XVIII

That same morning, the morning after the conclusion of Gretorex’s trial, Ivy awoke late. For a moment she remembered nothing, for she had gone through a very terrible strain the previous day, a greater strain than she herself had been aware of, at the time.

And then, all at once she remembered⁠—remembered everything, and a sense of something akin to ecstasy flooded her heart. She flung her white arms above her head and stretched herself out luxuriously. Then⁠—for it was very cold⁠—she snuggled down into bed again.

How marvellous to know that her ordeal was over. All over⁠—all over! That from now on she need never see any of the people who had been connected with this awful episode in her life. Perhaps, though, she would make an exception as to Paxton-Smith, for he had been so awfully kind to her, and he admired her so much! His description of how brave and plucky she had been in the witness-box would surely delight Miles Rushworth. Yes, Paxton-Smith should remain her friend.

Meanwhile she would follow his advice. She would go away, that is, to the country for a few days, to the delightful cottage near Brighton belonging to Lady Flora Desmond. She could not go today, unluckily, for Lady Flora had lent the cottage to some tiresome people. But they would be leaving soon, and then she would go down there and have a thorough rest.

Ivy felt she wanted what some of her friends called “a rest cure,” after all she had gone through.

All at once there came a knock on the bedroom door⁠—a knock, and a quick whispered conversation outside. Something, too, very like a giggle.

She called out sharply “Come in,” and the day maid came in with a broad grin on her young face.

“Cook thought maybe that you’d like to see the paper she takes in, ma’am. There’s such a beautiful picture of you in it!”

And on the pink silk eiderdown the maid put down two picture papers, the one that Ivy always glanced at every day, and another paper.

Why, yes⁠—there was the picture, and a very good one, too. Ivy had been snapped by a Press photographer just as she had stood on the doorstep of Duke of Kent Mansion, a moment before she got into Paxton-Smith’s car. She gazed with pleasure at all the details of her becoming costume. What a good thing that she had bought that charming little model hat just before poor Jervis’s death. She had soon discovered that what is called “mourning headgear” is apt to be singularly unbecoming.

“It does look nice, ma’am, don’t it? Cook says as how you looked bewitching while you was giving evidence,” ventured the girl.

“I wasn’t thinking of how I was looking,” said Ivy.

And indeed this was the truth. As she had stood up there, the target of all eyes, she had only thought of her coming cross-examination by Sir Joseph Molloy.

And then the girl made a mistake, and she knew that she had done so as soon as she had said the words.

“It does seem sad about that poor Dr. Gretorex, don’t it?” she exclaimed.

For at once Ivy burst into tears⁠—angry, frightened tears. It was too bad, too bad, when she herself had succeeded this morning in entirely banishing Roger from her mind, that he should be thus stupidly, cruelly, thrust into it again.

“Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry! Please forgive me!” And the tactless young woman almost ran out of the room.

Nurse Bradfield came in to see what was the matter. She looked wan and worn. Unlike Ivy, she had not slept the previous night; unlike Ivy, the face of Roger Gretorex, especially his expression as he had uttered, in answer to the awful question, the quiet words, “Only that I am innocent,” rang in her ears.

She had felt then, and she still felt now, a most painful sensation of doubt.

Was it possible, was it conceivable, that Gretorex was innocent after all, and that her patient had secretly done himself to death?

Every nurse comes across strange and most unexpected happenings in the course of her work. And Nurse Bradfield, though in a sense she had had an uneventful career, had yet been more than once very much startled and surprised by the astonishing things people will sometimes do.

She sat down, now, on the bed, and put her arms round the slender figure, still shaken by angry, frightened sobs.

“I know how you’re feeling, Mrs. Lexton,” she whispered. “I, too, can’t get Dr. Gretorex out of my mind. But there’s still a chance, you know, that something may be found out, even now. I mean between now and his appeal. Mrs. Berwick told me last night that she knows some great friends of Sir Joseph Molloy, and that he honestly does believe Dr. Gretorex to be innocent. She says that Sir Joseph is going to leave no stone unturned to try to prove his innocence. He’s in a terrible state about it all, and he was very distressed at Dr. Gretorex refusing to give evidence on his own behalf.”

“But you think he did it, don’t you, nurse?”

Ivy lifted her tear-stained eyes and gazed at the older woman.

“I did think so,” muttered Nurse Bradfield. “And even now I can’t see any other explanation. You and I know quite well that Mr. Lexton was not the sort of man to do away with himself.”

