IX

Roger Gretorex had gone back to his consulting-room after a long morning’s round. He loved his work, yet today his heart was not in it, for he was extraordinarily excited, and moved as he had never before felt moved in his twenty-eight years of life.

He had come up early from Sussex by a workman’s train, and had found waiting for him an undated and unsigned note in Ivy Lexton’s handwriting:

I’m not quite sure if you are in London; but I know you will be very sorry to hear that Jervis died suddenly last night.

I hardly know what I am doing⁠—the shock has been so great. Nurse says his heart must have given way. I would rather not see anybody for a little while.

Now that his morning’s work was over, he was free to commune with his own thoughts, and to dwell on what the future now held for him⁠—a lifetime of bliss with the woman whom he worshipped, and who had given him the greatest proof of her love a woman can give a man.

His cherished darling was free⁠—free to become, after a decent interval had elapsed, his adored, honoured wife in the face of the world! He thanked God that he had never let his mother know the truth concerning their past relations. He thanked God again that the only time the two had met had been in those early days when he and Ivy had just been friends, and when he, at any rate, had thought that so they would remain.

True, his mother was far too clever, too devoted to him, her only child, not to guess, even then, that he was in love with Ivy. She had even ventured to say a word to him as to the danger of too close a friendship with a married woman. And he had bitterly resented it. He remembered her words, and his answer, “You’re wrong, mother. Ivy Lexton is the best and purest woman I have ever known!”

No wonder that, as he had gone in and out of the poor dwellings of his patients this morning, he had asked himself, again and again, how long it would be before he and Ivy could declare their love?

He remembered a war widow in their neighbourhood who had married again within four months of her husband’s being killed. Still, the world is very different in peacetime from what it is in wartime. All he would have to consider would be his own mother’s sense of what was right and fitting.

Ivy’s friends? His sensitive lips curled in disdain. They would scarcely be surprised if she remarried a week after her husband’s death!

Then, suddenly, there came over him a feeling which, to such a man as Roger Gretorex, was painfully like shame.

Jervis Lexton had been something of a wastrel and all of a fool, but the young man had also been, according to his lights, a good husband. It was not Jervis’s fault that Ivy had never loved him. Her heartless, money-loving mother had forced her into the marriage when she was almost a child. Such was the story she had told Gretorex, and that story he implicitly believed.

He told himself that the only decent thing to do, now, would be to write her a short note of regret and sympathy, as cold and colourless as hers had been.

How he longed, how he ached, to see her! But it was clear she wished to see no one, not even him, the one closest to her, yet.

The long morning of pent-up emotion, and of really hard work, had tired him out⁠—made him feel, too, suddenly very hungry. He got up and took his hat off the peg on the door, intending to snatch a hasty meal at a restaurant in Victoria Street hard by.

Then, just as he was turning towards the door, the telephone bell rang. With a feeling of irritation he took up the receiver.

“Yes?” he called out impatiently.

And then there came over him a thrill of intense joy, for the voice which said in a tremulous tone, “Is that you, darling?” was Ivy Lexton’s voice.

She had not called him “darling” once, since her return to London, and that though he knew she often used the endearing term, even to the pet dogs of her women friends.

“Of course it is,” he answered tenderly. “How are you, dearest? A little less tired and”⁠—he forced himself to add the word⁠—“unhappy?”

And then he heard her voice again; but now it was full of a kind of cold urgency.

“I’ve something so dreadfully important to say to you⁠—are you alone in the house?”

“Absolutely alone,” he called back reassuringly.

He did not count Mrs. Huntley, the old woman who lived a door or two off, and who “did” for him, as anybody.

“Please don’t say my name, and I won’t say yours. Telephones are tapped sometimes, and I’m so⁠—so frightened,” came the whispered words.

There followed a long pause, and Gretorex suddenly felt filled with an unreasoning sensation of acute apprehension. There had been that in Ivy’s tremulous tones which he had never heard there before⁠—a note of horrible fear.

