Read Online The Fingerprint by Patricia Wentworth - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Wentworth
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webster that is leal,
And a lawyer that will not steal,
And lay these three a dead corpse by,
And by the virtue of these three
The said dead corpse shall quickened be.’
“But I’m not sure that I’ve got the lines in the right order, because after all it is quite a long time ago.”
Johnny Fabian burst out laughing and said,
“A bit hard on websters, don’t you think? I should have thought weaving was a most respectable trade—poor but honest and all that sort of thing. So Jonathan has gone up to see his solicitor, has he? Who is he going to cut out of his will?”
It was purely a matter of luck that Stokes at that moment should have been out of the room. No one who knew Johnny could have deceived himself into imagining that the mere presence of a butler would be any check upon his tongue. Mrs. Fabian said, “My dear boy!” in a tone of indulgent reproof, Georgina looked across the table at him. But he only laughed.
“Hush—not a word! What an inhibited lot we are. The more passionately interested you are in a subject, the worse form it is to mention it. Everyone is passionately interested in wills, but we mustn’t mention them.”
Anthony said, “Dry up, Johnny!” and Stokes came back into the room bearing a covered silver dish. With the ease of long practice Johnny accomplished a dexterous verbal slide.
“Anyone who pretends not to be interested in money is either a fool or a knave. If you’ve got any you’ve got to keep it breeding, and if you’re not interested enough to do that you wake up one day and find it’s gone and left you! If you haven’t got the stuff you have to work frightfully hard to get it, and if I’ve got to tell the truth and shame the devil I don’t mind saying it’s a rotten prospect. When you’ve got to do a twelve-hour grind every day, what’s the good of being rich? You just end up like the millionaires who live on tabloids and spend their vacations having a rest-cure in some expensive nursing home. On the other hand there’s something dreary about being poor.”
Mrs. Fabian was beginning to help a dish of chicken and mushrooms which had been placed before her. She said,
“Georgina, my dear—this is always so good. Mirrie—Anthony—I am sure you must be hungry, and I don’t have to ask about Johnny.”
She had an odd slapdash way of wielding a spoon and fork. Stokes, already outraged by not being allowed to hand the dish, watched gloomily whilst what he afterwards described as drips and drabs clouded the surface of a carefully polished table. When she had come down to helping herself, and he had been permitted to hand artichokes and potatoes, he was dismissed.
“Thank you, Stokes—you can just leave the vegetables in front of Mr. Anthony.” Then, when he had gone out of the room, she broke in upon the general conversation with a heartfelt, “Oh, yes, that is so true—what Johnny was saying about being poor. My father had a very good living, but he hadn’t any private means, so when he and my mother died in the same year there wasn’t anything left, and I went to live with my father’s aunts. It was very good of them, because they hadn’t really enough for themselves, but they took me in and brought me up, and when they died I wasn’t young and I had never been trained for anything. What they had been living on went to another branch of the family, so it really was quite a frightening prospect. One should not concern oneself with money, but it is very difficult not to do so when people keep sending in their bills and you haven’t anything to pay them with.”
Johnny, who was sitting next to her, leaned over, patted her arm, and said,
“Darling, desist. We shall all burst out crying in a minute.”
She met his laughing look with an astonished one.
“Oh, no, my dear, that would be foolish—and there is no need, because everything turned out for the best. Your father was a widower and you were only four years old, so of course he needed
And a lawyer that will not steal,
And lay these three a dead corpse by,
And by the virtue of these three
The said dead corpse shall quickened be.’
“But I’m not sure that I’ve got the lines in the right order, because after all it is quite a long time ago.”
Johnny Fabian burst out laughing and said,
“A bit hard on websters, don’t you think? I should have thought weaving was a most respectable trade—poor but honest and all that sort of thing. So Jonathan has gone up to see his solicitor, has he? Who is he going to cut out of his will?”
It was purely a matter of luck that Stokes at that moment should have been out of the room. No one who knew Johnny could have deceived himself into imagining that the mere presence of a butler would be any check upon his tongue. Mrs. Fabian said, “My dear boy!” in a tone of indulgent reproof, Georgina looked across the table at him. But he only laughed.
“Hush—not a word! What an inhibited lot we are. The more passionately interested you are in a subject, the worse form it is to mention it. Everyone is passionately interested in wills, but we mustn’t mention them.”
Anthony said, “Dry up, Johnny!” and Stokes came back into the room bearing a covered silver dish. With the ease of long practice Johnny accomplished a dexterous verbal slide.
“Anyone who pretends not to be interested in money is either a fool or a knave. If you’ve got any you’ve got to keep it breeding, and if you’re not interested enough to do that you wake up one day and find it’s gone and left you! If you haven’t got the stuff you have to work frightfully hard to get it, and if I’ve got to tell the truth and shame the devil I don’t mind saying it’s a rotten prospect. When you’ve got to do a twelve-hour grind every day, what’s the good of being rich? You just end up like the millionaires who live on tabloids and spend their vacations having a rest-cure in some expensive nursing home. On the other hand there’s something dreary about being poor.”
Mrs. Fabian was beginning to help a dish of chicken and mushrooms which had been placed before her. She said,
“Georgina, my dear—this is always so good. Mirrie—Anthony—I am sure you must be hungry, and I don’t have to ask about Johnny.”
She had an odd slapdash way of wielding a spoon and fork. Stokes, already outraged by not being allowed to hand the dish, watched gloomily whilst what he afterwards described as drips and drabs clouded the surface of a carefully polished table. When she had come down to helping herself, and he had been permitted to hand artichokes and potatoes, he was dismissed.
“Thank you, Stokes—you can just leave the vegetables in front of Mr. Anthony.” Then, when he had gone out of the room, she broke in upon the general conversation with a heartfelt, “Oh, yes, that is so true—what Johnny was saying about being poor. My father had a very good living, but he hadn’t any private means, so when he and my mother died in the same year there wasn’t anything left, and I went to live with my father’s aunts. It was very good of them, because they hadn’t really enough for themselves, but they took me in and brought me up, and when they died I wasn’t young and I had never been trained for anything. What they had been living on went to another branch of the family, so it really was quite a frightening prospect. One should not concern oneself with money, but it is very difficult not to do so when people keep sending in their bills and you haven’t anything to pay them with.”
Johnny, who was sitting next to her, leaned over, patted her arm, and said,
“Darling, desist. We shall all burst out crying in a minute.”
She met his laughing look with an astonished one.
“Oh, no, my dear, that would be foolish—and there is no need, because everything turned out for the best. Your father was a widower and you were only four years old, so of course he needed
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