Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 21, No. 115, June 1953

Winning Sequence by Margery Sharp

Margery Sharp is famous for her utterly delightful stories of women — of all types from prigs and prudes to ladies of easy virtue. Her style is ingratiating, her plots are captivating, and the result is pure reading entertainment. But behind the light touch — the peacock-feather touch — is a wealth of shrewdness and perception. There is more in the smooth and glittering comedy than meets the eye...

Here is another short story by Margery Sharp which again explores the domain of the feminine. But this time the protagonists are a pair of spinster sisters. The Misses Pye might easily be called the British counterparts of that great American spinster of fiction, Mary Roberts Rinehart’s wonderful Tish — except that Miss Pye and Miss Roberta Pye have their own way of doing things, even when they are as much at a loss as if they had suddenly found themselves marooned on Mars. Did we say “at a loss”? Well, one man’s loss can be an embattled woman’s gain...

Up to the ages of 61 and 63 the Misses Pye had never told an untruth. Since their father had been a clergyman and their mother a deaconess, this was only right and natural; but it made their one lapse (which occurred on the first Saturday in September) all the harder to excuse. Even so, they did not actually tell the lie: the sin was a tacit one; and it is only fair to add that they were neither of them quite themselves at the time.

Miss Pye and Miss Roberta Pye lived on the top storey of 711 Portaferry Road, Paddington. The thoroughfare was not a prepossessing one, but they had an affection for it because it lay in the heart of their father’s old parish; and it was also very cheap. No. 7 was not prepossessing either, until one reached the top floor; and then one entered a domain as exquisitely neat, as meticulously ordered, as a lady’s work-box. It was probably the tidiest place in London, and it was dusted three times a day. What with dusting, cooking, visiting the sick, and doing embroidery for bazaars, the Misses Pye led full and happy lives: and they had in addition two never-failing sources of pleasurable pride.

These were a nephew in the Air Force, and a miniature of their great-great-grandmother; nor was it easy to say which gave them more satisfaction. The nephew Henry, starting as an aircraft apprentice at Halton, was now at Cranwell and well on the way to earning His Majesty’s commission: the heirloom miniature, besides being an authentic proof of their breeding, was also a work of art. It was reputed to be by Cosway, and a Mr. Faraday, a friend of the Vicar’s had once actually offered £50 for it. The two ladies naturally refused, and always talked of the offer as a gross breach of taste; but in secret they were extremely pleased by it. It was not everyone in Portaferry Road — or indeed, in Paddington — who had £50 lying idle on the mantel.

“We’re a couple of sentimental old fools!” said Miss Pye every Saturday; for it was on Saturdays that the miniature was taken from its case and set upright against a little easel to grace the weekend. Saturday was also the day on which their nephew sometimes came to tea, so Miss Roberta always bought a cake as well as buns; and if he didn’t arrive they ate the cake on Sunday (when it was a little stale, and went further), and thus had a treat for the weekend all the same. Neither Miss Pye nor Miss Roberta had ever heard of the Technique of Living, but they knew a good deal about it nevertheless.

On the first Saturday in September, however, the cake was bought in full confidence, for Henry was definitely expected; and it was therefore all the more upsetting when the 1 o’clock post brought a letter with an Air Force badge.

“It’s to say he can’t come!” cried Miss Roberta.

Miss Pye slit the envelope carefully (one of the parish Wolf Cubs collected crests) and drew out a short note. It consisted of no more than half a page, but she was so long reading it that her sister grew impatient.

“What does he say, dear? Why isn’t he coming?”

“He is coming,” answered Miss Pye slowly. “He’s coming to supper.”

“To supper! And we’ve only sardines! What time will he be here?”

“You’d better see it yourself,” said Miss Pye, still in that odd slow voice. Miss Roberta glanced once at her sister’s face, took the letter and read.

Henry was very sorry to trouble them, but could they lend him £50? And could they let him have it that night, as otherwise, he was afraid, it would mean leaving Cranwell...

