Hue and Cry (30 page)

“Are we out of it?” He paused, and added, “I'm so sure we're not that——” He broke off, pushed back his chair, and got up. “Go along and identify her. Be very careful what you say, and avoid the slightest appearance of being vindictive. We're sorry for the girl, and we don't want to be hard on her.”

Paul Craddock went uneasily from the house. He took a taxi, and occupied himself with some very unquiet thoughts. There had been a note in Sir George Peterson's voice which he did not like. There was something in his manner which he liked still less. He began very heartily to curse the day that had brought Miss Mally Lee into the Peterson household.

At the police station he subdued his frown to a look of concern, and came from the outside dusk into a brightly lighted room, where a police inspector sat writing at a table.

Mr. Craddock found himself nervously anxious to get the business over, and nervously impatient of such formalities as having to give his name and address, and to submit to being told how seasonable the weather was. He wanted to have done with the whole thing and to get away. He wanted to see that accursed cross-word puzzle of Varney's burn to a powder of fine white ash. He found it difficult to keep up his look of concern. And then an inner door was opening, and there came through it the very last person whom he was expecting to see—Candida Long, her pale-gold hair shining under a close, dark hat, and her cheeks bright with indignant color.

He exclaimed, “Candida!” and the inspector turned a puzzled face.

Candida Long laughed an angry little laugh.

“Perhaps you'll tell these people who I am, Mr. Craddock. I must say it's the limit when one can't drive up to town without being arrested. Why, I've driven thousands and thousands of miles, and I've never even been fined. And then to be arrested—absolutely arrested! And we were crawling—
positively crawling
—in case any one should be mean enough to be timing us! Perhaps you'll tell this gentleman”—here she looked blue fire at the inspector—“perhaps you'll tell him that you've often driven with me and that you can answer for my being one of the safest, steadiest, and most reliable drivers on the road. And what's more, Ambrose had just looked at the speedometer, and he's prepared to swear we were only doing nine and a half. He's gone to see a solicitor about it this minute. Why I've never heard of any one being arrested unless they'd run some one down—not even in Sutton.”

She paused to take breath, and the inspector seized the opportunity.

“What's the good of all that?” he said reprovingly. “It isn't a matter of whether you were doing ten, or twenty, or a hundred miles an hour—as well you know.”

“It was only nine and a half! Mr. Medhurst is prepared to swear that it was only nine and a half.”

“That's neither here nor there. What you're charged with is theft, and what this gentleman is here for is to identify you.”

Paul Craddock swung round sharply.

“This isn't Miss Lee.”

“Of course it isn't,” said Candida. “I kept telling them there was a mistake, and they wouldn't listen, so Ambrose went to find his solicitor—and who's Miss Lee anyhow?”

Paul Craddock came away from the station with something very like despair in his heart. Mally Lee had got away, and Candida had told him with a charming smile that she was engaged to Ambrose Medhurst. He left her explaining affably to the inspector how it came about that she had happened to be driving a friend's car instead of her own. It was a very ingenious explanation, and Candida seemed to be enjoying it very much.

Paul crossed the cold tessellated hall and entered the study. It was empty. A note addressed to himself lay on the writing-table. He picked it up, opened it, and read:

My dear Paul,

I'm taking a little trip abroad. It is one which I have been planning for some time. I feel much in need of a holiday, and as I shall be moving from one place to another, I do not wish any correspondence to be forwarded. I enclose a cheque to cover your salary for two months.

Yours,

G.P.

Craddock remained staring at the signature. In the face of this calamity his mind refused to work. If Sir George thought it time to be gone, then what about Paul Craddock? What about—Varney?

As he stood, dreadfully irresolute, a footman came in with the evening papers. He put them down on the edge of the writing-table and withdrew. Craddock picked up the one that lay uppermost, and a staring headline jumped at him from the page:

“ARREST OF MR. LAWRENCE MARRINGTON”

Late that evening, Mr. Ethan Messenger was bidding Miss Mally Lee a somewhat prolonged goodnight.

“Your cousin Janet said ten minutes—you know she did.”

“My cousin Janet's a sensible woman. She didn't mean ten minutes—it was just her tactful way of putting it.”

“She's a darling,” said Mally. “I do love fat, comfortable cousins who call you ‘My dear' and behave like heavenly angels of kindness when they might
quite
easily not have anything to do with you.”

“Janet's a good sort. I say, she's awfully like Sir Piggy—isn't she?”

Mally gurgled.

“She's like an angel pig—the very, very nicest sort.”

Ethan kissed her, and suddenly she stopped laughing and drew a long, quivering sigh.

“D-don't!”

“Why not, little funny thing?”

“I'm not f-funny—I'm sad.”

“You're not to be sad. I won't have it. Oh, Mally, you're not to cry. What is it?”

“It's the
horridness.”

“What do you mean?”

“It comes over me. Ethan, they seemed just ordinary people when I went there, and I thought Sir George was nice until I saw that bust of him on the stairs. And then I felt perfectly awful—I don't know why, but I did. It must have been the horridness coming out.”

“I expect it was.”

“And there's poor little Barbara!” She choked on a sob.

“Mally darling, don't!”

“I c-can't help it.”

“But, Mally, you wouldn't want that poor kid to grow up in the middle of a rotten business like that!”

“N-no. Mrs. Craddock's kind—she'll look after Barbara.” She paused, and then said, “
Ethan.”

“What is it?”

“Ethan, is there any more news? You were speaking to your cousin Mansell. Did he tell you anything?”

“Yes, he did. They've arrested Sir George.”

She called out sharply.

“Mally, you didn't want him to get away!”

“N-no. But I do hate it all. I thought I wouldn't mind what happened to Paul Craddock; but when I heard they'd got him, I wanted to cry, and I was s-sorry I called him a slug. Ethan, if you laugh at me—I'll——”

“What will you do?”

“I'll let your Aunt Serena
convert
me. She'd love to—I know she would.”

“I'm not laughing,” said Ethan hastily. He picked Mally up and hugged her. “Don't think any more about the horridness.”

“I don't want to. I don't want to think about it. It's just that I c-can't bear to think of even a slug in prison.”

“Think about the nice people. Think about Mansell, and Janet, and Piggy, and Aunt Angel, and Bunty, and Candida—and ME. Hang it all, Mally, you've got me to think about—haven't you? What more do you want?”

“Are you nice? Are you sure you're nice?”

“I'm
frightfully
nice. You ask my Aunt Angel. She'll tell you how nice I am.”

“Ethan.” She rubbed her cheek against his.
“Ethan.”

“What is it?”

“Will you always be nice to me?”

“Yes, I'll always be nice to you, Mally.”

“You're quite sure? You're quite,
quite
sure?”

Ethan laughed—a strong, happy, confident laugh.

“Wait and see!” he 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 © 1927 by Patricia Wentworth

Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3332-9

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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