by Heron Carvic
Dr. Knight, appearing from his surgery at the back of the hall, took one look and sniffed.
“Gas?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
The doctor stood back from the surgery door. “In here. One on the table. One on the couch. Anne,” he called up the stairs, “ask your mother to come down and help me—urgent. Oxygen. Your probationer’s back again—overdressed this time, wearing a couple of women as a stole. Prepare two beds, please.”
There was nothing to do but to wait.
Delphick waited at The Meadows. He had rung his chief at the Yard to bring him up to date and to prepare him for the sensation that the newspapers were certain to make of the morning’s sequel to the events of the previous night. They had agreed, in view of the wild rumors circulating locally, that as soon as he could get a statement from Miss Seeton, Delphick would be well advised in his turn to give a reasonably full and factual statement to the Press. He had paid a brief visit to the nursing-home to confirm that the two witnesses whom he was anxious to question were once again asleep; although on this occasion he could hardly hold the doctor to blame. Dr. Knight had spared a moment to tell him that Miss Seeton was a ‘cert and shouldn’t be too long now’, adding with enthusiasm that she had already vomited twice, which appeared to please him. Mrs. Venning, the doctor diagnosed as ‘only a might’. Provided that she did not relapse, provided that pneumonia did not supervene and provided a host of other technicalities that Delphick failed to understand, ‘she might make it. No reaction so far; no retching; not even a contraction’. The doctor had shaken his head in disapproval. ‘They’d have to see.’
Delphick had retreated, baffled, to the sitting-room to collect Bob for a search of The Meadows, but Anne Knight’s entrance had changed his mind. She had come to explain that one of the staff was with Miss Seeton, that her mother and father were busy with Mrs. Venning and, as there was nothing that she could usefully do at the moment, her mother had sent her down to entertain the detectives. Could she get them coffee or anything? Delphick had picked up his cue. Where Mrs. Knight led, he could surely follow.
“Not for me, thanks. I was just going. No, not you, Sergeant,” as Bob moved, “you’d better stay here till Miss Seeton recovers. And let me know as soon as she can talk. I shall be over the way at Mrs. Venning’s. I hold you responsible for her. She’s not to get loose again till I’ve seen her. There’s no knowing what she might get up to. She’s not to go out. If necessary, arrest her, take her umbrella away, anything you like, but keep her here until I arrive.”
“Oh, sir, I nearly forgot.” Bob reached into his raincoat pocket and withdrew Miss Seeton’s umbrella. It was broken. He placed the remains gently on the arm of the sofa, where it lay bedraggled, like a bird with a broken wing. “It was lying near her,” Bob went on, “so I stuffed it into my pocket. It—well, it didn’t seem right somehow to leave it behind.”
The two detectives regarded it in silence. Watching their respectful attitudes, their sombre faces, Anne had the impression that they were mourning the death of an old friend.
Delphick sighed. “I’m sorry about that.” He picked up the relic. “I’ll ask Miss Seeton, of course, but I doubt she’ll want it back. And, if not, I think I should like to keep it as a memento.” He moved to the door. “By the way, Sergeant, you might ring Mrs. Bloomer and explain. Otherwise she’ll be worrying.” Delphick took his leave.
Outside, P.C. Potter had rounded up the local inhabitants, herded them back into the village and sent them about their normal pursuits. Delphick got rid of the reporters by promising to give a Press conference, at The George and Dragon, as soon as he was free. Potter, who had stationed himself at the nursing-home gates in order to prevent any further attempt at unlawful assembly, turned to the superintendent with eagerness.
“Anything further you’d be wanting me to do, sir?”
Delphick gazed at him absently for a moment, then: “Why, yes, constable. If it won’t interfere with your other duties, I should be glad if you could help me search The Meadows.”
“Yes, sir. Certainly. A pleasure, sir.”
“See if we can find any trace of a connection between the girl and Lebel. Any trace of drugs. Anything at all. We shan’t, of course, but we have to look. Even if we can only trace the whereabouts of that woman—what’s her name—who looks after Mrs. Venning, it would be something.” Delphick began to walk down the lane.