“Fifty pounds!” cried Miss Roberta, aghast. “Whatever can he want it for?”

“He doesn’t say.” Miss Pye moistened her lips. “He... he must be ashamed to.”

There was a short, horrified silence. Then—

“Whatever it is,” said Miss Roberta firmly, “we’ve got to get it for him. We must.”

“Of course,” said Miss Pye.

Their eyes flew to the mantelpiece. From her little easel the lady of the miniature smiled heartlessly back. Never before had she looked so charming, so debonair. No one could wonder that Mr. Faraday (man of wealth as he was) should be prepared to give so vast a sum for her.

“You’ve still got the address, dear?” said Miss Roberta at last.

“The Gables, Southolt Green. But he talked about moving, because they’d built a racecourse there. He mayn’t even be in England.”

“We must go and see,” said Miss Roberta sternly. “And if he has moved, we must go to — to a pawnbroker’s. After all, it always was to be Henry’s, wasn’t it?”

In silence they made their preparations. To keep their strength up, they boiled and ate two eggs. Then they out on their best coats, and the hats nought only two years ago, and Miss Roberta wore her beaver necktie. They were not going to embarrass Mr. Faraday by any poverty-stricken looks. They would just explain that they were — well, tired of their miniature, and had decided to give him the first refusal. Miss Pye actually rehearsed the sentences as she put the ivory into its case and wrapped the case in a clean handkerchief. The whole packet took up no more room in her bag than the box of lozenges she carried for her cough.

“Suppose,” said Miss Roberta suddenly, “he comes before we get back?”

“He has his key, dear.”

“But he must be very worried. Mightn’t we leave a message, just to say that it’s all right?”

Miss Pye frowned.

“Whatever he’s done, Roberta, we can’t treat it as a... a peccadillo. Henry must be made to feel. Leave a message if you like, but only saying that we shall be back. And make it stern. He should be made to feel responsible.”

So Miss Roberta, after a moment’s thought, got out the newly bought cake and a sheet of paper, and on the paper wrote simply: If we’re late, dear, cut yourself a slice.

It seemed to both of them that that was quite stern enough.

Southholt Green is a pleasant outer suburb most easily reached by train from Marylebone Station; and on that fine Saturday afternoon the two ladies were quite struck to observe how many other people were going there as well.

There was even a special booking-window, where they had to stand in a queue, and where half a dozen gentlemen took tickets before Miss Pye moved up to the grill.

“I want two third-class returns to Southholt Green—”

“Race train?” snapped the clerk.

“Certainly not,” corrected Miss Pye. “I want two third-class—”

“If you go on the race train, you can get returns for one-and-three.”

The sister looked at each other. It meant a saving of ninepence on each ticket.

“But we are not,” explained Miss Pye, “going to the races. If it doesn’t matter—”

“If you don’t make up your minds,” observed a gentleman behind, “we’ll none of us be going...”

In some confusion Miss Pye put down her half-crown and hurried Miss Roberta off. They had no difficulty in finding the train, but spent so long looking for a Ladies Only compartment that the guard was at last forced to thrust them into a smoker. It already contained six gentlemen (four with cigars) and one young lady who, like her cigarless companions, smoked cigarette after cigarette; and in this wholly foreign atmosphere — their two persons squeezed into the space designed for one — their lungs filled with unaccustomed and offensive odors — the Misses Pye passed the next half-hour. They shut their eyes and endured. It is possible that they prayed. And on alighting at Southholt Green they felt and looked so remarkably shaky that the last touting taxi-man at once marked them down.

“Come on, ladies!” he cried encouragingly. “A bob all the way, and save you twenty minutes!”

Miss Pye looked at the vehicle with longing.

“Shall we, Roberta?”

“A shilling seems very reasonable,” said Miss Roberta. “Only how does he know how far we want to go?”

“If he says a shilling, he must take a shilling; that’s the law,” said Miss Pye; and with her sister following, stepped recklessly into the cab.

