by Bess Norton
“I hope so. He has to see the surgeon again in a week or two. Dr. Murray will see him, too. But in the meantime we must just be glad he’s so well otherwise.” I let her go into the scullery, and then I followed her. “What sort of ring was it, Mrs. Cox?”
She turned back from the sink. “Oh, beautiful, Miss! One of them square emeralds. Ever so pretty. Just your color, Miss. You always go for green, don’t you?”
Then she must have been right. Simon had bought the ring for me. Dallas was the large solitaire diamond type: she would want plenty of flash for her money—or for Simon’s money.
I told Alan on the way to the shops, after surgery. I had to. He wasn’t as surprised as I had been. “Pity,” he commented. “And do you want an emerald?”
“I did,” I said. “But not now.”
“What then?”
I thought about it, as he threaded his way through the traffic. “Would you think I was mad if I said I’d love an opal?”
“No, love. But aren’t they—don’t the old wives say they’re unlucky?”
“I don’t care what the old wives say. I love them—the way they change with the weather, green in the sun and blue under clouds”
Alan smiled. “I’ve heard it said that they change with the wearer’s mood, too. The bluer the bluer, if you’re with me.”
“And the greener the greener?” I laughed. “Maybe they do. You’ll have an ever-ready mood guide to consult, then.”
“You’re sure that’s what you want, love? I want you to have what you really like best.”
I was still determined that an emerald was out. “Opal,” I said firmly. “Please!”
The man in the Jewel Casket was a little startled. “An opal?” he said. “It isn’t usual in an engagement ring, sir.”
“Never mind.” Alan peered into the glass counter. “Show us what you have.”
There were about 20 on a velvet tray, and they were all beautiful I was fascinated by the dreamy shifting of their colors. I narrowed it down to two, and only one fitted, sol said, “May I have this one, Alan?”
It was deep delphinium-blue shot with peacock and lime, and it had a look of magic about it. The tiny diamonds fringing it were just bright enough to light it without taking away its own beauty. The salesman didn’t think much of my choice. “The dark one, Madam?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not a fire opal?” He held up a moonlight and gold flashing stone. “These are much more highly thought of, Madam.”
“Not by me,” I said obstinately. “This is the one.”
“Then we’ll have it,” Alan told him. “Put it in a case, will you?” He turned to me as we waited. “You’re very undemanding, my love. That dark one was less than half the price of the fiery ones. Are you sure you don’t want to swop, before it’s too late?”
“I want that one,” I assured him. “I love it, Adam. It’s a heavenly color. It’s like the delphiniums at—” I realized what I was saying and stopped.
Back in the car he said, “The delphiniums at Allanby?”
I looked at his square, intelligent face, the texture of his lips, and stifled the memory. “No,” I said. “At home. In the garden.” I went on embroidering. “I used to lie under them with one of those paper Japanese parasols, and drink lemonade made much too strong, out of bright yellow crystals in a packet. I wasted all the summer afternoons that way—”
“We’ll have delphiniums one day,” he promised. He didn’t know what he was saying, or how determined I was never to have anything of the kind, ever again.
“Poppies and lupins,” I said. “And honeysuckle.”
“And mignonette.” He turned the car onto Retby Lane. “But where, I don’t know.”
“We’ll find somewhere,” I assured him. And then I remembered. “Alan, could you possibly stop at Mrs. Tarsh’s and drop me off?’
“I won’t drop you Off. I’ll come in with you. Between us we may get away quicker. I have to call, anyhow. I said I would. Her blood pressure was up last night.”
Johnson opened the door before we reached it, and he was very white. “But I’ve only just put the telephone down!” he jerked. “Oh, Miss!”
Alan took one look at him and ran up the stairs. I hung back. “What is it, Johnson?”
“She—she’s gone, Miss. Five minutes ago. I’d just seen Mr. Bartleby out, and when I went back she was dying. I phoned for the doctor, but—”
“Sit down,” I urged. “It’s been a shock to you.” I pushed him into the big porter’s chair in the corner of the wide hall and searched for some brandy. “Drink this,” I told him. “Go on, you need it.” He drank it obediently, coughed, and burst into tears. Like a child, he clung to me. “Poor Sadie,” he said, “She won’t know what to do, without me to fetch and carry for her.”
