She shut the door because there was no sense in letting Ricky wake anyone else up, and said in her clear, light voice,
“What’s the matter?”
CHAPTER XXXV
John Hildred came out of his room and went along the passage as far as the head of the stairs. Ricky had made a clean breast of everything, and the question was, what next?
The police?
Nausea rose in him at the thought of Ricky in the witness-box—exposing himself—hurrying to swear away his father’s life. No, not quite that, since, no thanks to Geoffrey, actual murder had not been done. Yet such a term of imprisonment as he would get would be the equivalent of a death sentence. And the name on every poster, in every flaring headline:
THE HILDRED CASE. GEOFFREY HILDRED
IN THE DOCK. RICHARD HILDRED
IN THE WITNESS BOX.
What a mess!
Something might perhaps be done with Ricky. How far would he really have gone? He had probably had enough of meddling with crime.
O’Hara—suppose he could get O’Hara to try Ricky out. Suppose … There wasn’t any suppose about it. O’Hara would do it if he asked him. An open-air life, plenty of good hard work, and a tight hand over him might make something of Ricky yet.
But Geoffrey was another guess matter.
Geoffrey—
Just past the head of the stairs there was a telephone-box. John Hildred entered it, shut the door, and dialled a number. He had put on a dressing-gown over his pyjamas. He had sent Sarah and Lucilla back to bed. He had left Bertrand Darnac on guard over Ricky. He was now telephoning to Geoffrey.
Geoffrey Hildred roused at the sound of the bell. It was not sleep from which it roused him, but a heavy trance of fatigue and suspense. He was not at first sure what the ringing bell might be. It might have been the door-bell—but Ricky wouldn’t ring. Who else would ring at four in the morning? He had an instant’s shocking vision of dark blue cloth and a tall man helmeted, pressing with a gloved hand upon the bell.
The bell rang again—here in the room, from his desk where the table instrument stood. The shocking vision darkened and was gone.
He got up with a noticeable effort, went over to the table, and took the receiver off the telephone, but before he put it to his ear he fumbled for the chair and sat down. There were heavy pulses in his head. They made a noise. Through them a far-away voice said,
“Hullo!”
Geoffrey Hildred said, “Hullo!”
The far-away voice said, “Is that you, Geoffrey?”
At the sound of his name he knew who was calling him—Jack—Jack Hildred—dead years ago—come back to life—dead again to-night if Ricky hadn’t bungled—
The line cleared suddenly—or was it his head?—and he knew that Ricky had bungled.
John Hildred was speaking—a living man and a stern one.
“That you, Geoffrey?”
He heard himself say, “Yes.”
John Hildred said, “I’m letting you know that Ricky has failed you. He is here. And he’s made a clean breast of everything. That’s all.” The click of the receiver followed.
Geoffrey Hildred heard it. It sounded as loud in his ears as the clap of a slammed door. There were thoughts in his mind—prison—misappropriation—trust—the dock—the Hildred case—a judge in a black cap. And then, “The Lord have mercy on your soul.” … But no one was dead. Lucilla wasn’t dead. Ricky had failed. No one—was—dead.…
He did not know that the receiver had fallen from his hand. He did not know that his forehead had struck the edge of the desk. They would find him like that in the morning, slumped forward in his chair.
John Hildred came out of the telephone-box and knocked on Sarah’s door. She opened it at once. They stood there looking at each other. Then he said,
“Lucilla in bed?”
Sarah said, “Yes—she’s here. We thought we’d stay together.”
“Yes. But it’s all over now. There won’t be anything more.”
She put a hand on his shoulder and leaned towards him.
“John, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, darling—go back to my room.”
“And then?”
He said again, “I don’t know.”
There was silence between them. He broke it when Sarah took her hand away.
“Sarah—”
“John—”
“Will you marry me very soon?”
“How soon?”
He said, “I think it takes three days to get a licence. Will you marry me in three days?”
Sarah said, “Yes, John.”
She put up her lips and they kissed.
About the Author
Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1934 by Patricia Wentworth
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3349-7
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
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