by Francis Iles
“It may make all the difference to Dr. Bickleigh,” he said, without apparent emotion.
Ivy turned terrified eyes on him, opened her mouth, and then hastily turned her head away.
CHAPTER IX
1
DR. BICKLEIGH helped himself to another glass of port. Since Julia died he had been able to afford these little luxuries.
He was thinking of his roses. The two Marcia Stanhopes had flowered unexpectedly freely last year; he wished he had ordered a couple more last autumn. Still, the White Ensigns he had put in instead would be more reliable. The rose-garden would be better than ever this year. It was quite a pity Julia would not be there to see it: the rose-garden was one of the few points of contact they had possessed.
Poor Julia! Really, thought Dr. Bickleigh for the thousandth time, it had been a merciful release; her life had never been happy. She was probably most grateful to him by now, wherever she was.
He lit another cigarette, and lounged more comfortably in his chair. The open book on his knee slipped aside. Nine o’clock, work finished, and a pleasant, long evening by the fire, all alone (that was the best of early June; one could still enjoy a fire in the evening). He was not in the least lonely; he never did feel so. Dr. Bickleigh was not one of those who rely entirely upon human companionship for their enjoyment.
Nearly thirteen months now. Of late, he noticed with interest, the thought of Julia had been less and less present in his mind. Imperceptibly, he was slipping back to the state of things before he met her. Julia, instead of being his life, was taking on the aspect of an interlude—an interlude, too, firmly and courageously terminated when it became impossible.
That Dr. Bickleigh had been a different man since Julia’s death he himself had been the first to recognise. It was extraordinary how that one action had altered his idea of himself. Somehow he could not help feeling that he had vindicated his existence, proved once and for all that he was as capable as anyone else of taking his own line and sticking to it grimly—more capable. What was the phrase? “Something something something, and captain of his soul.” That was it, exactly. Captain of his soul.
Poor Julia! How she would have hated being thought of as a mere interlude.
But the interlude had held vital lessons for him. No more marriage—and no more women. One captain of his soul was enough, and that not a female one.
Women . . . Good Lord, what an escape he had had with Madeleine. He had never been so grateful to anyone in his life as he was now to Denny. Julia had been right there: he had seen through her in the end. Good God, what a bitch. Just amusing herself. It had been perfectly true. Amusing herself with other people’s deepest and most genuine feelings, dragging them in her own muck like the filthy little emotional mudlark she was. How he had been taken in! But what an escape!
Poor Julia? Poor Denny! Already there were rumours. They were living apart; they were contemplating divorce (after eight months!); Madeleine’s hysterical tendencies were developing to the verge of mental unbalance (that Dr. Bickleigh could quite believe), the two were seldom seen in Wyvern’s Cross now. Yes, poor Denny; how could he, at inexperienced twenty-four, expect to cope with all the failings of the female temperament concentrated and multiplied a hundredfold in one damnable example? Village gossip had condemned such a youthful marriage, Denny’s insistence on its early performance, and the Bournes’ weak acquiescence; and for once village gossip had been right.
No, no more women. They weren’t to be trusted, not one of them. A man should belong to himself, not to some complacent female bear-leader. Dr. Bickleigh had found at last what he had been looking for for the last ten years—the girl he really should have married: and that was no girl at all.
Thank God for freedom, he thought, and toasted its spirit in another sip of five-and-sixpenny port.
Oh, well, reminiscing is a bad thing. He picked up his fallen book and began to read.
The idea of being found out never entered his head. Except for one or two attacks of futile panic round about the time of the inquest, it never had. Why should it? Nothing could ever be proved; nothing could ever even be found out. There never had been the remotest possibility. There had been a certain amount of inevitable gossip, of course; but even that Dr. Bickleigh, for the time abnormally sensitive to atmosphere, had diagnosed as centring round Julia and her enormity. His practice had fallen off a little too, but that was to be expected; now it was nearly back to normal again. He had always been safe, but now the question of safety had almost ceased to apply. There was nothing to be safe about or the reverse. Dr. Bickleigh had practically forgotten that he had ever committed murder: except, of course, in so far as it reflected credit on himself.