“Of course he wasn’t!” exclaimed Ivy, with a touch of indignation.

The nurse sighed. “Such extraordinary things do happen in life,” she observed.

“What is it Sir Joseph Molloy thinks he can find out? Did Mrs. Berwick tell you that?” asked Ivy.

She put the question in a careless tone, but she really wanted to know; indeed she was very, very anxious to discover what it was that Sir Joseph Molloy meant to do.

“What he says he means to find out,” said the nurse, “is whether there wasn’t some other person in the world who had a motive for getting rid of Mr. Lexton, besides Dr. Gretorex. He’s got a sort of an idea that there must have been someone else⁠—someone who’s not been thought of yet⁠—someone whose name didn’t appear in the case.”

And then was heard a hesitating knock on the door, and the maid came in again, looking very much subdued.

On the silver salver lay what had become Ivy’s daily cable from South Africa.

She saw a curious look flash over Nurse Bradfield’s face. As a matter of fact, those daily cables were a source of much interest and speculation to the household, now composed, apart from Ivy, of three women. It was the more mysterious as Mrs. Lexton never left those thick telegrams lying about. The daily cable always disappeared within a comparatively short time of her receipt of the buff-coloured envelope.

Ivy did not open the envelope. She put it on a little table by the side of her bed, and went on talking and listening.

“Everyone in Court admired the way you gave your evidence, Mrs. Lexton. Mr. Paxton-Smith told me you were the best witness he had ever had. Indeed, he said that you were just perfection! Not too shy, and not too bold. So clear, too! Every word you said could be heard, even where I was sitting.”

And then the speaker added, with considerable heat, “Some of the people there seemed to me like hyenas! Blood⁠—blood⁠—blood⁠—that’s what they wanted, the horrid ghouls! Why, there was a man just behind me who said he hoped that Sir Joseph would make mincemeat of you⁠—”

“I know that some of them wanted that,” murmured Ivy.

“The story goes,” went on Nurse Bradfield, “that Dr. Gretorex begged Sir Joseph to leave you alone.”

“I wonder if he did?”

That had not occurred to Ivy. But now, of course, she knew this to be almost certainly the reason Sir Joseph had been so⁠—so unlike what everyone had expected him to be.

And then there did come over her a little glimmer of gratitude. Yes, Roger certainly loved her. No one would ever care for her as he cared. She remembered, now, his having once said that he would go through any torture in order to save her a moment’s pain. Well? Poor Roger hadn’t really gone through torture exactly⁠—that sort of thing has been given up long ago, luckily. Still, it was very touching that, even in his own time of danger, he had thought of her and of her reputation.

After Nurse Bradfield had left the room, and after Ivy’s light breakfast had been brought in and arranged on the bed-table, she broke open Rushworth’s cable.

My sister died yesterday. Sailing for home the day after tomorrow. Will keep you advised by wireless of exact date of my return. I have been thinking of you night and day.

Rushworth coming back now, almost at once? Small wonder that a feeling of ecstasy flooded Ivy Lexton’s whole being. She had gone through a terrible ordeal, but that which was already in sight would make up for everything.

She jumped out of bed and locked her door. Then she went over to the fireplace, and watched the flimsy sheets curl up and become thin and black in the flames. After the first, she had always burnt each of Rushworth’s cables as soon as she had read it through. Somehow it seemed to her safer to do so.

Unlocking the door, she rang for the maid to put on her bath, for she wanted to go out and telegraph to Miles Rushworth.

It was half-past ten when Ivy came back to the flat.

“There’s a young lady to see you in the drawing-room, ma’am,” said the maid.

Ivy walked into the room smiling, for she expected to see waiting for her one of the many women belonging to her old, idle, easy life. Why shouldn’t they go out together shopping, and then come back to lunch?

But the smile froze on her face, for it was a stranger who rose and confronted her. Certainly a stranger, and yet somehow she had a disturbing feeling that she had seen her visitor before, and in disagreeable circumstances.

Then all at once, with a feeling of sharp annoyance, she realised that this was the girl who had been sitting with Mrs. Gretorex during the concluding hours of Roger’s trial yesterday. And when she, Ivy, and Roger’s mother had met face to face in a corridor of the Old Bailey, the stranger had been there too.

“I hope you’ll forgive my coming in this way without having first asked if you would see me,” said Enid Dent. “But the matter is very urgent, Mrs. Lexton, and the time is short, very short, between now and Roger Gretorex’s appeal, otherwise I feel sure Mrs. Gretorex would have come herself. Unfortunately, she is ill today.”

