Wicked Uncle

Patricia Wentworth

Wicked Uncle

UK title: Spotlight

Miss Silver – #12, 1947

Chapter I

When Dorinda Brown came into the Heather Club at four o’clock on January eighth she hadn’t the slightest idea that she had just made the first step upon a road which was going to take her into some curious places. If anyone had told her so, she would have laughed. She laughed easily, to be sure, with a backward tilt of the head, eyes crinkling at the corners, and a generous display of excellent white teeth. Anyone less good-tempered than Dorinda might have been a

The Heather Club wasn’t really a club. Pe

As she passed through the hall she encountered Miss Donaldson, tall, bony, and austere of feature. The austerity was all in the shop window. It daunted newcomers, but took nobody in for long. Behind that formidable ma

“Oh, Miss Donaldson,” said Dorinda-“I’ve got it!”

“The job you were inquiring after?”

Twenty years in London had done nothing to deprive Euphemia Donaldson of her Scottish tongue.

Dorinda nodded.

“I’ve got it!”

“It wouldn’t be in Scotland?”

Dorinda shook her head.

There was a wistful gleam in Miss Donaldson’s eye.

“I was thinking if you’d relatives there, it would be nice-”

Dorinda shook her head again.

“But I haven’t.”

Miss Donaldson looked disappointed.

“That’s strange too, and you so young. Now take me-it’s more than twenty years since I came south, and I’ve five-and-thirty relations in Scotland -counting third and fourth cousins.” The r’s were like a drum-roll.

Dorinda laughed.

“I wasn’t counting cousins.”

“Ah, your mother was English, you were telling me-that would account for it. Now that Mr. Leigh that was calling for you once or twice, he’d be on your mother’s side?”

“A long way off,” said Dorinda. “You know-the sort that’s a cousin if you want them to be, and not a relation at all if you don’t.”

Miss Donaldson commented on this with the old Scottish word “Imphm,” which can mean almost anything. In this case it implied that she knew what Dorinda meant and disapproved of it, adding with a fresh roll of drums,

“Relations can be awful disagreeable, but blood’s thicker than water and theyll stand by you at a pinch.”

Dorinda felt that honour was now satisfied. She smiled her wide, attractive smile and moved on.

“I was just going to telephone.”

Miss Donaldson said, “Imphm,” and withdrew into the dismal hole which she called her office.

Dorinda bounded into the telephone-box and shut the door. This was the one place in the house where you could talk without being overheard. In the slicelike cubicles you could hear every sound made by every other person within the four walls of what had once been a very fine room. In the hall, in the passages, in the dining-room, in the lounge, there were always people coming and going and listening-especially listening. Some of the old ladies had no other interest in life. They put together all the things they heard and exchanged them as they sat in a solid bank round the fire in the evenings. Even if you had a bath, they could hear the water run in, and gurgle out again, so they knew at once if anyone was taking more than her fair share. Tongues had become very sharp over Judith Crane who had actually had two baths a day, but fortunately she had left at the end of a week.

The telephone-box really was soundproof. It always amused Dorinda to see people talking behind the glass, opening and shutting their mouths like fishes in an aquarium, but when you were shut up inside it yourself it felt rather nice, as if you were in a private world of your own. And not alone there, because you had only to magic with the dial and you could have anyone you liked to share it with you-well, anyone in reason.

Dorinda flicked the dial, put her pe

They were quite ordinary eyes, with quite ordinary lashes. They had a way of shining and looking golden when she was pleased or feeling fond of anyone. Her hair was golden brown and very thick. Justin Leigh once said that it was walnut-coloured. He explained kindly, and a little condescendingly, that he didn’t mean the colour of the nut but of the polished wood. Dorinda, who was ten years old at the time, went and stood for a long time in front of the walnut bureau in the drawing-room trying to make up her mind whether Justin meant that he liked her hair. She held her plait against the wood and gazed at it. The hair certainly had the same colours in it as the wood, and when it was well brushed it shone in very much the same way. After that she made a point of brushing it a great deal. But she didn’t like the plait, because all the other girls at school had short hair. So in a good-tempered but perfectly determined ma

For the rest, she was five-foot-five in her stocking feet, and she had the kind of figure which has agreeable curves without being fat.

The telephone buzzed and Justin Leigh said, “Hullo!” in the cultured and rather blasé ma

“It’s me,” said Dorinda, throwing grammar to the winds.

“I.”

“No, me. Listen-I’ve got a job.”

“Oh? What is it?”

He sounded bored. But it was impossible for Dorinda to believe that anyone could really be bored when she herself was feeling all lit-up and excited. She began to pour everything out in a rush.

“It was an advertisement. One of the other girls showed it to me in the lunch-hour-I mean her lunch-hour, not mine. She’s in an office-”

“Don’t you have lunch?”