid—like being in a street row. I hated it.”
“What did you do?”
“I said I was going to friends, and I’d send her the money for the dresses. Then she said much worse things”—Anne was quite pale—“so I went and packed my box and walked out. My sixpence just got me here. Aurora was an angel. She made me write a letter, and she enclosed the money Mrs. Fossick-Yates said I owed her, and she sent a messenger boy to bring away my box. I shouldn’t have thought of that. She was splendid.”
John’s attention seemed to be wandering a little.
“Could you get married in a blue dress like this?”
“No—I don’t think so.”
The dimple had returned.
“Oh—” A short pause, and then, “We shall be getting married in about a fortnight. I think to-morrow fortnight would be a good day. It’s a Tuesday. I think I should like to get married on a Tuesday.”
Anne laughed, and was kissed.
“There’s nothing to laugh at. To-morrow we will go and buy your engagement ring, and your wedding ring. And if there’s time before lunch, you can buy something to get married in.”
Anne gave a little scream; and as she did so, Miss Fairlie came in. She was tightly upholstered in a pre-war black satin, and wore three rows of extremely valuable pearls about a brick-red neck.
“Is he beating you already?” she said. “He will if you’re not careful. He’s not a young man I should marry myself. You’ll be a poor, miserable, down-trodden squaw—but I suppose you don’t mind.”
Anne looked rather demurely at John. She had two dimples now. There was a little sparkling something behind the dark lashes which lifted for a moment and then fell.
“I wonder,” she said.
THE END
About The Author
PATRICIA WENTWORTH was born Dora Amy Elles in India in 1877 (not 1878 as has sometimes been stated). She was first educated privately in India, and later at Blackheath School for Girls. Her first husband was George Dillon, with whom she had her only child, a daughter. She also had two stepsons from her first marriage, one of whom died in the Somme during World War I.
Her first novel was published in 1910, but it wasn’t until the 1920’s that she embarked on her long career as a writer of mysteries. Her most famous creation was Miss Maud Silver, who appeared in 32 novels, though there were a further 33 full-length mysteries not featuring Miss Silver—the entire run of these is now reissued by Dean Street Press.
Patricia Wentworth died in 1961. She is recognized today as one of the pre-eminent exponents of the classic British golden age mystery novel.
By Patricia Wentworth
and available from Dean Street Press
The Benbow Smith Mysteries
Fool Errant
Danger Calling
Walk with Care
Down Under
The Frank Garrett Mysteries
Dead or Alive
Rolling Stone
The Ernest Lamb Mysteries
The Blind Side
Who Pays the Piper?
Pursuit of a Parcel
Standalones
The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith
The Red Lacquer Case
The Annam Jewel
The Blac
k Cabinet
The Dower House Mystery
The Amazing Chance
Hue and Cry
Anna Belinda
Will-O’-the-Wisp
Beggar’s Choice
The Coldstone
Kingdom Lost
Nothing Venture
Red Shadow
Outrageous Fortune
Touch and Go
Fear by Night
Red Stefan
Blindfold
Hole and Corner
Mr. Zero
Run!
Weekend with Death
Silence in Court
Patricia Wentworth
Will o’ the Wisp
“She’s a hula mula wula girl,
She’s a crazy daisy nightmare
My baby’s a scream.”
DAVID FORDYCE wasn’t looking forward to his birthday party, an annual event he shared with his grandmother. But this year Eleanor would be there—Eleanor, whom he had not seen in seven years, ever since she’d married Cosmo Rayne.
There are mysteries concerning the late Mr. Rayne, and his lovely widow—but then David has secrets of his own. When a black clad figure crosses the line between shadow and moonlight the game is afoot in one of Patricia Wentworth’s most eerie and thrilling stories.
Will o’ the Wisp was originally published in 1928. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
“When I pick up a book by Patricia Wentworth I think, now to enjoy myself—and I always do.” Mary Dell, Daily Mirror
Will o’ the Wisp—Chapter One
The telephone bell rang again. David Fordyce looked up from the plan of an Elizabethan manor-house into which Mrs. Homer-Halliday insisted that a minimum of four bathrooms should be intruded. He frowned a black frown, said a sharp word, and put the receiver to his ear.
A cough came to him along the line, the deprecatory cough which was part of Miss Editha St. Kern’s social equipment.
“Is Mr. David—is Mr. Fordyce—is this Mr. David Fordyce’s office?”
“David speaking. Good-morning, Aunt Editha.”
“Oh, David, dear boy, how nice to get you at once! Clerks are so stupid. I suppose they can’t hear me, can they? Did you say ‘No’?”
“I said ‘No.’ Did you want anything, Aunt Editha?”
“I always wondered if they could hear. It’s so nice to feel that they can’t, and that our little conversations are quite private. It gives one such a different feeling—doesn’t it?”
David jabbed the pencil that he was holding into an unoffending piece of blotting-paper. The point of the pencil broke. He scowled.
“Anything I can do for you, Aunt Editha?”
“For me? No, dear boy. I shouldn’t dream. In office hours, too, when we all know that time is money!”
