Presently Antony said,
“What am I going to do with you, my sweet?”
She rubbed her cheek against his.
“Perhaps we ought to tell Simmy I’m not dead. I expect she’s been in an awful flap.”
“I expect she has, and I expect I really ought to drive you down there. It’ll be the third time today. Fortunately Frank Garrett seems to be able to get petrol, and if you’ve really got those maps, he won’t mind how much I use to get them. Only, darling, why didn’t you give them to me before? When I was down there and you told me you’d opened the parcel—why on earth didn’t you give them to me then?”
“I didn’t want you to be murdered.”
“Murdered?”
She nodded.
“There was a very murdering feeling about them. I could feel it oozing out at me.”
Antony said “Idiot!” in an affectionate voice.
Delia snuggled up to him.
“No—I think it was clever, because look what’s happened. And if anyone was going to get murdered, I couldn’t bear it to be you when you’d just come back after being dead and—” She burrowed into his shoulder and choked there. “Why do you make me say it? I’d finished crying, and now you’ve made me start all over again. Look at me!”
“It’s too dark.” He kissed her instead.
After a minute or two he shook her a little and demanded briskly,
“What did you do with those papers, and where are they?”
“I hid them,” said Delia. Then she gave a small, unsteady laugh. “I hid them very, very cleverly.”
Antony’s blood ran cold. Suppose they had got a man into the house at night—last night—and found those maps. Impossible that Delia should have hit on any hiding-place which would defy a really expert search. These people didn’t leave anything to chance. He thought they were bound to have been through the house. He said sharp and quick,
“Where did you put them?”
Delia pulled away.
“I won’t tell you—no, wait—I won’t tell you unless there are going to be policemen and people. I simply won’t have you going off all by yourself with those maps and getting murdered. And if you’re going to bully me like the man I thought was Cornelius—what did you say his name was?”
“Roos—Barend Roos.”
“Well then, I shall faint like I did with him.”
“Delia, don’t be a fool!”
She came back and flung her arms round his neck.
“Darling, I’m not really—I’ve been clever. But I don’t want you to be murdered.”
Antony began to laugh.
“All right, we’ll have old Hopkins, and Sam Gaunt, and Parker. Will that do?”
Delia said “’M” against his cheek.
“And now—where did you put them? I only hope they’re still there.”
“Nobody could find them, not if they looked for a year. Do you know what I did?”
“I want to know.”
“I put them into one of Mrs. Parker’s glass preserving jars—you know, they have screw-on tops. And I put one of the kitchen weights in with them—the two-pound one. And I dropped the jar into the cold water cistern. And nobody, nobody, nobody would ever think of that—would they?”
“I don’t think they would, but I think we’d better go and see.”
“Don’t you think it was clever of me? I do!”
Antony was starting up the car. He said in a firm, practical voice,
“I hope you screwed the top on tight.”
“Of course I did! Aren’t you going to say I was clever?”
The car began to move. Antony said.
“You’ve got wind in the head, my sweet—that’s what’s the matter with you.”
THE END
About The Author
PATRICIA WENTWORTH was born Dora Amy Elles in India in 1877 (not 1878 as has sometimes been stated). She was first educated privately in India, and later at Blackheath School for Girls. Her first husband was George Dillon, with whom she had her only child, a daughter. She also had two stepsons from her first marriage, one of whom died in the Somme during World War I.
Her first novel was published in 1910, but it wasn’t until the 1920’s that she embarked on her long career as a writer of mysteries. Her most famous creation was Miss Maud Silver, who appeared in 32 novels, though there were a further 33 full-length mysteries not featuring Miss Silver—the entire run of these is now reissued by Dean Street Press.
Patricia Wentworth died in 1961. She is recognized today as one of the pre-eminent exponents of the classic British golden age mystery novel.
By Patricia Wentworth
and available from Dean Street Press
The Benbow Smith Mysteries
Fool Errant
Danger Calling
Walk with Care
Down Under
The Frank Garrett Mysteries
Dead or Alive
Rolling Stone
The Ernest Lamb Mysteries
The Blind Side
Who Pays the Piper?
Pursuit of a Parcel
Standalones
The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith
The Red Lacquer Case
The Annam Jewel
The Black Cabinet
The Dower House Mystery
The Amazing Chance
Hue and Cry
Anne Belinda
Will-o’-the-Wisp
Beggar’s Choice
The Coldstone
Kingdom Lost
Nothing Venture
Red Shadow
Outrageous Fortune
Touch and Go
Fear by Night
Red Stefan
Blindfold
Hole and Corner
Mr. Zero
Run!