It was at this point in their journey that they definitely took the wrong turning.

The taxi, as has been said, was the last on the station rank, and just as Miss Pye was about to give the address a portly gentleman sprang up as from the ground and placed his foot upon the step. At the same moment the door on the other side opened and a second gentleman, of equal girth, thrust himself unceremoniously in.

“Now, ladies,” cried the first urgently, “you’ve got the last cab, we’re in a hurry, what d’you say to letting us two share it, and getting a free ride yourselves?”

The ladies said nothing. They were too startled. It seemed as though everyone they met was bent on giving them loud peremptory advice; and as they had yielded in turn to the booking-clerk, to the guard, and to the taxi-man, so they now yielded to the gentlemen in a hurry. For before they could collect their wits their new mentors were established on the folding-seats, the driver had grinned and mounted, and the cab was in motion.

“It’s like Alice in Wonderland,” murmured Miss Roberta. “All the animals ordering one another about...”

The gentleman opposite nudged his companion.

“Alice!” he repeated. “There’s an Alice in the three thirty. How’s that for a tip?” And he winked at Miss Roberta in so very vulgar a way that she at once closed her eyes. So did Miss Pye. But they had to open them almost immediately, for a moment later the journey — a remarkably short one, even for a shilling — had come to an end. It had come to an end, in fact, outside the Southholt Race Course.

“Oh, dear!” cried Miss Roberta despairingly.

“Didn’t you give the address either?” wailed Miss Pye.

For the moment, indeed, their courage was quite out. Their heads and backs ached, and though they were actually in Southholt Green, Mr. Faraday seemed as remote as ever. And in fact he was remote, for they had heard him mention with thankfulness that his house was at least nowhere in the vicinity of the abhorrent racecourse. It was far away over the Green, miles and miles away where no taxi on earth would ever take them for a shilling.

“Oh, dear!” said Miss Roberta again.

The gentleman paying the fare — for he was faithful to his word — looked round.

Of the wealthy Mr. Faraday he naturally knew nothing: all that presented itself to his eye was a couple of distressed-looking old ladies staring dejectedly at a notice-board. Neither Miss Pye nor Miss Roberta had even seen the thing, for their gaze was quite blank; but it so happened that the legend thereon might very well have accounted, to the casual observer, for their melancholy appearance. Ladies, accompanied by Gentlemen, said the board, Half Price.

With an impulse of pure benevolence the gentleman returned.

“Here,” he said kindly, “you come in with us, and save half a dollar. How’ll that do?”

Miss Pye drew herself up. But even as she did so — while the lightning flashed from her eye — an extraordinary thing happened.

“Thank you very much,” said Miss Roberta. “I’m sure we’re greatly obliged to you.”

“Roberta, how could you?” demanded Miss Pye.

They were inside, their escorts had vanished: before them towered the backs of the stands, about them streamed hundreds of purposeful racegoers. Had they found themselves upon Mars, the Misses Pye could scarcely have been more at a loss.

“It was Providence,” said Miss Roberta boldly. “Haven’t we been led — all the way from St. Marylebone?”

“We have been hustled,” corrected Miss Pye. “And if you think Providence approves of pony-racing—”

“How do you know they’re ponies?” asked Miss Roberta eagerly.

“I saw it on one of the notices. But ponies or horses, it’s all the same thing.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Roberta, “I’d much rather have them ponies. They’re smaller, you know. And I do think, as we’re here, we might just go and look at them.”

Although two years younger, Miss Roberta had always taken the lead. She took it now, and with a hand hooked under her sister’s elbow propelled her firmly between the stands to a sort of open paddock bounded by white railings; and here even Miss Pye breathed freely, for the aspect of the place was positively domestic. Family groups picnicked upon the grass, children ran shouting in the sun, elderly couples walked soberly up and down.

