Blindfold by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page B

That’s my mother’s photograph we’ve been looking at, not me! See that brooch she’s got on? Ever so pretty it was—two hearts twined together, a white one and a blue one, pearl and turquoise. I had it stolen in my first place. Wasn’t it a shame? So now I’ve only got these old beads that I’ve wore and wore till I’m sick of them.”
    â€œI like them,” said the infatuated Ernie.
    Flossie tossed her head and fingered the beads. Her bright pink dress was upstairs in a drawer. She wouldn’t have dared to wear it under Aunt’s eye. She had on a dark blue jumper suit in which she looked very pretty indeed. It threw up her fair, bright tints and the whiteness of her skin. She looked down at the beads with discontent.
    â€œThey’d be all right if they were white,” she said. “I’d like a nice white pearl string—it’d suit me. I’d have thrown these old grey things away long ago if they hadn’t been my mother’s. Dingy, I call them. Look here, this photo’s slipped. I’ll have to pull it out or it won’t go in straight.”
    The photo showed a buxom middle-aged woman in an outdoor coat and an excruciatingly unbecoming hat. The hat dominated the picture. It was trimmed with about a dozen yards of ribbon and a whole pheasant. Its forward tilt obscured the sitter’s features and gave the impression that it had just fallen upon her head.
    â€œCoo!” said Flossie, giggling. “Who’s this Aunt?” She held the photo out, saw as she turned it that there was something written on the back, and read aloud: “‘Yours truly, Agnes Smith’. Who’s that, Aunt?”
    â€œWhy, your Aunt Ag of course. You ought to know that, Flossie, I must say. Flo’s own half-sister Ag.”
    â€œWell, it says Agnes Smith. Ooh!” Flossie’s finger tightened on the old carte-de-visite . She turned it over and stared at the high-sleeved coat, the plump featureless face, and the hat with its load of millinery. She had a funny giddy feeling as if she were in two places at once, because whilst she looked at the photograph here in Aunt’s warm parlour, she had the cold taste of fog in her mouth and she could hear Mr Miles saying “‘Please send money for funeral expenses and my account and oblige yours truly Agnes Smith’.” It was really a very horrid sort of feeling.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” said Ernie in what he intended for a whisper.
    Flossie caught her breath.
    â€œNothing. Aunt Ag’s name isn’t Smith, Aunt? It’s never been Smith since I heard tell of her.” She dragged her eyes away from the photograph and fixed them upon Aunt’s unresponsive profile.
    Without looking up from her knitting, Mrs Palmer said,
    â€œWell then, you don’t know everything, though I’ve no doubt you think you do.”
    â€œWas her name Smith, Aunt?”
    â€œFor about twenty years it was—and a bad bargain she had. Had to leave him in the end and keep herself letting apartments. Then he died and she married again, and how she’d the courage, I don’t know. You’d think one man would be enough for any woman, let alone one like Jacob Smith. But there—she’d not been a widow a twelve-month before she married again. Put the photograph back tidy, Flossie, and don’t bend the corners.” Mrs Palmer’s needles clicked vigorously. “Why any woman born wants a man tracking dirt into her house, coming in all hours with muddy feet, and as like as not smelling of drink and tobacco, passes me.”
    Flossie turned the page. She didn’t want to talk about yours truly Agnes Smith. She wanted to get away from her. She nudged Ernie with her elbow and said daringly,
    â€œOoh! What about Syd?”
    Mrs Palmer’s face relaxed. She did not actually smile, but she came within measurable distance of it. The locket which