Weekend with Death
Silence in Court
Patricia Wentworth
The Blind Side
“Anybody could have told you what Ross was like.”
“They did tell me,” said Mavis tearfully. “That’s why I did it.”
ROSS CRADDOCK was just the type to be murdered. The new landlord of Craddock house, he begins by giving eviction notice to his aunt Lucy. He threatens the doorman with dismissal. He makes a violent and unwelcome pass to his cousin Mavis. He is vindictive and spiteful and ends up dead. The suspects include Lee who may have walked in her sleep and killed him out of unconscious fear. Or Peter who may have found Ross’ advances to Mavis unbearable. Or aunt Lucy who unexpectedly came back. Or possibly Bobby who was still in love with Mavis and furious that she was seen with Ross. The answer will be yet another Wentworth twist.
The Blind Side was originally published in 1939. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
“When I pick up a book by Patricia Wentworth I think, now to enjoy myself—and I always do.” Mary Dell, Daily Mirror
The Blind Side—Chapter One
Craddock House stands at the end of one of those streets which run between the Kings Road and the Embankment. From the third and fourth floor windows you can see the trees which fringe the river, and the river beyond the trees. David Craddock built it with the money he made in railways just over ninety years ago. His son John Peter and his daughters Mary and Elinor were young and gay there. They danced in the big drawing-room, supped under glittering chandeliers in the enormous dining-room, and slept in those rooms whose windows looked to the river. Mary married her cousin Andrew Craddock and went away with him to Birmingham, and in due course she had three daughters. The others married too. John Peter’s wife brought a good deal more money into the family. Elinor ran away with an impecunious young artist called John Lee, and was cut off without a shilling. Their daughter Ann made an equally penniless match with one James Fenton, a schoolmaster, and both, dying young, left their daughter Lee to fight for a place in the world without any inheritance except a gay heart. John Peter had a son and daughter by his pla
in, rich wife—the son John David, and the daughter another Mary. John, marrying Miss Marian Ross, became the father of Ross Craddock, and Mary, marrying James Renshaw, produced also an only son, Peter Craddock Renshaw.
It was Ross Craddock’s father who had turned Craddock House into flats. His wife Marian said that Chelsea was damp, and they moved away to Highgate. The big rooms cut up well, a lift was installed, and the flats brought in an excellent return for the money John David had spent on them. He retained the middle flat on the third floor for his own use, and installed his Aunt Mary’s daughters, Lucy and Mary Craddock, in the flats on either side. People laughed a good deal, his brother-in-law James Renshaw going so far as to speak about John’s harem. But John David had never cared in the least what anybody said about anything. Lucy and Mary were his first cousins, and he felt responsible for them. They had neither looks, cash, nor common sense. They were alone in the world, and Mary was in poor health. He put them into separate flats because, though sincerely attached to one another, they could not help quarrelling. He considered it an admirable arrangement and as fixed as any natural ordinance. It never occurred to him to mind the cackle of fools or to dream that his son Ross would turn poor Lucy adrift as soon as the breath was out of Mary’s body.
Nobody could have dreamed it, least of all Miss Lucy Craddock herself. She had read the wicked, unbelievable letter fifty times and still she couldn’t believe it, because they had lived here for thirty years, she in No. 7 and Mary in No. 9, and John David had meant them to live here always. And now Mary was dead and Ross had written this dreadful letter. She read it at breakfast, and ran incredulously to knock at the door of Ross Craddock’s flat. Ross couldn’t possibly mean what he had written—he couldn’t. But there was no answer to her knocking on the door of No. 8, and no answer when she rang the bell.
She ran across the landing to No. 9. Peter Renshaw would tell her that it was all nonsense. Ross couldn’t possibly turn her out. But she could get no answer there either, and then remembered that Peter was away for the night, gone down to stay with a friend in the country. Of course it was very tiresome for him being poor Mary’s executor and having all those papers to sort through, but she did wish he wasn’t away just now. Perhaps he would be back before she had to start on her journey. Perhaps she ought not to start—not if Ross really meant what he said. But perhaps he didn’t mean it—perhaps there was some mistake—perhaps there wasn’t. Oh, dear, dear, dear—how could she possibly go away if she was going to be turned out of her flat? But she had promised dear Mary. She had promised to go away as soon as possible after the funeral. She had promised faithfully. Oh dear, dear, dear!
She went back to her own flat and packed her little cane trunk, and then went trotting over to No. 8 in case Ross had returned, and to No. 9 to see if Peter had come back. She kept on doing this for hours. Sometimes she packed her things, and sometimes she unpacked them. At intervals she read the cruel letter again, and about once in every half hour she rang the bells of No. 8 and 9.