An occasional beer-bottle caught Miss Roberta’s eye, but thermos-flasks predominated. It was like the beach at Broadstairs, with the stands for boarding-houses and the row of bookies for the donkey-boys on the parade. Miss Roberta observed these last with interest, and found them a most respectable-looking set of men: if their voices were rather hoarse, that was doubtless due to their open-air life...

“I wonder where the Tote is?” she mused aloud. “It’s another way of betting money, you know, something like a slot-machine.”

“You have too much to do with those Wolf Cubs,” returned Miss Pye rather tartly.

She walked quickly towards the course, intending to avoid the crowd; but since the 3 o’clock race had just begun, her example was largely followed.

In a few moments the two ladies were hemmed in against the railings and staring, like their neighbors, up the green stretch; only unlike their neighbors they did not know what to expect. The sudden onrush of the ponies, the flash of the jockeys’ coats, took them both unawares; the closeness and the speed made Miss Pye at least feel as though she had been narrowly missed by a thunderbolt.

As for Miss Roberta, as her first words showed, she had been absolutely struck.

“If we backed one and won £50,” said Miss Roberta clearly, “we shouldn’t have to sell the miniature.”

Her sister jumped.

“Backed one, Roberta?”

“Put money on one. And then when it won, we should get a lot more.”

Instead of at once changing the subject, Miss Pye rashly asked a question.

“But how,” she inquired shrewdly, “can you tell which is going to win?”

“You just guess,” explained Miss Roberta airily. “It’s all luck — like that raffle we had at the Bazaar. I’m almost certain I could do it.”

Miss Pye opened her mouth to deliver a peremptory rebuke; but either because the vicissitudes of the journey had really affected her brain, or possibly because the genius of the place seized and twisted her words, the rebuke was never uttered. All she said was:

“Don’t put on more than half a crown, dear!”

The half-crown already extracted from her bag, Miss Roberta, followed by Miss Pye, edged back into the crowd before the stands. Her spirit was still high, but though she had talked so lightly of picking winners, she had very little notion how to set about it.

Her only preference in horseflesh was for the cream or dapple, and though there was a huge signboard giving the ponies’ names, it made no mention of their color. She also knew, from a poem, that Arab steeds were fleet; but there was nothing about Arabs either. As though out of mere politeness, she turned and asked her sister’s advice.

“What sort of horses do you like, dear?”

“Percherons,” answered Miss Pye promptly. “I always remember, that summer we stayed on the farm, what gentle faces they had.”

Miss Roberta sighed. She was practically sure that Percherons did not race — and in any case, they were too big to be ponies. It was at this juncture that a voice from behind them — so apposite that it might have been the voice of Conscience itself — suddenly spoke.

“Want a winner, lady?” asked the voice affably.

They turned round and observed a dapper little gentleman in a check suit. Whether by accident or design, he was leaning against a sort of small signpost, and on the signpost it said Sandy, the Lucky Scot.

“Yes,” said Miss Roberta quickly. “We want a winner very much.”

At once, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, the gentleman whipped out an envelope and thrust it into her hand. Before Miss Roberta could open it, however, he followed up the gesture with a demand for sixpence.

“But why sixpence?” asked Miss Roberta.

The Lucky Scot looked at her with admiration.

“Because yer goin’ to win two quid for two bob, lady, and I ain’t a bloomin’ philanthropist. You get two quid, I get a tanner: and if that ain’t fair, I dunno what is.”

“It does seem very reasonable,” murmured Miss Pye. “I wonder he doesn’t ask for more.”

“Hush!” said Miss Roberta, hastily passing over the coin and leading her sister away. “He knows his own business best. I wonder what the horse’s name is?”

To their slight embarrassment, it was Bachelor’s Shirt; but after a good deal of advice and piloting from interested spectators — “They really seem very helpful here!” said Miss Pye — the ladies succeeded in buying a two-shilling ticket at the Tote. Then they followed the stream, and climbed up a stand, and stood in happy confidence waiting to see their horse win...

Of the eleven runners, Bachelor’s Shirt was tenth.

