Poison In The Pen

by Patricia Wentworth

  “My dear Mettie, I haven’t the slightest intention of telling you anything! Not that there is anything to tell. Valentine has been run off her legs. She is tired out and no wonder.”

  “Oh, well, if that is all-Brides ought to look their best but they very seldom do. Gilbert seems devoted enough. He’s got rather a knack of it, hasn’t he? Too charming to too many people. But I suppose with Valentine it’s the real thing, so all the others will be thinking how lucky she is. And of course he will be the next Lord Brangston. Too tiresome for the poor people having all those daughters, but very nice for Valentine. Not that a title does you much good nowadays, but it’s decorative and she can afford to keep it up.”

  Gilbert Earle had crossed the room to where Valentine stood with John Addingley, a tall hatchet-faced young man with a strip of plaster crossing his upper lip. Valentine stood between them. She had used rather a delicate lipstick, because when she tried the brighter shade it made her look too pale. She had put a little colour on her cheeks, and it looked all right upstairs, but when she caught a glimpse of herself in one of the long mirrors between the windows down here she could see that it stood out on the smooth white skin like a stain.

  Gilbert said, “Am I allowed to take you in?” and she smiled a little and said, “Yes, I think so. We are only waiting for Scilla. It’s shocking of her to be late, but she always is.” Her voice was sweet and quiet. It sounded as if she was too tired to raise it or to accent the words. There was no feeling behind them.

  In the pause that followed Maggie Repton was heard to say, “Oh, dear-” and Sir Timothy Mallett took out his watch and looked at it.

  Then the door opened and Scilla Repton came in in a gold dress with the least possible amount of top to it. Arms, shoulders, and breast were as white as milk. Her hair was golden under the light. She came in without hurry and stood a moment, smiling, before she said in her languid voice,

  “Oh, you’re all here. And I’m late again-how dreadful of me! Maggie, who do I go in with? Is it the bridegroom, or Sir Tim-I can’t remember.”

  Gilbert met her eyes with a laughing look.

  “Oh, not with me, I’m afraid. Valentine and I are on show as a pair tonight-aren’t we, darling?”

  Valentine said gravely,

  “I suppose we are.” There was a faint note of surprise in her voice, as if it had only just struck her. And it was true. They were on show like exhibits in a glass case with all the lights turned on so that everyone might see. But after tomorrow they would be alone. A stab of fear went through her, a sense of the irrevocable.

  Scilla was smiling, her head a little tilted back, her lashes drooped.

  “Oh, no,” she said, “-have a heart! After all, you’ll be going off together for the rest of your lives. It’s our turn tonight. Val can do her best to soothe Roger’s lacerated feelings, and you, darling, are coming in with me, so that is all about it.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The evening was over and quite a number of people were glad of it. Connie Brooke was one of them. It ought to have been a wonderful party, the sort of thing to remember and look back on when times were dull. And she had had a lovely dress to wear too, one that Scilla Repton had given her, almost new and just the pale blue she liked best. Penny Marsh thought it made her look too pale-“run-in-the-wash” was what she had really said. But everyone knew that fair girls could wear blue, and it would have been quite all right if she hadn’t been so upset and cried so much. Her skin showed it terribly when she cried, and her eyelids were still hot and swollen. She had hoped no one would notice it.

  But Cousin Maggie had. She had come right up to her in the drawing-room after dinner and asked in her fidgeting sort of way whether there was anything the matter. It was kind, but it made her want to cry again. And of course she had recognised the dress-“I suppose Scilla gave it to you. But really, my dear, the colour-rather trying! Perhaps you haven’t been sleeping.”

  “No, Cousin Maggie, I haven’t been sleeping.”

  “Oh, well, you shouldn’t let it go on. Nora Mallett was quite concerned. She said you looked as if you hadn’t slept for a week! And I said I would give you some of my tablets- very good ones which Dr. Porteous gave me two years ago when I was staying with my cousin Annie Pedlar. They were wonderful! And you do feel so much better about everything when you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

  Well, of course they both knew that she had been dreadfully upset two years ago about Cousin Roger’s marriage. As if anything more wonderful could have happened! There they were, two dull elderly people, and Scilla-wonderful, beautiful Scilla-had been willing to come and live with them. She let her thoughts dwell on how marvellous it would be to live in the same house as Scilla and see her every day.

