The Miss Silver Mysteries Volume Five: The Case of William Smith, Eternity Ring, and The Catherine Wheel

by Patricia Wentworth

Overview

The British governess-turned-sleuth continues her witty, inquisitive ways with three mysteries from the “timelessly charming” series (Charlotte MacLeod).

Retired governess Maud Silver has discovered an entirely new calling: private detection. And though she may seem an unlikely sleuth, Scotland Yard needs her more than ever in this charming series from “a first-rate storyteller” (The Daily Telegraph).
 
The Case of William Smith: William Smith isn’t sure what his name is, but he knows it isn’t William Smith. That was the name the Nazis gave him in 1942, when he was sent to die in one of their nightmarish camps. Now the war is over and he’s back in England, ready to start over. But even a man with no past can’t escape history. And if Miss Silver can figure out his true identity, his enemies are going to finish what they started.
 
Eternity Ring: Det. Sgt. Frank Abbot thought he’d spend a quiet holiday at his family’s estate. Instead, he hears wild tales of a man dragging a murdered girl into the woods. Naturally, he calls his friend, Miss Maud Silver, to take a look. But when no one can locate the body of the rumored victim and the sole witness suffers a broken neck, the only thing Miss Silver knows for sure is that the pastoral peace of this town masks something far more sinister.
 
The Catherine Wheel: When a wealthy man named Taverner places a newspaper ad looking for distant relatives to add to his will, several possible relations appear from all over England. But with the scent of money in the air, old feuds reemerge and the extended family squabbles over the cash. It’s not long before there is one less Taverner, and Miss Silver is called in to find out who put the knife in his back.
 
These charming British mysteries featuring the unstoppable Miss Silver—whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting belie a keen intellect and a knack for cracking even the toughest cases—are sure to delight readers of Agatha Christie, Ellis Peters, and Dorothy L. Sayers.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504057677
Publisher:	Open Road Media
Publication date:	12/18/2018
Series:	Miss Silver Series
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	1028
Sales rank:	82,734
File size:	9 MB

About the Author

Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.
Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

BRETT EVERSLEY WAS reading a letter which he had already read quite a number of times. He liked it so little that one would hardly have supposed he would desire to read, and read it again, yet that is what he was doing. The letter had come by the first post. He had opened it with a smile and been immediately thrown into rather a desperate state of mind. Since then he had gone over every word, every phrase, in an attempt to find a different meaning from the one he could not bring himself to accept. Women said one thing and meant another — it was proverbial. They liked to be courted, flattered, pursued. They liked to make a man show his paces — put him through the hoop.

He was a good-looking man, and he had always had money to spend. Women had run after him, and he had let them run. At forty he had kept his freedom, his figure, and a decidedly good opinion of Brett Eversley. At the moment his handsome face was flushed, his dark eyes brooding, his brows drawn together in a frown. When he looked like that you could see that in the next ten years the regular features might coarsen, the lower part of the face become too heavy, and the colour fixed. On the other hand, grey hair would probably suit him very well and impart an eighteenth-century air. He really was not at all unlike some portrait of a full-flavoured Georgian squire.

As he sat at the desk in his private office at Eversleys, he had the letter spread out before him. However many times he read it, he found himself unable to accept its evidence. It just wasn't possible that Katharine was turning him down. He read what she had written:

Dear Brett,

I'm afraid it's no use, and the best thing I can do is just to tell you so and say 'Let's go on being friends.' I said I would think it over, and I have. It isn't any use, really. You're a cousin and a friend, and that's what we are to each other. I can't change into being anything else. It's just one of those things. Don't worry about the money — I'm getting a job.

Yours

Katharine.