P.C. Potter, personal assistant, in person, to a superintendent from Scotland Yard, paced beside him. “Mrs. Fratters, you mean, sir. I’m afraid she’s gone off, sir.”
Into Delphick’s mind, which had wandered ahead of him, intruded a picture of Mrs. Fratters suddenly, inexplicably, having started to decay. He pulled himself together. This lack of sleep was beginning to tell. “Gone off? Where?”
“To her sister’s, so she said, sir, when I saw her this morning getting on the Ashford bus. And none too happy about it, too, sir, as I understand it, sir. Not wanting to go. But said that Mrs. Venning had said that she wanted to be alone for a day or two. I suppose you can understand it, sir.”
“Yes,” agreed Delphick, “I suppose I can.”
Bob, waiting at the nursing-home as instructed, put down the telephone and returned to the sitting-room.
“I got on to Mrs. Bloomer,” he told Anne, “and she said she’d have something ready whenever Miss Seeton got back. And it wouldn’t matter when as it was a cold veal and ham pie.” He sounded wistful. “Poor Miss Seeton. I don’t suppose she’ll be feeling much like food.”
Anne handed him a plate of cakes and poured the coffee that she had prepared while he was telephoning. She laughed. “Don’t be too sure. I don’t think anything Miss Seeton did would surprise me. Remember she’s been taking a lot of exercise. And lost her breakfast into the bargain. She ought to have been feeling pretty sorry for herself this morning, but she wasn’t. Dad says he’s never seen anybody like her for her age. He says she’s tough as a boot and can’t think how she does it. What exactly did she do, by the way?”
Bob looked puzzled. “Well, we don’t really know. She was talking to the vicar and apparently she suddenly said the word ‘Gas’ and ran off like a scalded cat. But we don’t know how she knew.” He sat down on the sofa beside Anne and started to eat a cake. “The kitchen window at The Meadows was smashed. That must have been how she broke her umbrella. And then she must have climbed in—or rather dived in; it’s only a tiny window—over the kitchen sink, switched off the oven, unlocked the door and dragged Mrs. Venning out. They were both lying in a heap in the doorway when I got there. The place reeked.”
“So you just picked them up and brought them to us.”
“Well, yes,” acknowledged Bob. “We hadn’t got the car, you see. I did think of ringing for an ambulance, but it would have wasted time. It seemed quicker really to cart them over and dump them here.”
Anne smiled at him. “Which probably saved Mrs. Venning’s life.”
Bob brooded. “She won’t thank me for that.”
“Not now, maybe,” she conceded. “But if she does win through, she may later. I think if people are meant to die they do and if they’re meant to be saved they are and that’s all about it.”
Bob gazed at her, lost in admiration for this simple, splendid philosophy; this simply splendid girl. Anne grew embarrassed under his steady regard.
“Oh,” she said, “how awful. I haven’t even thanked you for the flowers and chocolates.”
It was Bob’s turn for embarrassment. He looked out of the window, eyed the blaze of colour in the beds around the lawn dismally and apologised. “I see now. Stupid of me, I didn’t think. Coals to Newcastle.”
“Rubbish,” she replied. “I’ve always thought that Newcastle’s probably very grateful for the coal. Think of the work it must save them.” She eyed the blaze of colour in the vases around the room happily, picked up the box of chocolates and offered: “Have
some. They’re very good.”
Bob put down the empty cake plate, took a chocolate, bit into caramel and was rendered speechless.
Anne gurgled. “I thought you were bringing them for Miss Seeton. You know, I like her. She’s a funny little thing and I hardly know her at all, but I like her a lot. I think she’s a pet, don’t you?”
“M’m’m!” said Bob, fighting to free his teeth.
“Some of them are awful. Take old Miss Hant. For all of me, anyone can take her; she’s a horror.”
“Doesn’t make any difference,” mumbled Bob.
“Believe me, it does,” she contradicted him, “if you have to cope with them. Miss Hant’s been creating half the morning.”
