Free Miss Silver Deals With Death by Patricia Wentworth

girl his mother’s jewellery unless he means to marry her. Then she said sharply,
    “Oh, he remembers about his mother’s rings, does he?”
    “He remembers everything before the war. Then it gets fainter and fainter—all the personal part of it—”
    She stopped because Mrs. Underwood was tossing her head.
    “Well, that’s what he tells you—and perhaps better not look into it, so long as he means to do the right thing now.”
    Meade went down to the basement and got the key of Mrs. Spooner’s flat. Bell was busy, so he called out to her to take it.
    “Hanging on hooks right along the front of the old dresser, all the keys in a row—that’s where you’ll find it, miss, if it isn’t a trouble. Can’t make a mistake—one to eight they run, all along the front of the dresser—put my hand on them in the dark I can. Number seven’s the one you want.”
    He was down on his knees scrubbing the old stone floor. As she passed him with the key in her hand, he looked up, nodding and smiling.
    “Rare old job these floors, and the water goes cold on you that spiteful or I wouldn’t have troubled you. Just put it back when you’ve finished, will you, miss?”
    Meade said she would and it wasn’t any trouble. Then she went up in the lift and let herself into Mrs. Spooner’s flat, which was No. 7 at the top of the house.
    She found the spencer at once. It was a horrible affair of natural wool with mother-of-pearl buttons down the front and a crochet edging round the high neck. It smelled of naphthalene. It would certainly be warm, but oh dear, how it would tickle! She hung it on her arm and came out upon the landing, to find the door of the opposite flat wide open and Miss Roland standing there.
    “Oh, Miss Underwood—good morning. I saw you come up. That’s the Spooners’ flat, isn’t it? They had gone before I came here. Rather nice to have the floor to oneself, I think. Come in and see my place.”
    Meade hesitated.
    “Well, I ought to send this off—” She indicated the spencer.
    Carola Roland looked at it. It might have been a black beetle. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed.
    “How foul!” she said frankly. “Here, hang it on the door knob and just take a look at my flat. Not bad, is it? You’ve no idea what it was like when I came.”
    Meade didn’t want to be rude. She felt friendly towards the world. She was also a little curious. She ignored the suggestion about the spencer, but she crossed the little lobby and followed Carola into a highly modernised version of the current Vandeleur sittingroom. Ceiling, walls, and floors had been painted with a matt grey paint. The colour scheme was blue and grey— pale blue carpet, blue and grey brocaded curtains and upholstery, pale blue cushions. On the mantelshelf a silver statuette— a naked dancer poised on one foot, faceless, curveless, arms outstretched. Meade’s first thought was, “How strange—”; her next, “How beautiful!” because it had the beauty of flight. Yes, that was it—the beauty of flight. And then she stopped seeing it, because at the end of the shelf, leaning back against the wall, there stood a large unframed photograph of Giles.
    Carola Roland came past her and picked it up.
    “Good—isn’t it?” she said. “I suppose you’ve got one too.” She set it down again.
    Yes, it was good. It was Giles. It had his signature across the corner—“Giles.”
    Carola turned a smiling face.
    “Well? Did you ask him if he remembered me?”
    Meade said, “Yes.”
    “And did he?”
    “I’m afraid he didn’t. He doesn’t remember anything since the war.”
    “How very, very convenient!” said Carola Roland. Her bright idea was fairly blazing. She had meant to have some fun out of it, but it looked—yes, it really looked as if there might be money in it too. “Nothing at all? Do you really mean it? Why, I’d love to be able to do that! Wouldn’t you?”
    “No—I should hate it.”
    Carola Roland laughed.
    “Want to keep