Not very easy to get anything out of it except a plain downright 'No.' He went on trying. It was a mood. Women had moods. They were changeable. She had withdrawn before, and then been kind again. Kind ... His own word might have warned him, but he was resolute to find what he wanted. She was kind, she was fond of him — what more did she want? She couldn't just go on refusing one man after another. She had known him all her life. As far as he could tell there wasn't anyone she liked better. It would be a most suitable marriage. It wasn't as if she was a girl of twenty. She must be a good eight years older than that. She had had her fling, and he had had his. You had to settle down some time, and if he could bring his mind to it, so could she. He really did find it impossible to believe that her refusal could be final.

He read the letter again.

Katharine Eversley got off the bus at the corner and walked along Ellery Street until she came to Tattlecombe's Toy Bazaar, which was about halfway down on the right. It had on one side of it a small draper's, and on the other a rather depressed-looking cleaner's establishment with an ironically flyblown legend in the window, 'We can make your old things new.'

The Bazaar had two windows, one on either side of the entrance. On the left there were paintboxes, chalks, a hoop and miscellaneous toys, but the right-hand window was entirely given up to William Smith's wooden animals, the fame of which was beginning to spread to places quite far removed from Ellery Street and its North London suburb. There were Wurzel Dogs, Marks I, II, III and IV — the gay, the jaunty, the pathetic, the rollicking, all with movable heads and tails. They were black, brown, grey, white, and spotted. They were retrievers, bulldogs, hounds, terriers, poodles and dachshunds. They were of a heart-smiting oddity. Amongst them paraded the Boomalong Bird, with striding feet and swivel eye, gawky, indomitable, booming along — white, grey, brown, black, parrot-green, flamingo- red, orange, and blue, with black and yellow claws and long erratic beaks. Katharine stood looking in at them, as nearly every stranger did stand there and look in. The people who frequented Ellery Street had got used to the creatures, but strangers always stopped to look at them, and very often went in to buy.

Katharine stood there and thought about being tough. Some people were born tough, some people achieved toughness, and others had it thrust upon them. It was being thrust on her at this moment, and she didn't know what to do with it. She had a sick kind of feeling that she might just let go and be the world's completest flop. And yet all she had to do was to walk into the shop and say she had been told that they were looking for an assistant, and did they think she would do. Anyone who had been through the war as an A.T. ought to be able to manage that. And of course it would have been the easiest thing in the world if only it didn't really matter whether she got the job or not. It mattered so much that her feet were cold and her heart was knocking against her side.

She looked at one of the rollicking Wurzel Dogs, and he looked back at her with his jovial rolling eye. 'Get along on with it and don't be a fool!' was undoubtedly what he would have said if William could have endowed him with actual speech.

Katharine bit her lip very hard indeed and walked into the shop, where she encountered Miss Cole. William Smith, coming through from the workshop, saw them standing together. Miss Cole, pale, plump, efficient, spectacled, in her tight black dress, her ginger-coloured cardigan, and the tufts of cotton wool which she wore in her ears to keep out the cold. He saw her as he saw her every day and continually. And then he saw Katharine, and heard her say, 'Good- morning. I hear you are needing someone to help in the shop.' He heard the words, but just for the moment they didn't make any sense, because her voice went through him like music. Thought stopped and feeling took its place. It didn't really matter what she had said. All that mattered was that she should speak again. He heard Miss Cole say, 'Well, I don't know, I'm sure,' and with that, thought took over again, and the sense of what Katharine had said came to him like a delayed echo —'I hear you are needing someone to help in the shop.'

He came marching in and added himself to the conference. Introduced by Miss Cole with a 'This is Mr. Smith,' he said, 'Good-morning,' and stood looking at Katharine. Her voice had done things to him. Everything about her was doing things. She was music, poetry, and the enchantment which lies just over the edge of thought. She was applying for the post of assistant at Tattlecombe's Toy Bazaar. He was far too much disturbed himself to be aware that she was dreadfully pale, but it did not escape Miss Cole, who immediately gave her three bad marks. 'Delicate. I'm sure we don't want people here who are going to faint. That colour on her cheeks wasn't ever her own. I was sure of it as soon as ever she came in. And lipstick too! Whatever would Mr. Tattlecombe say?'