“Are you listening?” came at last the beloved voice, sounding now startlingly near.

“I can hear you perfectly.”

“Something so dreadful has happened! I don’t know how to tell you. It’s so⁠—so strange. You’d never guess what it was!”

He tried to curb his anxiety, his suspense, his impatience.

“What is it that has happened?” he asked quietly.

Again there followed a long unnatural pause. Then, at last, Ivy Lexton breathed the words:

“The doctors found out yesterday that poor⁠—you know who I mean⁠—did not die what they call a natural death.”

“Not a natural death?” he repeated in a tone of amazement. “What do you mean, darling?”

“They say he died of some kind of poison.”

“Poison! D’you mean he committed suicide?” he asked incredulously.

“Oh, no, they don’t think that.”

Then, in a tone of great relief, she added: “But I suppose he may have done so.”

Gretorex felt not only exceedingly surprised, but inexpressibly shocked as well.

“I should be very loth to believe that,” he said at last.

“What I really want to tell you is that a dreadful man has been to see me this morning. He’s only been gone about half an hour. I was afraid to telephone from my own⁠—” She waited a moment, then uttered the word “house.” “I’m speaking from a call office.”

“What did the man say? Who was he?” he asked.

“He had to do with the police and he said he was going to see you as soon as he’d had something to eat. I said you generally went to your club to lunch, and that you wouldn’t be back before three.”

“Why should he want to see me?” Gretorex said wonderingly.

“He seemed to know so much about you. So much”⁠—her voice sank⁠—“about us. He asked me such funny questions, darling. Of course I told him⁠—I told him,” her voice faltered, “that you were just a great friend of mine and of⁠—you know of whom?”

“So I am. So I was⁠—”

But Roger Gretorex was no fool, and his whole being had become flooded, these last few moments, with an awful sensation of dismay and foreboding.

“Tell me exactly what it was this man asked you, and what you said to him, my pet?”

He tried to make his voice sound confident and reassuring.

“I can’t tell you everything over the telephone. It would take too long. He wasn’t really disagreeable. In fact, we ended up quite good friends. But he said it was his duty to find out the truth, as that horrible man⁠—you know whom I mean?”

“No,” he called back rather sharply, “I have no idea whom you mean! Can’t you speak plainly, darling? No one is in the least likely to be listening over the wire.”

And then she breathed the one name that she did breathe during that strange, to Gretorex that terrible and ominous, telephone conversation.

“I mean Dr. Berwick, of course. He told them, I suppose, about you.”

“Who do you mean by ‘them’?”

“The people at Scotland Yard.”

“But what could Dr. Berwick tell anybody about me?”

“That you used to come to the flat⁠—that we were friends.”

And then, in an imploring voice that was scarcely audible, she murmured:

“You won’t give me away, dear? You will never let anyone know that⁠—”

Interrupting her he exclaimed, “There’s nothing to give away! You and I have only been friends⁠—nothing more.”

He felt a thrill of relief when she said, in a more natural tone:

“That’s exactly what I said. I mean that’s what I told the man who came from Scotland Yard. I think he did believe me at last, but⁠—”

“Yes?” asked Gretorex anxiously. “But what, my dear?”

“I was silly enough to let out that you had been rather fond of me, in a sort of a way.”

“I’m sorry you did that. I’m afraid that was a mistake. I mean⁠—”

“I know what you mean! The moment I’d said it I saw what a mistake I’d made! But he spoke as if he already knew such a lot, or at any rate, some part of it.”

He said patiently, “What part of it?”

“That even if I didn’t care for you, you had been very fond of me.”

“I don’t see that our private affairs are anyone’s business but our own,” he said savagely.

She answered despairingly, “Neither do I. But there it is! I know he’ll talk about me to you.”

Gretorex felt as if he were living through a hideous nightmare. What could, what did, all that Ivy had said, and was saying, mean?

