The Black Cabinet

by Patricia Wentworth

  “All or nothing? Is that it? It was very nearly all, Chloe.”

  Chloe’s hands held each very tightly. The part of her that had come near to loving Martin was sick and ashamed; she couldn’t look at him. Martin came nearer.

  “It was you, not just the money. You know that, don’t you? And I’d have run straight if you had married me.”

  Chloe did look at him then, very mournfully. “For how long, Martin?”

  His mouth hardened, but almost at once he smiled at her with his eyes.

  “Oh, well, there would have been a pleasant absence of temptation.”

  “I see. You were to marry me and get me to keep the money. Did you really think I would keep it? Did you really think you could make me keep it?” He laughed at that, an amused, confident laugh.

  “You wouldn’t,” said Chloe, and shut her lips tightly.

  He laughed again.

  “Oh, Chloe, you child! Well, it’s a pity; we’d have had some good times together.”

  “No, you would have broken my heart.” She spoke quite dispassionately.

  “Perhaps—even probably. But we’d have had our good time first, and hearts mend—I think I could have mended yours.” He came quite near and laid his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Chloe, I’ve been a bad lot; but you could make me different. I love you. Let the money go. I love you enough to let everything go.”

  Chloe stepped back. Her heart felt cold and sad. She shook her head without speaking. And then, as she put out her hands to keep him off, he saw her wedding ring.

  “What’s that?” he said sharply, and touched it with one finger.

  “Didn’t you know? I thought you would know.” His face had changed.

  “No. Who is it? Michael?”

  “Yes, Michael.”

  Martin burst out laughing and stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “That’s damned funny!” he said.

  There was a pause.

  Chloe took the reading lamp out of the cabinet and put it back on the table. Then she shut the safe door and locked the cabinet. She was aware all the time of the frowning intensity of Martin’s gaze. He said at last:

  “And why aren’t you with him?”

  “I ran away.”

  “Quarrelled with him?”

  “I thought he was Stran when I saw the name in the register, so I ran away.”

  “That’s funnier still,” said Martin. “Michael, the Virtuous Apprentice! Did you tell him?—too bad if you didn’t.” His bitter, jesting voice hurt Chloe sharply.

  “Yes, I told him. He’ll never forgive me.” Martin looked at her with a little twisted smile.

  “I shouldn’t wonder if you’re right. Michael’s a very stiff-necked sort of chap—always was. Once he got an idea into his head, you couldn’t shift it. Now I could forgive you anything, my dear.” There was an exquisite inflection of tenderness on the last words.

  “Don’t!” said Chloe. “It’s all gone, Martin. Don’t you know enough to know that?” There was a weary finality in voice and look.

  Martin caught her hands in his, held them so tight for a moment that she nearly cried out, and then quite suddenly dropped them.

  “All right,” he said with a complete change of manner, “that’s a wash-out. Now, as one human being to another, tell me one thing. Aren’t you hungry?—because I am. And as I followed you all the way from your abominable suburb, I’m in a position to know that it’s about seven hours since either of us had anything to eat. I’m going to forage. You needn’t run away this time.”

  Chloe sat down on the settee. She felt the softness of the cushions at her back, and she felt the draught that blew in through the broken window. Anything beyond this she was incapable of feeling. She sat up with a start when Martin came in. As he opened the door the clock in the hall sent out a single, heavy stroke.

  Martin had a tray in his hand. He balanced it, shut the door, and came forward.

  “Full marks for efficiency this time,” he said. “Soup; cold ham; bananas; cheese. I got the soup hot on the spirit lamp Emily plays with at tea.” It was like a sort of dream picnic. Martin talking gay nonsense; and Chloe not speaking at all—not because she had any resentment in her mind, but because her mind felt quite, quite empty.

  “Now,” said Martin, “the best thing you can do is to go up to your own room and go to bed. Your things are still there.”

  Chloe spoke then:

  “Who’s in the house?”

  “Not the Wroughtons,”—he was quick to read her fear—“only old Blayne and his wife, and the under housemaid, the bun-faced girl from the village. Jessie’s up in town with Len and Emily. You get off to bed, and I’ll knock up Blayne in the morning and tell him you got here late. Then you can give your own orders about breakfast and catching a train.”

  Chloe got up. She came quite close to him, lifted her heavy eyes with a great effort, and said: “I’m so tired—I can’t think. Is—it—all—right?”

  Martin Fossetter experienced emotions. He answered her very gently.

  “Yes, it’s all right. You get off to bed and go to sleep. It’s quite all right.”

  “Thank you,” said Chloe.

  He put on a light in the hall, and took her to the door of her room.

  “I’ll send the bun-faced girl to you in the morning. Good-night, Chloe’s ghost,” he said, and was gone.

