The Fingerprint (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 30)

by Patricia Wentworth

  ‘But you don’t want to marry me now. You told me you were too poor to marry me, but I thought if I had a lot of money I could give you some.’

  ‘And I told you that sort of thing wasn’t done.’

  ‘I thought it was very stupid of you. I was going to get you to see how stupid it was, and then everything would have been all right – but now I haven’t got any money to give you—’

  The words were broken into by sobbing breaths. And how true they were. If he didn’t marry money, he was going to have to work for it, and work hard. The thought revolted him. Mirrie and a fortune had been an uncommonly pleasant prospect, but Mirrie without anything at all would really mean hard work. The thought should have been an efficacious deterrent, but he found himself kissing her hands and saying the sort of things which ought to have made his blood run cold, only they seemed to be having the opposite effect.

  ‘Mirrie – say you like me a bit. I want to hear you say it. I’ve gone in off the deep end about you – I expect you know that. I’ll work my fingers to the bone if you’ll take me on. I didn’t think I’d ever want to do that for any girl, but I do for you. I’ve got that bit of capital my aunt left me. I was going to put it into a garage business. I’m looking round for one. There might be a flat over it.’

  Mirrie’s tears had ceased to flow. She gazed at him between dark wet lashes and said,

  ‘Should we have television?’

  ‘Not quite at first – unless Georgina thought it would be a bright idea for a wedding present. Darling, does that mean you will?’

  She sniffed.

  ‘I haven’t got a handkerchief.’

  ‘Girls never do have one. Here’s mine.’

  She blew her nose and sat up.

  ‘Johnny, you oughtn’t to be in here. Aunt Grace said most particularly that a nice girl never lets anyone come into her bedroom.’

  ‘Darling, not even a housemaid?’

  Mirrie’s eyes were wide with reproof.

  ‘She meant a man.’

  He broke into rather shaky laughter.

  ‘You are a funny little thing!’

  ‘I’m not! You – you must go away.’

  He got up, set the door halfway open, and came back again.

  ‘That ought to satisfy anyone’s sense of respectability.’

  Her eyes were brimming.

  ‘Johnny, I thought you were going away.’

  ‘Didn’t you want me to?’

  Her head was shaken and the tears ran down.

  ‘Oh, no, I didn’t. It was just Aunt Grace.’

  He knelt down beside the chair again.

  ‘Darling, let’s give Aunt Grace a rest. Shall we? I’m not really so hot on her or on Uncle Albert. Suppose we forget them. I want to talk about us.’

  She shook her head in a slow, mournful manner.

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about. I haven’t got any money.’

  ‘I know – it’s too bad. Do you think you could bear to be rather poor for a bit?’

  ‘I shall have to be. Oh, Johnny, don’t – don’t let them send me back to Uncle Albert and Aunt Grace!’

  ‘Darling, we were going to forget about them. What about marrying me and living over the garage business? Can you cook? Because that’s very important, and if you can’t you’ll have to learn.’

  She brightened a little.

  ‘Oh, but I can! Even Aunt Grace said I wasn’t bad, and Uncle Albert liked my omelettes better than hers.’

  ‘Tactless of him. I don’t suppose it went down very well.’

  ‘N-no – it didn’t. He liked my soups too. Johnny, shall we be very poor?’

  At that moment Johnny Fabian became aware of an extraordinary willingness to do without practically everything else in order to look after Mirrie and have her making omelettes for him. He would even be prepared to work really hard in order to provide the necessary eggs.

  He said so. They kissed. And Mrs. Fabian walked in upon the scene. She had come to console Mirrie upon the loss of a fortune, and found her flushed and radiant. But she took Aunt Grace’s view of bedroom interviews. They could go and talk in the morning-room, and Johnny ought to have known better.

  ‘Yes, Johnny, you ought – and Mirrie such a very young girl! And she had better wash her face before she goes downstairs.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE INQUEST ON Jonathan Field took place next morning, and the funeral in the afternoon. At the inquest only formal evidence was offered and the proceedings were adjourned. The funeral was at Deeping and was attended by a very large number of people.

