Miss Silver Deals With Death

CHAPTER 18

From this point onwards the sequence of events becomes of the first importance.

Giles slammed the door of Mrs. Underwood’s flat at five minutes to seven, and at about the same time Mrs. Willard confronted her husband with two pencilled notes and a flood of reproachful tears. The first of the notes has already been in evidence. It ran:

“All right, Willie darling, lunch at one as usual.

Carola.”

The second had been discovered only this afternoon after an exhaustive search of Mr. Willard’s effects. It was very short, but it had brought poor Mrs. Willard to the point of open accusation.

“All right-what about tomorrow night?

C. R.”

The dreadful thing about this note was that it wasn’t dated. Tomorrow night might already have come and gone. It might be this present Wednesday night, or it might really be tomorrow. Mrs. Willard had reached the end of her tether. She had been a mild and submissive wife for twenty years, but this was too much. She looked a good deal like a stout motherly sheep at bay as she produced the note.

It was a most annoying situation for Mr. Willard. Throughout their married life he had maintained a masterly discipline in his household. His word had been law, and his foot had been permanently down. Now he was being forced into a position of defence. His word was in question, and the foot was required to save his balance. He cleared his throat and said,

“Really, Amelia-”

Mrs. Willard burst into tears and stamped her foot.

“Don’t you Amelia me, Alfred, for I won’t stand it! Running after a bad girl like that at your time of life!”

“Really-”

“Yes, your time of life, Alfred! Fifty you are, and look every day of your age! What do you think a girl like that wants out of you except to pass the time because she’s bored, and to get your money, and to b-break my heart-”

Here Mrs. Willard’s voice broke too. She subsided on to the couch, large and untidy, her face red and puffed with crying, and her grey hair coming down.

Mr. Willard took off his glasses and polished them. He tried for the voice of authority but fell short.

“Amelia, I must insist-”

Mrs. Willard interrupted him. She had no longer to rely upon her own shaking legs. The sofa gave her confidence.

“Haven’t I been a good wife to you? Haven’t I done everything I could?”

“That’s not the question-” He cleared his throat again. “About these notes-”

“Yes, Alfred-what about them?”

Mr. Willard’s neat features took on an unbecoming flush.

“There’s nothing in them,” he said. “And I’m surprised at you, Amelia-more than surprised. And I may say at once that I wouldn’t have believed you would do such a thing as to go looking through my pockets.”

This was a little better. Too familiar, too colloquial, but it was putting Amelia in her place. It was she who would be on the defensive now.

The vigour of her counter-attack surprised and pained him.

“And if I’d left your saccharine tablets in the pocket of the blue coat you told me to send to the cleaners, what would you have said then, I’d like to know! That’s where the first note was, and it just shows how that girl has upset you and got you all played-up, or you’d never have left it there for me to find. And if you’ll show me a woman that doesn’t read that sort of note when she’s got it in her hand, I’ll tell you straight out to your face that she’s no proper woman at all, and no feelings like a man expects his wife to have!”

Mr. Willard was thrown off his balance again. He said, “Really!” several times in varying tones of protest and annoyance, whilst Mrs. Willard attempted to stanch a fresh access of tears with a handkerchief which was nothing but a sodden rag.

“Really, Amelia! Anyone would think that it was a crime to take a neighbour out to lunch!”

“A neighbour!”

“Well, she is, isn’t she? And she wanted to consult me about a matter of business, if you want to know.”

“Business!” said Mrs. Willard with a rending sniff.

“And why not, Amelia? If you must know, it was about her income tax.”

“Income tax?”

“Yes, income tax.”

“I don’t believe a word of it!” said Mrs. Willard. “And I’m ashamed of you, Alfred, standing there and telling me lies-bringing them out like peas out of a pod and expecting me to believe them, which I don’t and never will! And if she had lunch with you to talk about her income tax, what were you going to talk about ‘tomorrow night’-and which night was it to be? Is that where you were on Saturday when you told me you’d been down to see Mr. Corner? Or was it tonight you were going to make up an excuse and off upstairs to her? Haven’t you got anything to say?”

Mr. Willard hadn’t. He had never suspected Amelia of so uncomfortable a talent for putting him in the wrong. And after all, what had he done? Run upstairs for a neighbourly chat, changed an electric bulb, unbent in a little friendly badinage, and fibbed about Mr. Corner. She hadn’t even let him kiss her, only called him “Funny little man” and bundled him out-he dwelt regretfully on this. And here was Amelia behaving as if he had given her grounds for divorce. Such a suspicious mind. And complete lack of self-control.

He achieved a voice of marital authority.

“I must refuse to listen to any more of these-these recriminations. They are unjustified, and I must decline to listen to them. I am surprised at you, Amelia, and I hope and expect that you will before long be surprised at yourself. You have quite lost your self-control and your sense of proportion, and I intend to leave you alone in the hope that you may recover them. In the meantime I should like you to know that I am very much displeased.”

This time it came off. The voice was once more his own. Large rolling words came flowing out. He turned to the door with the strutting dignity of a bantam.

Mrs. Willard had shot her bolt. She called after him with a lamentable sob,

“Where are you going? Oh, Alfred-you’re not going to her!”

Mr. Willard was himself again. Let Amelia cry-it would do her good. On his return he would find her repentant and submissive.

He went out of the flat and shut the door.