  Chloe went into her room and locked the door. It was strange to be there again, to see her things scattered on the dressing-table. She took off her tweed coat and her shoes. She did not mean to sleep, but she thought she would lie down. She pushed the bed across the door, crept under the warm eiderdown, and was instantly very deeply asleep.

  Chapter XLI

  Chloe but by the time her eyes had opened she realized that the sound came from the other side of the door. She pulled the bed away and let the housemaid in.

  “And if you please, miss, I was to ask you when you’d like breakfast, and whether there was any orders for the car.”

  Chloe ordered an egg on a tray, and said she would like to catch the nine-forty-five. After a moment’s hesitation, she asked:

  “What is Mr. Fossetter doing?”

  The girl’s eyes stared at her blankly.

  “Mr. Fossetter caught the eight-fifteen, miss,” she said. “And please, miss, there’s a note on the tray.”

  Chloe read the note when the girl had gone. It had the merit of brevity and contained only a single line:

  “I hate an anti-climax. So good-bye.”

  It was just after twelve when Chloe came back to the house she had been married from. She had left her box at the station, and came back as she had gone, on foot.

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Moffat. She stood with her hand on the door and looked accusingly at Chloe.

  “Oh, Moffy dear, don’t!” said Chloe.

  “If you went, why did you come back?” said Mrs. Moffat.

  Chloe came in, shut the door, and put her back against it.

  “I won’t cry in the street,” she said—“you shan’t make me. Oh, Moffy dear, be nice to me, because I’m very unhappy. Is he here?”

  “Ah,” said Eliza Moffat, “you should ha’ thought of that before.”

  Chloe took her by both arms and shook her a little.

  “Is he here? Is he?

  “If you’d stayed where your place and your duty was, you wouldn’t have had to ask me that, miss.”

  “Oh, Moffy, don’t!—not now. You can scold me afterwards, and I won’t say a word. But tell me first, is he here?”

  “He’s come back here to lodge, if that’s your meaning,” said Mrs. Moffat very stiffly.

  “Is he in?”

  “No, he isn’t, and won’t be for a good half hour. And what I ask is, what ha’ you done to him?—you that he brought in from
nowhere and married honourable. You to go and leave him on his wedding day!—Mr. Michael that any young lady might ha’ been glad to have for a husband.” Her thin nose twitched with emotion as she spoke; she was stiff with angry resentment.

  “I can’t explain,” said Chloe. “I thought things that weren’t true, and I’ve come back to say I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Moffat pulled herself away, marched down the passage, and flung open the sitting-room door.

  “It’s not me you’ve to say it to,” she said sharply. “You can wait in here, and when Mr. Michael comes home I’ll tell him you’ve called.”

  Chloe sat down in the cold, crowded room, and waited with what heart she might. Mrs. Moffat’s greeting had frightened her. It was dreadful to have to wait for Michael to come in, straining one’s ears, and getting colder and more frightened all the time. The eye in the picture of The Broad and Narrow Way stared at her relentlessly. She moved her chair to get away from it; but it was no use, it looked straight at her still. She shut her eyes, and through the closed lids still felt the accusing stare.

  It was a long, long time before the front door banged and Michael’s step sounded in the hall. Then a sickening pause. Eliza’s step; Eliza’s voice. And at last, Chloe on her feet with clenched hands, and Michael coming in slowly, shutting the door behind him, and standing close to it, looking at her.

  Chloe looked at him. He was very white, and his jaw was set square and hard. But it was his eyes that frightened her. She had not known that blue eyes could look like that; there was a sort of sparkle in them like the sparkle on ice, and the blue of them was the blue of ice, so hard and so cold.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s you.”

  “Yes,” said Chloe. Her heart was beating so violently that she thought Michael must hear it. She wanted so much to be calm, to explain, to say the things that would make Michael forgive her; and she felt frozen and powerless. She had said to herself, and she had said to Martin, that Michael would never forgive her. But she hadn’t really believed it until now; she hadn’t believed it because, deep in her heart of hearts, she knew something about herself and Michael which it was difficult to put into words. The nearest she could get to it was with the one word home. Where Chloe was would always be home to Michael; and where Michael was would always be home to Chloe. But Chloe had come to her home and found it cold and barred against her.

  “Why have you come back?” said Michael roughly.

  Chloe dug her nails into her palms.

  “I’ve come back,” she said.

  “So I see. Why?”

  Chloe began to seek desperately for words. She had always had words at her command. Why had they all gone, and failed her at her need?

  “You didn’t try—and find me.” She didn’t know why she said it; but if he had looked for her it would give her a little hope.

  “Didn’t I?” said Michael. “Well, you’re wrong there as it happens. I remembered that girl at The Luxe, and I found out where you were next day.”

  “Oh!” said Chloe. It was an involuntary gasp of pain, because if Michael had known where she was and had not come to her, it really did mean that there wasn’t any hope.