As Ivy still said nothing, only looked at her with an expression of fear, and yes, of dislike, on her lovely face, Enid exclaimed desperately, “I am sure you would do anything to help Roger Gretorex, Mrs. Lexton?”

And then Ivy did what all through her life she had often done, when in doubt. She burst into tears.

“Of course, I’d do anything,” she sobbed, “anything I could do! But what can I do? I’ve gone through such an awful time. No one knows what I’ve gone through, or how miserable I’ve been. No one thinks of me!” she ended hysterically. “I feel as if I hadn’t a friend in the world⁠—”

Enid went up close to her, and touched her on the arm.

“I’m so sorry,” she said in a troubled tone. “I know how terrible it must have been for you yesterday.”

She felt ashamed of what she had been led to believe by Mr. Finch an hour ago. It seemed incredible to her that the poor little creature before her, now trembling with emotion, could have acted the cruel part Alfred Finch and Sir Joseph believed she was acting, shielding the real murderer of her husband, and condemning an innocent man to a frightful death.

Ivy saw that she had made a good impression, and she became gradually calm.

Her one object was to get rid of this tiresome girl quietly. It had been stupid, very stupid, of the maid to allow a stranger to come in and wait, without knowing anything of her business. After all, this girl didn’t look in the least like one of her, Ivy’s, smart friends. Enid looked, to her critic’s practised eyes, a country bumpkin dressed in a plain and by no means expensive, if well-cut, coat and skirt.

“I suppose,” she said politely, “that you’re poor Mrs. Gretorex’s companion?”

“Yes,” answered Enid, “I am her companion. I’ve known her all my life; and I’m very, very sorry for her.” And then her voice, too, broke.

“What is it that Mrs. Gretorex thinks I can do?” asked Ivy in a timorous voice.

As the girl, who was struggling with her tears, answered nothing to this: “Of course I’d do anything if I thought it could be of any good,” she concluded.

And then, suddenly, she had an inspiration.

“People seem to forget all about poor Jervis,” she said in a hurt tone. “After all, he was my husband, and I was very fond of him, Miss⁠—?”

“Dent,” said the other quietly. “My name is Enid Dent.”

And then she moved a little farther away from the still fur-clad little figure, for those words, uttered in so pathetic a tone, had suddenly brought Roger before Enid Dent. Roger, God help him, had loved, perhaps still loved, this woman.

“Well, Miss Dent, no one ever thinks now about poor Jervis, do they?”

That had been a remark made to Ivy by Paxton-Smith a few days ago, and she had been struck by the truth of it.

Enid felt a tremor of discomfort flash across her burdened heart. It was quite true that though his mysterious death had formed the subject of a great and searching inquiry, none of them, now, gave any thought to Jervis Lexton, the unfortunate young man who had certainly been poisoned by someone masquerading as a friend.

“I do know how you must feel about that,” she said in a low voice. “But it’s only natural for Mrs. Gretorex, and the friends of Roger Gretorex, to be thinking of him rather than of your husband, Mrs. Lexton. You see, we who have known Roger all his life, are absolutely convinced that he is innocent.”

And then Ivy, whose nerves were on edge, suddenly made, in her own immediate interest, a mistake.

“Everyone I see,” she said quickly, defensively, “feels quite sure that Roger Gretorex did do it. You must know that, Miss Dent, though of course I wouldn’t say so to his mother.”

“Does that mean that you”⁠—Enid Dent took a step forward, and the other instinctively stepped back as she met the accusing look in the girl’s eyes⁠—“yourself are convinced of his guilt, Mrs. Lexton?”

“I don’t think you have a right to ask me such a question!” She uttered the rebuke lightly, pettishly.

Why, oh! why, didn’t this tiresome, disagreeable girl go away? She had no business here. Besides, she was only a paid companion. Ivy had a great contempt for any woman earning her own living in a quiet, humdrum way.

A tide of anger was rising up in her heart, making her what she seldom was, really angry.

“It’s a hideous misfortune for me that I ever met Roger Gretorex!” she exclaimed. “And yet you heard what I said in the witness-box? I did try, indeed I did, to help Dr. Gretorex. What is more⁠—”

Enid had moved away again. She was standing still now, a look of despair on her face.

“⁠—Mr. Paxton-Smith told me I oughtn’t to say a word, and I promised him that I wouldn’t say a word to anyone ever, unless he was there too!”

