MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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Then she, like him, stopped short, afraid to utter the words she was going to say.
“Yes, mother?”
His voice had suddenly become listless. He had dropped her hand, and was lying back in his chair. He was feeling spent, worn out.
“Have you any reason to suppose, my boy, that you are in danger of being accused of having poisoned Jervis Lexton?”
He straightened himself, got up, and then gazed down into her pale but still calm face, and she saw that he looked, if surprised, yet unutterably relieved.
“Yes, mother! That is what I came down to tell you. But what made you hit on the truth?”
Should she tell him the reason why that frightful thought had come into her mind? After a moment of indecision, she decided that she ought to do so.
“Can’t you guess why that fearful suspicion came into my mind, Roger?”
His eyes fell before her sad, steady, questioning gaze.
She went on slowly, “I said a word to you the evening of the day you brought Mrs. Lexton down here. I suppose you didn’t take my advice?”
“There are certain things about which a man must judge for himself, mother. And with regard to my friendship for Mrs. Lexton I judged for myself.”
He sat down again and covered his eyes with his right hand. The words he had just uttered had brought Ivy vividly before him.
“Now tell me everything, Roger.”
“There’s very little to tell,” said Gretorex, raising his head. “I feel sure, quite sure, mother, that there’s some perfectly natural explanation of what now seems so mysterious.”
“If, as I hope, you have come down to consult with me as to what is the best thing to do, then I trust that you will tell me the whole truth. After all, I am your mother, my darling.”
Her voice rose in entreaty.
“Whom should you trust, if you do not trust me?”
He felt very much moved, and, to her surprise, he came and knelt down by her.
She put her arms round him. “Now tell me everything,” she whispered.
And he did tell her almost everything. But he did not tell her, and he never told anyone, of his telephone talk with Ivy Lexton.
His mother was quick to see the flaw in his apparently frank account of all that had happened that morning.
“How did you first hear of Mr. Lexton’s death?” she asked. “You were there, I note from the date given in this paper, on the afternoon of the day he died. You must in fact have gone straight to the station, from your unfortunate call on the poor man.”
“I did, mother.”
“Then how, and when, did you hear of his death, Roger?”
He got up and went across to the chair where he had been sitting.
“I found a note from Ivy when I arrived at Ferry Place this morning. She knew I was away, and she sent me the note to await me on my return. It was written, evidently, some days ago.”
“I hope you have kept her note.”
He shook his head. “No, mother, I didn’t keep it. There was really nothing in it—simply the bare statement that Jervis Lexton was dead. She had had an awful shock, and she said she didn’t want to see anyone.”
“Then you’ve not seen Mrs. Lexton since her husband’s death?”
“No, I have not seen her.”
There trembled on the poor mother’s lips a further question—“Or had any further communication with her?” But she feared he might be tempted to tell her a lie, so she refrained from asking that, to her, important question.
Instead she said, “Though you have not put it into words, you feel sure that the man from Scotland Yard suspects you poisoned Jervis Lexton so that his wife would be free to marry you?”
“That is certainly what the inspector had in his mind, when he questioned me as to my acquaintance with her.”
“Forgive me for asking you the question, Roger. I suppose you would marry Mrs. Lexton, if you had the chance?”
He said at once, “I’d give my soul to marry her, mother. I love her—love her more, I think, than man ever loved woman.”
She gave him a searching look. “Does she love you?”
He hesitated, painfully. “I’ve seen very little of her lately. I know she felt we were not doing right in seeing as much as we were seeing of each other.”
And then he sighed, a long, long sigh.
“Try to love her, mother. She is free now, and she is all my life. Please, please try to love her for my sake.”
“I will, my darling boy.”
Mrs. Gretorex was ashamed of the hatred—she acknowledged to herself that it had been hatred—of Ivy Lexton which had filled her heart. She now told herself that this woman whom her boy adored must have some good in her.
There came the sound of the front door opening.
“Here, I think, is Enid Dent,” exclaimed Mrs. Gretorex.
Roger jumped up from his chair, and went forward to meet the girl who, as he knew deep in his heart, loved him.
Was it because he had known that his mother eagerly desired him to marry Enid, or was it simply because he knew her too well? Be that as it may, it had only taken three meetings with Ivy Lexton, the wife of another man, to blot Enid out from his heart.
To-day, the most terrible day of his life, the sight of her honest, thoughtful face brought comfort. For one thing, it was such an infinite relief to know that in Enid Dent his mother would have an entirely trustworthy, devoted support and stay, during days which he feared must be anxious and painful days, terrible days to remember, though he had no doubt at all as to the ultimate result of any inquiry into the facts surrounding Lexton’s death.
As for Enid Dent, she had loved Roger Gretorex with a silent, unswerving devotion since she had first known what love meant. Though he himself was scarcely aware of it, his whole manner had changed during the last few months, and while this caused her sharp anguish, which she had successfully hidden from those about her, it had never occurred to her, strangely enough, that that alteration had come about because of another woman.
Now, gazing from the mother to the son, she understood at once that they were both in deep trouble.
“I’m afraid I’ve come too soon,” she said.
“I’m glad you came early, my dear. We’re going to have supper in a few minutes, for Roger has to go back to town to-night.”
Old Bolton hobbled into the room.
“Rosie Holt says you promised to see her some time today, ma’am. She’s in the kitchen. Shall I show her into the drawing-room?”
Mrs. Gretorex made a great effort over herself.
“Yes, please do, Bolton,” she said quietly, “and I’ll come and see her.”
Roger turned to Enid:
“I wonder if you’d take a short turn before supper? I don’t get nearly enough exercise in London.”
“Of course I will.”
They went into the hall, and she hurried on her hat and coat. It was fully a year since she had last taken even a short walk with Roger Gretorex.
Once they were in the open air, in the kindly darkness, he drew her arm through his.
“Enid, I want to tell you something.”
He