The telephone-bell rang, and with a muttered curse he went to answer it. The instrument was in his consulting-room, and, out of long habit, he shut the door before lifting the receiver, though there was not even anyone else in the house. Florence and the cook had gone, and a woman came in from the village now daily.
“Hullo, is that Dr. Bickleigh?”
“Yes. Who is it?”
“This is Ivy speaking. Teddy—I must see you. Can you be at—at our old place at three o’clock to-morrow?”
“Really, Ivy,” Dr. Bickleigh expostulated. “Now you’re married, I don’t think . . .”
“Oh, it isn’t that.” Ivy sounded tearful as usual, and yet urgent too. She spoke in little gasps. “This is terribly important. You must come. Something awful . . .”
“What?” Dr. Bickleigh’s voice became suddenly sharp.
“I can’t tell you now. Not possibly. Something . . . no, I can’t. But you’ll be there to-morrow?”
“Yes. Three o’clock.”
“Without fail?”
“Yes; without fail.”
He rang off.
What the devil was the matter with Ivy now?
Anyhow, he had done with women. Definitely.
2
IVY WAS late, by nearly twenty minutes. She drove her car in unskilfully, shaving one side of the entrance. Dr. Bickleigh took the wheel from her, and drove it into the undergrowth beside his own, out of sight, while Ivy apologised. It was William’s car. She was not supposed to drive it. She hardly knew how to, and that was why she was so late. She would not have dared to bring it at all, but William had gone to London, and . . .
Dr. Bickleigh groaned in spirit. William had gone to London, and Ivy had demanded a rendezvous directly his back was turned. Was he never to be done with women?
They climbed up to the eyrie, Ivy throwing fearful glances towards the entrance of the quarry. Evidently she was terrified of being seen.
Dr. Bickleigh, clambering up behind her, noted her appearance at any rate with approval. Ivy certainly did look smart. Like the rest of Wyvern’s Cross, Dr. Bickleigh had hardly seen her since her emigration to Merchester. Unlike the rest of Wyvern’s Cross, he had hardly thought of her. He was surprised that she had changed so little. It was absurd to think of her as married, and to Chatford. And really, she was looking prettier than ever. Hang it all, she was wasted on Chatford; what did Chatford know, to appreciate a pretty girl? And obviously she was still fond of himself. Hence the rendezvous at the first opportunity. Rather touching, when one came to think of it. Thank goodness he hadn’t married her himself; but Ivy married to someone else, Ivy as a married woman, might provide her with the spice of interest which Ivy unmarried had so notably lacked. Well, well, well, there might be possibilities after all.
Dr. Bickleigh arrived at the top of the ascent in a very different mood from that in which he had begun it.
They disappeared inside.
The new Dr. Bickleigh did not hesitate where the old one might have done, even with Ivy. He took her in his arms at once.
She made some small effort to struggle, more with herself than with him. “No, Teddy, you mustn’t. I’m married now. Oh, Teddy, please let me go.” But, almost before he could have complied, her arms were round his neck and she was straining frantically to him.
“Ivy—dear girl.”
“Oh, Teddy, do you still love me? Really? Oh, do say you do.”
He said it.
They kissed.
No, Ivy hadn’t altered, Dr. Bickleigh mused; but he thought of her as Chatford’s wife, and that made her more amusing.
“Look, darling, there’s our old couch still there. Do you remember? The divan. Let’s sit on it.”
“Oh, no, Teddy, we mustn’t. . . . Not now. No, don’t.”
He drew her down on to it beside him. After the barest show of conventional resistance, she yielded.
Dear little Ivy. He really was rather fond of her. And it was nice to be so openly adored. At least, in small and infrequent doses it was.
He took her hands in his and peeled off her gloves, then pulled off her hat and ran his fingers, with complacent proprietorship, through her soft, fair curls. Ivy let him do as he liked with her.
It dawned on him that her thoughts were very much elsewhere. She did not respond, nor was there any answering amorousness in her blue eyes. She did not seem even to be noticing what he was doing. “Penny for your thoughts, dear,” he said jocularly.
The look she turned on him was so unexpected that he stiffened in his attitude of the moment. It was one of blank terror. He remembered her words on the telephone and read into them a more literal significance than he had credited to them before. What had Chatford been doing to her?
“Ivy! What’s the matter? Something’s wrong. Tell me, dear.”
