XI

Instead of doing what he ought to have done⁠—that is, to have sought at once the best legal aid in his power⁠—Roger Gretorex made up his mind to go back to Sussex, if only for a few hours.

Ivy’s words of agonised fear now found an echo in his own heart. His mother must hear the very few and simple facts concerning Jervis Lexton’s death from himself.

On his way to the station he saw two newspaper placards, and he felt as if it was at him that they shouted the ominous words:

Kensington
Poisoning
Mystery.

Well-Known
Clubman
Poisoned.

He bought an evening paper in the station, and then, when he unfolded it, he felt a sharp stab of anger and disgust. In the centre of the front page was a charming portrait of Ivy⁠—Ivy looking her sweetest and most seductive self. Above and below the photograph was printed a series of paragraphs dealing with the joyous life the young couple had led in the carefree existence which centres round the idler members of the fashionable nightclubs. It was also stated that, on the very night of Mr. Lexton’s unexpected death, Mrs. Lexton was supping at the Savoy with “a smart theatre-party.”

In the grateful darkness of a late November afternoon, Roger Gretorex walked the two miles which separated the little station from Anchorford, the village which he still felt part of the very warp and woof of his life, though he owned practically no land there. All that his father had been able to keep was the manor house, and the little portion of the park which had surrounded the dwelling-house of the owners of Anchorford from the days of Domesday Book.

Now and again Gretorex, as he hurried through the narrow lanes, would tell himself that the inexplicable mystery attaching to Jervis Lexton’s death by poison was bound to be cleared up, and probably in some quite simple way⁠—a way that he himself was now too excited and too anxious to think out for himself.

Then there would come a sudden sensation of doubt, of despondency. Like Ivy, but with far more cause, Roger Gretorex began to feel as if a net were closing round him.

At last he turned into the long avenue which led to Anchorford House, and his heart leapt when he saw the long Elizabethan front, now bright with twinkling lights.

He rang the front door bell, and then he schooled himself to wait patiently for old Bolton, who, once his father’s head groom, now acted as general factotum and odd-job man.

But when, all at once, the door opened, it was his mother, tall, upright, grey-haired, who stood there, her face full of eager welcome.

“I knew it was you, my dearest! I don’t believe in presentiments, but I have been thinking of you all today, even more than usual.”

His face gave no answering smile. He looked very grave, and yet how young he seemed to her, standing there; how strong, how finely drawn and carved, was his now serious face!

“I wish you’d wired, Roger. Enid was coming in to late supper; but I’ll put her off⁠—”

“You needn’t do that, mother. It’s true I’ve come down to tell you of something rather unpleasant that’s just happened to me. But the telling of it won’t take long. Please don’t put off Enid. In fact I shall be glad to see her, and I may have to go back to town by the last train.”

He followed her across the wide hall which formed the centre of the old house, and so into a lobby which led to the charming sitting-room which had always been associated in his mind with his mother. They both sat down there. But he waited a moment before he began his story and then in the telling of it he chose his words with painful care.

“A very odd thing has happened, mother, and I felt I should like to tell you about it at once.”

“What is it that has happened, Roger?”

As he said nothing, she went on quietly, in a matter-of-fact tone: “Whatever it is, I know quite well that you have not been to blame in any way.”

“Well, no, I don’t think I have been to blame. And yet, well, mother, I’ve not been⁠—” and then he stopped dead.

For the first time in his life he felt afraid. The extraordinary story he had come to tell suddenly took on gigantic proportions. Until today, though he had felt discomfort, and something akin to shame, sometimes, when with Jervis Lexton, Roger Gretorex and Fear had never met.

“You remember,” he said at last, “my friend Ivy Lexton? She came down here for a weekend last winter.”

“I remember Mrs. Lexton very well,” answered Mrs. Gretorex in a tone of studious detachment.

As her son had uttered the name of the woman he called his friend, a feeling of fear coupled with a sensation of painful jealousy filled the mother’s heart. Remember the beautiful woman she had instantly known, without his telling her so, that Roger loved? There had scarcely been a day in the last few months when she had not remembered, with a sensation of discomfort, lovely Ivy Lexton.

“Jervis Lexton, Ivy’s husband, fell ill about three weeks ago⁠—”

And then again Gretorex felt as if he could not go on.