  Miss Silver removed the bunch of flowers from her second-best hat and covered her olive-green dress with the black cloth coat whose years of service were now becoming legendary. Such an excellent material. Pre-war of course, and still so warm, so serviceable. A small scarf of black wool kindly lent to her by Mrs. Fabian enabled her to dispense with the rather yellow fur tippet of an even greater antiquity than the coat. It had been a good fur once, and was still most cosy, most comfortable. Since she considered the country draughty, it invariably accompanied her when she left London, but the colour being a little bright for a funeral she gladly accepted the loan of Mrs. Fabian’s scarf.

  Georgina and Mirrie walked side-by-side behind the coffin. They stood together at the grave. When Mirrie was obviously overcome, Johnny Fabian came forward and put an arm about her shoulders. But Georgina stood alone, tall and slight in her plain black coat and skirt, her face pale and her eyes fixed darkly on the line of trees against a sky of wintry blue. When it was all over, simply and quietly she spoke to the old friends who came up in twos and threes.

  Frank Abbott, on the edge of the crowd, found himself buttonholed by Mr. Vincent.

  ‘Very odd thing, don’t you think – very odd indeed. Wealthy, prominent man shot dead in his own house in a country village – not at all the sort of thing that you would expect.’

  Frank had never found country villages immune from crime. He said so, quoting Sherlock Holmes as reported by Dr. Watson in support.

  Mr. Vincent stared.

  ‘Ah, but that is just in a story. Must have things happening in a story or it goes dull on you. But not the sort of thing you expect in real life – oh, no, definitely not. You don’t think it can have anything to do with that yarn he told us after dinner in the study on the night of the dance? You were there, weren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I was there.’

  ‘What did you make of it?’ pursued Mr. Vincent. ‘Personally I thought he was telling the tale, if you know what I mean. I remember fourteen years ago when I was in Venezuela—’

  Frank recalled him to present-day Ledshire.

  ‘Well, of course he might have been making it up. It made quite a good story.’

  Mr. Vincent agreed.

  ‘I have told it several times myself – dining out and that sort of thing, you know. Lord and Lady Pondesbury were kind enough to invite me, and as neither they nor any of their guests had been present when Mr. Field was showing us his album, I took the liberty of repeating what he had told us on that occasion. I am afraid I did not tell it as well as he did. I could not, for instance, remember whether he mentioned the exact date of the occurrence, or even whether he referred it to any particular year of the war. I told them about the experience it reminded me of in Venezuela in the thirties – but I cannot be sure of the year—’

  Frank said abruptly,

  ‘Did you tell Mr. Field’s story anywhere else?’

  ‘Twice – or it may have been three times,’ said Mr. Vincent complacently. ‘I have a friend who runs a boys’ club on the outskirts of London in the Pigeon Hill direction. I spent an evening there with him – Tuesday, or was it Wednesday, last week. Not this week, definitely – and I think it must have been the Tuesday, because I seem to connect it with my sister-in-law Emmeline Craddock, and it was on the Tuesday that I had a letter from her in which she proposed to come and stay with me for this weekend – a most inconvenient d
ate, but I am afraid she was offended when I wrote and said so. A charming woman and I am very fond of her, but a little inclined to take offence if things do not go quite the way she wants them to.’

  ‘You told Mr. Field’s story at the boys’ club?’

  ‘Oh, yes, to several people – and afterwards in a little speech which I felt prompted to make. It went down very well, and I was able to finish it – the story, though unfortunately not the speech – before my friend felt obliged to draw my attention to the fact that the time was getting on, and that I was in danger of missing my train. But you must really let me tell you of the incident in Venezuela …’

  Mirrie had never been to a funeral before. The part in the church was bad enough. All those flowers and the long coffin upon which they were heaped, and everybody in horrible clothes that reminded her of the worst things out of the charity parcels. Even Lady Pondesbury and Mrs. Shotter-leigh looked as if their clothes had come out of a second-hand shop. She and Georgina had new coats and skirts. She had a dear little hat that was more like a cap only it had a little bit of veiling on it, and it was very becoming. She had never had anything that was all black before, and it suited her, but not like it suited Georgina. The new clothes were sustaining, but when she looked at the coffin and thought of Uncle Jonathan being there she just couldn’t help crying.