Now the late Reverend Charles Pye, though as mild an old gentleman as ever held a living, had nevertheless been able to produce, as occasion required, a fine denunciatory style; and his blood now boiled in his daughters’ veins.

Without a word, in perfect unison, Miss Pye and Miss Roberta nipped down from the stand and darted and dived through the crowd after the bobbing thistle-painted sign.

“You, man!” cried Miss Pye breathlessly.

The Lucky Scot turned and saw them. With unparalleled effrontery he even grinned.

“It didn’t win!” accused Miss Roberta.

“It was last but one!” cried Miss Pye.

The creature shrugged.

“All in the luck of the game, ladies. I’d have bet my bottom dollar—”

“Don’t prevaricate,” said Miss Roberta. “You sold it us as a winner, and it didn’t win. It’s downright dishonesty!”

As well he might, the Lucky Scot gazed at them in stupefaction. For if they had their code of ethics, so had he; and his profession of tipster was justified — even hallowed — by every unwritten law of the racecourse. His surprise and indignation, both boundless, found their only natural outlet.

“May I be damned,” he began methodically, “may I be double-damned and double—”

“And don’t use oaths,” said Miss Pye severely. “You’ll either pay what we should have won, or... or I’ll fetch the police!”

The Scot glanced round. A small but appreciative crowd had already gathered, and there was no doubt whose side it was on. With ready chivalry it had plumped unanimously for the two old girls. “Go it, Ma!” cried the crowd heartily, and though the phrase offended her ears, Miss Pye was nevertheless emboldened by it. She looked the creature in the eye and positively defied him.

“Well, what did win?” he asked, weakening.

This was an awkward moment, for in their righteous haste neither lady had stopped to see. But the mob rushed to their aid.

“Rose Marie!” prompted the mob joyfully. “Twenty to one!”

“Or if you want the Tote dividend,” added a gentleman more joyfully still, “it’s fifty-eight-and-six.”

“Then it’s a bloomin’ swindle!” shouted the enraged Scot. “It’s a put-up job!”

“It is indeed!” cried Miss Roberta warmly. “We shall go to the police at once!”

“And if you can’t control yourself,” added Miss Pye, “we shall charge you with obscene language as well...”

The tipster paused. He had a pretty good idea that on the first count at least no bobby would charge him; but there were several reasons why any contact with the police was in itself undesirable. They had nothing definite against him, but just at that moment he had no desire to thrust himself, as it were, on their notice... With a sudden change of demeanor, he approached Miss Roberta’s ear.

“See here, lady,” he murmured, “s’pose I give you another tip instead — real dead cert — horse I’m going to put me own shirt on — how’ll that do?”

The ladies whispered together.

“Yes,” said Miss Roberta finally. “We’re going to give you one more chance.”

With a stub of pencil, on the back of an envelope, the tipster hastily scrawled a name; and beseeching them not to disclose it to anyone else, urged his two tormentors in the direction of the Tote. Then he took out his handkerchief, and thankfully applied it to his brow.

Contrary to his usual practice, the Lucky Scot left his signpost and mounted a stand to watch the next race; for he felt an unusually strong interest in the fate of his tip. The Misses Pye were standing directly before and a little way below him, so that if by unlucky chance they lost again he was fairly certain of being able to escape them. Had he known, as he did not, that they had backed the pony Chipmunk to the extent of a whole five shillings, he would probably have taken no risks, but left the course at once.

Chipmunk won.

“Thank ’eaven for that!” ejaculated the Scot piously; and once more mopping his brow slipped back to the old pitch.

He had not been there more than fifteen minutes, however, when his brief complacency was violently dispelled.

“You, man!” shrilled Miss Roberta.

“My Gawd!” cried the Scot in horror. “What’s up now?”

“We can’t get our money!” cried the ladies in chorus. “We went up to the window, and they wouldn’t pay us! What shall we do now?”

