by Rose elver
`Of course, madam. Please take a seat.'
She perched on the edge of a leather-covered seat opposite the counter, scanning the portraits of dignitaries in heavy gold frames along the walls, listening to voices reverberating on the stairs, watching the hands of the clock above the counter crawl slowly round. Occasionally the lifts whirred, the gates clashed. People passed in and out of the building and she encountered more than one curious glance.
When almost three-quarters of an hour had gone by all her diffidence had evaporated. Suppressing a mounting sense of annoyance at being kept hanging about like a recalcitrant student, without even the courtesy of a message explaining the professor's delay, she went back to the counter.
`It's quite unlike the professor to be so late for an appointment without leaving word. Perhaps there's a note. Please check.'
The man looked through the long range of pigeonholes behind his desk and turned again, apologetically shaking his head. 'I'm sorry, Miss Leigh. Could there be some mistake about the day?'
`No,' she said firmly. 'We're returning to the country this evening.'
`Just one moment.' He dialled the wall phone behind him. 'There's a Miss Leigh here at the reception desk. Appointment with Professor Lyne ... yes, miss ... did he say? ... no, there's nothing left down here. Very well, miss, I'll tell her.' He looked at Amelia with some concern this time. 'They haven't heard from the professor today upstairs in his department either, madam. He was due at a meeting this morning, but he didn't come in.' He cleared his throat uncomfortably. 'The professor is his own master, as you might say. They thought he'd changed his mind and decided to go back to Whimpleford already.'
`But he wouldn't leave without ' she bit back the rest. The truth was that his behaviour, even his manner, had been strangely offhand since they had come up to London. Could it be that Donovan Lyne was subtly punishing her—the notion suddenly pierced her—punishing her for refusing him? But that was ridiculous !
He had simply forgotten her. Preoccupied as he' was with his work, his colleagues and the forthcoming move to the flat, his arrangement to meet her had been swept aside by something else. Heaven alone
knew where he was, or when he would remember her—probably when he was driving back down the M with an empty seat beside him ! she decided bitterly.
Her next thought was to ring Polly Austin, but she rejected it. She was not returning lamely to the Austins, crying for help. She would go back to Whimpleford by train, and take her humiliation with her.
As her temper rose so did her calm, icy dignity, and the commissionaire said anxiously, 'I would try and check with the Professor's flat, madam, but the phone isn't connected yet.'
Amelia cut him short by asking if he could tell her the train times from Paddington. He produced the rail guide, thumbed through it and gave her the details. She looked at the clock; it was well past four.
`In case the professor should come here after all, please tell him I'm catching the five-fifteen,' she said coolly. 'And I should like the professor's address so that I can leave a note there too, if I have time.'
`Certainly, madam.' He wrote it on a notepad, stripped it off and passed it to her. 'I'm sorry there's been this misunderstanding, madam.'
`That's all right. Thank you.' She collected her case, refused his offer to call her a taxi and walked out.
A few moments later she picked up a cab in Holborn and was on her way to Paddington Station. As they moved through the gathering traffic of the rush hour the spurt of anger which had buoyed her up slowly faded, to be replaced by the frightening sense
of loss which had assailed her when Donovan had left the Austins' house the previous day. She should have waited, however late he was. Both her pride and her love had been badly bruised, but he was, above all, her employer and she owed it to him to make at least one more attempt to contact him. She would try his flat.
Knocking on the glass partition, she gave the cabby the address of the flat. 'Traffic's thickening up, miss,' he counselled, 'you might lose your train.'
`Never mind, I'll take a chance on that.'
At length the cab turned into a street in Kensington and pulled up. Three large Victorian houses had been converted into a luxury block, its white paint gleaming, its façade of tall bow-shaped windows decorated with the tracery of black wrought-iron balconettes. Amelia asked the cabby to wait and went in. The entrance was thickly carpeted, as was the curved staircase at the end. A small man in dark blue uniform, with his hair neatly plastered down, came out of the porter's booth.