“There’s something else I must tell you and warn you about, before I ring off. The man actually asked me, darling, if I’d ever been to see you⁠—I mean alone. Of course I said no, that I had never been alone to see you. Why should I? But I did tell him about the time I came to tea with Rose Arundell, when Captain Chichester came too. The man from Scotland Yard is sure to ask you about that⁠—at least I’m afraid so.”

“About my tea-party? Why should he?”

“No, no,” she cried shrilly.

Then, in a low tone, she uttered the words, “He’ll certainly ask you whether I ever came to see you alone, at Ferry Place. Don’t you understand?”

“I hear what you say. But everyone we know is aware that we’ve been great friends. There’s no mystery about it.”

“That’s what I said. And also that you were so fond of⁠—you know who, and he so fond of you.”

To that Gretorex made no answer. In a sense it was true that poor Jervis Lexton had become quite fond of him, and that this was so had made him feel wretched and ashamed.

“Forgive me for having worried you, dear⁠—”

There was something⁠—he would not even to himself use the words⁠—cringing, even abject, in the tone in which she uttered that poor little sentence.

He answered at once, “You could never worry me, my darling! I can’t help thinking there’s some queer, spiteful enemy of yours, some cruel woman, behind all this?”

She cried hysterically, “It’s a spiteful, cruel man! It’s Dr. Berwick⁠—I know it is!”

“But why d’you think that, darling?”

Gretorex waited a moment, then asked in almost a whisper, “Was he fond of you? Did he make love to you?”

She was so long in answering his question that, for a moment, he thought they had been cut off. Then he heard the muffled reply, “Not exactly, though of course he liked me. But⁠—but he hated you! I do know that.”

“I see,” and he thought that he did.

“Dr. Berwick wouldn’t sign some kind of a certificate which nurse says a doctor always has to sign when a person dies,” she went on. “You know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why they had what is called a postmortem, and found out my poor sweet had been⁠—” her voice faltered.

It was, even now, like a blow between the eyes for Gretorex to hear Ivy call Jervis “my poor sweet.”

Again she waited a while then he heard her whispered, agitated, half-question:

“I do so wonder what that man will say to you? I feel so horribly nervous.”

He said impatiently, “I don’t suppose he’ll say much. But of course it’s the business of the police to get in touch with everyone who can throw even a little light on a mysterious death.”

“You’ll be very, very careful?”

For the moment he could not think what she meant.

Then, with a painful feeling of self-rebuke and fear, he hastened to reassure her, “Of course I will! Not that there’s anything to be careful about.”

“I must go home now,” and he heard her blow him a kiss.

She hadn’t done that for⁠—it seemed an eternity to him.

He hung up the receiver, went across to his writing-table, and sat down. He must think hard, and prepare some sort of story. But even now he could not imagine why his name, his personality, were being brought into this mysterious affair of Jervis Lexton’s sudden death.

Jervis Lexton’s death caused by poison? And the police already making inquiries? The whole story sounded incredible to Roger Gretorex. He told himself that of course some extraordinary mistake had been made. But whose mistake?

His mind turned at last to Dr. Berwick. He had only seen the man once⁠—and a damned offensive fellow he had seemed to be! So much did Gretorex remember. But Berwick was more than that⁠—he was a blackguard who had made love to a patient’s wife.

Poor little Ivy! Poor precious little love! No wonder she had been frightened, made quite unlike her gay, brave self, by the ordeal she had just gone through. How he longed to go and seize her in his arms, to bear her away to some place where they could be just themselves⁠—lovers!

The thought of a crowded restaurant was intolerable. He no longer felt hungry. Besides, the man, he supposed him to be a detective, mentioned by Ivy, would soon be here.

All at once he heard the sounds made by a broom in the passage outside.

He opened the door. “Will you come in here for a moment, Mrs. Huntley?”

The old woman shuffled into the room, and he looked at her fixedly.

