Antidote to Venom

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  It was perhaps inevitable that a good deal of their talk should become personal. He learnt something of her tastes and was thrilled to find them very similar to his own. They liked the same kind of music, and though she knew much more of literature than he, so far as he had followed her they had the same favourites. They were at one in a love of travel, of mountains and of Italy. In a word, George enjoyed their chat more than anything he had experienced for a long time.

  He wondered who she was and where she lived, but to his veiled and tentative questions she returned blandly unilluminating replies. Presently she said she must go, and though she thanked him for his attention, she was vague about paying a further visit.

  As George Surridge went to the station to meet M’Leod he sighed. What a woman! What grace, what sympathy, what kindliness! He could not help comparing her to Clarissa. If only he had a woman like this to confide in, to share his joys and sorrows, what a different life he would have led and what a different man he would be!

  She had not gone an hour till he bitterly regretted not having given her his own name and asked hers. Done in that open way, he now felt that she would have responded. Always that had been his failing—through indecision or timidity to miss his opportunities. By the time he decided on his action and screwed up his courage to the sticking point, it was too late: the moment had passed.

  For a time his duties put all other matters out of his mind. M’Leod proved a pleasant and competent man. He examined the monkeys with immense care, and said the disease seemed the same as that with which he had already dealt, in which case his serum would probably prove efficacious. With considerable skill he administered it. He was staying over till next day, and Surridge took him to the Club for dinner and on to a show at the city’s principal theatre.

  But when at last George Surridge got to bed, thoughts of the woman he had met took possession of his mind to the exclusion of all else. He pictured her as he had seen her, so charming and restful, so elegant in general effect, so dainty in such matters as gloves and shoes, so clear complexioned and healthy looking, so easy and graceful in her movements. What humour and intelligence there was in her expression, what vitality in her eyes, what kindliness in her smile! Never had George been so impressed by a casual encounter.

  Next day as he moved about on his lawful occasions, the memory of the meeting remained as a sort of background to all he did. An intense longing to see the woman again was growing up in his mind, and vaguely he began considering plans for finding her.

  As during the forenoon he carried out his daily inspection, he met Professor Burnaby coming out of the snake-house. Burnaby was a tall, lean old man with a high forehead and the clean-shaven, clean-cut features of the thinker. He peered at Surridge shortsightedly through his thick spectacles, then hailed him.

  “You’re coming round this afternoon, I hope,” he went on in a thin, high-pitched voice. “It’s going to be a great occasion for the house of Burnaby.”

  Surridge now remembered that there had been an invitation for himself and Clarissa to a cocktail party to mark the engagement of Joyce, the old man’s only daughter. He had intended to plead another engagement, but really there was no reason why he shouldn’t go, and he answered pleasantly that he was looking forward to it.

  Burnaby, who was very well off, lived close by in a small but charming house in some half acre of well-laid-out grounds. The road ran at the back of the house and at each side were the tiny estates of neighbours. In front was the glory of the little place: well kept sward sloping gently down to the River Choole, here a broad and sluggish stream. The grounds were separated from the actual water by the old towpath only, now practically unused. On the farther bank was one of the municipal parks, with its background of evergreen shrubs and fine trees. Houses were all but invisible from the grounds, and save for the occasional sight of strolling citizens at the other side of the Choole, it was hard to realise that “Riverview” was not far from the centre of one of the largest towns of England.

  When George had finished at the office, he found it was time to start for the party. Calshort Road, in which the Burnabys lived, ran along the side of the Zoo and into it opened the small private door behind the monkey-houses, already referred to. George let himself out through this door to find Dr. and Mrs. Marr passing. They also, it appeared, were going to the Burnabys.

  “Didn’t expect to meet you here,” the doctor greeted him. “I thought cocktail parties were an abomination in your eyes?”

  “I met Burnaby to-day and he asked me specially,” George answered. “He’s been civil to me and I thought I’d better come.”

  “But you’ve been so good to him about the snakes,” Mrs. Marr put in. “Only for you he would never have been given permission to carry on his experiments.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He’s trying to do something pretty useful.”

  “What is it exactly?” Mrs. Marr asked. “I know he’s doing a book on snakes, but what particular point is he working on?”

  “Cancer,” her husband answered briefly. “You know that injections of venom cure haemophilia and other diseases, and he’s been trying if it will kill the cancer cells.”

  “The professor’s very clever, isn’t he?” Mrs. Marr went on. “I think it’s marvellous that he’s still working at his age. He must surely be nearly eighty?”

  “Seventy-four, I believe,” Surridge replied. “I know because he had to give his age when applying for leave to conduct his experiments.”

  “He looks older. I don’t know what he’ll do when Joyce goes away. I’m delighted about Joyce: she’s a splendid woman and she’s had a pretty dull time looking after him. She well deserves some happiness and I hope she’ll get it.”

  “The old man will get a housekeeper,” Marr put in.

  “He’ll have to, unless he has some other relative we’ve never heard of. That Lily Cochrane’s a good girl, but she’s too young to keep house for him.”

