Beggar’s Choice

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m leaving Croydon at three. I’m going out of England, and I’m going out of your life. But before I go-”

  My temper was getting up, and I cut in.

  “For heaven’s sake, Anna,” I said, “put on your hat and go to your husband! And cut out all this futile film stuff!”

  “Oh, I’m futile?” said Anna. “Futile! That’s what you think of me, is it? I suppose I was futile when I turned you out of here? Futile? I had only to say a word to Uncle John and out you went-out of his house, out of his will, out of his thoughts-out of sight, out of mind. I did that! Was that futile?”

  “Don’t you think it was?” I said.

  She laughed.

  “I picked you up, and I threw you away! No-I haven’t done. I’m going, you know-but before I go I want you to know just how futile I’ve been. You got quite a decent job when you went away from here-didn’t you? Did you ever wonder why you didn’t keep it-and why you didn’t keep the next job, which wasn’t quite such a good one-and the next-and the next-and the next?”

  I had often wondered, but I wasn’t going to say so.

  “You needn’t wonder any longer. I drove you out of every job you had. When it comes from a man’s own family that he is-unreliable-” She paused. I wondered if she was frightened, for she drew back from me and put the table between us. “I drove you out of here-I drove you out of every job you had! And when I’ve driven you to prison- shall I still be-futile?”

  I hadn’t meant too let her make me angry, but the blood began to sing in my ears. I was on one side of the table, and she on the other. Neither of us had heard the door open. The screen masked it. Neither of us saw my uncle and some one else come into the room. Neither of us saw or heard anything but our own anger, until all at once I saw Anna’s face change and I felt my uncle’s hand on my shoulder and heard him say in his very loudest voice,

  “What’s all this-what? What’s all this, I say?”

  XLIII

  I moved round and faced him. I moved slowly, because the whole thing was such a surprise and my mind seemed to have stuck. I couldn’t get it to work on this being my uncle’s hand on my shoulder. I had a sort of dazed feeling which was probably due to my not having had anything to eat.

  After a moment I began to get there. Uncle John was clapping me on the back and saying things in a loud angry voice; but the anger wasn’t for me, it was for Anna.

  “I heard what you said-what? You’re very clever at persuading people, but you can’t persuade me out of what I’ve heard with my own ears-what? You can’t do that-not if you were twice as clever as you think you are! I heard what you said to him! Do you hear that-what? I heard you with my own ears, and how you have the face to stand there and look at me, I don’t know!”

  Anna was doing just what he said. She stood there, and she looked at him. The tips of her fingers just touched the table. I saw a picture once of the arrest of a Nihilist-I think it was called The Order of Arrest. I saw it when I was about ten, and it made a great impression on me. There was a girl standing behind a table, just touching it. She had big dark eyes, and she was staring out of the picture as if she was looking at something dreadful. Anna was standing and looking just like that. I suppose it was wrong of me, but I couldn’t help wondering whether she remembered the picture too. She didn’t say anything; she just looked.

  My uncle turned to me.

  “She was trying to make me believe you’d taken the Queen Anne bow. We’ve had a burglary, and it’s gone. She was trying to make me believe you’d taken it.”

  “It’s sewn into the corner of my coat,” I said.

  He let go of me and stood back. It must have been a bit of a shock. If I hadn’t been feeling so stupid, I might have broken it a bit more gently. He looked at me, and he looked at Anna, and Anna laughed.

  My uncle thumped the table.

  “And who put it there?” he said.

  I didn’t answer him. I went over to the bureau and picked up a penknife. I thought it was time the Queen Anne bow was back in its safe. I cut a stitch, pulled the thread and broke it. The bow was pushed right down into the hem. I took it out and laid it on the table by my uncle’s hand. The setting was tarnished, and the diamonds looked dull, but the two big emeralds were like burning green water.

  Anna’s eyes went to them and stayed there. I expect she was thinking they would suit her. I don’t know whether it went through her mind that she wouldn’t ever wear them now.

  “Who put it in your coat?” said my uncle. Then, when I didn’t answer, he got angry and banged again. “You don’t sew, do you-what? Some one put it there, and I want to know who!”

  Anna laughed and stepped back from the table.

  “You are very chivalrous all of a sudden, Car! Don’t you know who sewed the bow in your coat?”

  I said, “Yes. Don’t you want to catch that train of yours, Anna?”

  “Train?” said my uncle. “What train? Where’s she going?”

  The door opened, and William came in. He was trying to look as if he didn’t know that there was something up. I felt sorry for him-it’s his ambition to be the perfect butler, but he hasn’t got a butler’s face.

  “The car’s at the door, miss,” he said. Then he tried not to look at us and went out again, fairly boiling with curiosity.

  Anna saw her chance of a good exit and took it.