Bob, having won his fight, swallowed quickly and burst into speech; it came out louder than he had intended. “It doesn’t make any difference,” he shouted. He blushed, turned down the volume and continued, “I mean it doesn’t make any difference as to how you feel about them. Not always, I mean. I mean you can suddenly see someone and know exactly how you feel about them. Know that’s it, I mean. Know that you always will feel like that about them, I mean.” He reviewed his exposition and wondered if he had made his meaning clear. The call of duty echoed in his thoughts and he came down to earth. “What was that about Miss Hant?” he asked. “What’s wrong with her?”
Anne was disappointed. Bother Miss Hant. Just when the conversation had been going so well. “There’s nothing wrong with her—at least nothing more than usual. Apparently she was expecting a visit from her solicitor this morning and was upset because he hasn’t been yet.”
“And he won’t,” said Bob.
“Oh, I expect he will,” she replied. “As I told her, he’s probably busy. He might look in this afternoon, or else tomorrow morning.
“No, he won’t,” said Bob, “he’s in quod.”
Anne gasped. “In prison? Mr. Trefold Morton? But he can’t be. He’s a solicitor.”
“That’s why.” And Bob proceeded to give her a résumé of his and The Oracle’s late night final.
Anne was shocked. Impulsively, she put her hand on his arm. “I think it’s wicked. You can hardly have had any sleep at all. You must feel awful.”
Bob placed his hand over hers. “I feel fine.”
“And to think of bringing me flowers and chocolates when you must have been so tired.”
“That was easy,” Bob told her. “I was thinking of you all the time.”
“But . . .”
He leaned closer. “You know—you must know—how I feel about you.”
Anne tried to draw her hand away. She failed. “No, I . . . Yes, I . . . But you can’t. Oh, you don’t understand,” she cried in desperation. “Look at me—I’m plain.”
He looked; past the trim figure, the neat uniform, to let his eyes linger on her face. “Yes,” he agreed.
She turned her head away. “Well—there you are.”
Bob addressed the back of her head. “I love you,” he said.
Dr. Knight opened the door. He stopped. “I imagine it’s compulsive,” he observed.
Still holding Anne, Bob leaped to his feet, realised, then hurriedly lowered her to the floor.
The doctor watched them with interest. “Yes, obviously compulsive,” he decided. “As you know, Anne, I would be the last to interfere, but I feel it only right that you should be apprised of the facts and be warned.”
Anne grinned at him. “What’s compulsive, Dad?”
Her father looked severe. “This habit he’s got. Picking up women, carrying them about and then putting them down somewhere else. Once could be an impulse. Two—especially two at a time—must be viewed with grave concern. But three—that’s compulsion. To the best of my knowledge, it’s a completely new symptom and I doubt there’s a cure. I’m only speaking for your own good,” he told her. “You will have to give due consideration to the fact that, whatever you may be doing at any particular time, you may be suddenly grabbed off your feet and put down somewhere else in a completely different position. That is . . . h’rm.” Realising that his flight of fancy had taken him further into the stratosphere than he had intended, the doctor cleared his throat, abandoned the flight and bailed out. He brightened and turned to Bob. “On the other hand, young man, if any time you need a job, let me know. Should we ever be slack, we could always drum up trade by sending you out as a retriever.”
Bob stood, huge and hugely embarrassed. His mouth opened in preparation for speech; to explain; to apologise. Inspiration failed him and his mouth closed.
“In view of your very natural anxiety,” continued the doctor with glinting enjoyment, “and to forestall those eager questions which I feel sure a natural diffidence, rather than a lapse of memory, is restraining you from asking, I had better give you the latest news of your patients.” Bob started: Mrs. Venning, Miss Seeton—he’d forgotten them. “Which was the reason for my interrupting your—um—discussion with my daughter. Mrs. Venning may do, I think; though I suspect a slight heart condition there. No question of an interview, I’m afraid. Even with complete quiet, it’ll be touch and go for the next day or two. Miss Seeton, on the other hand, is as bobbish as can be. Extraordinary resilience. Wish I knew her secret. She must be made of India-rubber. You can talk to her any time you like. She wanted to go home, but I’ve forbidden it. She ought to need rest, even if she doesn’t, so I’ve ordered her to stay in bed.”
