tonight.’
When Barney had gone, Verney took from a drawer in his desk the photograph of Teddy Morden’s body. After staring at it for a moment, he thought to himself: ‘It ties up. The moment Mary Morden told me about these séances, I felt certain it tied up. She doesn’t stand much chance, poor kid; but, if Barney’s as astute as I believe him to be, we’ll get Morden’s murderers yet.’
4
Out of the past
That evening Fate took a hand, for it was decreed that a few minutes before eight o’clock Barney Sullivan and Mary Morden should meet on the doorstep of 204 Barkston Gardens.
They had approached from different directions and, until they came face to face, she noticed him only as a youngish man wearing a soft hat and a loose-fitting grey tweed overcoat that hung from broad shoulders, while he registered her as a tallish girl with her head well up and a fine springy walk. Then, as they turned together into the square brick porch, the electric light in its roof suddenly revealed clearly to each the face of the other.
Barney had no more than a vague feeling that he had seen Mary somewhere before; after which his mind switched almostinstantly to speculate on why such a good-looking young woman should be dabbling in spiritualism instead of spending her evening at some cheerful party, or dining and dancing with a boy-friend.
That he did not know her again was perfectly understandable; for, apart from the fact that it was five years since they had met, Mary had changed her appearance in every way that was possible. Her smooth plaits had gone; she now wore her hair shoulder length and curled at the ends, and had had it dyed a rich, dark brown. Her thickish eyebrows had also been dyed, and plucked so that they remained fairly thick at the inner ends but tapered away to points which gave the impression that they turned up slightly at the ends. She was wearing more make-up: a much heavier shade of powder, that gave her fair skin the bronze tint of a brunette who has recently been sun-bathing, mascara on her lashes, eye-shadow, and a magenta lip-stick with which she had succeeded in changing a little the shape of her mouth. Her experience of making up while in cabaret had stood her in good stead, and even her ex-neighbours at Wimbledon would have been unlikely to recognise the quietly turned out Mrs. Morden in this new presentation by which she had deprived herself of her golden hair, but become much more of a
femme fatale.
On the other hand, at the first glance, Mary recognised Barney and her heart gave a jump that seemed to bring it right up into her mouth. Her face would have betrayed her had he not at that moment turned to ring the front-door bell. It was answered almost immediately by an elderly woman servant. Barney politely stepped aside for Mary to enter, then followed her in.
As the servant took his coat and hat, Mary walked on towards a middle-aged woman who was standing in the middle of the square hall. She was a large lady with a big bust on which dangled several necklaces of semi-precious stones. From her broad, flat face several chins sloped down into a thick neck, the whole being heavily powdered. Her eyes were a very light blue and unusually widely spaced.Upon her head was piled an elaborate structure of brassy curls, and her whole appearance suggested to Barney the type of rich Edwardian widow whose Mecca used to be the Palm Courts of Grand Hotels. He assumed, rightly, that she was Mrs. Wardeel.
To Mary she extended, held high, a carefully manicured and heavily beringed hand, as she said in a deep voice: ‘Ah, Mrs. Mauriac; or perhaps, now that you have become a regular attendant at our little gatherings, you will allow me to call you Margot?’
‘So, she is French,’ Barney was thinking. But actually Mary had been mainly governed in the choice of a
nom de guerre
by making it fit with the initials on her handbags, and other personal belongings, that it would have been a nuisance to have to alter.
When Barney had gone, Verney took from a drawer in his desk the photograph of Teddy Morden’s body. After staring at it for a moment, he thought to himself: ‘It ties up. The moment Mary Morden told me about these séances, I felt certain it tied up. She doesn’t stand much chance, poor kid; but, if Barney’s as astute as I believe him to be, we’ll get Morden’s murderers yet.’
4
Out of the past
That evening Fate took a hand, for it was decreed that a few minutes before eight o’clock Barney Sullivan and Mary Morden should meet on the doorstep of 204 Barkston Gardens.
They had approached from different directions and, until they came face to face, she noticed him only as a youngish man wearing a soft hat and a loose-fitting grey tweed overcoat that hung from broad shoulders, while he registered her as a tallish girl with her head well up and a fine springy walk. Then, as they turned together into the square brick porch, the electric light in its roof suddenly revealed clearly to each the face of the other.
Barney had no more than a vague feeling that he had seen Mary somewhere before; after which his mind switched almostinstantly to speculate on why such a good-looking young woman should be dabbling in spiritualism instead of spending her evening at some cheerful party, or dining and dancing with a boy-friend.
That he did not know her again was perfectly understandable; for, apart from the fact that it was five years since they had met, Mary had changed her appearance in every way that was possible. Her smooth plaits had gone; she now wore her hair shoulder length and curled at the ends, and had had it dyed a rich, dark brown. Her thickish eyebrows had also been dyed, and plucked so that they remained fairly thick at the inner ends but tapered away to points which gave the impression that they turned up slightly at the ends. She was wearing more make-up: a much heavier shade of powder, that gave her fair skin the bronze tint of a brunette who has recently been sun-bathing, mascara on her lashes, eye-shadow, and a magenta lip-stick with which she had succeeded in changing a little the shape of her mouth. Her experience of making up while in cabaret had stood her in good stead, and even her ex-neighbours at Wimbledon would have been unlikely to recognise the quietly turned out Mrs. Morden in this new presentation by which she had deprived herself of her golden hair, but become much more of a
femme fatale.
On the other hand, at the first glance, Mary recognised Barney and her heart gave a jump that seemed to bring it right up into her mouth. Her face would have betrayed her had he not at that moment turned to ring the front-door bell. It was answered almost immediately by an elderly woman servant. Barney politely stepped aside for Mary to enter, then followed her in.
As the servant took his coat and hat, Mary walked on towards a middle-aged woman who was standing in the middle of the square hall. She was a large lady with a big bust on which dangled several necklaces of semi-precious stones. From her broad, flat face several chins sloped down into a thick neck, the whole being heavily powdered. Her eyes were a very light blue and unusually widely spaced.Upon her head was piled an elaborate structure of brassy curls, and her whole appearance suggested to Barney the type of rich Edwardian widow whose Mecca used to be the Palm Courts of Grand Hotels. He assumed, rightly, that she was Mrs. Wardeel.
To Mary she extended, held high, a carefully manicured and heavily beringed hand, as she said in a deep voice: ‘Ah, Mrs. Mauriac; or perhaps, now that you have become a regular attendant at our little gatherings, you will allow me to call you Margot?’
‘So, she is French,’ Barney was thinking. But actually Mary had been mainly governed in the choice of a
nom de guerre
by making it fit with the initials on her handbags, and other personal belongings, that it would have been a nuisance to have to alter.
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