Free The Black Cabinet by Patricia Wentworth Page A

I could have said such dreadful things anyone—and I didn’t mind a bit ; I just said them. And he only smiled. The dreadful part is that I can’t feel sorry about his being dead now, because I think that what I said to him was quite true, and that he has really been dead for years and years and years. You can’t be sorry about a person you only met after they were dead, can you? That sounds mad, doesn’t it? I think it’s all rather mad. Why should he leave me Danesborough and a most frightful lot of money, when he’d only known me for a week? And I was probably ruder to him than anyone ever had been before.”
    There Chloe was wrong. Many people had spoken their minds to Mitchell Dane in the past, and more than one woman had said harder things than Chloe had said. Tears, threats, prayers, and curses had all alike failed of their purpose. Chloe’s little outburst had been very mild indeed compared with some others. Chloe, however, was not to know that.
    She finished her letter to Rose at Danesborough on the day of the funeral.
    â€œIt’s all over, and everybody has gone. That sounds as if there were crowds, which isn’t true. The little, grey solicitor man came—his name is Hudson,—and two or three other people from London—men. But there were no relations, and no one who cared at all. Mrs. Wroughton cried all the time, but that’s because she’s the sort of woman who cries when things happen. I should think three pocket handkerchiefs was her allowance for weddings, christenings, and funerals. She isn’t really sorry, nor is Mr. Wroughton, though he has been with Mr. Dane for fifteen years. No one minds—and it makes me feel as I must howl.”
    There was a blotted signature and a rather smudgy postscript:
    â€œRose, I would mind if I could; but I did only know him for a week.”
    Chloe had just addressed the letter, when Blayne, the butler, came into the room.
    â€œDr. Golding would be glad if you would see him for a moment,” he said; and Dr. Golding himself, spruce, bluff and rosy, came in behind him as the words were spoken.
    â€œI won’t keep you, Miss Dane.” He shut the door on the butler and came over to her, fumbling in his pockets. “Trying day, and you must be glad it’s over—bitterly cold too. Now, where did I put the thing? Too many pockets, that’s about the size of it. But I’ve got it on me somewhere, and I promised to give it into your own hands.”
    â€œWhat is it?” said Chloe.
    â€œA letter. Ah, here it is. No, that’s income tax. But I’m sure I’ve got it. Yes, now this really is it—a letter that I promised Mr. Dane I’d give you. He pushed it into my hand when the nurse was out of the room—about the last sensible thing he did—and made me promise togive it to you when you were alone.” He laid a large, crumpled envelope on the table in front of Chloe. “And I was to ask you to read it in my presence, and to burn it as soon as you had readit. Some sick man’s fancy, I expect; but perhaps you won’t mind carrying out your part ofthe bargain.”
    Chloe took up the envelope and turned it over. It was sealed in three places. She broke the seals, and took out a sheet of strong linen paper.
    Dr. Golding had gone over to the fire, and stood there, rubbing his hands and talking cheerfully.
    â€œBitter cold day, I must say. But I’m of out of it to-morrow, thank goodness. Taking a two months’ holiday, and very glad to get it, I can assure you. Algiers; Morocco; Egypt—doesn’t that make your mouth water? My locum, Jennings, by the way, is a friend of Wroughton’s, so you’re sure to meet him—but not professionally, I hope.” He gave his short, bluff laugh.
    Chloe had unfolded the sheet of paper, and was looking at the single line of writing upon it, a single line of four words in Mitchell Dane’s