  As she walked home across the Green with Mettie Eccles she kept on trying to think about Scilla-how lovely she had looked in that golden dress. She was much, much more beautiful than Valentine. Talk about looking pale-Valentine had looked like a ghost, everyone was saying so. Why should she be pale? She was the bride, tomorrow was her wedding day, she had everything that a girl could possibly want. Her own unhappiness came up in her throat and wouldn’t be swallowed down. She wondered if Cousin Maggie’s tablets would really make her sleep. It would be wonderful if they did. She would have to dissolve them-she had never been able to swallow anything like a pill…

  Miss Mettie was saying, “You don’t look fit for anything, Connie. You had better have something hot and get to bed as quickly as you can.”

  “Oh, yes. I left my cocoa all ready on the stove-I shall have to heat it up. And Cousin Maggie gave me her tablets, so I shall be sure to sleep.”

  Mettie Eccles said sharply, “I thought you couldn’t swallow a tablet. I remember your mother saying so.”

  “I’ll dissolve them in my cocoa.”

  “Goodness-they’ll taste nasty! But of course you don’t taste things, do you? Why can’t you just swallow them?”

  Connie said weakly, “I don’t know-I can’t.”

  She did hope Miss Mettie wasn’t going to argue with her about it. She didn’t feel like arguing with anyone tonight. It would be easier to try and swallow the tablets, but if she did she would be certain to choke.

  Mettie Eccles went on about it all across the Green.

  “How many tablets did she give you? How many did she tell you to take?”

  “I don’t think she said. I expect it will be on the bottle.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t take more than one if I were you. It isn’t as though you were used to things like that.”

  They said good-night at Miss Eccles’ gate and Connie went on alone. It was a great relief to be alone. She didn’t want to have to think any more, or to talk, or to answer any more questions. She only wanted to have her hot drink, and to lie down in her bed and go to sleep.

  She always left a light burning when she was out. She didn’t like the feeling of coming into a dark house. She unlocked the door, and there was the light waiting for her. When she had locked it again she went through to the kitchen. Her cocoa stood ready on the oil stove in an enamelled saucepan. She lit one of the burners, put the pan on to heat, and went upstairs. Now that the evening was over she was so tired that she could hardly drag one foot after another, but she hung the pale blue dress away, in what had been her mother’s room, before she went down for the cocoa. She took Cousin Maggie’s tablets with her. She thought she would have slept without them, but she wanted to make sure. When she had drunk the cocoa she washed cup and saucepan out at the sink, put out the light downstairs, and went up to bed. It would be lovely to have a real long sleep.

  CHAPTER 9

  All over Tilling Green there were houses where people were going to bed or were already there and asleep. At the Manor Roger Repton gave something between a yawn and a sigh of relief as he laid down keys and money on his dressing-table and took off his white tie. By this time tomorrow the whole damned fuss would be over. What was the good of worrying? Pity you couldn’t alwa
ys help it. Valentine was bound to marry some time, and how could you tell how any marriage would turn out? Take his own-He shied away from that. No good thinking about things that didn’t bear thinking about-Get back to Valentine. There was no reason why it shouldn’t turn out all right for her. Gilbert wasn’t the first young fellow to play about a bit before he settled down. And the money was tied up all right-no playing ducks and drakes with it. There had been enough of that with poor Eleanor and that fellow Grey. Pretty, fragile creature Eleanor. The going had been too tough for her, and she had just given up. He wondered how it would have been if they had married. Everyone said it wouldn’t do, so he went off to the East and she married Grey. But not at once, not for quite a long time. And Grey was a rotter. Stupid affair the whole thing. But Valentine would be all right with Gilbert. They were going to miss her, and-they were going to miss the money. He began to think about how badly they were going to miss the money.