“What has happened is put as clearly, here, as anything I can tell you!” he exclaimed at last, and he handed her the evening paper containing Ivy’s photograph.

She took the paper from his hand, and she was in such haste to see what it was that her son did not dare to tell her himself, that she did not wait to put on her spectacles.

Holding the sheet right under her reading lamp, she read the ominous paragraphs headed “A Kensington Poisoning Mystery” right through.

“Well,” she said at last, “and in what way, Roger, does this concern you? Were you acting as Mr. Lexton’s medical attendant?”

He answered at once, “I’m glad to say I was not. In fact I only saw the poor chap twice during the whole course of his illness. He was being looked after by a very good doctor, a man called Berwick.”

She said again, “Then in what way does this horrible story concern you, my dear?”

There followed a long pause, and all at once a certain suspicion rushed into Mrs. Gretorex’s mind.

“Is it possible,” she said at last, in a very low voice, “that your friend Mrs. Lexton is suspected of having poisoned her husband?”

Roger Gretorex leapt to his feet.

“Good God⁠—no, mother! Whatever made you think of such a thing?”

“I don’t know. Forgive me, Roger.”

For the first time in her life she felt that her son was looking at her with something like⁠—oh, no, not hatred, but anger, furious anger, in his blazing eyes.

He repeated the cruel question: “Whatever made such a monstrous idea come into your mind?”

She faltered, “It was foolish of me.”

“More than foolish⁠—and very unlike you, mother,” he said harshly.

Then he moved his chair closer to hers, and stretching out his hand, he took hers.

“Ivy was the best of wives to Jervis Lexton,” he said in a low voice. “Lexton ran through a large fortune, and then, instead of trying to get a job, simply idled about, and lived on his friends. He was a complete wastrel.”

“Then isn’t what the paper says true?” she asked in bewilderment. “I mean about his having joined the firm of Miles Rushworth? I thought the Rushworths were shipping millionaires?”

“So they are. And it’s quite true that Lexton had just got a job in the Rushworths’ London office. He was well connected, and had a lot of good-natured friends who were always trying to get him something to do. However⁠—” and then he quoted the familiar Latin tag concerning ill words of the dead.

She gazed across at him. His dark face, now convulsed with feeling, was partly illumined by the lamp which stood on a low table between them.

“Is it conceivable, my son⁠—”

Then she, like him, stopped short, afraid to utter the words she was going to say.

“Yes, mother?”

His voice had suddenly become listless. He had dropped her hand, and was lying back in his chair. He was feeling spent, worn out.

“Have you any reason to suppose, my boy, that you are in danger of being accused of having poisoned Jervis Lexton?”

He straightened himself, got up, and then gazed down into her pale but still calm face, and she saw that he looked, if surprised, yet unutterably relieved.

“Yes, mother! That is what I came down to tell you. But what made you hit on the truth?”

Should she tell him the reason why that frightful thought had come into her mind? After a moment of indecision, she decided that she ought to do so.

“Can’t you guess why that fearful suspicion came into my mind, Roger?”

His eyes fell before her sad, steady, questioning gaze.

She went on slowly, “I said a word to you the evening of the day you brought Mrs. Lexton down here. I suppose you didn’t take my advice?”

“There are certain things about which a man must judge for himself, mother. And with regard to my friendship for Mrs. Lexton I judged for myself.”

He sat down again and covered his eyes with his right hand. The words he had just uttered had brought Ivy vividly before him.

“Now tell me everything, Roger.”

“There’s very little to tell,” said Gretorex, raising his head. “I feel sure, quite sure, mother, that there’s some perfectly natural explanation of what now seems so mysterious.”

“If, as I hope, you have come down to consult with me as to what is the best thing to do, then I trust that you will tell me the whole truth. After all, I am your mother, my darling.”

Her voice rose in entreaty.

“Whom should you trust, if you do not trust me?”

He felt very much moved, and, to her surprise, he came and knelt down by her.

She put her arms round him. “Now tell me everything,” she whispered.

And he did tell her almost everything. But he did not tell her, and he never told anyone, of his telephone talk with Ivy Lexton.

His mother was quick to see the flaw in his apparently frank account of all that had happened that morning.

“How did you first hear of Mr. Lexton’s death?” she asked. “You were there, I note from the date given in this paper, on the afternoon of the day he died. You must in fact have gone straight to the station, from your unfortunate call on the poor man.”

