Hole and Corner

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Well, what are we going to do?”

  “Get the things back into the house and persuade her they never left it.”

  “But you did that with the diamond brooch.”

  “I know, I know—you needn’t rub it in. It was a perfectly sound scheme, and if it hadn’t been for Possett being in such a devil of a hurry to turn the room out, and the emeralds being missing, and one thing and another—”

  Shirley made a fleeting Woggy Doodle—not one of her best—a mere hurried sketch.

  “I know—it went wrong on you. Plans do. But, darling, you can’t put any more brooches and necklaces and things down the sides of the chairs and sofas, because even Possett would smell a rat if you did—especially if she’s had all the covers off. And I expect she’s turned out everything in Mrs Huddleston’s bedroom. She’s a sort of human ant, you know—frightfully thorough and persevering. So it’s all very well to say get them back into the house, but what are you going to do with them when you’ve got them back? That’s the question.”

  Anthony laughed.

  “And the answer is I haven’t the slightest idea, but something will probably turn up. And now I’ve got something really important to talk to you about.”

  Shirley clapped her hands together.

  “Oh, but so have I! And she may be back at any minute with the police—only, I don’t really think so, because I’m practically certain she must have gone before I began to sneeze or she wouldn’t have been going round the corner by the time I got to the window, if you see what I mean.”

  “I don’t in the least. How can I? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Shirley caught him by the arm and pinched.

  “The Maltby, darling. Where’s the trained legal mind? Because it had better get going on the Maltby. She’s got a key to this place, because she went to school with Jas’s aunt, or cousin, or whatever she is. And she and Jas look after the canary when Miss Pocklington’s away—at least Jas looks after it really, and the Maltby snoops round to make sure he’s doing it properly. And this was one of her snooping days, only when she got here she didn’t snoop—she just walked up and down and raved about Jane Rigg, and how she’d done her out of millions by dying six months too soon. You’ve no idea how she went on. She must be absolutely mad—”

  Anthony put out a hand and stopped her.

  “Wait a minute—this is important. I want you to try and remember exactly what she said.”

  Shirley stared at him.

  “She was just raving. I’ve never been so frightened in my life. I quite longed for a policeman.”

  He said quickly, “Do you mean she saw you—she knows you’re here?”

  “No. I was behind one of the Pocklington woman’s pictures—a most frightful thing—and I’m practically sure she had gone before I began to sneeze. You’ve no idea what a lot of dust there is in that studio. Jas isn’t at all a good housemaid.”

  Anthony leaned forward and shot the bolt at the bottom of Miss Pocklington’s bright blue door.

  “Is there a back way out?”

  She nodded.

  “Because you mustn’t be caught here in case she has gone to the police. Now listen! Was your mother’s name Jane Lorimer?”

  “Yes. Why? I told you.”

  “I remembered the name when I saw it in the paper to-day.”

  “In the paper?”

  Anthony took both her hands and held them.

  “Don’t talk—listen. Listen, Shirley! Jane Lorimer had a cousin named William Ambrose Merewether. He went to America and made a lot of money there, and he’s left that money first to Jane if she’s alive, and secondly to Jane’s children if any of them are alive, and thirdly to Jane’s grandchildren—all on condition—”

  “What?” said Shirley in a whisper. Her hands were shaking.

  “On condition that none of them has ever been in prison on a criminal charge. No, I put that badly—any one that’s been in prison is disqualified, and the others take the lot.”

  “What?”

  “Yes,” said Anthony. “So you mustn’t go to prison.”

  “I mustn’t?”

  “You most particularly mustn’t. You see, your mother Jane Lorimer is dead, and all her six children are dead except you, so all William Ambrose Merewether’s money is due to come to you, provided—provided you can keep out of prison until after the will has been proved.”

  Shirley pulled away her hands and pressed them over her eyes. She wanted to be in the dark and think, but her hands didn’t make a darkness, and she didn’t seem to be able to do anything with her thoughts. She looked at Anthony and said,

  “Say it again.”