  His sister Maggie thought the evening hadn’t gone so badly after all. Mrs. Glazier was a really good cook, and everything had been very nice. Of course they would probably not be able to go on having her after this-or would they? Roger always did talk as if they were all going to the workhouse next week. Papa did too. They didn’t call them workhouses now, but the principle remained the same. If you hadn’t enough money you had to keep on thinking about it, and that was so very tiresome. It was a pity that Valentine was getting married. Marriages didn’t always turn out the way you thought they would. She might be very unhappy, as her mother had been. She might have wished she had stayed as she was. Gilbert was a very goodlooking young man, and some day he would have a title, because poor Lady Brangston had gone on having daughters, so he would be Lord Brangston when his old cousin died. There wouldn’t be any money, but Valentine had enough for two. Charming young men didn’t always make the best husbands. She would have liked to get married when she was a girl, but nobody asked her. And perhaps it was safer not to have a husband at all than to have one who turned out badly like Valentine’s father who had broken poor Eleanor’s heart and spent quite a lot of her money.

  She took off the amethyst necklace which had been her mother’s and put it away. The stones were a lovely colour and it was a handsome necklace. She could remember her mother wearing it with a dress of lilac satin cut low upon the shoulders and trimmed with a lace bertha. Women had good shoulders then. Mamma’s had been very smooth and white. The necklace had looked very well. Her own neck was too thin for it. She put it away with a sigh, lifting the three trays of an old-fashioned jewel-case and laying it out carefully on the padded satin at the bottom. The folded piece of paper was on the next tray. Only a little piece of it showed under a heavy bracelet set with carbuncles. She put out her hand to the torn edge of the paper and drew it back again, but in the end she lifted the bracelet and unfolded the crumpled sheet. Someone had written on it, the letters clumsily formed, the lines slanting awry.

  After a time she folded it again and put it back with the bracelet to hold it down. Then she replaced the other two trays and locked the box and put away the key.

  Valentine Grey slipped out of her pale green dress. Mettie Eccles had said to her, “You shouldn’t be wearing green, you know. It’s unlucky.” She stood with the pale floating cloud of it in her hand and thought from what long, long, long-ago ages these superstitions came down. Green was the colour of the Little People-the fairies. They couldn’t bear you to wear it, especially on a Friday, because Friday was the day of the Redemption and they had no part in it-

  She hung up the dress and went to the dressing-table to take off her pearls and lay them down. Her hand went up to the clasp and dropped again. There was a letter fastened to the pin-cushion with the brooch she had worn that afternoon, a little diamond feather, very light and sparkling. The envelope was the sort they sell with Christmas cards. It was very tightly stuck. The writing was large, and thick, and awkward. She didn’t know it at all. She picked it up, tore it open, and discovered another envelope inside, a small grey one. There was no writing on it.

  There was nothing to frighten her, but a pulse beat in her throat. There was nothing to be afraid of, but her hand had begun to shake. Out of the grey envelope there came a scrap of paper. Words had been pencilled on it in a hand she knew:

  “The old place. I’ll wait till twelve. If you don’t come, I’ll be ringing the front door bell at nine o’clock.”

  There was no signature, but she did not need one. The least scrawled word that Jason ever wrote was signature enough. Sense, memory, feeling, shut her in with the sole thought, “He’s here.”

  It was at its first impact pure release and joy. It was as if she had grown wings and could fly to her own place of heart’s desire. And then she was jerked back without escape, because it was all too late. He had gone away, and she had not known whether he was dead or alive. There are a thousand deaths for the one you love, and in every hour one of those deaths could fall. You could not go on like that, never knowing, never hearing. It wasn’t possible. She was marrying Gilbert Earle tomorrow. Anger flowed in where the joy had been. Did Jason really think he could throw her down and pick her up again just as he chose? Did he think that his world would stand still while he left it to go adventuring? The word came to her with the very sound of his voice. She let herself listen for a moment. A small flame of anger came up in her. “He that will not when he may-” She had been willing enough, and he had gone away without a word. She found that she was holding the paper so tightly that it hurt.

