Rolling Stone (31 page)

Authors: Patricia Wentworth

BOOK: Rolling Stone

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It wasn't to be risked. If she was to be prevented from doing any more mischief, he must use every citizen's right in an emergency and make the arrest himself. As he turned from the table and walked back to his seat, he had made up his mind.

Miss Fanny was telling her favourite story. As a child of five she had presented a bouquet to Queen Victoria, and after a lapse of sixty years the incident had become garnished with a quantity of highly dramatic details. The momentary contact and the gracious smile on the one side, the much rehearsed embarrassed curtsey on the other, had become in retrospect quite a long conversation. Miss Fanny was well away with what she said to Queen Victoria and what Queen Victoria said to her. When very much exalted, she had been known to introduce the Prince Consort into her narration, regardless of the fact that he had died a good many years before she was born.

“She had so much dignity. I remember looking at her and thinking how wonderful it was. She seemed quite a rock. You couldn't imagine her being shaken by anything.”

“Wonderful!” said Miss Hollinger. “Such an example to us all.”

She set down her plate. Her hand moved towards the gathers of her skirt. And in that moment Peter leaned sideways and took her by the wrists. He said,

“The game is up. You are Maud Millicent Simpson. I'm holding you till the police get here.”

Just for a fraction of a second there was a resistance. He had the sense of a violence that was checked even before Miss Fanny screamed and Terry started from her chair. It turned to a limpness, a look of confused terror, a faint bleating protest.

“Ohâoh! What is it? Pray let me go. I don't know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” said Peter.

Miss Fanny opened her mouth to scream again. She had dropped her cup, and the tea was soaking destructively into the front breadth of her new blue silk.

“Oh!” fluttered Miss Hollinger. “Oh, Miss Talbotâoh, my dear friendâI don't know what he meansâhe must be out of his mind. Oh, tell him to let me go!”

“Peter!” said Miss Fanny. “Oh, my dear boy!”

“I'm sorry, Aunt Fanny, but this is Maud Millicent Simpson. Terry, go and call Scotland YardâWhitehall one-two-one-two. Give them this address and tell them to hurry. Tell them I've got Maud Millicent Simpson here. Be as quick as you can. Call Frank Garrett as soon as you've done with the Yard. And then keep out of hereâI don't want you.”

Miss Hollinger began to cry in a feeble, choking manner. Miss Fanny couldn't bear it. She pushed back her chair and got up.

“Oh, my dear boy, you mustn't! I don't know what you're thinking about, but there's some dreadful mistake. This is my friend Blanche Hollingerâmy dear friendâ”

Miss Hollinger moaned. She slipped down in her chair. Her eyes closed. Her mouth sagged open.

“She's fainting,” said Miss Fanny. “Oh, Peter! Peter, let
go!”

Peter had the most dreadful moment of indecision. Five little nicks, and the lobe of an earânot very much to go on after all. Coincidence. Things did happen like that. Suppose he had made a mistake.
Suppose he had made a mistake
. He would have made the world's fool of himself, and Miss Hollinger would probably bring one action against him for assault, and another for slander. There was no quarter of the habitable globe in which you could live down a thing like that.

But he kept his hold of Miss Blanche Hollinger's wrists.

Miss Fanny, shocked and concerned, thrust past him with a dumpy green glass bottle of aromatic salts. She had removed the stopper, and a powerful blast of ammonia and scent rushed forth. Even a genuine swoon would have been hard put to it to persist. Miss Hollinger's nostrils quivered, her face twitched. A wild, convulsive sneeze jerked her into an upright position. It was followed by others not much less violent.

“Oh, Peter, let her go!”

“A handkerchiefâ” sobbed the afflicted lady.

“Oh,
Peter!”

Peter glanced back over his shoulder.

“I can't let her go, but you can get her handkerchief,” he said. “I think you'll find she's got a pocket somewhere in this skirt, and I should like to know what she's got in it.”

“Noânoâ
no!”
screamed Miss Hollinger. “Fannyâmy dear friendâyou can'tâI forbid it!”

“Go on, Aunt Fannyâget out her handkerchief!”

Miss Hollinger sneezed again disastrously.

“Go on, Aunt Fanny!”

Miss Talbot dived reluctantly amongst the gathers. Her face changed from concern to horror. Her hand came up with the little pistol in it. She backed away and let it fall upon her flowery carpet.

Peter was conscious of an overpowering relief. Because he hadn't been sure. Heâhadn'tâbeenâsure. But he had no time for more than a single flash of thought. The limp wrists which he had been holding became most vehemently and furiously alive. They twisted, struck at him, struggled, wrenched in a wild effort to get free. It took him all he knew to hold a mad, writhing fury. There was none of Queen Victoria's admired dignity about the situation. It was completely horrible. And in the middle of it Terry came back into the room.

They tied her up with the rose-coloured cords which had looped Miss Fanny's curtains. Miss Fanny cried all the time, and never stopped talking. Terry went to and fro and did what she was told without a word.

Maud Millicent had no words either. There was something dreadful about her silence. She strained against the rose-coloured cords. Her eyes were fixed in a stare of hatred. Her lips were dumb.

When the police came, and Miller was ministering to Miss Talbot, Peter took Terry away into the little back room on the half landing and put his arms round her. They stayed like that for quite a long time.

Then Frank Garrett came and told them what had been found in the house next doorâpapers, letters, the mask which Maud Millicent had worn, the clothes they had describedâ

“We'll make a clean sweep this time,” he said. “All right, I'm going. And you'll be wanted. To make another statement. Lordâwhat a life!”

They heard him stumping down the stairs. Peter said,

“You'll stay here with Aunt Fanny, won't you, till I get back. Hold her hand a little. You're good at holding hands, aren't you?”

“I don't feel good,” said Terry in rather a tremulous voice.

Peter put his cheek hard against hers.

“Darling, it's been such a horrible beginningâfor you. But I'll make it up to youâI swear I will.”

Terry pushed him away until she could look at him. There were tears on her lashes, but she wasn't crying now. She didn't speak, but she nodded her head slowly and gravely.

Slowly and gravely they kissed.

About the Author

Patricia Wentworth (1878â1961) 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.

Cover design by Mauricio DÃaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3345-9

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

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

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