`Do you know if Professor Lyne is here at his flat?' she asked.
`Yesterday he was, miss. Haven't seen him today.' He glanced out through the front door. 'His car's still parked along there. He must be.'
She recognised it herself then, and suddenly smiled at the porter. So he hadn't left for Whimpleford without her! 'Flat Two, isn't it?'
`First floor, front,' he agreed.
Restraining a desire to run up the staircase, Amelia took it sedately, her feet sinking into. the carpeting.
The first landing was very quiet, with two short corridors on either side and right in front of her, opposite the stairs, a white door numbered '' with a lion's head knocker and discreet bell-knob in polished brass.
With a slightly tremulous hand she pressed the door-bell and stepped back, pushing up her spectacles and straightening the collar of her coat as she waited. A minute went by in silence. Thinking that she might not have pressed it hard enough, she rang again much more firmly. Another minute, and still no reply. It occurred to her that although Donovan's car was parked outside he could have gone out with someone else. One more try—she lifted the knocker and rapped hard.
Accept the fact, she told herself forlornly, he isn't in. If she waited too long she would miss the train and the next one would get her to Whimpleford too late for the last bus to the village. It would be best to leave a message with the porter.
Turning away to the head of the stairs, she caught the sound of a dragging movement behind the door and a slump against the panels. She spun round, her heart in her mouth, and grasping the door knocker rattled it urgently.
`Professor? Is that you?' A premonition swept through her and into her alarmed voice. 'Professor, open the door ! Don, please ..
The door seemed to give way under the pressure of her hand, but slowly, laboriously, as the weight gradually shifted. Instinctively she pushed into the room.
Donovan Lyne teetered against the side wall. His face was drawn and grey, and rough with a stubble of beard. He was clad only in a pair of pyjamas and his body was shaking, and when she put her arms out to support him she felt the burning fever on his skin.
CHAPTER FIVE
AMELTA succeeded in getting him back to the bedroom by hitching his right arm across her shoulders and exerting all her strength to help him. The whole flat was still swathed in dust sheets; he had pulled the cover off the bed and had been sleeping on bare mattress and pillows with a couple of blankets. His case was open, considerably jumbled, his clothes were strewn on the floor.
She hastily thumped the pillows, heaved his legs on to the bed and pulled the blankets over his shivering form.
`Touch of fever ... that's all ...' he muttered vaguely.
`Yes—I know.' She tucked the blankets close around his shoulders and under his chin. 'What's the name of your doctor?' He shut his eyes and she put out a hand and turned his face, saying imperatively : 'Tell me the name of your doctor, Professor. Your doctor.'
`Hallow ... tropical medicine ...'
`Fine, now you can relax. Nothing more to worry about.'
She turned to the door, gripping the lintel for a second and pressing her knuckles against her trembling lips. Then she slipped off her coat, threw it across an unopened crate in the front room and called out
for the porter from the top of the stairs. Although she appeared completely calm, something in her tone brought the little man running up the flight two at a time.
&nb
sp; `The professor is ill, and I can't phone from the flat. Do you have a telephone?'
`Yes, miss, sure thing.'
`I must stay with him. Please look up the number of Dr Hallow, the specialist in tropical medicine, and ask him to come as soon as he can.'
The porter nodded. 'I know the doctor, miss—used to visit the prof regular.'
`That's a relief.' Amelia went back into the flat, leaving the door on the latch. Her mouth was dry. She found the kitchen off the narrow hall, beautifully appointed with matching units but bare, without any crockery, glassware or utensils in sight. On one of the stainless steel tops lay a packet of meat sandwiches and an empty waxed carton with coffee dregs—the stale, untouched sandwiches told their own story of how he must have been feeling since yesterday. Rinsing out the carton, she filled it at the cold tap and sipped it. At least the taps were functioning, but there was neither gas nor electricity to heat water if it was needed.
