The Case Of William Smith by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online

office as the champion of William Smith. Or, worse than Cyril, Brett. She didn’t wish Mr. Tattlecombe’s sufferings to be in any way prolonged, but she had a feeling that it would be a pity if he were to come back to work too soon. She just wasn’t ready to take William Smith by the hand and lead him into the family circle — yet.
    Chapter Five
    Cyril Eversley put out a hand and touched the bell on his office table. Like everything else about him the hand was long and thin. If his cousin Brett looked like a Georgian squire, he himself had rather the air of a medieval scholar — a flowing robe and a skull-cap would have been much more appropriate than a modern suit. He was seven years older than Brett and the senior partner. No one would have guessed that they were related. Where Brett was dark and florid, Cyril had the thinning fair hair, the pallor, and slight stoop of a delicate man who leads a sedentary life. He might have been an artist, a scholar, a dilettante. He was, as a matter of fact, a little of all three. The rather charming water-colour drawing of his daughter Sylvia which faced him across the room was his own work, he could still read Greek for pleasure, and he was a collector of eighteenth-century miniatures and snuffboxes.
    Almost before he had drawn his hand back from the bell the door opened and Miss Jones came in.
    ‘Yes, Mr. Eversley?’
    He looked up with his slight habitual frown and said,
    ‘Come in and shut the door.’
    With the click of the latch her manner changed.
    That ‘Yes, Mr. Eversley?’ had been any secretary to any employer — voice, manner, and look all just right — the efficient, trusted employee answering a summons. But as soon as the door was shut she became someone else. It was as if she came in and threw off some drab uniform coat, to display the bright dress which had been hidden under it. She seemed a different woman as she came over to stand by the table and say, ‘What is it?’ William’s description of her may serve — ‘Not young, but a looker.’ A moment ago she might easily have been forty; the change in look and manner took ten years away. Actually she was thirty-seven. There was bright natural colour in the oval face and well cut lips, good lashes to shade the hazel eyes. The tall, upright figure was pleasantly curved, the plain dark dress very well cut. There was some grace of movement, and a noticeable effect of vitality. When it came to the hands and feet, nature had turned suddenly stingy. Neither were well shaped, but she wore good shoes, and did all she could to the hands which a secretary cannot hope to keep out of sight. She groomed them assiduously and used a very discreet nail-polish.
    To her, ‘What is it?’ Cyril Eversley replied with a shade of petulance,
    ‘Why must it be anything?’
    She smiled a little.
    ‘I don’t know, but it is.’
    He threw himself back in his chair.
    ‘For God’s sake sit down! I’m worried to death.’
    ‘Poor Cyril! As I said before, what is it?’
    She was seating herself. If anyone came in, she had writing-pad and pencil before her — a discussion was in progress, presently a decision would be taken and a letter dictated. It had all been going on for so long that every move had become instinctive.
    Cyril picked up a letter from his blotting-pad — thick paper covered with a strong, square writing rather reminiscent of cuneiform.
    ‘It’s Katharine’s trust,’ he said. ‘This is from Admiral Holden, who is the third trustee.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘It isn’t well at all. He was supposed to be dying, and he hasn’t died. He has recovered, and he seems to have heard from Katharine. I don’t know what she said to him, but this is what he writes:
    ‘Dear Eversley,
    I had a letter from Katharine a couple of months ago. She mentioned that she was giving up her flat and looking for something smaller. She also mentioned that she was going to take a job. I could not understand why this should be necessary, but