“Like a cat on hot bricks!” Rush, the porter, told his bedridden wife in the basement. “What’s she want to go away for?”
“Everyone wants to get away some time,” said Mrs. Rush mildly. She sat up against four pillows and knitted baby socks for her daughter Ellen’s youngest, who was expecting in a month’s time. She was pale, and plump, and clean, with very little thin white hair screwed up into a pigtail, and a white flannelette nightgown trimmed with tatting.
“I don’t,” said Rush, “and no more do you. A lot of blasted nonsense I call it!”
Mrs. Rush opened her mouth to speak and shut it again. She hadn’t been out of her basement room for fifteen years, but that wasn’t to say she wouldn’t have liked to go. Men were all the same—if they didn’t fancy a thing themselves, then no one else wasn’t to fancy it neither. She began to turn the heel of the little woolly sock.
Ross Craddock came home just before three o’clock in the afternoon. He took himself up in the lift, and as soon as Miss Lucy heard the clang of the gate she opened her front door a crack and looked out. It was really Ross at last. Her heart bumped against her side and her breath caught in her throat. He looked as he always did, so very handsome and so masterful. It was ridiculous to feel afraid of someone she had seen christened, but there was something about Ross that made you feel as if you didn’t matter at all.
She stood behind the door and gathered up her courage, a little roundabout woman with a straight grey bob and a full pale face. She wore a dyed black dress which had been navy blue and her best all the summer, and low-heeled strap shoes over thick grey stockings. When she heard Ross Craddock put his key into the lock she popped out of her door and ran after him. If he had seen her, she would not have caught him up. But Miss Lucy was not without cunning. She timed her trembling rush so that it took her through the half open door and into the little hall beyond.
Ross Craddock, removing his key, was aware that he had been caught. He said suavely, “You want to see me, do you?” and opened the sitting-room door.
Miss Lucy walked in and stood there trembling with his letter in her hand. She saw him come in after her, remove his hat, and sit down at the writing-table half turned away. When she said “Yes” in a loud, angry voice, he swung his chair round a little and surveyed her with a faint smile upon his face.
Miss Lucy came a step nearer. She pushed the letter towards him as if it could speak for her. It was a hot August day and her skin was beaded with moisture. She said, her voice fallen to a whisper,
“You didn’t mean it—you didn’t.”
“And what makes you think that, Lucy?”
He was smiling more broadly now. Such a good-looking man, so tall, and strong, and handsome. It didn’t seem possible that he could really mean to be so unkind. She said,
“But, Ross—”
“A month’s notice,” said Ross Craddock exactly as if she had been a kitchenmaid.
Miss Lucy stopped trembling. She was too angry to tremble now.
“Your father put us here—he gave us the flats—he said he would never turn us out!”
“It isn’t my father who is turning you out, Lucy.”
Miss Lucy looked at him. There was a big photograph of Mavis on the table at his elbow. Mavis was her own niece—Mavis Grey. It was a new photograph, one that she had never seen before, and she was ashamed to see it now. It looked like one of those shameless pictures sent in for beauty competitions, only instead of being an enlarged snapshot as most of them were, it was beautifully posed, beautifully taken—Mavis in what she supposed was some sort of fancy dress—tights, and a sort of feather frill, and a bodice cut so low that it wasn’t really a bodice at all. A dull, ugly red came into her face.
Ross Craddock laughed.
“Good photograph, isn’t it?” he said.
“Did Mavis give it to you?”
“Had it taken for me, Lucy.”
“It’s a scandalous picture!” said Lucy Craddock. “She’s my niece—she’s my own niece. And she’s your cousin too, because my father and mother were cousins. And you ought to leave her alone—you know you ought. Why, what would anyone think who saw that picture?”
“That Mavis has a very good figure,” said Ross Craddock. He fixed those dark eyes of his upon the photograph, and Miss Lucy’s colour deepened.
“I asked you to leave her alone! I begged and prayed you to before Mary got so ill.”
He said, “Exactly,” and turned his eyes upon the letter, which she still held clasped in her hand.
“And that’s why you’re turning me out?”
“My dear Lucy—what penetration!”
She went back a step. Her colour faded.
“How wicked!” she said.
Ross Craddock got up. He took her lightly by the arm and led her to the door.
“Old maid cousins should be seen and not heard,” he said, and put her out.
Published by Dean Street Press 2016
Copyright © 1942
Patricia Wentworth
Introduction copyright © 2016 Curtis Evans
All Rights Reserved
The right of Patricia Wentworth to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her estate in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 1942 by Hodder & Stoughton
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 911413 04 2
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
Pursuit of a Parcel: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 23