“Well, I am rather busy. So if there isn’t anything—”
“Nothing. No, no, nothing at all—that is, nothing for me. I only rang up to make sure that you remembered—not, of course, that you would forget, but just to make sure.”
“Yes?”
“By the way, you received my little greeting? No, no, it’s nothing at all—just the veriest trifle, just to show you that you are remembered. And of course I ought to have begun by wishing you many, many happy returns of the day.”
David jabbed with the broken pencil. This time the wood splintered.
“Thank you, Aunt Editha.” The voice was not a thankful one.
“No, no, dear boy, it’s nothing—really nothing. And I only rang up just to say how I am looking forward to seeing you this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?”
“Dear Grandmamma’s little gathering—so delightful! She’s looking forward to it so much. Fancy, she has had twenty-five presents, and fifty-three cards and letters, which makes several more than last year. Delightful—isn’t it? I’ve been helping to lay out the presents for this afternoon—quite like a wedding. But I mustn’t keep you. We shall meet anon, and I mustn’t be tempted to tell you beforehand of a delightful surprise. Good-bye.”
David jammed the receiver back on its hook, flung the broken pencil across the room, and picked up another. He became absorbed in bathrooms. His dark face relaxed.
The telephone bell rang.
When he had snatched the receiver, his sister Betty’s voice, its slightly plaintive quality enhanced by the telephone, came faintly to his ear. Betty was always maddeningly indistinct.
“David, is that you? Oh, thank goodness! I’ve had three wrong numbers. I am speaking up.”
“You’re not—you never do. What do you want?”
“Just to remind you—” Her voice trailed away and was not.
“Look here,” said David viciously, “if you’re reminding me that Grandmamma and I have our joint birthday to-day, and that there’s the usual damnable show on, you’re a bit late with it.”
Betty’s voice came on again, suddenly loud:
“Am I? David, are you there?”
“Yes—I wish I wasn’t.”
“You are coming, aren’t you? Why did you say I was late?”
“Because Grandmamma’s maid rang me up whilst I was having my bath, and Milly had been trying to get on for half an hour before I got to office, and then I had Aunt Mary for a quarter of an hour, and Aunt Editha for about twenty minutes. I’m now going to smash the telephone.”
“David!”
David rang off.
In about half a minute the bell was clattering again.
“What is it?” said David ferociously.
Betty’s faint accents wavered on the wire:
“David—I thought you’d better know beforehand—”
“What is it? You know I’ve got some work to do. Millionairesses who are clamouring for bathrooms don’t like being kept waiting.”
“No. David, I won’t keep you; but I really do think you ought to know—” Something inaudible just tickled his ear, but conveyed no meaning. Then he distinguished the word “coming.”
“For the Lord’s sake speak up!”
“I am. I thought you ought to know she was coming.”
“Who is coming?”
“I told you.”
“I keep telling you I can’t hear a word you say.”
“Eleanor,” said Betty on a sudden burst of sound. “She crossed yesterday, and the Aunts collected her and got her to promise to come this afternoon. And I thought you’d rather know beforehand, and not have them all thinking you were turning red, or turning pale, or something, when you weren’t.”
David burst into a roar of laughter.
“I shall turn puce and writhe on the carpet. Aunt Mary can pour coffee all over my front, and Aunt Editha can put hot scones on the back of my neck.”
“David!” said Betty Lester.
David rang off.
So this was Aunt Editha’s “delightful surprise.” He pictured her romantic mind dwelling fondly upon his meeting with Eleanor. The whole Family was doubtless in a state of pleasurable anticipation.
Seven years ago Eleanor Rayne had been Eleanor Fordyce. A convenient cousinship had thrown together two handsome and impressionable creatures. Result, an engagement so imprudent as to bring the Family about their ears, and to some purpose. David, then two-and-twenty, was sent to America to complete his training as an architect, whilst Eleanor sailed in the opposite direction to visit a convenient uncle in India.
In India she met and married Cosmo Rayne, who after six bitter years had left her widowed. She and David had not met since that final interview when heart-broken youth had taken what it most certainly believed to be a final farewell of happiness.
David looked back curiously across the seven years. It seemed so extraordinarily far away—all that passionate emotion; Eleanor’s dark beauty frozen into dumb white misery; the tears through which he had last beheld her. It was all distinct in his memory; but it was like a photograph—lifeless, flat, and devoid of colour or interest. Betty’s w
arning had been well meant but quite unnecessary. Betty always meant well—and she was very often unnecessary.
David felt himself capable of meeting Eleanor with the utmost cheerfulness and detachment. As they were cousins, he thought he would probably kiss her. He felt that to kiss Eleanor under the eyes of the assembled Family would add zest to Grandmamma’s birthday party; it would make it go; it would give the Family something to talk about for months.
He laughed, and returned to the Elizabethan manor-house.
Published by Dean Street Press 2016
Copyright © 1927 Patricia Wentworth
Introduction copyright © 2016 Curtis Evans
All Rights Reserved
The right of Patricia Wentworth to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her estate in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 1927 by Hodder & Stoughton
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 911413 16 5
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
Anne Belinda: A Golden Age Mystery Page 24