She refilled the carton and took it into the bedroom. Donovan was dozing, and gazing down into his stubbled, exhausted face she reproached herself for all her foolish speculations about him. That he might be ill had not occurred to her, for he was always so vital and self-assured. Had he had milder attacks of this at Whimpleford too? Those mornings
when he had been unusually taciturn and gone off in his car for a break, as he called it, were more probably visits to the doctor in Whimpleford. Why had he never mentioned it to her? she wondered miserably. She felt so helpless and frightened. Pulling a dust cover off a chair, she sat beside him, silently watching him with her heart in her eyes.
A subdued rapping startled her to her feet and out to the door.
'O.K., miss. The doe's just got back to his consulting rooms. Says he'll be over in half an hour. Oh, miss ! —the cabby's still waiting.'
Amelia gasped. 'I'd forgotten ! Tell him I won't be going to Paddington, and ask him to bring in my case, please.'
Money for the cab—where had she left her handbag? She found it on the floor behind the door of the flat, and extracting her wallet she flicked through the notes. There were essentials she would need. As she hadn't spent any of the money she had brought with her, there seemed enough for the moment. Anxiously she had another look at Donovan Lyne and then went down to the entrance.
The cabby looked a bit surly as he stood waiting beside her case, but she was too preoccupied to notice his impatience. She paid the fare and was adding a generous tip when a thought struck her. `Are there any shops near here?'
`High Street round the corner,' the porter supplied.
`If I give you a list, will you fetch me some things I need?' she appealed to the driver. 'It'll be quickest by cab before the shops shut.'
`Well ...' he began reluctantly, but she had already started writing on the back of the slip of paper with the professor's address.
`She can't leave ... he's taken bad and the doc's coming,' she heard the porter confiding, 'and I gotter stay put for the flats.'
`Here you are—just some milk, eggs and bread and a few other essentials.' Amelia handed the cabby the list and a sheaf of notes. 'Oh, and some candles and matches, and something to cook on. One of those cheap little camping stoves, I'm sure you'll know what to get.'
`No gas or electric turned on up there yet,' the porter explained.
`Want the number of my cab?' the other asked more cordially.
`No, why should I?' said Amelia.
`All this money,' he replied awkwardly.
`I trust you,' Amelia told him simply. 'In fact, I'm depending on you—both of you,' she included the porter, and turning away went back upstairs, unaware of the impression she had made on the two men with- her gentle appeal for help.
There was nothing more she could do except bide her time, but she had to have something to occupy her hands and submerge her distress. Moving quietly around the bedroom, she removed all the dust covers and carefully folded them, picked up Donovan's clothing and tidied it away in the long fitted unit that lined one wall, and in doing so discovered an enclosed dressing top, on which she placed his toilet articles, and a series of drawers which served as a linen press.
Here she found bed-sheets and towels as well as extra blankets and a duvet, all clean, but unaired and smelling of mothballs.
The drawers moved smoothly and silently, and she realised that although the room was austere and masculine it had been expensively furnished. The carpet was dark grey, the venetian blinds pale grey, the chairs and bedhead upholstered in royal blue and white striped silk. It was such a contrast with the shabbiness of the cottage at Whimpleford, yet Amelia suddenly yearned to be back in its happy, threadbare security.
Donovan Lyne groaned, moving restlessly and pushing the blankets off. She hurried to his side, on her knees beside the bed. His forehead was beaded with sweat now, and she had a struggle to keep the blankets round him. 'Don ... please. Don,' she coaxed distractedly, 'the doctor will be here soon.' She smoothed back his hair, willing him to stop fighting her and relax, and after a few minutes he became quieter under the cool, persuasive touch of her fingers. How often she had longed to run her fingers through his thick dark hair—but never like this. This was the other face of love, the urgent need to comfort and protect.
He suddenly opened his eyes, looked blankly at her and said : must ring Amelia.'
`Yes, well,' she swallowed convulsively, 'it doesn't matter now.'