She moistened her lips. “I—hardly know how to. It’s—terrible, Teddy. Dreadful!”
“What is?” This was something serious: he had never seen Ivy look like this.
“William’s gone to London to—to—”
“Good heavens, not run away from you, has he? Left you?”
“No, no. It’s about you, Teddy.” She began to shiver violently.
“Me?” he said in astonishment. “You mean, he’s gone to London about me?”
She nodded.
“Good heavens, what for? On business, do you mean? But he isn’t my solicitor. What on earth do you mean, Ivy?”
Her lips were shaking so much she could hardly frame the words. “He’s gone to—Scotland Yard.”
A sharp pain struck sharply through the left side of Dr. Bickleigh’s chest, just as if it had been pierced by a long pin; it was followed immediately by a dull, sickly ache. He stared at Ivy in plain panic, his mouth open, his eyes filmed with fear.
“Oh!” Ivy whispered, and shrank away from him.
Her movement roused him to pull himself together. With a literal physical effort he forced obedience on shaking limbs and quivering nerves. Ivy—must—not—guess.
“Scotland Yard?” he repeated, huskily but fairly evenly. “Good heavens, what for?”
Bit by bit Ivy, amid tears, divulged her news. It was the awful, wicked gossip that had been going round ever since Mrs. Bickleigh died. Teddy didn’t know? Oh, yes; it had. Nothing definite had been said, but the circumstances had been considered “queer,” and it had been hinted that quite a different story lay behind the verdict, which Dr. Bickleigh could tell if he chose.
“Am I to understand that Wyvern’s Cross has been accusing me of murdering Julia?” Dr. Bickleigh asked disgustedly. The news of this gossip was a complete revelation to him. Lot of damned old cats! He’d like to do something to the lot of them.
Oh, no; nothing so awful as that. But coming, as Mrs. Bickleigh’s death had, right in the middle of all the talk there had been about the doctor and that Miss Cranmere, well, Teddy had already been on the main news-page, and had simply and inevitably been promoted to its leading column, so to speak. From a star of scandal he had become a complete constellation. But only the vaguest hints had been dropped as to cause and effect.
Then, apparently, the whole simmering pot had boiled up, at a tea-party at Miss Peavy’s about a fortnight ago, into something very like plain speech. Miss Wapsworthy had been the leading spirit, seconded ably by Mrs. Torr. In the ordinary course it would just have been the usual letting off of feminine steam; but by a misfortune of misfortunes William had been there too, and heard it all. And what is delightful gossip to a village worthy, implied Ivy, is a deadly piece of seriousness to a solicitor. He had gone back to Wyvern’s Cross to talk to Mr. Torr about it the very next day. Why Mr. Torr? Because Mrs. Torr had said that her husband had not been altogether satisfied with the inquest last year.
“Blast the silly old hag!” burst out Dr. Bickleigh uncontrollably, white with rage. “Of all the . . . Couldn’t Chatford see it was all just the aimless chatter of these damned old women, with nothing else to do but spread scandalous stories about their neighbours? Couldn’t he see that?”
“Well, you see,” said Ivy timidly, “he—he hates you so, Teddy. I think—you ought to know that.”
“Hates me? Good heavens, I’ve never done anything to him. Why should he hate me?”
“Why, because—because—”
“My God, Ivy, you didn’t tell him about us? You did! You damned little fool. I . . .”
Ivy’s tears fell thicker and faster. “I knew you’d be angry. But I couldn’t help it. He got it out of me. You don’t know what he’s like. He—he knew I wasn’t—good, and . . . I tried not to tell him, Teddy. I swear I did. But you don’t know what he’s like. On and on . . .”
“All right, Ivy.” There was no good in losing his temper with the little fool. He must keep calm: calm. As long as he didn’t frighten or antagonise her, Ivy was an invaluable ally; a spy in Chatford’s dirty, underhand camp. As long as she thought he loved her, she would . . . “All right, dear.” He forced himself to smile, instead of hitting her in the face again as he longed to do—and this time go on hitting her. “Don’t cry. I quite see how it happened. And, anyhow, it’s done now. No wonder he hates me. And so he’s going out of his way to stir up this silly mare’s nest, eh? Well, that’s all right. Scotland Yard wouldn’t listen to him for a minute, of course. Even if he goes there at all. Probably he only said that to frighten you. He can’t be such a fool. And, even if they did, two minutes’ conversation would clear the whole thing up.”
