by June Wright
The fourth member of the group stopped playing and shut the lid of the piano. Marsh frowned slightly at his approach.
“Dr. Gair—Dr. Mowbray.”
“We know each other, Dr. Kate,” Dr. Gair said. “Quite well—almost intimately, one might say.”
Marsh gave the young man a steely glance and opened her mouth to speak. Dr. Waring was regarding her closely. Gair got in before her. “We shared the same corpse for a year. Third year, Marsh, was it not?”
“How do you do, Larry,” she said, in a closing-the-subject sort of tone.
“I will never forget that corpse, Dr. Kate,” Laurence Gair remarked. “Or Marsh. We had to cut away chunks of fat before we could get to the intestines. Remember, Marsh? We couldn’t agree on whether he had died of occlusion or over-eating.”
‘I remember,” she replied bluntly. “Particularly the way you used the scalpel. I thought at the time you were destined for the abattoirs.”
“Larry is Kingsley’s junior partner,” Dr. Waring interrupted, in a smooth voice.
“Oh yes,” he declared airily. “I have advanced considerably since those days. What about you? Are you about to improve your lot, too, Marsh?” He glanced sideways from her to Katherine Waring.
Marsh was puzzled and annoyed at the note in his voice and the way the deep cynical lines either side of the mouth deepened. Before she could speak Katherine Waring had interposed again: “Dr. Mowbray leaves for England in a few days. I know you will all wish her luck in the difficult post-graduate course she is undertaking.”
She turned back to the girl. “Will you play the piano for us? I should like Larry to hear you.”
She must have heard me at the hospital, Marsh thought. I didn’t think she knew.
Gair bowed gracefully, as though acknowledging verbal defeat. He led Marsh towards the piano. “Don’t let her down, Marsh. I would be so disappointed. And here comes the devoted handmaid! What an entourage she maintains!”
He was referring to Betty Donne, who had come in hastily and was making straight for Dr. Waring. She seated herself on a floor cushion at her feet. Katherine Waring bent over her, asking some question. The girl shook her head in reply and put an impulsive hand on the older woman’s in some gesture of comfort or reassurance. When Dr. Waring gently moved her hand away the flush deepened in the nurse’s cheeks and she glanced at Marsh in a way that caused her to fumble and hesitate in her playing.
Surgeon-Commander Arkwright got up from the couch abruptly. “You play marvelously!” he called to Marsh. “Do you mind if I watch? Very keen on music.”
He came round the back of the couch where Evelyn Peterson stood, her liqueur still in her hand. Her dark eyes were veiled and she lifted her glass to hide the little smile that broke over her lips. Arkwright lurched against her clumsily.
“I beg your pardon, my dear,” he said in his boisterous voice. “It must be King’s excellent brandy. I’m half seas over. Never do to upset a trim craft like you.”
Mrs Arkwright said, without looking up: “Henry, some wool is on the table over near the door. Will you pass it to me?”
Why Marsh wanted to watch the group near the fire she did not know, but each time someone spoke her gaze would dart to Katherine Waring’s face as though to see the older woman’s reaction and thereby gauge her own attitude towards these people. As if sensing Marsh’s gaze she turned and smiled. That smile of friendly camaraderie she had bent on her when she came into the room. The girl experienced the same warm feeling of a personal contact with her that set her apart from the others in the room.
“Don’t stop,” Arkwright requested. He had been standing in the curve of the piano and leaned nearer. She moved her hands to the keys again, struck a chord and then stopped. Footsteps sounded on the verandah outside the long-curtained window behind her. They moved without furtiveness, but Arkwright looked towards the window uneasily and then back at Marsh.
“What was that you were beginning to play?” he asked loudly.
“A lost chord,” she said, getting up from the stool. “Do you mind if I stop now? My fingers are stiff. The ivory has made them cold.”
Arkwright directed another look at the window and then followed her back to the fire.
“Sit here,” Gair offered. He stood up, one hand fumbling in his pocket amongst keys and loose change. “I must excuse myself for one moment. There is something I forgot.”
Marsh sat down, facing Betty Donne. The nurse’s face was hectically flushed. Her eyes, wide open in a startled fashion, followed Gair’s progress from the room.
“Sorry, sir,” Gair said, brushing against Arkwright as he passed. “I deserve to be keel-hauled for being so awkward. I’ll keep more to starb’d in future.”