  It was worse in the windy churchyard. She and Georgina had to stand right on the edge of the open grave. She very nearly couldn’t do it. Her throat was all choked, and the tears welled up in her eyes so fast that she could hardly see. That was when Johnny Fabian came up and put his arm round her. She didn’t stop crying, but she stopped feeling as if she was going to choke, and just at the end she turned and hid her face against him.

  People came up and spoke to Georgina, who said all the right things in a sad, quiet voice. Some of them said something kind to Mirrie. Lord Pondesbury patted her shoulder, and several people called her ‘poor child’. After a little they began to go away. Georgina was speaking to the Vicar. Mirrie dabbed her eyes for the last time and put her handkerchief in her pocket. Johnny had moved a step away. They would all be going home now. It would be nice to go home. She looked about her at the moving groups of people, and saw Sid Turner coming towards her from the other side of the grave.

  It was a really frightful shock. He was wearing a dark suit and a black tie. He had a bowler hat on his head. Everything he had on was new and good. Sid always prided himself on being dressy. Lord Pondesbury’s suit looked as if he had had it since before the war. Mr. Shotterleigh’s black tie was frayed at the edges. Colonel Abbott wasn’t nearly so smartly dressed as Sid. But here in this country churchyard amidst these old gravestones they looked all right and Sid looked all wrong. For the first time it occurred to Mirrie that clothes could look too new.

  Sid came over to her and lifted his hat. Something inside her began to shake. She ought to have been pleased to see him. She wasn’t pleased. She wanted to run away and hide before he met Johnny. He said,

  ‘Well, Mirrie?’

  He was about the same height as Johnny. She tilted her head to look up at him, met his bold dark eyes, and looked down again as quickly as she could. He had crisply curling black hair. Even in that one brief glance it occurred to her that it curled too much, and that he wore it too long. She moved a step nearer to Johnny, and knew at once that it was a mistake. Sid came a step nearer too.

  ‘Well, Mirrie? You look very nice in your black. What about getting along to your place for some tea?’

  Johnny had been speaking to Grant Hathaway. He looked round, to see Mirrie looking flushed and distressed, and a strange young man who appeared to be embarrassing her. He said, ‘I think we ought to be going now,’ and Mirrie turned to him with relief. Over her head she heard Sid say,

  ‘My sentiments to a T. Sorry – no pun intended. Time we all got out of this, isn’t it? But of course you don’t know who I am. It’s a case of meet the boy friend. Mirrie, my dear, introduce us.’

  She said only just above a whisper,

  ‘It’s Aunt Grace’s step-brother Sid Turner, Johnny,’ and with that Georgina came up to them and she had to say it all over again.

  Sid came back to Field End with them. She and Georgina went upstairs, and she had to explain a little more about him. It was a very faltering explanation.

  ‘He – he used to be kind. I used to go to the pictures with him sometimes. Aunt Grace didn’t know. She never let me go anywhere. She – she and Uncle Albert didn’t approve of Sid.’

  Georgina didn’t approve of him either, but she didn’t say so. She asked,

  ‘Did you know he was coming down to the funeral?’

  ‘No – no I didn’t. He saw about it in the paper. I don’t know why he came.’

  In her own quaking mind she knew very well. He had come here because he thought – he thought that Uncle Jonathan had done what he said he would. She had told Sid about the will, and he didn’t know that Uncle Jonathan had burned it. There wasn’t any will, and there wasn’t any money. She was just Mirrie Field without a penny like she had always been, and that was what she would have to tell Sid. It frightened her so much that she couldn’t stop shaking.