He had calmed down by the time Alan came downstairs again. I looked at Alan inquiringly.
He nodded briefly. “I’m so sorry, Johnson. I’m afraid we’ve lost her,” he said gently. “I’m sure you did everything you could. I’ll get Nurse Green to come and see to things for you.”
The old man shook his head violently. “No, not Nurse Green,” he begged. “She wouldn’t have liked that, Sadie wouldn’t, sir. I’ll manage.”
“Indeed you won’t!” I told him. “Alan, I’ll come back later and do everything.” I hugged Johnson’s shoulder. “May I stay?”
“If you will, Miss. She was fond of you. I’d rather it was you.”
“All right.” I nodded to Alan. “You go on. I’ll come later.”
I made Johnson sit in the kitchen with me and drink strong tea until I was sure he was over the shock. And then I went upstairs and did what I could for Mrs. Tarsh, for the last time. She looked extraordinarily peaceful, and years younger, as old people so often do when the tension of life is relaxed.
I had just finished when the front doorbell rang. I heard Johnson go through to the hall as I ran down the stairs. It was Dallas. “You phoned for me?” she said.
“It’s too late, Doctor,” Johnson told her. “She’s gone. Miss Dair’s just—”
They saw me then. I went forward reluctantly. “She’s gone, Dallas, She must have been very beautiful when she was young,” I told Johnson.
Dallas stared at me. “What right have you to pronounce life extinct?” she demanded in her pedantic way. “I think that is the province of a physician.”
“Quite,” I agreed. “Alan will give a certificate. He was here an hour ago.”
Johnson wandered away to the kitchen again, looking thoroughly lost, and she looked after him. “I see. And what is to be done about this man? He can’t stay here alone.”
“Why not?”
"Why, because he can’t look after himself, of course! Obviously he must go into one of the old people’s homes. I’ll fix it this afternoon.” She dragged out her notebook and scrawled something in it.
I took a deep breath. “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” I told her sharply. “How dare you!”
She stiffened. “Now see here, Lanna. I’ve had just about as much interference from you as I’m prepared to take. As far as I’m concerned you’re the housekeeper in the practice. Medical matters are not your affair.”
“Johnson’s welfare isn’t a medical matter,” I told her. “It’s a matter of common sense, and common humanity. Leave him alone, can’t you!”
She slapped her bag shut again. “Very well! I shall speak to Simon about it.”
I felt like a small girl threatened by the Headmistress. “You do just that,” I said. I pretty well pushed her out at the front door and went back to Johnson in the kitchen.
“Will you be all right up here alone?” I asked him. “Or would you like someone to spend the night here with you for a few days?”
“I’ll be all right, Miss. There’s always been just the two of us, see. Afterward ... I don’t know. I’ll have to find a place to go I suppose. She ... she’s left me all right for money.”
“You must notify her lawyers. Did you say i
t was Bartleby’s?”
Yes, that’s right, Miss. I told you—Mr. Bartleby was here this morning.”
I telephoned Bartleby, Bartleby and Bartleby for him before I left. “But what an extraordinary thing!” said “young” Mr. Bartleby, when his secretary put me through. “I was only with the poor lady this morning. She’d made a new will, you know. I went to deliver the copy to her.”
He assured me that he would keep an eye on Johnson, and get the executors to arrange the funeral. I said, “By the way—who are her executors?”
I wondered if some distant relative would pop up, or one of Mrs. Tarsh’s children would return from overseas. Or if poor Johnson would have nobody but the dull-sounding Mr. Bartleby to turn to.
“Why, myself, of course; and Dr. Pullar.”
“Dr. Pullar isn’t well,” I told him firmly. “You’ll have to carry on alone. I’ll tell him the news when I get back. But I wouldn’t worry him yet, if I were you—he’s had a head injury, and he isn’t quite himself, yet.” Then I thought of something else. “I suppose it’s all right for Johnson to stay on here for the time being?”
