Beggar’s Choice by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page A

else’s—and a bad end was what she did ought to have come to, instead of marrying the greengrocer and riding in her Morris car like a lady. Some folks have all the luck. And don’t you never trust a red-haired girl, Mr. Fairfax. Sandy eyelashes too, she had.”
    She’s not a bad old thing. Just as I was going out, she called me back.
    â€œWhat about that rent, Mr. Fairfax?” she said in a hesitating sort of voice.
    I felt an awful brute.
    â€œI haven’t got it, Mrs. Bell.”
    â€œWell, you’d give it me if you had—I know that.”
    I thought I had better know the worst, so I asked her if she wanted me to go, but she flared up all over again, and said she wasn’t a bloodsucker nor a thief, and folks that misjudged other folks would live to be sorry for it. And then she began to cry and talk about her son that was killed at Mons, and I patted her on the shoulder, and she said I was his living image—which I hope to goodness I’m not, because the photograph she’s so proud of is pretty awful. And then she got to calling me “my dear,” and I escaped. She’s an awfully good old soul.
    On the way upstairs I met Fay. Her door opened just as I passed. She had on the green lace frock she was making yesterday, and I should think she’d used the best part of a box of make-up on her face. I can’t think why. Her skin’s good enough when she leaves it alone. She came out looking at me as if she wanted me to flirt with her. It didn’t improve my temper. Women always seem to think they’ve only to look at you through their eyelashes, to get anything out of you that they want. It makes me wild. So I was going on; but then I thought of something, so I turned back.
    â€œDid you come up to my room for anything whilst I was out?”
    She began to put a sort of scarf thing over her head.
    â€œWhy should I?”
    â€œI don’t know. Did you?”
    She looked over her shoulder.
    â€œWould you have been sorry if you’d missed me?”
    I suppose it was rude of me, but I said “No.” Fay wants whipping.
    She whirled round in a rage.
    â€œThank you! How polite you are! Do you really flatter yourself that I should come running after you into your beastly attic?”
    I said, “I wish you wouldn’t talk nonsense. I can’t think why you can’t answer a plain question. I’ve lost an important letter, and if you’d been up to my room—”
    She stamped her foot.
    â€œWhy should I come up to your room?”
    â€œYou might have wanted me—and you might have noticed the letter if I’d left it on the table.” Of course I knew I hadn’t left Isobel’s letter on the table. I knew I had put it in the right-hand top drawer of the chest of drawers.
    Fay dropped being angry.
    â€œWould you like me to come and pay you a visit?”
    â€œNo, I shouldn’t.”
    â€œPerhaps I will some day.”
    It’s no good talking to her when she’s in that mood. I turned my back and went upstairs, and when I was about half way up I heard her run down into the hall so fast that I was afraid she’d break her neck. She didn’t. She went out and banged the door as hard as she could.
    I went back to my room, and when I opened the door something rustled. I bent down to look. There was a scrap of paper dragging along with the door—I could just see the edge of it. I got it out with a match and looked at it under the gas. It was a scrap of writing-paper with one word on it. The word was, “hide.” Isobel had written it. The piece of paper had been torn from her letter. I looked everywhere, but there were no more pieces. Some one had come into my room whilst I was out and torn up Isobel’s letter. I didn’t believe it was Mrs. Bell.

VII
    September 17 th; morning —I’ve got a lot to write, but I’ll begin at the beginning.
    I got an answer from Box