“Would it?” said Ivy, brightening. “Then you don’t think it’s serious?”
“Serious? Good gracious me, no. How could anything so utterly ridiculous be serious?” His own words were already reassuring Dr. Bickleigh. This might be an infernal nuisance, but it could hardly be serious. “Why, it simply makes me laugh—that’s all.”
“Oh, Teddy, it’s wonderful of you to take it like that, dear. I feel so ashamed of William.”
Dr. Bickleigh actually did laugh, genuinely. “Why, don’t you see, when they hear the circumstances,” he pointed out eagerly, “that it’s just a case of retrospective jealousy towards the wife’s former lover, that’ll rob anything he has to tell them of nine-tenths of its value. They’d see through it at once. Just an insane idea of revenge.”
“But, Teddy, you wouldn’t tell them that?”
“What?”
“About the—the lover. It would be giving me away completely, wouldn’t it?”
“My dear Ivy,” said Dr. Bickleigh with some impatience, “I don’t intend to hang in order to shield your good name. That may be the sort of thing they do in books, but in real life it’d be a bit too much.”
“Oh, don’t,” shuddered Ivy. “Don’t talk about hanging. It—it makes me feel dreadful.”
“Silly darling,” Dr. Bickleigh soothed her, and she clung to him as frantically as if his death-warrant had been actually signed.
Dr. Bickleigh did not want to be amorous any more for the moment. He wanted the history of Chatford’s activities to date.
Between perfunctory caresses, he got it.
Chatford had begun by interviewing Mr. Torr. Mr. Torr had had nothing definite to say beyond a vague feeling that the bare facts, as presented in the coroner’s court, were improbable; and, if they were true, there must be others to explain th
em which, whether for good or for bad reasons, had been concealed. That was all he had meant in expressing dissatisfaction with the proceedings: the coroner had not probed deep enough.
Chatford had not told Ivy much about this interview, but he had added that the two had discusssed Mrs. Bickleigh’s character, which, of course, Mr. Torr knew a good deal more intimately than Chatford himself, and had arrived at the conclusion that, as she must be considered the most unlikely person in the world to give way to such weakness as habitual drug-taking, the apparent cause of this, her headaches, ought to be investigated a good deal more fully. That she had suffered from headaches of the most violent description during the last months of her life had been no secret to her friends; even with her strength of will she could not have concealed them; but the cause had been passed over very lightly in court. Sir Tamerton Foliott’s name had been mentioned, but he had not given evidence. Chatford intended to see him.
“But what’s the man getting at?” Dr. Bickleigh asked, puzzled. “How is all this going to help anything? What really is in Chatford’s mind?”
Ivy told him. Chatford and Mr. Torr and Miss Wapsworthy, all of them suspected something horrible: that Mrs. Bickleigh had taken the overdose of morphia deliberately, driven to it by her husband’s scandalous affair with Madeleine Cranmere.
“They believe that Julia committed suicide?” said Dr. Bickleigh, half incredulously.
Well, Ivy couldn’t say definitely that they believed: they believed in the possibility. And William was determined to drag it all up, so that Dr. Bickleigh’s name should be utterly discredited and he would have to leave Wyvern’s Cross for ever.
Dr. Bickleigh almost laughed out loud in his relief. So murder was not even in question at all. Why couldn’t the little idiot have said so at once, instead of frightening him like that? How funny: he’d never once thought of Julia’s death being put down to suicide. It was so utterly unlike her. Mr. Torr as an amateur psychologist was pretty good.
Dr. Bickleigh questioned Ivy further.
Sir Tamerton Foliott was not the only person Chatford intended to interview in London. Madeleine Bourne was there, if not her husband. Chatford was determined to get to the bottom of that affair. There, really, he had hinted to Ivy, was the crux. If Dr. Bickleigh had been as serious in his feelings as Wyvern’s Cross had believed (though clearly Madeleine had not been), then Mrs. Bickleigh undoubtedly had a strong motive for suicide. Chatford believed he could get an idea from Madeleine how serious he had been.