  As she spoke, Mrs. Marr knocked at the door which they had now reached, and a moment later George was being greeted by Joyce Burnaby and her fiancé Alex Tansley. Joyce was a woman of about forty, with a calm dependable-looking face and clear straight-forward eyes; Tansley, a pleasant but ordinary looking man of about her own age.

  Quite a number of people from the little world of the Birmington University were there, as well as some of the neighbours and leading citizens. Most were known to George, but as it happened, he found himself wedged into a corner with one of the few men he had never seen before. To his surprise he discovered that this was a relative of Burnaby’s, a nephew.

  “I didn’t know he had a nephew,” George declared. “By the way, my name is Surridge, and I’ve got to know your uncle fairly intimately since he came to live here. I’m in charge of the Zoo and I meet him in connection with his snake serum work.”

  As George said this he noticed that his new acquaintance treated him to a strange and rather searching look. He felt as if he were being somehow weighed up: as if the stranger were anxious to know what manner of man he was. He was about to remark on it jokingly, when the other looked away and answered quietly: “I know your name. I’ve heard my uncle speak of you. Mine, by the way, is Capper, and I’m a solicitor in Bursham. I know my uncle is very grateful to you for the facilities you have given him to carry on his work.”

  They continued chatting for a few moments, during which time Capper’s manner remained completely normal. But the more he saw of him, the less George took to him. He was certainly not too prepossessing in appearance. A man of some five and forty, he was short and stout, with a very narrow and almost entirely bald head and close set eyes of a rather too extreme shrewdness. His features were good, but his expression was sly and his movements somehow suggested those of a snake.

  Capper, however, appeared to be a favourite of Burnaby’s, for George heard the old man speaking to him in an almost affectionate tone.
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  It was some time before George himself had an opportunity to talk to Burnaby, but presently he managed to get near him.

  “I haven’t seen you to congratulate you on the engagement,” he said pleasantly. “I’m delighted on Miss Burnaby’s account, but sorry on yours. I’m afraid you’ll be a little lonely when she goes away.”

  The old man rubbed his thin hands: a characteristic gesture. “I shall be indeed: terribly lonely. However, I’m so glad for Joyce’s sake that I don’t mind about myself. She’s been so wonderfully good. I just can’t say, Surridge, what I owe to her.”

  “I can well understand it.”

  “She certainly deserves some happiness, for it’s been pretty dull for her here. But I think she’s going to get it. You’ve met Tansley?”

  “Yes; a nice fellow.”

  For some moments they discussed the engagement, and then George politely turned to the old man’s work. “How are you getting on recently?” he asked. “It’s some time since I heard.”

  Burnaby shrugged. His manner lost its slight exuberance and he spoke as if he was facing disappointment.

  “Well, it’s rather slow. I’m doing a new set of experiments which I hope will be more successful. That, by the way, reminds me that I want some more venom. I’d like to take it from one of the king cobras. Nesbit has promised to give me a hand. You’ve no objection, I suppose?”

  George, as a matter of fact, had an objection, though he didn’t say so. This taking of venom from large snakes was dangerous work. They were so extra-ordinary quick. One person gripped their neck in a sort of tongs and thus theoretically immobilised them, while another either allowed them to bite a sponge or other absorbent article, or abstracted the venom direct from the tooth with a Pravaz syringe. But though the principle was good, it didn’t always work out in practice. It wasn’t easy, for example, to grip the neck securely without injuring the snake, and only a little carelessness would enable it to strike before capture or to escape from its pillory. However, Nesbit, the keeper, was an able man and could be depended on to take every precaution. Besides, the original permission given Burnaby by the Board specifically covered the operation.

  “You use guinea-pigs for your tests?” George went on, for something to say.

  “Not recently,” Burnaby returned. “I’ve been using mice for some time for the preliminary experiments and guinea-pigs only for final confirmation. Mice are cheaper and easier to get.”

  “It’s quite a big trade, isn’t it, producing animals for experiment?” asked Capper, who was standing close by and had heard Burnaby’s remark.

  Burnaby agreed. “One feels sorry for the little creatures,” he went on, “but what is one to do? By the way, Surridge, have you met my nephew, David Capper? I owe him a lot. He’s the most wonderful amateur mechanic and wood-worker, and he’s made me many an intricate piece of apparatus for my work which I never could have got otherwise.” He turned to Capper. “Mr. Surridge has been very kind to me about the snakes, David.”

  When a little later the trio broke up and Burnaby drifted away to speak to other guests, George saw that once again Capper was regarding him with that same appraising, questioning look that he had observed before. This time he was going to speak, but Capper forestalled him by suddenly turning away to greet a lady who was passing. George had no further chance to put his question, but during the remainder of the evening the man’s conduct remained a puzzling and slightly disturbing recollection.

  Chapter IV

  Venom: Through the Affections

  For some couple of months after the Burnaby’s reception time passed uneventfully for George Surridge. Once again some unexpected luck at poker recouped the greater part of his losses and left him in easier, if still precarious, circumstances. His relations with Clarissa remained much as usual: if they were not happier, they were not visibly worse. On the other hand, things at the Zoo were better. The elephants had arrived in good condition and had proved great acquisitions. The disease among the monkeys had ceased and there had been no more deaths. They had received some rare and greatly prized small cats from Indo-China: creatures which not even the London Zoo possessed. The rebuilding was going on satisfactorily and the new watchman in Cochrane’s place was doing well.