Anger is very catching, as most of us know, and wrath had also risen up in Enid Dent’s heart. How agonising it was to know that it was this cruel, foolish, selfish, silly woman who had stolen the man she, Enid, loved, and who, she believed in her heart, had loved her, before some malign fate had thrown him in Mrs. Lexton’s way.

So it was that, when she saw Ivy begin sidling towards the door, with a quick movement she flung herself across the room and stood with her back against it, barring the way.

“Mrs. Lexton?”

She uttered the other’s name calmly, though she was now shaking all over.

“Yes, Miss Dent? I’m sure no good can come of our going on talking⁠—”

“Not only do I believe, but certain people, whose opinion you no doubt would value far more than mine, believe too, that you know Roger Gretorex to be innocent!” cried Enid. “They are convinced that you are well aware who it was who craftily, cruelly, secretly poisoned your husband. I warn you here and now, that if that is true, the truth is going to be discovered!”

She stopped, ashamed of, and frightened at, her own emotion. She felt now, as if it were someone else who had uttered that passionate warning.

Ivy Lexton suddenly gave a stifled cry. Tottering forward she sank down on a chair, and, moaning, covered her face with her hands.

All at once, she could not have said why, perhaps it was a glimpse she caught of Ivy Lexton’s convulsed face, there flashed into the girl’s mind a certain dread suspicion; and much that had seemed inexplicable suddenly became clear.

Ivy slipped off the chair on to the floor, and lay there quite still.

Enid Dent opened the door.

“I am afraid,” she said quietly to the maid who had been in the hall obviously listening to what was going on inside the drawing-room, “that Mrs. Lexton has fainted.”

As the scared-looking young woman went to call Nurse Bradfield, who was then packing, for she was about to go on to a new case, Enid left the flat and, without waiting for the lift, she ran down the stairs.

Hailing a taxicab she threw the driver her address in Ebury Street. She felt extraordinarily excited, carried out of herself. Consciously she longed for the man who was driving her to go faster⁠—faster! At last he drew up; she paid him off, put the latchkey in the lock, and then, shaking with excitement, she walked straight into the room where Mrs. Gretorex was still lying back in the big armchair.

“I think I know now,” she said in a stifled voice, “who poisoned Jervis Lexton, and you and I, Mrs. Gretorex, must try and think of a way in which we can get proof, proof⁠—proof!”

Mrs. Gretorex looked up at the girl.

“Who is it you now suspect?” she asked slowly, “of having poisoned Jervis Lexton?”

Enid hesitated for a moment, then she said in a low voice, “His wife.”

“I have felt almost sure, from the first, that Ivy Lexton poisoned her husband,” said Mrs. Gretorex quietly.

Then she rose and, coming quite close up to the girl, she added: “What is more, I am convinced that Roger knows the truth now. That is the real reason why he begged Sir Joseph Molloy to be very careful as to what questions he put to Mrs. Lexton in his cross-examination.”

Mrs. Gretorex took Enid’s hand.

“You and I believe this terrible thing of Ivy Lexton. But it can do Roger no good to say what we believe. It would, even, probably, do him harm.”

“Does Mr. Oram know that you think her guilty?”

“Yes,” said Roger’s mother, and she sighed. “I told him just before the trial opened. He begged me most earnestly to put any idea of the kind out of my mind, as he felt convinced I was wrong. He pointed out to me that there was not what he called an iota of evidence connecting Mrs. Lexton with the crime. In fact, I saw that I dropped very very much in his estimation as a sensible woman when I told him of my more than suspicion, of my absolute conviction, that Mrs. Lexton had had some all-powerful motive for wishing her husband dead.”

“Surely we can discover what that was?”

Mrs. Gretorex shook her head. “She certainly did not wish to marry Roger⁠—of that I feel quite sure. I hoped against hope that something might come out while Sir Joseph Molloy cross-examined her. But, of course, nothing did come out, and it is my conviction, Enid, that nothing ever will.”

That same day the fact that Roger Gretorex had made up his mind not to appeal appeared in the late editions of the evening papers. “It will only prolong the agony for my mother,” he had said to Mr. Oram. “And as for me, I am sufficiently a coward to long for it to be all over.”

And so they all⁠—those who loved Roger, and she who feared him, together with the myriads of men and women who regarded him as a callous murderer, and who hoped that he would finally confess his crime⁠—waited for the end.