“I did, mother.”

“Then how, and when, did you hear of his death, Roger?”

He got up and went across to the chair where he had been sitting.

“I found a note from Ivy when I arrived at Ferry Place this morning. She knew I was away, and she sent me the note to await me on my return. It was written, evidently, some days ago.”

“I hope you have kept her note.”

He shook his head. “No, mother, I didn’t keep it. There was really nothing in it⁠—simply the bare statement that Jervis Lexton was dead. She had had an awful shock, and she said she didn’t want to see anyone.”

“Then you’ve not seen Mrs. Lexton since her husband’s death?”

“No, I have not seen her.”

There trembled on the poor mother’s lips a further question⁠—“Or had any further communication with her?” But she feared he might be tempted to tell her a lie, so she refrained from asking that, to her, important question.

Instead she said, “Though you have not put it into words, you feel sure that the man from Scotland Yard suspects you poisoned Jervis Lexton so that his wife would be free to marry you?”

“That is certainly what the inspector had in his mind, when he questioned me as to my acquaintance with her.”

“Forgive me for asking you the question, Roger. I suppose you would marry Mrs. Lexton, if you had the chance?”

He said at once, “I’d give my soul to marry her, mother. I love her⁠—love her more, I think, than man ever loved woman.”

She gave him a searching look. “Does she love you?”

He hesitated, painfully. “I’ve seen very little of her lately. I know she felt we were not doing right in seeing as much as we were seeing of each other.”

And then he sighed, a long, long sigh.

“Try to love her, mother. She is free now, and she is all my life. Please, please try to love her for my sake.”

“I will, my darling boy.”

Mrs. Gretorex was ashamed of the hatred⁠—she acknowledged to herself that it had been hatred⁠—of Ivy Lexton which had filled her heart. She now told herself that this woman whom her boy adored must have some good in her.

There came the sound of the front door opening.

“Here, I think, is Enid Dent,” exclaimed Mrs. Gretorex.

Roger jumped up from his chair, and went forward to meet the girl who, as he knew deep in his heart, loved him.

Was it because he had known that his mother eagerly desired him to marry Enid, or was it simply because he knew her too well? Be that as it may, it had only taken three meetings with Ivy Lexton, the wife of another man, to blot Enid out from his heart.

Today, the most terrible day of his life, the sight of her honest, thoughtful face brought comfort. For one thing, it was such an infinite relief to know that in Enid Dent his mother would have an entirely trustworthy, devoted support and stay, during days which he feared must be anxious and painful days, terrible days to remember, though he had no doubt at all as to the ultimate result of any inquiry into the facts surrounding Lexton’s death.

As for Enid Dent, she had loved Roger Gretorex with a silent, unswerving devotion since she had first known what love meant. Though he himself was scarcely aware of it, his whole manner had changed during the last few months, and while this caused her sharp anguish, which she had successfully hidden from those about her, it had never occurred to her, strangely enough, that that alteration had come about because of another woman.

Now, gazing from the mother to the son, she understood at once that they were both in deep trouble.

“I’m afraid I’ve come too soon,” she said.

“I’m glad you came early, my dear. We’re going to have supper in a few minutes, for Roger has to go back to town tonight.”

Old Bolton hobbled into the room.

“Rosie Holt says you promised to see her some time today, ma’am. She’s in the kitchen. Shall I show her into the drawing-room?”

Mrs. Gretorex made a great effort over herself.

“Yes, please do, Bolton,” she said quietly, “and I’ll come and see her.”

Roger turned to Enid:

“I wonder if you’d take a short turn before supper? I don’t get nearly enough exercise in London.”

“Of course I will.”

They went into the hall, and she hurried on her hat and coat. It was fully a year since she had last taken even a short walk with Roger Gretorex.

Once they were in the open air, in the kindly darkness, he drew her arm through his.

“Enid, I want to tell you something.”

He spoke almost in a whisper⁠—as if he were afraid he might be overheard.

“Yes, Roger?” and she slightly pressed his arm.

“I’m in trouble,” he said sombrely; “in great trouble, my dear. What makes it worse is the knowledge of how unhappy it is going to make my mother.”

And then at once, for though she was young she was no fool⁠—your country-bred girl often knows a great deal more of real life than your town-bred girl⁠—Enid Dent said to herself that Roger’s trouble was connected with a woman.

