The Words I Never Wrote by Jane Thynne

Author:Jane Thynne [Jane Thynne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2020-01-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-two

ENGLAND, 1941

Cordelia circled the bucket of sand in the hall, entered the dining room of the hotel, and turned her head at the sound of her name being called.

“I say. Isn’t that Margo? Margo Cunningham?”

She pivoted toward the table where two men sat over their dinners in the soft glow of a table lamp. The one who hailed her was smoothly handsome, with a louche air and dark hair smoothed off a high brow. She approached, with a sudden, brilliant smile of recognition.

“It is you. Margo, how the devil are you?”

“Kim!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Forgot my manners. Hamish, this is Margo Cunningham. I’ve known her people for ages. Her brother and I were friends at school. He used to take me back to their place to play t-t-t-tennis.” He had a slight, surprising stammer. “Margo and I would team up for doubles. Haven’t seen each other for years. Margo, this is Hamish Whittle. Hamish and I were engaged in a little bit of work down here. This is his last evening with us, so we’re celebrating.”

“How lovely to meet you, Mr. Whittle.”

She nodded briefly, still smiling, signaling a reluctance to linger.

“I say, Margo, won’t you join us, if you have the time?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, I’m sorry. I don’t want to intrude on any business.”

She lifted her novel—a worn copy of Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers—as evidence that she was happy with her own company.

“Nonsense. You wouldn’t be intruding. We’re finished with business and we’re on to cricket scores.”

“I do have a very early start…”

“We won’t keep you from your beauty sleep. Not that you need it—I must say you’re looking splendid, not a day older than when we last met, and that dress is frightfully pretty.”

“Still the same old flatterer, Kim.”

“Come and join us for the best dinner this side of Bournemouth.”

“If you’re sure…”

Kim beckoned an ancient waiter, who brought another serving of the entrée—eggs drowned in curry powder, and a port and lemonade for Cordelia. She slipped off her jacket. The dress he had admired was mint green with a square neckline. She had a small diamond nestling in the hollow of her throat and a similar diamond glinting from the clip in her hair. Her makeup was confined to a touch of lipstick, a little kohl around the eyes, and a trace of Vaseline on her eyebrows. Nothing more elaborate than befitted a woman planning to spend her evening in the sole company of a detective novel, except for the fact that she had anointed her neck and wrists with Je Reviens, each movement bringing a nostalgic waft of orange blossom, jasmine, lilac, and rose.

They had progressed through the curried eggs and an unconvincing sherry trifle that tasted distinctly of petrol, on to a miniature glass of brandy each, before Kim stuck a languid arm over the back of his chair and said, “Enough of us. You haven’t explained what brings you here, Margo. I thought you were with the Wrens?”

“I’ve a fortnight’s leave, so I’m visiting my aunt.

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