MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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Ivy Lexton had always remained, until today, most comfortably ignorant of all the terrible, strange, and awful things that now and again occurred outside her own immediate little circle of people and of interests.
The newspaper reports of a really exciting “society case,” of the kind which amused and intrigued her special set of friends, amused and intrigued her too; though only if there was nothing going on at the time in her own life of infinitely greater moment. As to what is called, often erroneously, “a murder mystery” she had never felt any interest at all.
Her look of innocent inquiry at once effaced from Dr. Berwick’s mind what might have been described as a gossamer suspicion which he had now and again entertained, during the last ten days, with regard to his patient’s wife.
He did not answer her question at once. Instead he asked her slowly, “I suppose you have some man relative who can see to everything for you? Though I advise that no arrangements be made today.”
“No arrangements?” She looked at him surprised. “Does that mean——” she waited for a moment, then went on, “that poor Jervis’s funeral cannot take place as soon as nurse thought it might?”
“Nurse? What did nurse say?” he asked quickly.
She realised at once that she had made a mistake in mentioning nurse.
Ivy was only clever with regard to those men—they were in the great majority—whom she instinctively knew to be strongly attracted to her lovely self.
“Nurse seemed to think that the funeral could be on Thursday,” she answered in a low voice.
“Nothing can be settled till the post-mortem has taken place, Mrs. Lexton. Once the cause of death has been ascertained, the funeral can, of course, take place at once.”
Ivy had moved away while he was speaking, and she was now standing by the writing-table, with her back to the window.
Slowly, mechanically, she repeated: “The cause of death?”
Though she uttered the four words in her usual voice, there had suddenly swept over her a sensation of intense terror.
“I’m sure that you feel quite as anxious as I do, Mrs. Lexton, to know what can have brought about your husband’s death in so sudden and mysterious a fashion,” said Dr. Berwick earnestly. “I have not concealed from you that to me this case, ever since I took charge of Mr. Lexton, presented more than one puzzling feature.”
Though, unlike his wife, he felt quite sure that the attractive, silly young creature before him had never returned Roger Gretorex’s love, she had certainly been foolishly imprudent. With indulgent contempt he told himself that she was the sort of woman who always likes to have an adoring swain hanging about her.
“I think it more than likely,” he said, getting up, and speaking far more lightly than before, “that nothing untoward will be discovered as a result of the post-mortem—which, by the way, simply means an examination. But still, if only for my own satisfaction, and I’m sure that my feelings will be shared by Dr. Lancaster, I should like to be able to put what is the truth, rather than a mere guess, as to the cause of Mr. Lexton’s death on the certificate.”
Again he had uttered those awful words—the cause of . . . death.
She forced herself to say, with a look of childish appeal, “I daresay you’ll think it strange, Dr. Berwick, but this is the first time in my life that I’ve ever been even in the same house where——”
She stopped, and he supplied the end of her sentence,
“—there has been a death? That is not so strange as you may think, Mrs. Lexton. Some people go through a long life without coming in contact even with serious illness.”
“It’s that which makes it all so dreadful,” and again she melted into tears.
She was telling herself that if they really found out anything as a result of—what was that strange, terrifying term?—the post-mortem, then this hard-faced man standing there might make a great difference, perhaps all the difference, to her being, well, worried.
Her look of appeal, her tears, did touch the doctor. He asked himself idly what age this lovely little woman could be? She looked so amazingly young. Not a day over twenty! But she must, of course, be much older than that, for Jervis Lexton had talked on one occasion as if they had been married quite a long time.
Ivy felt the wave of kindly feeling, and was reassured.
“I shall be so lonely now,” she said plaintively.
“Have you no woman friend who would come and stay with you, Mrs. Lexton? In any case, you ought to communicate with your husband’s lawyers. I suppose Mr. Lexton’s life was insured?”
“No, Jervis was not insured.”
She looked surprised at the question.
“He quarrelled with his lawyer last year,” she added forlornly. “And our one really great friend, Miles Rushworth, lives at Liverpool, but he is in South Africa just now.”
“You mean the owner of the Rushworth Line?”
“Yes, my husband was in his London office. I’m going to cable to Mr. Rushworth. It’s so dreadful to feel I’ve no one to turn to.”
“I should think Dr. Gretorex might be able to help you?”
He uttered the commonplace words in a tone he tried to make matter-of-fact. Still, he threw her a quick look, and he did become aware that the half-question had disturbed her. Though how much he had disturbed her he was never to know.
She turned to the writing-table, and began piling the papers which lay on it to one side, and then there rose before her inner vision a view of Roger Gretorex’s surgery as it had looked on that evening when she had been surprised, just for a moment, by his old charwoman. She saw again the jar labelled “ARSENIC” standing on the deal table.
“I’m not quite sure where Dr. Gretorex is just now. Besides, he’s so dreadfully busy.”
Dr. Berwick reminded himself that the poor little woman had undoubtedly been trying to put an end to Gretorex’s infatuation. Gretorex’s own letter had proved that. So it was decent of her not to send for him just now.
“I must be going, Mrs. Lexton, for I have a great deal of work to get through this morning.”
He took her hand in his, and then he felt startled, for it was icy cold. Poor, pretty little thing! She had evidently had a more serious shock than he had supposed. In her own childish way she must have been really fond of that feckless, yet not unattractive, chap.
True, she had been no more use in the sick-room than an officious, affectionate child would have been! And only this last week he had thought it oddly heartless of her to have been out almost the whole of every day. But he realised, now, that she had never before come in contact with serious illness . . . .
However, there could be no doubt as to her real grief and sense of loss. There were black lines round her long-fringed, violet eyes; marks of tears still stained her roseleaf-tinted cheeks. And—and she was really so lovely that now, when bidding her good-bye, he did hold her hand maybe a thought longer than he need have done.
“Get out of doors all you can,” he said feelingly. “Go and walk in Kensington Gardens now, till lunch time. And don’t worry about anything! As far as will be possible, I promise to save you all trouble and anxiety.”
She gave his strong hand an affectionate squeeze.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you, doctor, I shall never forget how awfully kind you’ve been.”
Till a few moments ago she had thought Dr. Berwick very unkind, but Ivy Lexton was dowered with so great a power of self-deception that she really did believe what she had just said.
As the doctor was going quickly through the hall,