MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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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 post-mortem, 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