As Mr. Tattlecombe was laid up in hospital after being knocked down by a car and was not allowed to see anyone except his sister, there was really no answer to this, and much as Miss Cole might deplore the fact, William Smith was in charge. At this very moment he was offering the young woman a chair and saying,

'Were you asking Miss Cole whether we wanted an assistant?'

Katharine was very glad of the chair. Suppose he was going to say that they didn't want anyone, or that she wouldn't do. If it depended on Miss Cole, that was what would be said. That upholstered bust had tightened against her, and the dark beady eyes behind those formidable lenses were the last word in disapproval. She didn't sort any of this out, but it was there. She said,

'Yes. Do you think I would do?'

Miss Cole was quite sure that she would not, but she restrained herself. She looked Katharine up and down, from the small plain hat to the neat plain shoes, took in the fact that her tweed suit was by no means new, and summed up the result as 'Come down in the world.' Lots of people about like that nowadays — born with silver spoons in their mouths and had everything their own way, and then some kind of a slide or some kind of a crash, and out they have to go and get a job — sorry for themselves because they've got to do what other girls have always known they'd have to do. Miss Cole had gone out at fourteen and worked to get her experience, but these ladies — she gave the word a bitter emphasis — they expected to walk in and get jobs without any experience at all. She said sharply,

'What experience have you had?'

Katharine was frank.

'None for this sort of thing, I'm afraid, but I could learn. I was in the A.T.S. during the war.'

'And since?'

'I wasn't demobilised for quite a long time, and then — I took a holiday. Now I want a job — rather badly.'

'Money run out,' thought Miss Cole. 'That's the way with her sort — lipstick and rouge, and not a penny put away.'

William let her talk to Miss Cole, because all he really wanted was to look at her. She was tall and graceful. She moved like clouds, like water, like anything lovely and effortless and free. She had brown hair under a little brown hat. She had brown eyes. Bright water, dark water — that was what they made you think about. They changed, and changed again, but they were always beautiful. He watched the colour flow back under the skin until you couldn't see the pink stain which had been there. It just deepened the natural colour, that was all. He liked the soft colour of her lipstick — not splashed on, but following the lines of her most lovely mouth. He liked the rather shabby tweed suit and the little green scarf at her throat. She gave him the feeling of completeness, of everything being just right. He heard Miss Cole say, 'I really don't know, I'm sure,' and said in his most direct and simple manner,

'What is your name?'

Her colour went again quite suddenly, and then came back in a flood.

'Katharine Eversley.'

He turned to Miss Cole.

'It seems to me that Miss Eversley is just what we are wanting.'

'Really, Mr. Smith —'

He had a sudden and attractive smile. Miss Cole was not impervious to its charm.

'You will be dreadfully overworked with Mr. Tattlecombe away. What on earth should we do if you knocked up?'

'I have no intention of knocking up.'

William said, 'Mr. Tattlecombe would never forgive me. You've really got to have some help. So if Miss Eversley —'

It was no good, he meant to have her, Miss Cole could see that. And he was in charge — she couldn't do anything about it. The soft, silly fools men were the minute a pretty face came along — and no notice taken of those that would make a good home and have everything comfortable! No good crying over spilt milk — that's the way they were, and you just had to put up with them. She suppressed a sniff and said abruptly,

'What about references?'

Looking back on it afterwards, William always found it so much easier to recall Katharine than to remember anything else. He had only to open the least little chink in his mind and she came in and filled it. She gave two references. Miss Cole talked to her, and she to Miss Cole, while he stood by. 'As you have no experience, you will not expect a high salary. Would thirty-five shillings a week —' He remembered that because of the way Katharine's colour rose as she said, 'Oh, yes.' And just at the end Miss Cole enraged him by saying in her firmest voice, 'No rouge, and no lipstick, Miss Eversley — no make-up of any kind. Mr. Tattlecombe is very strict indeed about that.'

