MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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have been not only very clever, but also very very careful.
And yet, as the train sped nearer and nearer to London, she became more and more afraid.
The old cook was quite pleased to see “the missus,” and volubly she described the visit of Inspector Orpington and of his sergeant.
“No, they didn’t find nothing. How could they—when there was nothing there?”
This Ivy believed to be nothing but the truth, and yet the fact that the two men from Scotland Yard had come to search the flat, filled her with a terrible foreboding.
And then, suddenly, she remembered Mrs. Huntley! With a sensation of sick fear she recalled how Gretorex’s servant had surprised her on what she now perceived to have been the most dangerous day of her life.
Vile, wicked, cruel old woman! However, she, Ivy, had already replaced the cap on the jar labelled “Arsenic” when Mrs. Huntley had crept into the surgery so slyly and softly behind her. But the jar had been there, on the table before her, and no doubt the old fox had noticed it.
Yes! It was probably some sort of gossip traced to Gretorex’s day-servant which had been the cause both of the reprieve, and of the presence yesterday of the Scotland Yard inspector here, in the flat. But, thank God, there was nothing—nothing—nothing that could be found, and for the best of reasons, that there was nothing to find.
Even so, all this was very frightening, as well as very annoying, if only because it meant new trouble and worry, just at a time when she, Ivy, would be wanting to pick up the old, and create the new, links, between herself and Rushworth.
She went into her bedroom feeling a little reassured. It is always better to know the worst, and Ivy Lexton thought she did know the worst now. And it was not so bad as she had feared.
Already she was mentally preparing the tale she would tell. And it ran somewhat like this: She had gone just for a moment to see Gretorex on the evening Mrs. Huntley had seen her in the surgery, with a message from Jervis, who was waiting for her hard by Ferry Place in a taxi. They two were on their way to a dance, and Jervis had suggested that Gretorex should come with them. But the fact had made so little impression on her mind that she had forgotten all about it, when asked if she had ever been to Ferry Place alone. If Mrs. Huntley mentioned the supper, she would simply deny that she had been the lady entertained by Gretorex. Mrs. Huntley had not actually seen her with her host. She had only seen her for that moment or two in the surgery.
But, even so, Ivy’s nerves were so far upset that she made an involuntary and violent movement of recoil, when she heard a sudden loud knock on the front door of the flat.
There followed a moment of delay, and then she heard the cook waddling down the passage. She told herself that it was probably Inspector Orpington, and she mentally prepared her story, the explanation, that is, of that unfortunate encounter with Mrs. Huntley.
And then her heart leapt with joy in her bosom, for, “Is Mrs. Lexton at home?” was uttered in Miles Rushworth’s voice.
“I don’t know that Mrs. Lexton can see you, sir.”
“I think she’ll see me. Will you kindly say Mr. Rushworth has called to see her?”
Ivy heard him go into the drawing-room, and, after a few moments spent before her dressing-table in making up her face, she followed him.
Miles Rushworth was standing in the centre of the room, and when the door opened, and Ivy came through it, she looked so innocent and so appealing, as she advanced towards him in her plain black dress, that suddenly he felt as if all that had happened today had been only an evil dream. Almost he held out his arms.
And then he took a step backwards, for alas! he knew all that had happened today was no dream, but stark reality.
In silence she held out her hand, and perforce he took it in his, for a moment.
“I felt so sad, even in the midst of my own troubles, when I heard about your sister,” she murmured.
“Don’t speak of her!” he exclaimed violently. And involuntarily she shrank back.
She had put down that terrible, stern, sorrow-laden expression on his face to grief for his sister. But all at once she saw that he was gazing at her with an alien look—the look of a stern judge—on his sunburnt face.
What had he heard? What did he know? As she met that awful, accusing shaft of contempt, and yes, of loathing, a sensation of icy despair began slowly to envelop her.
“Do you remember Bella Dale?” he asked suddenly.
She answered in a faltering voice, “The girl on the yacht? Of course I do.”
“She was my sister’s dearest friend,” his voice sank. More strongly he said, “I went to see her this morning, and—and now we are engaged.”
And then he could not but admire her, for Ivy threw back her head, and in a hard, clear tone she exclaimed:
“I wish you joy, Mr. Rushworth! Also I do want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, for all you have done for me.”
She knew now why he looked “like that.” He was ashamed, and well he might be.
Quickly she told herself that he wasn’t married yet. The fact that he was so moved showed the power she had over him. It had been foolish of her to suppose, as she had done for a moment, that he had heard something to her disadvantage—why, there hadn’t been time!
But what was this he was saying?
“I’m the bearer of bad news, Mrs. Lexton.”
His voice had become almost inaudible. She moved, timorously, a little nearer to him.
“Bad news?” she echoed uncertainly, and once more terror filled her burdened, fluttering heart.
“You are to be arrested tomorrow morning on the charge of having caused the death of your husband by poison. The police claim to possess ample evidence to ensure a conviction; so you are in frightful danger.”
Arrested? In one fleeting moment she saw herself a prisoner in the dock where Roger Gretorex had stood. She visualised the Judge, the jury, the lawyers in the well of the Court, even the pitiless crowd of sightseers. The lifting of the black cap on to the Judge’s wig—his awful words of admonition—the condemned cell . . . the gallows . . . .
She who now had always fainted so easily, why did she not faint now? Because she was tasting the bitterness of death.
Yet she made no sign, though she was staring at Rushworth with dilated eyes. But for those large, terror-filled eyes, he would have thought that she had not understood the purport of his awful revelation of what now awaited her. And something like a spasm of pity shook him to the depths of his being.
“I think, nay, I’m sure, I can save you,” he exclaimed confidently.
Then he went on, speaking in low, quick tones: “I’ve arranged with a friend of mine who has got an aëroplane—you remember Jack Quirk, on the yacht?—to take you by air now, at once, today, to Spain. You will travel as his wife, on her passport. I’ve brought you a thousand pounds in gold, and another thousand in notes. From Spain you ought to be able to get a passage to South America without too much trouble. Quirk will arrange it all for you, and he will give you an address, where, if in need of help, you can write to me, once you are safe, far, far away.”
His voice broke. He was remembering a moment—an immortal moment—in their joint lives, when Ivy had certainly loved him, in her fashion.
He saw her lips, which were quivering under the dab of lipstick rouge, try to form the words, “Thank you.”
“I’m afraid there’s no time to be lost. We’d better not be seen leaving the flat together. I’ll say good-bye to you in the hall, and you’d better follow in about five minutes. My car is in Palace Row. Don’t bring anything with you. The front door may be watched, but I think not, as you are believed