Read Online Latter End by Patricia Wentworth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Wentworth
Ads: Link
very well.
Frank Abbott hoped for its early decease. It was fastened at the neck by a bog-oak brooch in the form of a rose with a pearl at the centre. She also wore a thin gold chain supporting a pince-nez. As she only used glasses for fine print, the chain was looped to the left side of her bodice and fastened there with a gold bar brooch. Except for the fact that her skirt cleared the floor by several inches, she might have stepped directly out of a photograph-album of the late nineteenth century. That this was still her spiritual home was made abundantly clear by furniture of the middle fifties, and by the pictures which hung upon her patterned walls, these being reproductions of some of the most famous paintings of the Victorian age. From time to time she shifted them round, exchanging them with those which decorated her bedroom. At the moment “Bubbles” hung above the fireplace, with “The Black Brunswicker” and “The Monarch of the Glen” on either side, whilst “Hope.” “The Soul’s Awakening,” and “The Huguenot” decorated the other walls. The mantelshelf, the top of the book-case, and various occasional tables, were thronged with photographs in plush and silver frames. Sometimes the two were combined—silver filigree on plush. But the photographs were of the young—for the most part the very young. There were babies of all ages—the babies who might never have been born if Miss Silver had not intervened to bring some hidden cause of evil to light and deliver the innocent. The fathers and mothers of the babies were there too—strong young men and pretty girls, allowing some debt of gratitude to the little dowdy spinster with the neat features and the mouse-coloured hair. It was her portrait gallery and the record of her cases, and it grew fuller every year.
Miss Silver read the postscript of Ethel Burkett’s letter again:
“I can’t thank you enough for everything. Johnny shouldn’t need any more stockings this year, but if you have any of the grey wool left, I shall be so grateful for some for Derek. He is growing so fast.”
She smiled as she put the letter back into its envelope. The wool for Derek’s stockings was already wound, and half an inch of ribbing was on the needles.
As she got up to put Ethel’s letter away, the door opened and her invaluable Hannah announced,
“Mr. Latter—”
She saw a slight, fresh-complexioned man with a worried air. That was her first impression of Jimmy Latter—his slightness, his fresh colour, and his worry. By the time she had him sitting opposite to her and her fingers were busy with her knitting needles, she had placed him as a country gentleman who didn’t spend very much of his time in London. His clothes had come from a good tailor, but they were not new— oh, by no means. They were pre-war. Material as good as that had only again become available quite recently.
If the clothes were old, and her visitor middle-aged, she judged the worry to be new. Anxiety of long standing leaves unmistakable marks. Mr. Latter’s fresh skin showed no lines that were not pleasant ones. There were the puckers which laughter leaves about the eyes, and the moulding which it gives to the lips. Whatever the trouble was, it was quite recent. She smiled and said,
“What can I do for you?”
Jimmy Latter was wondering why he had come, and how he could get away. The smile changed the direction of his thoughts. Nice little woman, friendly little woman. Comfortable. Nice comfortable room. Rather jolly pictures. He remembered that one over the mantelpiece, hanging in Mrs. Mercer’s drawing-room as far back as when he and Minnie were children. Something about this little woman that reminded him of Minnie—nice quiet way with her—didn’t rush you. Only of course older. He said,
“Well, I don’t know—I mean, I don’t know that there’s anything you can do. I don’t know that there’s anything to be done.”
“But you have come to see me, Mr.
Frank Abbott hoped for its early decease. It was fastened at the neck by a bog-oak brooch in the form of a rose with a pearl at the centre. She also wore a thin gold chain supporting a pince-nez. As she only used glasses for fine print, the chain was looped to the left side of her bodice and fastened there with a gold bar brooch. Except for the fact that her skirt cleared the floor by several inches, she might have stepped directly out of a photograph-album of the late nineteenth century. That this was still her spiritual home was made abundantly clear by furniture of the middle fifties, and by the pictures which hung upon her patterned walls, these being reproductions of some of the most famous paintings of the Victorian age. From time to time she shifted them round, exchanging them with those which decorated her bedroom. At the moment “Bubbles” hung above the fireplace, with “The Black Brunswicker” and “The Monarch of the Glen” on either side, whilst “Hope.” “The Soul’s Awakening,” and “The Huguenot” decorated the other walls. The mantelshelf, the top of the book-case, and various occasional tables, were thronged with photographs in plush and silver frames. Sometimes the two were combined—silver filigree on plush. But the photographs were of the young—for the most part the very young. There were babies of all ages—the babies who might never have been born if Miss Silver had not intervened to bring some hidden cause of evil to light and deliver the innocent. The fathers and mothers of the babies were there too—strong young men and pretty girls, allowing some debt of gratitude to the little dowdy spinster with the neat features and the mouse-coloured hair. It was her portrait gallery and the record of her cases, and it grew fuller every year.
Miss Silver read the postscript of Ethel Burkett’s letter again:
“I can’t thank you enough for everything. Johnny shouldn’t need any more stockings this year, but if you have any of the grey wool left, I shall be so grateful for some for Derek. He is growing so fast.”
She smiled as she put the letter back into its envelope. The wool for Derek’s stockings was already wound, and half an inch of ribbing was on the needles.
As she got up to put Ethel’s letter away, the door opened and her invaluable Hannah announced,
“Mr. Latter—”
She saw a slight, fresh-complexioned man with a worried air. That was her first impression of Jimmy Latter—his slightness, his fresh colour, and his worry. By the time she had him sitting opposite to her and her fingers were busy with her knitting needles, she had placed him as a country gentleman who didn’t spend very much of his time in London. His clothes had come from a good tailor, but they were not new— oh, by no means. They were pre-war. Material as good as that had only again become available quite recently.
If the clothes were old, and her visitor middle-aged, she judged the worry to be new. Anxiety of long standing leaves unmistakable marks. Mr. Latter’s fresh skin showed no lines that were not pleasant ones. There were the puckers which laughter leaves about the eyes, and the moulding which it gives to the lips. Whatever the trouble was, it was quite recent. She smiled and said,
“What can I do for you?”
Jimmy Latter was wondering why he had come, and how he could get away. The smile changed the direction of his thoughts. Nice little woman, friendly little woman. Comfortable. Nice comfortable room. Rather jolly pictures. He remembered that one over the mantelpiece, hanging in Mrs. Mercer’s drawing-room as far back as when he and Minnie were children. Something about this little woman that reminded him of Minnie—nice quiet way with her—didn’t rush you. Only of course older. He said,
“Well, I don’t know—I mean, I don’t know that there’s anything you can do. I don’t know that there’s anything to be done.”
“But you have come to see me, Mr.
Similar Books
