Weekend with Death by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online

in, jovial and familiar.
    â€œWell, Miss Sarah—think I’m like my brother? We’re twins, you know. Would you know us apart?”
    She turned her eyes on him in a steady look.
    â€œYou are alike—but of course I should know you apart.”
    He laughed.
    â€œAnd I’ll bet you wouldn’t if I took the trouble to dress up a bit. I see myself doing it!” He gave a kind of guffaw. “Fancy me minding my step and picking my way like a hen on a muddy road!” He slapped his thigh noisily. “Yoicks! That’s it! That’s Wilson to the life—isn’t it, Jo? A damned faddy old hen, scratching for maggots on a rubbish heap!”
    Joanna put in a feeble protest.
    â€œMorgan— dear !”
    â€œWell, isn’t he? Now, Miss Sarah, let’s have your frank opinion.”
    â€œI’m afraid I haven’t got one.”
    â€œOh, come—you must have.”
    â€œNone that you would care about, Mr. Cattermole.”
    Miss Joanna said, “My dear!” and Morgan laughed boisterously.
    â€œSnubbed!” he said. “Well and truly snubbed! Done like a duchess too! But you can’t take me down that way. Indiarubber—that’s what I am. You ask Jo—she’ll tell you. The harder I’m hit, the higher I bounce. Well, well, we won’t spoil our food by quarrelling over Wilson. I’ll say this for him, he’s got a damned good cook.”
    Whatever he might say, Sarah considered that her snub had not been without its effect. He appeared to have reached and passed the peak of his insufferable behaviour. Ill-bred and noisy as he continued to show himself, the offence was now more in voice and manner than in any actual word. Joanna, weighing out her vitamins, watched him with what actually appeared to be admiration. Her eyes had brightened and her cheeks were flushed with excitement. As they went upstairs again, she slipped a hand inside Sarah’s arm and whispered,
    â€œDear Morgan—he always has such high spirits. It quite does one good.”

CHAPTER VI
    When coffee had been served and Thompson the elderly parlourmaid had closed the door behind her, Morgan began a long, boastful yarn about an encounter with brigands in the Balkans. He had, Sarah noticed, one trait at least in common with his twin, the faculty for entangling the simplest narrative in a mass of irrelevant and uninteresting detail. Wilson’s spooks and Morgan’s bandits were alike in this, that no one could possibly get up any interest in their doings. Even Joanna’s attention appeared to wander. Her eyes strayed to the small baize-covered table on which, as always, paper and pencil, and a planchette board lay in readiness. When Morgan burst out laughing she turned a pleading look upon him.
    â€œIf only you were not such an unbeliever. You know, I’ve always felt that you would be wonderfully successful, and just now it would be especially interesting, because I have been having some really wonderful communications—no, don’t laugh—if you would only just try for yourself. His name is Nat Garland—short for Nathaniel. A smuggler, Morgan, and he passed over just before the battle of Waterloo. That does bring it so home to one, doesn’t it?” She clasped her hands about his arm and stood looking up into his face, her eyes fever-bright.
    Sarah thought that he was rather startled. He said,
    â€œHullo! What’s all this about smugglers? You’ll be getting yourself run in if you don’t take care.”
    â€œOh, no!” Joanna’s voice went high and sharp. “Oh, Morgan—if you would ! They told us about him down at Ryland Bay—a most charming little inn. And that night I had an experience —but I won’t tell you about it in case you might scoff, and I don’t think I could bear it—I really don’t. And then when we came back here he began to come through—automatic