  Georgina said, ‘What is it, Mirrie? Is it that man? Because if you don’t want to come down—’

  ‘No – no, I must. He wouldn’t like it if I didn’t—’

  ‘Are you afraid of him? You needn’t be, you know. We’ll have tea, and then Anthony or Johnny will drive him into Lenton to catch a train. Let’s go down and get it over. The relations and people will be coming in.’

  Downstairs Sid Turner had made it quite plain that tea was not his idea of a drink after a funeral. He was given a whisky and soda, and Johnny kept him company.

  Tea was being served in the dining-room. Sid’s eye flicked over the silver on the sideboard and the family portraits on the walls. It was a slap-up place, and no sign of the seen-better-days kind of look there was about so many big houses now. He had done some buying at auctions in his time. You could turn a bit there if you were in the know – commission from a dealer who didn’t want to be seen bidding himself, or an inside tip that there was something worth spotting at an otherwise dull country sale. If you got round a bit there were always chances, and he knew how to make the most of them.

  He began to see pretty soon that it wasn’t going to be easy to get a word with Mirrie. She would know how she stood by now, and he wasn’t committing himself till he knew too. She was a pretty little thing and rather fetching in her black, though he liked a bit of colour himself. But it was the other girl who was the beauty. Class, that’s what she’d got – class. With her height and figure and all that light hair she’d be right in the big money if she went in for modelling. She might be glad to do it too if the cash had really all been left to Mirrie. He wondered just how much it would work out at. It wasn’t going to be easy to get near her. A good many people had come back for tea and she was hemmed in.

  TWENTY-SIX

  SID TURNER FOUND himself rather a fish out of water amongst all these people who were using Christian names and talking about their family affairs, and he didn’t like the feeling. In his own surroundings he was very much accustomed to playing the lead. Boys copied his shirts and ties and the way he had his suits cut, and girls waggled their eyelashes and their hips at him. He began to hate all these people, none of whom took any more notice of him than if he had been a bit of furniture.

  And then all at once a voice was saying, ‘I am afraid that no one is looking after you, Mr. Turner.’ He looked round and saw the dowdy little woman who had driven back with them from the cemetery. He thought she seemed very much at home, offering him tea or coffee, or another drink if he would care about it. Since she had taken off her hat, he supposed that she was staying in the house – governess or something like that. Yes, that would be it, Georgina Grey’s old governess. He said he could do with a drink, and whilst he was waiting for it it occurred to him that it might be a good p
lan to get her to talk a bit. Old maids were nosey and generally knew everything that was going on, and they liked the sound of their own voices. It would please her no end to be taken a bit of notice of, and he might quite easily pick up a useful tip or two. A modified version of the smile which made girls waggle was turned upon Miss Silver.

  ‘You the governess or something?’

  There is no one better qualified than Miss Maud Silver to set impertinence in its place. It is done in the simplest manner, and like all simple things it is best described by its effects. The offender is aware of a noticeable drop in the temperature. Miss Silver appears to recede to a rather awful distance and he develops sensations of embarrassment which he believed to have been left behind with his early schooldays. Even Chief Inspectors have been known to have this experience. That Mr. Sid Turner escaped it was due to the fact that Miss Silver desired to converse with him. She had noted his approach to Mirrie at the graveside and her reception of it. She had watched his manner to her, and hers to him, during the drive back to Field End. She therefore replied mildly that it was now some years since she had retired from the scholastic profession.

  Sid Turner was pleased with his own acumen. The old governess – that was what she was. He was smart at sizing people up. He said,

  ‘Well, I’m a kind of relation of Mirrie’s. Her Aunt Grace’s step-brother, that’s me. Thought I’d come down and see her through the funeral, but there doesn’t seem any chance of getting anywhere near her, not for the moment. I suppose the old has done the right thing by her?’

  Miss Silver gave a hesitant cough.

  ‘The old man?’

  ‘Mr. – Jonathan – Field, if you like it better that way. He said he was going to treat her like a daughter, didn’t he? Told her he’d made a will in her favour. I expect you know all about it. Does she get the house?’

  Miss Silver permitted a puzzled look to cross her face.