“Tell me all about it,” she said quietly, and she stiffened herself to bear a blow.

“I will tell you all about it. But I’m afraid you will be very much shocked.”

To that she made no answer. No doubt some London girl was bringing a breach of promise action against Roger. That was the sort of trouble Enid Dent visualised.

“Things are never so bad when one talks them over,” she said, and tried to smile in the dark night. “Nothing could make me feel any different to you, Roger. Why, you’re my oldest friend!”

They were walking away from the house, down a broad path where they had often played when he was a boy of twelve and she a little girl of five.

“No talking can make any difference to my trouble,” and there came a harsh note in his voice.

They walked along in silence, and then he gently shook himself free of her arm.

“I’ve reason to believe that in the next few days⁠—”

He stopped short. The ignominy, the horror of what might be going to happen to him, overwhelmed him.

“Yes, Roger? What is it that you think is going to happen? Tell me.”

He would have been surprised, indeed, if she had suddenly uttered aloud the words that she was saying in her heart, “Don’t you see the agony I am in? It’s cruel, cruel to keep me in suspense!”

“I think it possible, perhaps I ought to say likely, that I may be arrested on a charge of murder, within the next few days.” He uttered the dread words quietly enough. “And that though I assure you, Enid, that I am absolutely innocent⁠—”

She cut across his words, “You needn’t have troubled to tell me that, Roger.”

“Though I’m absolutely innocent,” he repeated, “yet I’m beginning to realise that appearances are very much against me. I’ve felt all this afternoon as if I were living through a frightful nightmare, and I’m always expecting to wake up and find it was only a dream, after all.”

Enid knew that this man she loved had a violent temper. She supposed that he had had the kind of quarrel with another man in which one of the two strikes out.

“I’ve been wondering, during the last few minutes, whether you would be able to come up to London with my mother? It would be such a comfort to know you were with her, if this thing really happens.”

“Of course I will!” she exclaimed.

He went on: “You’ve always been like a daughter to her, haven’t you? And I know that, next to me, she loves you best in the world.”

“I think she does,” she whispered in a strangled voice, for she was now near to tears. “But a long way after you, Roger.”

“Well, yes,” he answered, in a matter-of-fact tone; “no doubt a long way after me. But still she loves you dearly, and she trusts you utterly, as I do.”

“I’ll stay with her all through the trouble⁠—if the trouble comes. I promise you that, Roger.”

“It’s not that I have any doubt as to the outcome. The man whose death is being, I feel sure, put down to my account, almost certainly committed suicide. There’s no other solution possible.”

“Who was the man?” she asked diffidently.

“An acquaintance rather than a friend of mine, called Jervis Lexton. He fell ill⁠—that I have to admit is a mysterious point about the whole business⁠—about a fortnight ago. He died, rather suddenly, last week, on the 16th. A postmortem revealed the cause of death to have been a virulent poison⁠—arsenic. I saw him alone a few hours before he died, and I have a jar of arsenic in my surgery. There you have the story in a nutshell.”

He spoke in an awkward, constrained tone.

“Are you really going back tonight?” she asked. “Can’t you stay till tomorrow morning? It would be such a comfort to Mrs. Gretorex.”

“I’m afraid I must go back. You see, I’ve a lot of patients, and it isn’t fair to put all that work on another doctor.”

“I see.”

“I wonder if you and my mother can come to town tomorrow? She’d be wretched, staying on here in suspense, waiting for news of what, after all, may never happen.”

They were turning now towards the house, and as they emerged from under the trees they both noticed that the front door was open. Through it a shaft of bright light fell on the stone-paved courtyard, and Gretorex suddenly became aware that, in the shadow, a motor with hooded lights was drawn up.

“Who can that be at this time of the evening?” he said, surprised.

They walked swiftly across the wide lawn, and so on to the stone pavement. Then, as they passed through the open door, they heard Mrs. Gretorex’s voice and the unfamiliar voice of a man in the great hall.

“I think I hear my son coming in. In any case, I assure you he won’t be long.”

Mrs. Gretorex uttered the words in a matter-of-fact yet anxious tone, as if she feared the person she spoke to might not believe her.

Roger followed Enid through the lobby which separated the front door from the hall, and then he saw his mother standing with a tall, slight man whom Roger knew to be the Inspector of Police at Lynchester, the county town hard by. They had met two months back in connection with a local poaching affray.