  He said it again, and added,

  “If your half-sister Jane Rigg had lived another six months she would have had half. That’s why Miss Maltby raved—Jane left her everything, and the everything might have been half the Merewether millions.”

  Shirley said, “I see—” And then, “But she wouldn’t get anything now—if I went to prison.”

  “That’s just it,” said Anthony. “Who would?”

  She frowned in a puzzled way. He went on insistently.

  “You’re the last of the children. If you’re disqualified, who comes next? The will says Jane Lorimer’s grandchildren. But are there any? That’s what I want to know. Did any of Jane Lorimer’s children marry and leave a child or children?”

  “Perrine did,” said Shirley.

  “Perrine—” Anthony searched his mind.… Of course—the French child of Jane Lorimer’s second marriage.

  They were facing each other on the narrow stair, Anthony on the outside, Shirley against the wall. He leaned forward a little.

  “Yes—Perrine—you said she was dead.”

  “Ages ago.” Her breath caught in her throat. “Ages, and ages, and ages ago. But she got married first, and she had a baby—Aunt Emily told me.”

  “Who did she marry?”

  “He was French—or Swiss—I don’t know which. He had a French name—Meunier. And she died when her baby was born.”

  “And the child—what happened to it? Was it a boy or a girl?”

  “Girl,” said Shirley. “Pierrette—Pierrette Meunier. I don’t know what’s become of her. Aunt Emily didn’t know.”

  “We’ll have to find out. It won’t be difficult. If she’s alive she’ll come forward. She’ll want to find out whether she’s got a claim under this will.”

  But suppose she knew too much already—then she wouldn’t come forward. She’d lie low for a bit and allow herself to be found. Only she had no claim unless Shirley was disqualified. It all came back to that. Someone was undoubtedly trying to land Shirley in prison. If Shirley went to prison, Shirley was disqualified. If Shirley was disqualified, Pierrette Meunier would get the Merewether millions. He wanted to know a lot more about Pierrette Meunier.

  “You can’t tell me anything more about her? Do you know how old she is?”

  “Yes—I can tell you that. Perrine was born in ’86, and she married when she was only seventeen. She died on her eighteenth birthday—Aunt Emily always remembered that. So how old does that make Pierrette?”

  “You said Perrine was born in ’86? That would put Pierrette’s birth in 1904, so she’s thirty-one.”

  Shirley nodded.

  “Isn’t it grim to have a niece of thirty-one?”

  Anthony’s jaw fell.

  “Of course—she’s your niece! Good lord, darling—what a family!”

  “Isn’t it! It depresses me frightfully when I think that for all I know she’s been married for years and I’m a great-aunt. If she got married at seventeen like her mother, I could have ten or eleven great-nephews and nieces. It makes me feel about three hundred and fifty. I don’t see how you can possibly marry a great-aunt, darling. Do you? Especially a great-aunt who is trembling on the verge of a prison cell.”

  Anthony put his arms round her again.

  “You’re not to talk like that—I don�
��t like it.”

  “Shall talk any way I want to,” said Shirley in rather a submerged voice, because she was being kissed. “Shan’t marry you at all if you’re going to be a trampler. What’s the good of being a great-aunt if you’re not respected?”

  Anthony rubbed his cheek against hers.

  “Do you want to be respected?”

  “Frightfully.”

  “Well, you won’t be. Anyhow I’m not marrying you because you’re a great-aunt.”

  “Perhaps you’re not marrying me at all.”

  “Oh yes, I am.”

  “Why?”

  If Shirley was fishing, she fished in vain. Anthony said firmly,

  “For the Merewether millions of course.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Miss Maltby was not on her way to the police-station. Her thoughts were still in a state of agitated confusion, and she was, as Shirley had surmised, pattering, but she had nevertheless quite a definite idea of where she was going and what she was going to do when she got there. She was going to see Alfred Phillips at his hotel, and she was going to tell him quite plainly, and firmly, and decidedly that what he was offering her was not enough. It was not enough. It was not nearly, nearly, nearly enough.