Katharine didn't blush this time. She smiled.

'Oh, of course — I don't mind a bit. It's just a fashion, isn't it?'

Then she went away. They were to take up her references, and if they were satisfactory, she was to start work on Monday morning.

William walked on air.

CHAPTER 2

ABEL TATTLECOMBE SAT propped up in bed with a cushion and two pillows at his back and a grey and white knitted shawl about his shoulders. The cushion had been brought up by his sister, Mrs. Salt, from the parlour where it belonged. If it had been anyone but Abel, they might have whistled for it. Not that Mrs. Salt would have demeaned herself to use such an expression, but the cushion would have remained on the parlour sofa. Being Abel, it formed, as you might say, a foundation for her two largest feather pillows, and a very solid foundation at that. Constructed of strong canvas, and worked all over in cross-stitch in a pattern of enormous red roses on a purple ground it had retained to an almost aggressive degree its robust colouring and its even robuster form. Plump, cheerful, and compact, it held the pillows in place and made a comfortable back for Mr. Tattlecombe.

He looked out of his very blue eyes at his assistant, William Smith, and said, 'I've been making my will.'

William didn't quite know what to say. If he didn't say anything at all, Mr. Tattlecombe would jump to the conclusion that William thought he was dying. If he said, 'Oh, yes,' or words to that effect, it would amount to very much the same thing. If he said, 'Oh, I'm sure there's no need to do that,' he would be going against his principles. Because of course people ought to make their wills, if they have anyone to provide for and anything to leave. William hadn't. He returned Mr. Tattlecombe's gaze, thought he had never seen him looking better, and said,

'Well, I daresay it's a good thing to get it off your mind.'

Abel shook his head solemnly, not intending any disagreement, but imparting a shade of philosophic doubt. He was an old man with a fresh complexion, a thatch of curly grey hair, and those very blue eyes. He said with a pleasant country accent,

'That's as may be, but I've done it.'

There didn't seem to be any more to be said.

Abel heaved a sigh.

'If the Lord wants me He'll call me. Such things as the making of wills or not making them, 'tisn't in reason they'd make any difference to Him.'

The solemnity of the tone was embarrassing. William said,

'No, of course not.'

Mr. Tattlecombe went through another slow motion of shaking his head.

'I didn't see it that way, but it's come to me. There's not so much time for thinking in the shop, but lying here with nothing else to do, it came over me powerful that I'd be called upon to give an account of my stewardship. It was a nice little business till the war came along, and I looked forward to leaving it to Ernie, but it wasn't to be. When I got the news he'd died in the prison camp I lost heart. What with the bombing, and everything so scarce and no turnover to speak of, I couldn't seem to take any interest. And when the war stopped I couldn't seem to get going. It isn't so easy to start again when everything's different and you're getting on in years. Well, you know how it was, that day you came along and told me you'd been with Ernie in the camp — it meant a lot to me to hear how he'd talked about me and about the shop. And then you brought out those toys of yours and asked me what I thought of 'em. Do you remember what I said?'

William gave the wide, attractive grin which showed how strong and white his teeth were.

'You said, "It isn't what I think about them, young man, it's what the public thinks. Put 'em in the window and see."'

'And they were all sold out in half an hour. That's what the public thought of them, and that's what they've gone on thinking of 'em, haven't they? The Wurzel Dog, and the Boomalong Bird — they was the first. I tell you, if ever I saw the hand of the Lord I saw it then. Ernie was gone — the only grandson I ever had — the only bit of my flesh and blood except Abby. And the business gone downhill to such an extent that you might say it had got to the bottom. And then there was you, and there was the Wurzel Dogs and the Boomalong Birds, and the business getting up and, as you might say, beginning to boom along too. Well, if it wasn't the Lord's hand, what was it?'

William said, 'We're doing very nicely, sir.'

Abel nodded.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "The Miss Silver Mysteries Volume Five"
by .
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Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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