MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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you after all, nurse. Wait a moment, though. I’d just like to have your address. I suppose you are leaving here today?”
Nurse Bradfield was genuinely surprised. She had felt so sure that the doctor thought but poorly of her; and she on her side had no wish to nurse under him again. Still, one never can tell! She took a card out of her handbag, and handed it to him.
“There’s going to be a post-mortem,” he said suddenly, and then he looked at her hard. Had she had no suspicion of anything being wrong?
Her evident astonishment answered his unspoken question even before she said in a surprised tone: “Have you any doubt yourself, doctor, as to the cause of Mr. Lexton’s death?”
He nearly replied: “The greatest doubt! In fact, I don’t feel I can sign the death certificate.”
But he checked himself. It wouldn’t do for her to go and frighten that poor little woman. After all, his suspicions might be—he certainly hoped they were—absolutely unjustified.
And then it was her turn to astonish him.
“I hope Mrs. Lexton won’t be put to any great expense,” she murmured. “In spite of this lovely flat, and her wonderful clothes, I’m afraid they were very poor. In fact, Mr. Lexton, when he was wandering so much these last two days, talked a lot about money, and seemed to blame himself very much. But I should say that it was she who was extravagant!”
“Extravagant?” said the doctor, surprised. “Is Mrs. Lexton extravagant? I should have thought she had very simple tastes.”
Nurse Bradfield smiled to herself. “Men are soft where a pretty face is concerned,” she reminded herself tolerantly.
Then aloud she said: “Mrs. Lexton spends a great deal of money over her clothes—and I know that she is a good bit in debt. There was a man here the day before yesterday who said he wouldn’t go away till he was paid. But he had to, at last, for she wasn’t in till midnight. We must hope that Mr. Lexton was well insured.”
“He wasn’t insured at all,” said the doctor shortly. “I asked Mrs. Lexton, for had he been, she ought at once to have informed the insurance company.”
For the first time in his professional life Dr. Berwick went home in what he himself described as “the middle of his round.”
Mrs. Berwick saw the motor draw up outside their little house, and running out into the hall she opened the front door.
“Darling!” she cried, “did you forget anything?”
“No, Janey, I forgot nothing. But I’ve got to arrange for a post-mortem, so I thought it better to come back here, rather than ring up from a call office.”
She saw that he was excited and disturbed, and, being a wise woman, she asked him no questions. But she was not surprised when, instead of going straight off to the telephone, he turned into their sitting-room, and shut the door behind him.
“Janey?” he said slowly. “You know that that poor chap Lexton died last night? Mrs. Lexton, as usual, was out. She came in to find him dead.”
“How dreadful!”
“He was better, it seems, in the morning—very much better. Then Roger Gretorex came in and sat with him some time alone or so I gather from the nurse.”
There followed a long, pregnant silence between the husband and wife. Then there came over Mrs. Berwick’s face a look of terrible dismay.
“D’you mean that you suspect——?” And there was a world of horror in her voice.
“I don’t suspect anything,” he answered sharply. “And I certainly don’t want you to put words into my mouth, or even thoughts into my mind. There’s going to be a post-mortem, so we shall soon know part of the truth, at any rate.”
She waited a moment, and her voice sank almost to a whisper.
“Then Mrs. Lexton consents to a post-mortem?”
“Her consent was not asked,” he said brusquely. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Janey. If there’s been any foul play, she’s not in it. I’ve thoroughly satisfied myself of that.”
“But Roger Gretorex? A doctor? How terrible!”
“I know,” he muttered. “But, Janey?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I think it’s ninety-nine chances to one against my half-suspicion turning out to be the truth. What with his impudence in prescribing for my patient, and that queer love-letter of his—well, I’m prejudiced against the chap.”
“I’m not surprised at that,” she breathed.
Indeed, she, Janey Berwick herself, felt strongly prejudiced against Roger Gretorex.
Chapter nine
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 peace-time from what it is in war-time. 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