  She turned another corner and pattered on, her head poking forward in its shabby black hat with the faded bunch of heliotrope on one side of it. Jane had had the heliotrope on a summer hat five, no six, years ago—1929, a very fine summer. Jane had thrown the flowers away. Wasteful, because they were perfectly good. Always a little inclined to be wasteful, Jane Rigg. And here were the flowers, still perfectly serviceable, perfectly good.

  She pattered on.

  Alfred Phillips must be made to see reason. It had come to her as she walked up and down in Helena’s studio that nothing less than a half share was her right, her absolute Legal Right. If Jane had lived Jane would have had half, and she was Jane’s Residuary Legatee. Executrix and Residuary Legatee. What a pleasant sound—what an extremely pleasant sound that had. But it wasn’t what it ought to have been if Jane had done her duty and lived for another six months.

  She went on thinking of all the things she was going to say to Alfred Phillips when she reached the hotel. She hoped he wouldn’t be out. It would really be very awkward if he were out, because she wanted to make it quite clear to him at once that the half share was her Legal Right. And then there was something about that young Wrenn. That was important too. She had distrusted him from the very beginning, and Alfred Phillips ought to know what he was up to. It would be another proof that they couldn’t get on without her, and that she had earned her share—though of course she didn’t have to earn it, because it was her Legal Right. But all the same Alfred Phillips ought to be very, very grateful to her.

  If Al Phillips had any feelings of gratitude towards Miss Maltby, they were not in evidence when she looked round the door into the small over-heated room where he and Ettie Miller were sitting over the gas fire. If he managed to conceal a sharp annoyance, it was as much as he had time for, since Miss Maltby had preceded the hotel servant and appeared without any warning. She must certainly be aware that he had been sitting on the arm of Ettie’s chair. Those pale darting eyes of hers missed nothing. And what brought her here when it was of all things in the world most important that none of them should be seen together? Women were the very devil when it came to business. Take Ettie—it was all very well for her to be fond of him, but they oughtn’t to be here together like this—not now, not at this juncture. And could he get her to see it? No, he couldn’t. Never had she been fonder of him or more clinging. And now this old Maltby, who was more than half crazy and about as safe to handle as gunpowder, she must needs come butting in too. He’d had to use her—why, with her Grievance, she was practically asking to be used—but all the same if he’d known how cranky she was, he wasn’t so sure that he wouldn’t have given her a miss.

  He came a step to meet her, and saw her eyes go darting past him. As he had supposed, they missed nothing. Ettie Miller had taken off her hat, and that dark hair of hers was rumpled, decidedly rumpled. The arm of her chair had a pressed-down sort of look. Goings on—that’s what there’d been, and they needn’t think they could throw dust in her eyes, because they couldn’t. A pretty fool Ettie Miller looked with her flushed cheeks and her untidy hair, and a pretty fool she’d be if she let Alfred Phillips get round her for the sake of the money, because that was what he was up to, and you didn’t need half an eye to see it unless you were a silly vain fool like Ettie.

  Miss Maltby’s eyes glittered with contempt as she minced forward and shook hands. Men. What did any woman want with them? Noisy. Inconvenient. Domineering. And up to no good the minute you took your eye off them. As Ettie would find out. Oh yes, quick enough. If she was such a fool as to let Alfred Phillips get his fingers into her purse. She knew his sort. He needn’t think she didn’t. Or that he could frighten her by frowning, and looking down his nose, and telling her she oughtn’t to have come. For that was what he was actually doing. No gratitude. Not a bit. Not even the offer of a chair. Nothing but a sharp “Look here, Miss Maltby, this won’t do at all, it really won’t. You mustn’t come here.”

  If they didn’t offer her a chair, she would take one. She sat herself down by the fire, laid her umbrella on the floor, settled herself comfortably, and said,

  “I oughtn’t to have come? That’s all you know about it. I’d a very good reason for coming.”

  Al Phillips did not sit down. He stood with his hands in his pockets jingling his money and looking put out.

  “Well, let’s have it—because you mustn’t stay.”

  Miss Maltby unbuttoned her coat. The fire was hot, and she had no intention of being hurried. She was aware that Ettie was suppressing a laugh, and set it down against her.

