Free Miss Silver Deals With Death by Patricia Wentworth Page B

name, but if I find that you are using it the allowance will stop. It’s a good name, but I hardly think it is worth four hundred a year to you. And that, my dear Carola, is my last word.”
    Meade lifted her eyes to Carola Roland’s face and saw the malice there. She said on a quick-caught breath,
    “He doesn’t love you.”
    The blonde head was shaken.
    “Not now. But isn’t that just like Giles? Blows hot and cold— falls for you one day and forgets all about it the next. He did that to you too, didn’t he? Well now—am I a liar, or am I Mrs. Armitage and do you apologise? It’s there in Giles’ own writing—you can’t get away from that.”
    Meade stood up straight and stiff.
    “Are you divorced?”
    Carola laughed.
    “Oh, no, nothing like that—just all washed up—like I said. Some day perhaps he’ll remember and tell you all about me. That’ll be something for you to look forward to, ducky!”
    Meade stooped and picked up the woollen spencer. She turned with it in her hand. There seemed to be nothing to say. The door to the lobby was open, and the outer door beyond that again. Perhaps she really would have said nothing if the sound of Carola’s laughter had not followed her. Everything in her fused in a white hot flame. She stood on the threshold and said in a ringing voice of anger.
    “No wonder he hates you!”
    After that it was the most frightful anticlimax to find Mrs. Smollett only a yard or two away on her knees, doing the landing. She had a seething pail of soapsuds and she was swishing away at the cement floor with her scrubbing-brush. Just how much had she heard of that frightful conversation with Carola Roland? The scrubbing-brush was making a lot of noise, but Meade had a dreadful conviction that the noise had only just begun. With those two doors wide open, she would have heard it. And if it had only just begun, she was quite certain that Mrs. Smollett must have heard every word. Nothing to do but to walk past her with a “Good morning, Mrs. Smollett”, and so down the stairs.
    CHAPTER 12
    Mrs. Smollett told Bell all about it over an elevens in the basement. She was a large woman with hard apple red cheeks and little dark eyes which saw everything. As she sipped from her cup of tea she observed that the skirting under the dresser had not been dusted, and that one of the eight keys was missing from its hook. When she remarked upon the key, Bell told her about Miss Underwood coming down to fetch it.
    “She’s got something to get out for Mrs. Spooner seemingly.”
    Mrs. Smollett took a lump of sugar out of a screw of paper and dropped it in her tea. War or no war, tea without sugar was a thing she couldn’t abide. She stirred vigorously and said,
    “Well, that wasn’t where she was coming out of, Mr. Bell. Miss Roland’s flat she was in, and both doors open right through to the lounge so I could no more help hearing what they was saying than if I was in the room with them. And ‘Giles and I are all washed-up’, she said—that was that Miss Roland. And, ‘Didn’t he tell you about me?’ she says.”
    Bell shook his head.
    “You shouldn’t have listened, Mrs. Smollett—you really shouldn’t.”
    Mrs. Smollett set down her cup with a bang.
    “Oh, I shouldn’t, shouldn’t I? Then perhaps you’ll tell me what I ought to ha’ done! Put cotton wool in my ears which I hadn’t any handy, or gone away and got all behind with my scrubbing?”
    “You could ’ave coughed.”
    “And give myself a sore throat? Not likely! If people don’t want you to hear what they’re saying they should shut their doors! Here, this Giles, he’ll be Major Armitage—he’ll be Miss Underwood’s fiongsay, won’t he? Fancy it’s turning out he’s been carrying on with Miss Roland!”
    “It’s none of our business, Mrs. Smollett. She’s a very nice young lady that Miss Underwood, and I’m sure I wish them happy.”
    Mrs. Smollett gave a loud snorting laugh.
    “Likely, isn’t it, with