The Strange Story of Linda Lee by Dennis Wheatley

garden.
    Gradually her brain took in the full implications of what Elsie had said. Rowley had not made a new will, as he had told her he would, soon after he had recovered from his first heart attack. To ask a man how he meant to leave his money, when one hoped to inherit a share of it, was a very awkward thing to do. Linda had brought herself to raise the matter only with great diffidence and, having received Rowley’s assurance that he would provide adequately for her, had never again mentioned his possible death. Like many scientists he was, at times, apt to be absent-minded about practical matters; evidently it had slipped his mind again.
    She felt certain that the last thing he had meant to do was to leave her high and dry: but the fact remained that he had. The thought appalled her. Most of the handsome allowance he had made her had gone on clothes, presents and sending periodical ‘fivers’ to hermother, so in her bank she had only about one hundred and eighty pounds. That was all that now stood between her and starvation.
    It should keep her long enough to get a job. But what sort of a job? Owing to her inability to learn shorthand, it could be only a job in a typists’ pool, as a sales girl, or possibly a receptionist. She would be very lucky if she could earn as much as twenty pounds a week.
    She was well stocked up with clothes, but she would have to feed herself. With such a wage, and constantly rising prices, she would have to live in some cheap boarding house or share a flat with several other girls, and with a television set permanently blaring, which would prevent her from the reading she had come to love.
    The prospect filled her with dismay. Memories of the Ritz in Paris, the Reserve in Beaulieu, the sunny garden terrace and swimming pool at Cipriani’s, the many happy hours visiting castles, cathedrals, museums, old galleries, all came back to her. She had become used to drinking champagne, château clarets and
auslese
hocks, to eating caviare, foie gras, smoked salmon and the rich dishes that Rowley had ordered for them at first-class restaurants. Yesterday all these joys had been within her normal orbit; this morning, in one brief moment, they had been snatched from her for ever.
    Never, never again was she to enjoy such things. Instead, some dreary, monotonous job from nine to five, a fortnight’s holiday a year at Brighton or Margate, snack lunches in tea shops, a cut off the joint and two veg. for her evening meal, and a glass or two of cheap wine occasionally as a treat. After the life she had been leading, it was worse than a prison sentence. She almost wished she were dead.
    She would not submit to it, not without a struggle. Somehow Elsie must be made to do something for her. She could not bring an action. Legally she had not a leg to stand on. But morally, she was entitled to a pension of sorts. Had she never met Rowley, by now she would at least be earning her living, have made a few friends of her own class and settled down reasonably contented with her lot. Her looks would certainly have secured boy friends for her, and quite probably she would by now be married to some decent, steady fellow. But Rowley had spoilt any chance she had ever had of that.
    She must put her case to Elsie and enlist Arthur’s help. He wasn’t a bad fellow, although he was so subservient to his wife. Rowley had been rich, so they would now have a big income. A few hundred a year would mean little to them, but make all the difference to her. If need be, she would swallow her pride and plead with Elsie.
    But Elsie was as hard as nails and had never disguised the fact that she disliked her. They had not a thing in common, and to assert that she had given Rowley the happiest years of his life would not help. To reveal that she had been his mistress would only make things worse, and arouse all Elsie’s puritanical prejudices. No, for all Elsie’s self-righteous, charitable works, there was little hope that she