  But though George’s position was temporarily easier, he was still very short of money. If only, he thought for the hundredth time, he had his aunt’s five thousand! Nothing less than a sum of this magnitude would put him permanently right. A few pounds at poker was well enough; it would meet gambling debts and immediate necessities, but to obtain the fundamental improvement his circumstances needed would take something very different.

  With intense though hidden interest he had noted the change in Miss Pentland’s health, and he had been a little shocked at his own disappointment when he found it was not deteriorating as rapidly as he had hoped. That she was ill he felt sure; her face had the drawn pallor of disease. And she was, he thought, getting weaker, though so slowly that there seemed no promise of an early inheritance.

  Invariably at this stage George reminded himself that he did not wish the old lady any harm. But as the days passed, his disappointment at her continuing strength changed to actual dismay. More than anything he had ever wanted, he longed for that money.

  Then one night a dreadful idea shot into his mind. She was ill and very old: she must die soon. If her death was too much delayed—could it not be—accelerated?

  George was filled with horror when he realised just what he had been thinking. Why, that would be—he could scarcely bring himself to frame the word—that would be murder! Good God, how dreadful! Hastily he banished the thought.

  But in spite of all his efforts, it came back. It grew, not less hateful, but more familiar. He toyed with the idea, wondering how such a thing might be done, then again assured himself with vehemence that nothing in heaven or earth would ever induce him to be guilty of such a hideous crime.

  Still the horrible suggestion lurked in the recesses of his mind.…

  The next afternoon it happened that George had business at the other side of the city, and when it was finished he took a bus back. As he sat down he glanced indifferently round. Then a hand seemed to grip his heart. There, just opposite him, was the woman whom he had shown round the Gardens, and whose image had ever since remained in the background of his thoughts.

  The meeting was so unexpected that for a moment he couldn’t move. Then, recovering himself, he leant forward.

  “I wonder if you remember me?” he asked diffidently. “We met some weeks ago at the Zoo.”

  “Of course.” She smiled in a conventional way and he was thrilled to notice the colour deepen in her cheeks. There was a vacant seat beside her. With pounding heart he took it.

  “An unexpected pleasure,” he went on as lightly as he could. “I have often hoped you would come back to take another look at our mutual friends.”

  “I wanted to,” she answered, and he found that her voice was infinitely more moving and delightful even than he had supposed. “But I’ve not been able. I don’t live here, you know.”

  “I hope you’ll manage it,” he went on. “After you left I remembered I had not shown you our photographs. We’ve got some quite decent ones. There’s one I should think must be unique: of Tommy—you remember Tommy, the lion?—springing across his cage. It’s rather fine.”

  She smiled and her eyes lit up with interest. “How did you manage to get that?”

  George warmed to his subject. “A fluke really,” he declared, going on to talk about the intricacies of animal photography. “But I can’t explain it in a few seconds.” He paused and glanced out of the window. They were just about to leave the centre of the city. “I wonder if I might be very daring? I was just going to have some tea. Will you be extraordinarily kind and join me?”

  He waited as if the retention of his job were at issue. Then a surge
of delight passed over him as she answered: “That would be nice. Thank you, yes, I’ll come.”

  They were near what he considered the best restaurant in the city and he installed her in a secluded alcove. It was early and they had the place practically to themselves. George felt absurdly nervous: he couldn’t understand what was the matter with him. He particularly wished to be easy and offhand, though pleasant in manner, but he knew himself to be addle-headed, tongue-tied and as self-conscious as a boy in his teens. On many occasions he had mentally rehearsed conversations with her, but now all these fled from his mind. He could think of nothing but the most inane platitudes, and even these he pronounced hesitatingly and without conviction.

  But marvellously she didn’t appear to notice it. Her lips formed themselves into a slow smile which turned his heart to water, while she spoke to him as if he were a normal human being, almost indeed her equal. Her soft low-pitched voice fell upon his ears like distant music. He was so moved that it took all his resolution to maintain his rôle of casual acquaintance.

  Presently the subject of the Zoo animals palled and, without deliberate intention, they began to talk of themselves. He told her that he was married, believing it not only right to do so, but wise. On her part she was equally frank.

  Her name, it appeared, was Nancy Weymore, and she was a widow. Her husband had been a doctor in Worcestershire, and had built up a large and lucrative practice when he developed sepsis from an infected cut and died in great pain. Then she had endured a further shock. It transpired that he had been living almost entirely upon income and had saved but little money. As she had none herself, she had therefore to find a job. She had been lucky in getting one as model in the fashion department of one of the big Birmington shops. Unfortunately, owing to a reconstruction, she had recently lost this job, and for the last three months she had been acting as companion to an invalid lady living in the country near Neverton, some dozen miles from Birmington. The old lady, she said, was a dear and she was very happy with her.