Mr. Bartleby hesitated. “Miss Dair, could you call at my office?”
I was surprised. “Of course—if you need me.”
“At 11 tomorrow, say?”
“Yes, very well, I’ll be there. Goodbye now.”
I explained to Johnson. “Nobody can turn you out of here, not yet anyhow. I’ll see Mr. Bartleby tomorrow, and then I’ll let you know what he says.”
He nodded. “That Dr. Teare—she wants to send me off to a home doesn’t she? I won’t go. I’d sooner die, Miss. I want a place where I can do a bit of work and live on my own. I don’t want to go into a home.”
“You won’t,” I promised. “What! Put a tough old egg like you on the scrapheap? Not likely. Don’t you worry. I won’t let them do that.”
I didn’t see Alan again all day. He and Green were out with an expectant mother all evening, and he still hadn’t come in when I went to bed at half past 11. I thought I would hear him come in, but I didn’t. He must have crept up the stairs very quietly. And in the morning it was impossible to get him alone before surgery. “See me for the morning break in the White Owl,” he murmured. “Or I’ll burst.”
“I’ve a date at 11,” I told him.
“With another?”
I nodded. “Well, make it half past if you can,” Alan said.
He was there first. I saw his little car parked outside from the other end of the road, and began to run. He was sitting in the little alcove under the stairs, and I was glad of that.
“Out of breath?” he said. And then he kissed me, and I was more out of breath than ever.
“I’ve been to Bartleby’s,” I said. “Alan—what do you think?”
“Ma Tarsh has left you her diamonds?”
“I wish it were as simple as that!”
“What then?”
I tried to regulate my breathing, and it wasn’t easy with Alan holding both my hands. “She must have been crazy,” I told him. “She’s left me that great house!”
“Good lord!”
“It’s absurd! What can I do with a great place like that?” Then I saw his face. “I mean—what can we do with it?”
“I can’t imagine. But I thought she’d be sure to leave it to old Johnson, after all this time. No?”
“No.” I shook my head. “He didn’t want it either, apparently. She’s left him quite a lot of money, though. And 1,000 pounds to me to do the house up.”
“She should have left it to Simon, shouldn’t she?”
“She can’t have left him anything; he’s getting 50 pounds for being an executor and that’s all, as far as I know.” And then I wondered. “Why?”
“Why what? Why should she have left it to him? Well, obviously, if he doesn’t marry you he doesn’t get the Retby house. So...” I frowned. “I feel a terrible heel about that Alan—give me my ring quickly before I feel duty bound to change my mind!”
He reached for my hand and slipped the glowing opal on to my finger. Then he kissed it. “That’s to seal it in place,” he said. “Darling, you won’t ever give it back to me, will you?”
“I couldn’t bear to,” I assured him.
Alan stood up. “I’ll have to fly, love. Look after yourself. Want me to drop you off somewhere?”
I shook my head and looked down at my lovely ring. It was still sad and dark. “No, you go on. I’ll do some shopping before I go back.” I touched his arm and felt the muscles tense under my finger. “Thank you so much. It’s lovely.”
When I had made up my mind I went straight back to Bartleby’s dim office. Mr. Bartleby was surprised to see me, but he waved me to the creaking leather chair again. “What can I do for you, Miss Dair?”
“I’ve come to ask you something. Not about Mrs. Tarsh. About Mrs. Pullar’s will.”
“Mrs. Pullar’s will? You were not a beneficiary, were you?”
“No. But I could perfectly easily go and look it up at Somerset House, I suppose. So you may as well be frank about it. I want to know—”
“But we haven’t yet got probate, Miss Dair. Add to which the fact that Dr. Pullar proposes to contest the will I don’t know that it would be at all proper to discuss it with you while the will remains unproved...”
“Look,” I said desperately. “I only want to ask one question. That’s all. If you can’t answer it, you can’t, and I shall understand.”
He pursed his dry lips and hummed to himself; after about three minutes’ cogitation he said, “Very well, Miss Dair. Ask your question. I don’t promise to answer it, you understand.”