`Tell her ... can't get back tonight ...' he mumbled, fidgeting with the blankets again.
tell her,' Amelia responded firmly, and he
seemed to accept it, for she was able to raise his head in the crook of her arm and hold the carton to his lips. When he had drunk a little water he lay back and closed his eyes once more.
Amelia crouched beside his bed, holding the blankets down for what seemed like a lifetime until the door-bell rang. She scrambled up almost wearily, rubbing her eyes and shaking out her skirt, and composed herself for whatever the doctor's verdict might be.
She opened the door, still blinking a little at the brighter light of the landing. 'Dr Hallow?' She offered her hand to a thick-set man with a slight stoop. 'I'm Amelia Leigh. I'm glad you were free to call so quickly.'
`Ah, yes, Amelia Leigh.' He was bluff and assertive. `I've heard of you, and you know Truscott, an old colleague of mine in Whimpleford who's been keeping an eye on Donovan Lyne.'
`I've met Dr Truscott,' she replied steadily. 'Please come in.' To the porter hovering in the background she said; 'I'll leave the door on the latch. When the cabby returns would you put everything into the kitchen for me?'
Dr Hallow strode into the bedroom with the assurance of an old friend who knew both the flat and its owner well. For some reason Amelia found herself making halting apologies for the condition of the place, which he brushed aside, asking her briskly to raise the venetian blinds to get the most of the late evening light.
She obeyed, then stood in silence at the window
and stared out with unseeing eyes as the doctor carried out his examination. She heard the click of the clasps on his medical case and tightened a clammy palm on the sash-cord to which she was clinging.
His brisk, robust voice made her jump. 'Well now, you're inordinately quiet, Miss Leigh,' and turning. she saw the doctor intent on preparing a hypodermic syringe. 'Like to fill me in on what's been happening?'
Amelia told him simply and concisely as much as she knew, and explained that she herself had only discovered that Professor Lyne was ill about an hour before. Meanwhile a swab moved dexterously and the needle went in.
`He's a tough, obstinate customer and as proud as Lucifer,' the doctor declared on a note of exasperation and grudging respect. 'He'll go on driving himself until he drops. Fortunately this seems to be a comparatively mild flare-up, and he should pull himself out of it. Has he been under exceptional pressure lately?'
`Well ... we've been working flat out on the book, and he's planning to move back here and start work at the Institute in a couple of we
eks.'
`Back to the treadmill. Late sessions, cigar smoke, no proper food and central heating turned up high enough to stupefy the strongest constitution.' The doctor glared at Amelia as if it were her fault.
Remembering that she had abstractedly put all Donovan's clothes away and emptied his grip, Amelia said hesitantly, 'If you're moving the professor to hospital I'll ask the porter to show you where the telephone is and—and get his clothes packed again.'
`He's over the worst, but he'll need nursing for a few more days.' The doctor . scrutinised her with pale, rather piercing blue eyes. 'What are you proposing to do?'
`Oh, I shall stay on here,' she said calmly. 'I've arranged for some necessities to be delivered, and I can manage perfectly well until I know how the professor is and what he wishes me to do.'
`Could you manage for both of you?' he demanded unexpectedly.
`You mean ... ?' She met his gaze, and his eyes were much kindlier.
`I don't see any reason to move him, provided there's someone here to look after him and attend to his needs. I could, of course, arrange for a professional nurse for a week or so.'
`I took care of my father for months,' Amelia asserted, 'I think I can cope.'
`So do I, as a matter of fact. You look practical and capable, if I may say so, Miss Leigh, and Donavan is—er—accustomed to you.'
She was so light-headed with relief that the professor was not as desperately ill as her overwrought mind had assumed that she gave the doctor her glowing smile. 'Tell me exactly what you want me to do.'
He grunted. 'I warn you, he's an intractable patient.'
`Not with me, I'm sure he'll co-operate,' she asserted with unruffled confidence.
`That's what I thought,' was the cryptic reply as he turned to his medical case and began shaking some