Free Hole and Corner by Patricia Wentworth Page A

and elevenpence halfpenny and a paper of peppermints in the bag—the best part of five shillings in the purse—two marked sixpences under the toilet-cover.… Theft on the lowest and most sordid level. Furtive, trivial, magpie theft. And behind it something darkly horrible and menacing—something that wanted to get her into trouble, to crowd, and edge, and squeeze her up to the very brink of some horrid drop and then push her over. But why—why— why ?… She hadn’t any answer to that.
    She began to wish that she hadn’t gone without her lunch. She wasn’t exactly hungry now, but she had that kind of thin, hollow feeling which doesn’t help you to think along common-sense lines. Idiotic to go without your lunch.
    An afternoon with Mrs Huddleston drove this home, because Mrs Huddleston talked about nothing but food—the kind of food she adored yet dared not touch; the kind of food she disliked and yet felt obliged to eat because it was so good for her; the diet prescribed by her medical advisers, or found beneficial by her friends, with a great many ramifications, illustrations, and examples—“Mrs Mallaby swears, simply swears, by raw salad before every meal, and much as I have always disliked uncooked vegetables, I should try it—one has a duty to oneself—if it were not for the fact that she insists on a tepid sponge all over at eight o’clock in the morning followed by breathing exercises at an open window—both naturally quite impossible in my case—and unless the treatment is adopted in its entirety she says it is no good at all. It seems extraordinary that anyone who knows me should imagine for one moment that I could attempt anything so—so—” Mrs Huddleston hesitated for a word, and Shirley dutifully offered her “drastic”, which was refused with a frown. “Inhuman,” said Mrs Huddleston—“and so I told Mrs Mallaby. ‘It is all very well,’ I said, ‘for robust people like yourself, but for someone who has been as delicate as I have always been it is quite out of the question.’ And do you know, Miss Dale, she looked as if I had insulted her. I am sure if I were robust I shouldn’t be insulted at being called robust. It must be very pleasant to be one of those strong strapping women—what I call the cart-horse type—not, I think, very attractive. My dear husband always said that fragility was the essence of a woman’s charm. But still it must be very nice to be so healthy and never to have any ailments, and I believe she puts it down entirely to the raw salads and the tepid sponge.” Mrs Huddleston shuddered in a fragile manner. “One of the plainest women I ever met, and entirely lacking in charm, but quite well-meaning.”
    â€œI think your brooch is undone,” said Shirley. It sounded most awfully bald, and probably Mrs Huddleston would take offence, but when she shuddered in that silly affected way the big diamond in her brooch winked sharply and the brooch fell crooked.
    Mrs Huddleston put her hand to her breast, pricked her finger on the unguarded pin, and pitied herself profusely.
    â€œOh—my finger! Such a deep prick! Miss Dale—my handkerchief! It’s bleeding! Such a deep prick!… Yes, yes of course I want it tied up. No, not so tight. Really, Miss Dale, you’re very stupid this afternoon! And take care of the brooch—don’t let it fall on any account—it is extremely valuable. The pin has always been perfectly safe—I can’t think how it came undone.”
    Shirley had the brooch in her hand. She turned it over.
    â€œThe catch is bent, Mrs Huddleston. Shall I see if can straighten it?”
    â€œNo, certainly not—on no account—the brooch is much too valuable to be played with. Let me see—I can’t think how it can have happened—I can’t imagine. No, don’t touch it, Miss