“Understood,” I agreed. “This is what I want to know—and not for my own benefit, either. Is it true that unless Dr. Pullar marries ... marries a named person, he will forfeit the house and the capital he gave to his wife?”
His eyebrows went up into his bald patch. “Whoever told you that fantastic story? Really!”
“You mean it isn’t true?”
He smiled pontifically. “On the contrary, Miss Dair, on the contrary. I really must tell you enough to quash that ridiculous idea. Mrs. Pullar, who did, as you say, own the house and held most of their combined capital in shares and so on, had a very different idea!”
I was sitting on the edge of my chair. “Well?” I urged him. “Go on!”
“Mrs. Pullar’s will made quite a different stipulation. That if Dr. Pullar did in fact marry a named person, as you put it—meaning yourself, of course—then he would forfeit the property and capital. Whereas he could marry anyone else with impunity.”
Then Alan and Green had it all wrong. And Mrs. Tarsh was right. “But Simon—Dr. Pullar—told me that she said she wanted him to marry me!”
“Quite, Miss Dair. I believe Mrs. Pullar expressed that wish on her—when she was in extremis. And it is on that ground that Dr. Pullar wants to contest the will. Unfortunately...” he looked at me over his bifocals, “that would be almost impossible to prove. Even if there were a reliable witness. Very difficult to prove intention when the patient is so ill, you know.”
I stood up. “Then he needn’t contest it” I said. “I’m going to marry Dr. Murray. Goodbye, Mr. Bartleby.”
That settled it. I need no longer feel in the least guilty about Simon. Yet I was still uneasy, and the deep blue glow of my ring didn’t help. It was not that I was superstitious, but something was still nagging at the back of my mind, and I couldn’t pin it down.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I was all behind with the lunch. For one thing it took me a long time to get Mrs. Cox to notice my ring, and I seemed to do everything very slowly. And when she did at last say, “Oh, Miss! Is that your ring?” I had to spend five minutes explaining about how it changed color.
I heard Alan coming in and realized that I had still not set the table. “You set the table,” I said, “while I drain these wretched potatoes.”
“I’ll do that, Miss. You do the table,”
she said. Enthusiastically she grabbed at the saucepan. The next moment there were potatoes all over the quarry floor, and she was trying to stifle a scream.
Alan, at my elbow, snatched a package of bicarbonate of soda from the shelf by the sink and shook the contents over her scarlet hand as I pushed the kitchen chair under her. “You are a johnny!” he told her. “A woman of your experience!”
She wiped her tears on her overall and sniffed. “Should’ve let Miss Dair do it,” she admitted.
I ran through into the dispensary and fetched the acriflavine and some gauze, and we bandaged her hand and tried to cheer her up. “That means a holiday for you,” I told her. “You won’t be able to use that for a few days, will you?”
“But how will you—”
“Shush! We’ll manage,” Alan said. “Nobody’s indispensable, Coxy. Be off with you—and come up to surgery tonight if it’s painful.”
Reluctantly she reached for her coat, which I helped her into. “I’ll run you home,” I said. “Alan—you can wait a few minutes, can’t you?”
“Sure. I’ll set the table meanwhile.” He picked up the cutlery I had dropped and rummaged for the tablecloth in the drawer. “Domesticated is my middle name.”
The table was set, certainly, but there was no sign of any food, and neither Alan nor Dallas was around. I went into the scullery and began to sweep up the scattered potatoes—they seemed to be everywhere. And then Alan came back.
“I wish I’d done that before I set the table,” he said ruefully. “What a mug I am.”
“Won’t take a minute,” I told him. “I’d have done it, but I wanted to get her home. Where’s Dallas?”
“That’s the point. Upstairs with Simon.”
“Why?” I looked up from the dustpan. “Isn’t he coming down?” And then I saw his face. “What’s wrong?”
“He was already down, love. I told him to fish the casserole out of the oven, and he skidded in this lot.”
I stopped sweeping. “He’s hurt?”
“Afraid so.” Alan nodded. “Knocked himself out cold.”
“Not his head again?” I could have kicked myself. I tipped the mess into the boiler and clanged the lid on again.