“May I speak with you for a few moments in private, Dr. Gretorex?”

A look of great relief had come over the inspector’s face; he was aware in what high regard Mrs. Gretorex was held throughout the neighbourhood. He had also noticed the young lady who had just come in, and knew her for the only daughter of a local magistrate. So he was anxious to get through the unpleasant business which had brought him tonight to Anchorford Hall, as quietly and quickly as possible.

“I’m quite at your service. We’ll go into the smoking-room, but⁠—”

Gretorex turned right round and began rapidly walking towards the front door.

As a matter of fact, the door had been left open, and he wished to close it.

But the inspector believed his lawful prey intended to escape into the darkness, and a hundred suspicious, angry thoughts flashed through his mind.

What a thing it would be to have to search the downs and woods all this coming night! ’Twould be like looking for a needle in a stack of hay.

He strode past Mrs. Gretorex, and seized Roger with no gentle hand by the collar.

“I’m surprised, sir, at your trying to get away. I didn’t expect such a thing from you!”

Gretorex wrenched himself free.

“I don’t know what you mean!” he exclaimed angrily.

“Oh, yes, you do. You were making for that door.”

“I was making for the door to shut it.”

He was shaking with anger, and the two glared at each other for a moment in silence.

Then the inspector took a step forward, and laid his hand on the young man’s arm.

“I arrest you,” he said, in a voice that was not quite steady, “on the charge of having murdered Jervis Lexton on the 16th of this month.”

Roger Gretorex stood still. Then he asked:

“May I speak to my mother in private for a moment?”

“No,” said the inspector quickly. “I cannot allow you to do that, Dr. Gretorex. I’m sorry, but from now on you are my prisoner.”

“May I make a statement to you now? I suppose there is no objection to my telling you that I’m absolutely innocent?”

The older man hesitated.

“I should advise you,” he said, not unkindly, “to make no statement. You are, of course, aware that anything you say may be used against you in evidence. I need hardly tell you that every facility will be given you to procure legal advice.”

“And what is going to happen to me now?”

“You will go with me to Lynchester, and you will be kept there in a police cell till you are conveyed to London tomorrow. Once there, as you probably are aware, Dr. Gretorex, you will be taken to the police station of the district where the alleged murder was committed, and in due course you will be charged.”

Meanwhile the inspector was watching his prisoner closely. He was remembering that during the brief telephone conversation with Scotland Yard, which had led to his presence here, he had been reminded how near Anchorford was to the sea, and he had been warned that he might find his bird flown.

What a fool he would look if, after having actually arrested him, this man effected even a temporary escape!

“May I shake hands with my mother and⁠—and with my friends?”

“I will take it on myself to allow you to do that, Dr. Gretorex,” was the cold reply. “Then, I’m afraid, we must be getting on.”

“Won’t you allow my son to have some supper before you take him away?” asked Mrs. Gretorex. For the first time her voice was not quite steady. “Won’t you both have supper here? It’s quite ready.”

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t do that. But I promise you your son shall have something to eat, as good as I can get him at this time of night, when we reach Lynchester.”

The inspector’s voice had become kindly, even respectful, to his prisoner’s mother. He felt very sorry for her.

But for Roger Gretorex he was not at all sorry. He had been given to understand, quite unofficially of course, that there was a married woman in the case, and that she provided a strong enough motive to hang a dozen times over the fine young fellow now standing by his side.

“What I would advise you to do, ma’am⁠—advising you as a private person, I mean⁠—would be to go up to London tomorrow morning, and get in touch with a good solicitor. Dr. Gretorex will be allowed to see his lawyer alone as much as he can reasonably require. At least that is the usual procedure.”

Roger Gretorex held out his hand. Something seemed to warn him that it would be wiser for him to remain standing exactly where he was standing now. He felt that the inspector was watching him intently.

Mrs. Gretorex took a step forward. She shook hands quietly, unemotionally, with her son.

And then something very unexpected happened⁠—unexpected, that is, by every one of the four people there.

Enid Dent approached Roger a little timidly. Had he not, a few moments ago, called her his friend? When she was close to him, she looked up into his face, for he was far taller than she. And then, all at once, he bent forward and, putting his arms round her, he kissed her goodbye.