  “I’m going to my husband,” she said in her best tragedy voice.

  My uncle’s jaw dropped about half a foot.

  “Your what?”

  “My husband,” said Anna. “I was married to Arbuthnot Markham a fortnight ago.”

  My uncle got very red in the face. He began to speak, stopped, and got redder still.

  Anna looked at us both, very loftily.

  “Good-by,” she said, and she began to move towards the door; but she had only got half-way, when she stopped.

  She looked round at me, and I thought she was going to say something, but she didn’t. She went quickly out of the room and shut the door.

  My uncle stared after her, angry and confused.

  “Bless my soul! Married?” he said. “What? Married? What’s all this?” He jerked his shoulders back as if he was throwing something off. “Well, I wish him joy of her!”

  It was whilst he was speaking that I saw there was some one else in the room. I very nearly jumped, because there was a sort of effect of his having appeared out of nothing. As a matter of fact, as soon as I had time to think, I realized that he had come in with my uncle. I hadn’t seen him, because he had been standing behind me. But Anna must have seen him. It struck me afterwards that that was why she didn’t say whatever it was she was going to say before she went out of the room.

  Well, I looked at him and pulled myself together. He was a little man with thin, neat hair, sharpish gray eyes, and the sort of nose that is made for a pince-nez. The pince-nez sat neatly on the nose. He wore a natty gent’s suiting, and he took a very small size in black boots. I had never seen him before, but I knew him at once.

  He put up his hand and fiddled with his pince-nez, and he said,

  “Good morning, Mr. Fairfax.”

  It was Z.10 Smith.

  It was such a relief that I felt as if a ton of bricks had been suddenly lifted off me. The beastliest part of the whole beastly nightmare I had been wandering about in was the perfectly damnable idea that Z.10 was acting for Anna. I had never been able quite to shake it off. Z.10 here, with my uncle, meant something quite different. This all went through my head very quickly.

  I said, “Good morning, Mr. Smith,” and my uncle stopped staring after Anna and slapped me on the back.

  “Well,” he said-“well? So you recognize him-what? What did you think? Did you guess he came from-me what?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said. I was feeling a bit angry. “I wish I had!” I said.

  My uncle broke into a shout of laughter.

  “You weren’t meant to! No, no-not a bit of it!
His name’s really Smith, you know-Smith and Wilkins, Enquiry Agents.”

  He took me by the arm and walked me away to the other side of the room, dropping his voice till I could hardly hear what he said.

  “Worried about you-began to think Anna’d been bamboozling me-found her out in a lie or two-makes you wonder whether it isn’t all lies-what?” He gripped my arm. “I missed you, my boy. We’ve both got tempers-runs in the family-said a lot of things that didn’t make it easy to climb down, both of us-what?”

  I looked round and saw Z.10 vanishing discreetly. I heard the door close behind him. I don’t think my uncle noticed. He went on, still holding me tight and mumbling between embarrassment and discretion:

  “Thought I’d find out how you were getting on-couldn’t do it myself-got him instead-Smith-Perkins recommended him-very efficient-what?-discreet-confidential-had to take him into my confidence a good deal-about Anna- what?”

  “She knew,” I said.

  “Yes-Smith said so-said she butted in-sent that fellow Markham ferreting round-kept the appointment Smith had made with you-” He broke into a half laugh and slapped my shoulder. “He saw her carry you off, and didn’t know what to make of it, by Jove!”

  “How did she know?” I asked.

  “Listened when I was telephoning. You don’t think of things like that-not with your own family-but that’s what she must have done-eavesdropped-opened letters too, I shouldn’t wonder!” He made a sound of disgust. “Who’s this fellow she’s married? He’ll be sorry for himself before he’s through-what?”

  “Or she will,” I said.

  My uncle looked up hopefully.

  “What? Is he that sort? I hope he is-I hope he is!”

  Then he let go of me and stepped back.

  “You don’t bear me a grudge, do you-what? I didn’t think you did-not when you spoke about me.”

  “When I spoke about you?”

  He got very red.

  “Perhaps it wasn’t altogether fair-not playing the game- what? But I wouldn’t have held it up against you if you’d grumbled a bit.”

  I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was driving at.

  He turned plum-color.

  “The other night!” he said explosively. “Damn it! What was I to do-what? I wanted to see you-couldn’t think of any other way-wanted to know-what you felt about me-got my pride as well as you, you know.”

  My mind was a complete blank. I suppose I looked as puzzled as I felt.

  He made a sound like “Tch-h!” and blew out his cheeks.

  “Back of the car,” he said-“what? The other night- Olding Crescent -what?”

  I got there suddenly.

  “You were in the back of the car the other night when I was talking to Z.10 Smith in Olding Crescent?”

  He nodded and looked past me.