“I feel very tired today⁠—too tired to go out.”

Taking a two-shilling piece out of his pocket, he handed it to her: “Will you get me some pressed beef or ham? I suppose there’s bread and butter in the house? I’m ashamed to bother you, for I know you’re in a hurry to get home.”

Said Mrs. Huntley, with a rather pathetic laugh, “I’d do a good bit more than that for you, doctor! Why, I’d go to any trouble for you.”

“Mrs. Huntley?”

He moved a little nearer to the old woman.

“You’ve just said that you’d go to any trouble for me⁠—”

“Ay, and so I would! I’ll never forget how good you were to that poor daughter of mine. Why, it’s thanks to you that she died easy. I’m not likely to forget that, however long I may live.”

“The time has come when you can do something⁠—something very important⁠—for me,” he said, wondering if he were being wise or foolish.

“Can I, sir? You’ve only got to say what it is. I don’t mind no trouble.”

“I regard you,” he said slowly, “as a very superior person, as well as a very trustworthy one, Mrs. Huntley.”

She grew red with pleasure at his kind, flattering words, and, troubled as he was, Gretorex’s heart went out to her.

“All I want you to do,” he went on, “is to hold your tongue on my behalf. The time may come when you will be asked what sort of visitors I have received since I came to live here. You may be questioned as to whether any ladies ever came to see me⁠—”

He waited a moment, feeling acutely uncomfortable at having to ask the old woman to lie for him.

“You will be doing me a great service, Mrs. Huntley, if you will answer that no friends ever come to see me unless they have an appointment. Also that, to the best of your belief, the only time you have ever seen any lady here was when I gave a tea-party some time ago. Do I make myself quite clear?”

“Yes, sir, quite clear.”

“And have I your promise?”

“Yes, sir, you have my promise.”

He took her withered, work-worn hand in his.

“I’m very grateful to you. This may mean more to me than you will ever know.”

“I’ll go and get the things for your lunch, sir.”

She shut the door behind her, and a moment later, as he saw her pass the window, a hot tide of humiliation seemed to overwhelm him. He had seen, by the expression on her face, that everything there was to know, she knew.

As for Mrs. Huntley, she felt quite sure that Dr. Gretorex, who, though she knew him to be far from well off, had spared neither time nor money in his care of her dying daughter, was about to figure as a corespondent in a divorce case.

Well, in so far as she could help him, she’d do anything. Lie for him? Of course she would! Where’s the good of caring for a person if you’re not willing to do anything for him or her? Such was Mrs. Huntley’s simple philosophy of life. She was a good hater as well as a good lover. In her fashion she loved Gretorex, but she hated Ivy Lexton.

Those who are called “the poor” are seldom deceived in a man’s or a woman’s real nature and character. They are too close up against the hard realities of life to make many mistakes. It requires no touchstone to teach them the difference between dross and gold.

About three o’clock the telephone bell rang again.

Gretorex hoped for a moment to hear Ivy’s voice again, but it was a man who asked, “Can I speak to Dr. Roger Gretorex?”

“My name is Roger Gretorex.”

“I have a matter of business to discuss with you, Dr. Gretorex; and I’m telephoning to know if I may come along now, as you are in?”

“Pray do so. But may I ask your name? And would you mind telling me your business?” he called back.

“My name is Orpington. As to my business, it would take too long to explain. But I will be with you in a very few minutes.”

Mechanically Gretorex began to tidy his consulting-room. For the first time in his life he felt horribly afraid, he knew not of what, but that made his dread of the coming inquisition all the sharper, the fuller of suspense.

His mother had managed to keep one conservatory going, and though he had given away a good many of the flowers he had brought up with him this morning, there was still a lovely nosegay on his writing-table. And the sight of these fragrant blossoms recalled poignantly to her son’s mind the woman who had gathered them for him. Was he going to bring sorrow, and what to her would be worse than sorrow⁠—shame⁠—on her honoured name?