Behind him, Miss Seeton gave a polite cough. Dr. Knight spun round, blocking the doorway. “Get back to bed, woman, I told you to stay there.”
Miss Seeton smiled at him and held out her hand. “Yes, I know, doctor, a most kind suggestion, but I’m quite all right now and I wouldn’t dream of troubling you further. The nurse tells me that Mrs. Venning is a little better. Such a relief. So thank you again,” she withdrew her hand. “I really do feel that I must go.”
chapter
~14~
IT WAS OVER. Superintendent Delphick felt depressed as he and Sergeant Ranger journeyed back to London by train. The Assize had gone well enough. As for young X, or the Ginger Nut as the papers called him, his dumbness had got him no place: detained during Her Majesty’s pleasure, under medical supervision; so he’d be kept locked up until he spoke and if he spoke they’d lock him up for having spoken—which settled his hash. His defending counsel had been doing well and it had looked a bit tricky until Miss Seeton had started complaining about the damage to her hat—trust her to pull a rabbit out of it. From then on, once the laughter had died down and they’d restored order in Court, there’d never been any doubt. The foreman of the jury could hardly wait for the end of the judge’s summing up before bouncing to his feet to announce his popular, if unconventional: “There’s no need for us to retire, Your Honour, if it’s all the same to you. He’s guilty of all you said and a sight more besides by our reckoning.” Trefold Morton, too, had gone down for a nice stretch for embezzlement. There was still a chance they might catch him out on the drugs as well, but that wasn’t his pigeon, it would be up to the Drug Squad. Chris Brinton and the Ashford lot were happy enough: the case had cleared up a few spots of trouble in their manor. But, for himself, there was no blinking the fact that his assignment had been to catch Lebel. And he hadn’t. César had run rings around them. The only person who ever seemed to set eyes on him was Miss Seeton herself and she appeared to be fully capable of dealing with him in her own way whenever she did. If César had had another go at her this last week, when they were ready and set up for him . . . But obviously Lebel had given his best and chucked it in. She should be safe enough now. And the local bobby’d keep his eyes open. César would pop up somewhere else and they’d pick him up eventually. But meanwhile, for himself, he had to admit—he’d failed. Though they could chalk it up to their credit that if it hadn’t been for Bob, Miss Seeton would have been drowned. But after all they weren’t in business as lifesavers. No, scrap that—fundamentally, he supposed, that was what they were. Delphick grinned. He was going t
o frame that broken umbrella of hers and hang it on his office wall as a reminder not to get smug. With Lebel identified it had seemed so easy. From the moment she had poked him in the ribs in Covent Garden and said ‘Naughty’ or words to that effect, Miss Seeton had laid it on the line for them and they had followed along behind, mopping up this and that as they went, until he’d let himself be hypnotised into believing that she’d produce César and hand him over, neatly trussed and garnished, on a plate. Actually she had produced him—twice—and it was they who had failed to do the trussing. Funny, that trick of hers of being able to see into people’s motives and backgrounds, without always fully realising what it was she saw. Or rather drew. They could do with her on the staff at the Yard. A good thing really Narcotics weren’t going to try and press charges against Mrs. Venning. One way and another you could say she’d paid her account. In any case, there was only Miss Seeton’s report of a conversation; the Venning herself was too ill to make sense and at least they’d learnt a new slant on how people got hooked on drugs—for all the good it would do them.
It was over. Somehow he’d known it would be from the moment Miss Seeton had broken her umbrella. Arm her with a brolly and all hell let loose. But take it away and everything quietened down at once. Pity they hadn’t picked up young Caesar, but you couldn’t do everything. Caesar wouldn’t be any use to his own bosses now that he was marked and Miss Seeton could finger him for the Covent Garden do, and if they thought there was any danger of his talking, they’d probably wipe him out themselves which would save a lot of trouble all round . . . Anne Knight. It was a beautiful name. Anne . . . Anne Ranger. Somehow that was even better. More natural. He’d got leave this week-end, she’d promised to come up and they’d have dinner and do a show on Saturday, and on Sunday—he must think of something for Sunday—and . . . Bob gazed out of the carriage window at his private view of a heart-moving future. It was only just beginning.