  And then suddenly she was tearing it into shreds and scattering them from the window. The anger in her burned for an outlet. Since he had set time and place for them to meet, she would go, and for once, just for once, everything should be clear between them. Let him look at what he had done, let him watch the smoke of the burning and see the utter destruction. And then nothing more.

  She took off the long, full petticoat which she had worn under her green dress and put on a dark skirt and jumper. She took off her pale green shoes with the crystal buckles and put on low-heeled shoes with a strap. She tied a dark scarf over her head and slipped into a short, loose coat.

  When she opened her door, the passage was empty before her. She came out upon the landing. The hall lay shadowy below. A small low-powered bulb burned there. There is always something dreamlike about being alone in a sleeping house. The daily maids had gone home hours ago. Mrs. Glazier, who was the gardener’s wife, had gone back to their cottage. Somewhere on the floor from which she had come Scilla and Roger and Maggie would be sleeping-they were all tired enough. Scilla had hardly waited to say good-night before she went yawning to her room.

  As Valentine crossed the hall, the feeling of emptiness and silence came up about her. It was like going down into a swimming-pool and feeling the water rise about your waist, your throat, your chin. Now it had closed over her. She walked in it, leaving the light farther and farther behind until she came to the drawing-room door.

  When she had turned the handle and passed within, there was no more light. She closed the door without latching it, took out the little torch which she had slipped into the pocket of her coat, and switched it on. A narrow beam straggled into the darkness, showing chairs, tables, couches-shapes half guessed at in some uncharted place. She came to the pale curtains and slipped between the middle pair. The other two windows had cushioned seats behind the old brocade, but this one was a door, like the one in Scilla’s sitting-room which lay beyond. As she came out upon the terrace she switched off the torch. She would not need it again. Her feet had taken the way too often for that, by day, by dusk, and in the dark. And tonight it was not really dark at all-low clouds with the moon behind them and everything dimmed but visible.

  She went to the end of the terrace and down the steps. A lawn sloped gently, edged with trees. Presently there was a path which went away to the left and wandered among them. There were shadows that came and went as a light breeze moved the branches overhead. The trees thinned away
. Here the ground rose to a viewpoint where a great, greatgrandfather had set one of those formal summerhouses which the early Victorians called a gazebo. She climbed to it by a path which was overgrown with grass. As she came to the top, something moved in the shadowed doorway. She stood still, her heart knocking against her side.

  There were two wooden steps up into the gazebo. Jason Leigh came down them and dropped his hands upon her shoulders. It was all so easy, so familiar, so near the pattern of what had been that she did not feel it strange. The months between were gone and the gap had closed. They were Jason and Valentine, and they were together. They stood like that without moving until he said,

  “So you’ve come. Just as well. I meant what I said about coming up to beat on the front door if you didn’t. Well, now we’d better sit down and talk. The steps will do.”

  He let go of her and they sat, as they had done so many times before. If the moon had been out, they would have seen the slope of the Tilling woods, the Green like an irregular triangle with its bordering of houses, and the trickle of the Till going down through the meadows to join the Lede. There were no lights in any of the houses, but the outline of the Green was visible and the black mass of the church. Nearer still a faint mist brooded above the lake where Doris Pell had drowned.

  Neither of them spoke for a time. Valentine had come here to be angry, to beat herself against the thing in him that could love her and leave her, which could go away but could not stay away. But now that they were here together she could not do it. If he came he came, and if he went he went. There was nothing she could do about it. Only how could she marry Gilbert Earle when she felt as if she were married already to Jason? What was marriage? It wasn’t just the words which Tommy would say over her and Gilbert tomorrow. It wasn’t just the physical bond, the physical sharing. For some people it might be that, but not for her. She felt with a deep inner knowledge that she would never be Gilbert’s wife. And if they had never kissed, never touched, and were never to touch or kiss again, the bond that was between Jason and herself was something that would never change or break.