Sandy the Scot groaned aloud. Though lacking the advantages of a classical education, he could by this time have given a pretty accurate description of the Furies.

“Here, let’s see yer ticket,” he said wearily.

Miss Pye displayed it.

“Yer on the Tote double, lady. Yer got to pick another ’orse fer the 5 o’clock, on the same ticket, see, ’n if that one wins too yer get a whole packet.”

After he had explained it two or three times, the sisters withdrew and held a short conference. Then Miss Pye returned with her hand out.

“Here’s your sixpence, and we’ll have another winner, please.”

“Not from me you won’t,” said the Scot firmly.

“What shall we do now?” whispered Miss Roberta.

They were already in the Tote queue, passing steadily along; and owing to their passage with the Lucky Scot, and to the urgent necessity of refreshing themselves with tea, they had not had time even to see what ponies were running.

“Have what the man in front has,” counseled Miss Pye. “He’s wearing opera-glasses.”

“Seventeen,” said the man in front.

“We’ll have that, too,” said Miss Roberta.

“Two,” echoed the girl in the window; and that was how the Misses Pye picked the 5 o’clock winner.

They won £53; and their demeanor, as they collected the money, was so noticeably that of sleepwalkers that a benevolent policeman escorted them to the gate and put them in a taxi and told the driver to see them on the train. Miss Roberta’s only conscious act was to give the taxi-man a pound. He put them into a first-class carriage, and since no one else got in they were able to take out the miniature and hold it alternately.

More exhausted than they had ever been in their lives, the two old ladies at last turned the corner and reached No. 7. In the top window a light showed.

“He’s here!” said Miss Roberta, suddenly alert.

“Then we can have supper at once,” said her sister thankfully.

“We shall have to speak to him first. Do pull yourself together, dear.”

With straight backs and stern faces they toiled up the three flights of stairs. At the sitting-room door Miss Roberta even managed a frown. But as soon as they entered, as soon as their nephew turned to face them, all sternness melted away.

“Well, dear boy,” said Miss Pye affectionately, “it’s nice to see you”; and she took the wad of notes from her bag and slipped it into his hand.

“Is it... is it all here?”

“Yes dear, £50,” said Miss Roberta. She spoke as calmly as she could, but the moment was a dreadful one. Henry looked so white, so racked, that the hearts of both old women yearned towards him: yet at the same time both in their hearts knew that he ought not to go unscathed. He should be — not punished, but made to remember.

“I’ve just been a plain damn’ fool, Auntie.”

“Don’t swear, dear,” said Miss Pye — but sympathetically.

“Just tell us how it happened,” urged Miss Roberta, “and then you’ll feel better.”

The boy looked from one old face to the other.

“I... borrowed — some money out of the Sports Fund,” he said at last. “I’d got into a mess. You see, I’d been backing the horses...”

The two ladies sat very still.

“That’s why I had to ask you. And when I got here this evening and saw what you’d done, I felt — I felt like the worst cad on earth.”

The eyes of all three turned to the empty easel. In Miss Pye’s bag the miniature weighed like lead. She rose and walked stiffly to the empty miniature-stand on the mantelpiece.

“My dear boy—”

“No,” said Henry quickly, “leave the stand there. Leave it there whenever I come. I want it to remind me.” He got up, and gave each of his aunts a kiss, and then involuntarily yawned. Emotion had so worn him out that five minutes later, when Miss Pye came in with the supper-tray, he was stretched on the sofa and fast asleep.

“Roberta!” whispered Miss Pye. “What are we to do?”

“We must go on deceiving him,” said Miss Roberta clearly and firmly.

“But that’s wicked!”

“Then we must be wicked, for Henry’s sake. It will be a lesson to him all his life. Whereas if he knew how we had got the money—”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Pye. Her eye rested a moment, almost wistfully, on the wad of notes. “You know, dear, I do see the temptation myself.”

“So do I,” said Miss Roberta. “And that’s another reason for keeping the stand empty. To remind us as well...”