  “What made you hit on Olding Crescent?” I said, partly to relieve his embarrassment, and partly because I wanted to know. I couldn’t remember just what I had said about him to Z.10, and I thought we’d better get off the subject.

  He seemed relieved at my question.

  “Good place-what? Lonely place-dark-no traffic- what?”

  “What made you hit on it?”

  He burst out laughing.

  “Anna put me on to it-dined there with that Markham fellow, and I came down from my club and picked her up, and I thought to myself it was as lonely a place as you’d find within ten miles of town.” He stopped laughing rather suddenly. “She’s gone-and a good riddance. And now she’s gone, you-you’ll come back home-won’t you, my boy? The place wants looking after. Jenkins can’t keep up with it. He want to go and live with his married daughter in London. There’s no accounting for tastes-what?”

  I supposed he was offering me the agent’s job, but he hadn’t said so. I thought it wasn’t any good beating about the bush, so I asked him straight out.

  “What do you think?” he said. “I want you back. And there’s the job if you’ll take it-and the little Manor House by and by if you want to get married.”

  I thought about Isobel. She had always wanted to live there, and I had said-I had said-that the only house we should ever have was a castle in the air. Things danced in front of my eyes, and I suppose I must have looked queer, for my uncle took me by the arm.

  “Here-hold up!” he said. “What’s the matter?”

  I said, “It’s-very good of you.”

  He said, “Nonsense! Nonsense!” Then he let go of me and blew his nose violently. “You ought to have let me know. When Smith told me-” He blew his nose. “Such straits-no idea-you ought to have let me know-what? Damn proud young pup!” He blew his nose again.

  I heard the door open, and walked away to the window, because I wasn’t just feeling like confronting William. It wasn’t William.

  It was Isobel.

  My uncle turned round with a grunt.

  “I’m busy,” he said; and then he saw who it was and went to meet her.

  She didn’t see me. I was up by the window, and the curtain screened me. She was looking so beautifully happy that I wondered what had happened. She took both my uncle’s hands and said,

  “Don’t be busy for just a minute, Mr. Carthew, because I’ve come on purpose to tell you that Car and I are engaged.”

  And then she kissed him-at least that’s what it looked like to me. She says he kissed her.

  My uncle turned round and roared at the top of his voice,

  “What? What? What’s all this? Car-I say-what? Engaged? Bless my soul! Come and kiss her yourself! What?”

  I came.

  XLIV

  Corinna Lee to Peter Lymington:

  Peter Darling,

  A great many things have been happening. When you get to the end of this letter you will know why I am calling you “darling.” If you don’t like it, you had better cable right away, the same as you did about not being married to that Fay creature. First of all, you needn’t get all puffed up about her being in love with you, because she never thought about you at all. She was just head over ears in love with Car Fairfax, and she said she was married to you so as to keep him right there looking after her, which he wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t thought you wanted him to. Crazy-isn’t it?

  Peter honey, everything has come right. Isn’t it just perfectly splendid? It all happened so quick I’m still taking long breaths and pinching myself to see if I’m awake. Cousin John and Car are friends again. Anna Lang has run away with a dreadful man called Arbuthnot Markham. And Car is going to marry Isobel, and I am going to marry you. So now you know why you are “Peter Darling.”

  You see, Car got engaged to Isobel, so I couldn’t have him. And then I got your letter, and it did sound as if you were just rather fond of me, and then I felt terribly homesick and kind of alone in the world, so I sent Poppa a cable-a real, long cable-and I’m not going to tell you what I said. And Poppa cabled back-and I’m not going to tell you what he said either, but we’re engaged.

  I hope you will like being engaged. Isobel and Car are perfectly sweet together. He looks at her as if she was the sun and the moon and the stars and everything beautiful you can think of. I don’t suppose you’d want to look that way at me. If you would there will be just time for you to write and tell me about it. Car and Isobel are getting married at the end of October and as soon as the wedding is over I am coming home. I was just going to write “I am coming home to you,” but then I thought I wouldn’t, because you don’t know about being engaged to me yet. Of course you will know it by the time you get this far-so perhaps I’ll say it after all.

  Peter darling, I’m coming home to you.

  Your

  Corinna

  Patricia Wentworth

  Born in Mussoorie, India, in 1878, Patricia Wentworth was the daughter of an English general. Educated in England, she returned to India, where she began to write and was first published. She married, but in 1906 was left a widow with four children, and returned again to England where she r
esumed her writing, this time to earn a living for herself and her family. She married again in 1920 and lived in Surrey until her death in 1961.

  Miss Wentworth’s early works were mainly historical fiction, and her first mystery, published in 1923, was The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith. In 1928 she wrote The Case Is Closed and gave birth to her most enduring creation, Miss Maud Silver.

  ***

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