  “I’ll go when I’ve finished,” she said. “Not before. Not one moment before, Mr Phillips. Not one single moment.”

  Al Phillips took his hands out of his pockets. It was no good, he’d have to humour her. He said in a would-be pleasant manner,

  “Well, what’s it all about, Miss Maltby?”

  She sat up straight, her black-gloved fingers on the clasp of the shabby suède bag. She spoke in a sharp, thin voice.

  “I hope I’m business-like, Mr Phillips. Men always think that women are not business-like, but I hope I can be as business-like as any man. In my opinion women have a greater aptitude for business than men.”

  “And your business?” He managed to keep his tone smooth.

  “There are two points. The first is about my Share. I am not satisfied. Oh, not at all. Very far from satisfied. If I had been a man, you would not have tried to put me off with less than my Legal Share.”

  Miss Ettie Miller rolled her fine dark eyes in an expressive manner. They said quite plainly, “Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!”

  “Your legal share?” inquired Mr Phillips. “What are you talking about? You haven’t got one.”

  Miss Maltby began to snap the clasp of her bag. Her fingers were bony but very strong. They clicked the bag open, and they clicked it shut—click, click, click, and click, click, click again.

  “No?” she said.

  “Certainly not,” said Al Phillips.

  “Perhaps the police will say I have.”

  “Nobody could possibly say you had.”

  Miss Maltby went on clicking. If Jane Rigg had lived, she would have had half. And no risk.

  “I am Jane Rigg’s Residuary Legatee. And Executrix. And Executrix. I have a Legal Right to Jane’s share.”

  Ettie Miller leaned forward. She said in a soothing voice,

  “We haven’t any of us got anything yet, Miss Maltby. You’ll get your share all right when it comes to shelling out.”

  Miss Maltby darted suspicion and dislike at her.

  “My Legal Share?”

  “Of course. Why, Mr Phillips is in a law firm—you know that. He’ll have it all as legal as can be. But it’s no us
e going into it now, because we haven’t got the money yet, and if you were to do anything silly like going to the police, we shouldn’t get it. And then what would happen to your Share as you call it?”

  Miss Maltby stopped clicking for a minute. Her eyes became feed upon Ettie’s. A cunning look passed over her face.

  “That is a point. That is certainly a point. A woman’s business sense is more acute than a man’s. If I go to the police, there will be no Share. Because, though of course it is my Legal Share, the whole transaction is not quite as legal as it might be. I take your meaning. Or perhaps I don’t.” She frowned a little. The cunning look was succeeded by a vague one. The fingers relaxed, slipping away from the bag into her lap. “I don’t know. It’s all very confusing when you put it like that. I must think it over.”

  “That’s right,” said Al Phillips. “You go down to that cottage of yours at Emshot and think it over. I thought you were going there yesterday. Why didn’t you?”

  The vague look passed.

  “Oh, but I did. I went down last night.”

  “Then why didn’t you stay there?”

  Miss Maltby pulled herself up.

  “Really, Mr Phillips!” Then, offence swept away by what she had to tell, “I went down. And she was there. That girl was there.”

  “What girl?” said Al Phillips coldly.

  “Shirley Dale.” Miss Maltby’s whisper was piercingly distinct.

  “Miss Maltby—you don’t mean that!”

  She nodded triumphantly.

  “There. In my house. In my kitchen. And I thought it was Mrs Ward who does for me. And she ran away out of the back door. And she left her bag and her hat More like a cap than a hat. Such things as girls wear! Anything to get themselves noticed!”

  Her manner shook Mr Phillips. If she wasn’t raving—if it was true—

  “How do you know the things were hers?” he said.

  Miss Maltby gave a thin laugh.

  “Men don’t notice these things. Women do. Every day for months that cap’s gone past my door. On that girl’s head. Of course I know it. And the bag. There was a letter in it.” She clicked open her own bag, picked out an envelope by one corner, and held it out. “It was in the bag. Miss Shirley Dale. From her old Aunt Emily’s cook. To say she hoped her dear Miss Shirley is well.” She laughed again. “Seeing is believing, Mr Phillips.”