  The courage that comes when hope is gone came to her. She lifted her head, and found words:

  “I see. I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have come here. But I only came to say that I knew you weren’t Stran.”

  “Stran?” said Michael quickly.

  “Yes. I thought you were. Mr. Dane warned me. He kept on talking about Stran; he said, ‘Don’t trust him a yard.’ He told me he’d got a hold over him—receipts that he’d made him sign. Afterwards I opened the safe, and I found out about Mr. Dane. He was a blackmailer—that’s how he’d got his money. They were all blackmailers, he and Mr. Wroughton and Stran. Only I didn’t know who Stran was. I asked Emily Wroughton, and Mr. Wroughton said, ‘Stran is short for Stranways,’ and wouldn’t let her answer me. When—when I saw your name in the register I thought—Michael, I thought—”

  “You thought I was a blackmailer. I remember you told me so.”

  It was no good, but she went on:

  “I didn’t think at all—I couldn’t—it was such a dreadful shock. I didn’t even know that your name was spelt Fossetter, or that you and Martin were cousins. After I got away I tried not to think, because it hurt so. And then, when I couldn’t stop thinking, I remembered that the envelope which Mr. Dane had kept was in the safe at Danesborough—I threw it back when I took the letters out, the letters I gave you to burn. It was marked ‘Stran’s Receipts.’ So I went down to Danesborough, and I opened the safe and the envelope. And it was Martin. It wasn’t you at all; it was Martin.”

  “Yes,” said Michael, “I could have told you that. I’ve never been called Stran in my life. It was his school nickname.”

  There was a long silence. Then Chloe came a step nearer.

  “You can’t forgive.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No,” said Michael.

  There was another long silence. Then Chloe said:

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know—I can’t—you’ve smashed something.”

  Chloe’s heart broke then. She knew why people used just that word, because she felt something crack and give way, and it hurt terribly. She had not thought that anything could hurt as much as that. She wanted to go away and hide herself. It wasn’t right for Michael to look at her whilst her heart broke.

  She moved towards the door. Michael was standing there with his back to it, just as he had stood ever since he came in. She looked up at him and spoke gently, as if to a stranger.

  “Please—will you let me pass?”

  Then Michael stood aside; but he didn’t open the door. She was groping for the handle, when he caught her suddenly in his arms and lifted her right off the floor.

  “You’re not to go,” he stammered.

  She had a glimpse of his face, and saw the icy hardness gone, everything broken up, agonized. Her own tears blinded her; but she knew that she must comfort Michael, that Michael needed comfort more than she.

  Presently she was in one of the chairs, with Michael kneeling beside her, his head against her shoulder, his hard, difficult sobs shaking her from head to foot. Chloe held him tight.

  “You’ve broken my heart,” she said. “Oh, Michael, you’ve broken it.”

  “No!” said Michael. “No!”

  He felt a flutter of soft kisses on his cheek, his ear. Chloe’s kisses were very soft.

  “You have! I felt it break. Oh, Michael, it hurt!” Her arms were round his neck. She rubbed her cheek against his, and felt it wet with his tears. “I thought you’d stopped loving me—I did.”

  “I couldn’t!” His voice broke.

  Chloe kissed him.

  “I thought—Michael, Michael, you’re breaking me! Oh, you are!”

  Michael’s grasp relaxed a shade. He lifted his head from Chloe’s shoulder.

  “I’ve got you back—I’ve got you back—I thought I’d lost you.”

  “You couldn’t—we belong—it’s just us.”

  A good deal later Chloe said:

  “That horrible money—you’ll help me to get rid of it as soon as possible, won’t you?”

  “Rather!” said Michael. “We’ll go and see my step-father’s solicitor at once. He’s a most frightfully respectable old boy—the family heirloom sort. He always treats me as if I were still at school. He’ll know just what to do; and he can get everything ready for you to sign as soon as you’re of age. I had it all planned, and then Chloe, let’s play we were married this morning!”

  “Yes,” said Chloe—“yes.” Her soft, brilliant colour had come back, and her eyes shone.

  “Moffy’ll feed us. Then we’ll see the solicitor. And then we’ll go off into the blue together with the car. Will you come, Chloe—d
arling?” Chloe’s eyes sparkled behind the wet, black lashes.

  “Will you promise not to break my heart again? Oh, Michael, it did hurt!”

  “I’m a brute,” said Michael. “But you mustn’t run away. It’s when you run away that I feel like breaking everything in sight.”

  He took her by the shoulders and held her. Chloe put up her face to be kissed, like a child. “This time I’ve run home,” she said.

  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 © 1925 by Patricia Wentworth

  Cover design by Maurcio Díaz

  978-1-5040-3329-9

  This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  180 Maiden Lane

  New York, NY 10038

  www.openroadmedia.com

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