Read Online The Girl In The Cellar by Patricia Wentworth - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Wentworth
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of Miss Silver with gratitude. She was so perfectly at her ease. She produced a pencil and paper and took notes. She brimmed over with the right questions and took down the answers so readily supplied by the golden-haired young man.
They went all over the house and found nothing at all until they came back to the empty echoing hall. There Miss Silver lingered.
‘The kitchen—’ she said. ‘The friend who told me about the house mentioned it particularly. I hope it is on the ground floor. I do not like basement kitchens at all, and I am afraid—’
The young man broke in brightly.
‘Ah, madam, your views are exactly the same as those of the late Miss Kentish. She had a horror of a basement, and built out at the back.’
He led the way. The kitchen was neat and spotless. Having viewed it and the scullery, they came back again to the hall. It was dark there. Jim Fancourt moved restlessly. The young man continued to speak of the convenience, the comfort, the good furnishing of the house. ‘I am sure you would find it just what you want,’ he was saying, when Jim broke in.
‘I should like to see the cellar.’
‘Oh, of course—of course,’ said the young man. ‘But I’m afraid there is no lighting. Miss Kentish did not use it, so omitted to install the electric light.’
He went past them and opened a door. It was not easily seen. There was a screen which had to be pushed away. A table stood close in to it. The young man from the office found himself tried, but he continued with his role of persevering politeness.
‘There is nothing here,’ he said, ’but it would of course make a capital place for the storage of heavy luggage.’
Jim said, ‘I should like to go down. I have a torch. There is no need for you to bother.’ He produced from his pocket a small but powerful torch and turned it on.
Miss Silver stepped after him into the open door. The voice of the young man followed them as they descended the steps.
‘There is really nothing down there—nothing at all.’
They took no notice of him. Miss Silver came down slowly. She had made no picture of what she expected to see. What she did see in the concentrated torch-light was a clean, bare floor at the foot of the steps. It was quite clean, quite bare.
It was too clean, too bare.
The house was clean. The bright young man had laid stress on that. A woman came once a week to open the windows and to dust. Miss Silver thought she must be a prodigy unique amongst charwomen if she descended into the cellar and extended her ministrations to its floor.
The cellar was entirely empty except for two or three boards which leaned against the wall on the far side. Jim Fancourt stood in the middle of the bare floor space and shone his light upon it. There was a dead silence. Then he pushed the torch into Miss Silver’s hand and went to move the clutter of old boards against the wall. There was nothing behind them—no gap in the wall, no door. But on Miss Silver’s exclamation he turned round to her and saw that she was pointing. A small bright bead lay on the floor where the dust behind the boards had not been cleared. There was thick dust, and that small bright bead no larger than a pea. He stooped to pick it up and stood there, the bead in his hand and the light of the torch upon it.
Miss Silver spoke in a low voice.
‘Why is it not dusty like the floor?’
Jim Fancourt frowned. The small bead lay on his palm. There was no dust on it. He moved his hand, and the bead on the palm moved. He did not speak, but he stooped down and touched the floor outside the space where the boards had been piled. There was no dust outside, no dust at all. Under the shelter of the boards which he had just moved there was a soft thick layer which spoke of years of neglect. But the bead itself was clean. The months or years during which the dust had gathered had not troubled its brightness. If it had lain there for those months or years, the dust would have silted into it
They went all over the house and found nothing at all until they came back to the empty echoing hall. There Miss Silver lingered.
‘The kitchen—’ she said. ‘The friend who told me about the house mentioned it particularly. I hope it is on the ground floor. I do not like basement kitchens at all, and I am afraid—’
The young man broke in brightly.
‘Ah, madam, your views are exactly the same as those of the late Miss Kentish. She had a horror of a basement, and built out at the back.’
He led the way. The kitchen was neat and spotless. Having viewed it and the scullery, they came back again to the hall. It was dark there. Jim Fancourt moved restlessly. The young man continued to speak of the convenience, the comfort, the good furnishing of the house. ‘I am sure you would find it just what you want,’ he was saying, when Jim broke in.
‘I should like to see the cellar.’
‘Oh, of course—of course,’ said the young man. ‘But I’m afraid there is no lighting. Miss Kentish did not use it, so omitted to install the electric light.’
He went past them and opened a door. It was not easily seen. There was a screen which had to be pushed away. A table stood close in to it. The young man from the office found himself tried, but he continued with his role of persevering politeness.
‘There is nothing here,’ he said, ’but it would of course make a capital place for the storage of heavy luggage.’
Jim said, ‘I should like to go down. I have a torch. There is no need for you to bother.’ He produced from his pocket a small but powerful torch and turned it on.
Miss Silver stepped after him into the open door. The voice of the young man followed them as they descended the steps.
‘There is really nothing down there—nothing at all.’
They took no notice of him. Miss Silver came down slowly. She had made no picture of what she expected to see. What she did see in the concentrated torch-light was a clean, bare floor at the foot of the steps. It was quite clean, quite bare.
It was too clean, too bare.
The house was clean. The bright young man had laid stress on that. A woman came once a week to open the windows and to dust. Miss Silver thought she must be a prodigy unique amongst charwomen if she descended into the cellar and extended her ministrations to its floor.
The cellar was entirely empty except for two or three boards which leaned against the wall on the far side. Jim Fancourt stood in the middle of the bare floor space and shone his light upon it. There was a dead silence. Then he pushed the torch into Miss Silver’s hand and went to move the clutter of old boards against the wall. There was nothing behind them—no gap in the wall, no door. But on Miss Silver’s exclamation he turned round to her and saw that she was pointing. A small bright bead lay on the floor where the dust behind the boards had not been cleared. There was thick dust, and that small bright bead no larger than a pea. He stooped to pick it up and stood there, the bead in his hand and the light of the torch upon it.
Miss Silver spoke in a low voice.
‘Why is it not dusty like the floor?’
Jim Fancourt frowned. The small bead lay on his palm. There was no dust on it. He moved his hand, and the bead on the palm moved. He did not speak, but he stooped down and touched the floor outside the space where the boards had been piled. There was no dust outside, no dust at all. Under the shelter of the boards which he had just moved there was a soft thick layer which spoke of years of neglect. But the bead itself was clean. The months or years during which the dust had gathered had not troubled its brightness. If it had lain there for those months or years, the dust would have silted into it
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