No one smiled, but Miss Peterson let a slight husky laugh escape her. When the door closed on him, Betty Donne got up and went over to the ocean windows. The rain was beating hard against the black glass, but she stared out as though the view was binding in its beauty.
Slightly redder in the face, Arkwright took a seat next to his wife. “Shall I wind some wool for you, my dear?” he asked. “Perhaps Miss Peterson would help me.”
“I have enough, thank you, Henry,” Mrs Arkwright replied, in an acid tone.
“If this weather keeps up you will have us all begging for knitting to do, Delia,” Katherine Waring observed. “This is one of the wildest nights I have experienced here.”
Evelyn Peterson crossed her legs and lit another cigarette from a stub. “I’m sure I’d find something better to do than knitting,” she said, in her drawling throaty voice.
Marsh looked at her with a distaste reflected from Katherine Waring’s face. The tight dress and the slow undulating movements were flagrant. Arkwright found it impossible to take his eyes from her.
Then Laurence Gair came back, with raindrops glistening on his sleek hair. He ignored the group by the fire and went to the windows. Like Betty, he stared out at the blackness and wetness of the night.
The desultory conversation lapsed. The only sounds came from the crumbling logs and the click of Delia Arkwright’s steel needles, companionable noises which seemed oddly out of place. Marsh, stealing a look at Katherine Waring, saw the older woman’s eyes moving from one to the other.
Betty Donne was sitting bolt upright on the floor cushion, her hands grasped tightly together. The firelight played on her feverish face. Miss Peterson’s lower lip was a full sulky curve. Her eyes were lowered as she pressed back the cuticle of her right fingers with the nails of her left. Arkwright fidgeted next to his wife, who remained knitting and ignoring everyone. He found it impossible to keep still and got up several times—for a drink from the tray near the door or to put another log on the fire; finally for a pack of cards. He cast one last look at Miss Peterson’s silken extended foot and then began an idle patience.
Marsh’s gaze came back to Katherine Waring. The doctor was staring at her intently; a measuring, speculative look. The girl smiled at her warmly and confidingly, but this time Dr. Waring glanced away without response.
At last Laurence Gair left his position at the window. As he passed the piano he struck a swift harsh chord with one hand, set the lid down with a bang and made for the door. There he turned.
“Good night, everyone. I’m turning in. King said he would not be in again, Dr. Kate.”
“I see, Larry. Good night.”
Arkwright gathered the cards together. “I’m for my bunk, too. Are you coming, Delia?” She finished the row before she rolled up her knitting, piercing the ball with the needles.
Evelyn Peterson stretched herself, yawning like a bored cat. “The party seems to be breaking up. It’s a pity King couldn’t come back to hold it together. ’Night, folks!”
Marsh saw Betty Donne’s hands clench. As soon as the door closed on Miss Peterson’s graceful back she turned to Katherine Waring.
“You look very tired, Betty,” Dr. Waring said at once. “Go to bed like a good girl. Thank you for helping through dinner.”
The girl closed her mouth, nodded to Marsh and left the room.
Marsh stood undecided, with her back to the fire. She felt reluctant to leave. She wanted Katherine Waring to talk to her for a little while.
“How is the exhaustion?” Dr. Waring asked, as she walked to the drinks table. “You looked better when you came downstairs. I am going to give you a tiny dose of brandy. It will help you to sleep. Doctor’s orders, but don’t make a habit of it.”
Marsh took the big glass between her hands. The liquid went down her throat like silk. “What a wonderful place you have here!” she remarked, for want of something better to say. The wind and rain and the crash of the sea on the rocks below the windows had been very clear in the silence between them.
“I hope the noise of the ocean won’t disturb you. We have become so accustomed to it now. The wind makes the house alive with peculiar noises, too. Don’t let any sound you cannot interpret worry you. I suggest you go to your room and stay there until breakfast. Betty can bring up a tray.”
“1 would just as soon come down,” Marsh said, surprised.
Dr. Waring moved to the door. She held it open. “You have been working hard, Marsh. Make the most of this opportunity to rest. Good night, my dear.”
“Good night, Dr. Kate.” The familiarity escaped her after hearing the older woman address her by name. It was the first time she had ever done so, and the warmth with which she had spoken stirred Marsh.
At the foot of the stairs Katherine Waring paused to light a candle from the lamp. The girl took it and began to mount the stairs. At the landing she turned.
“Good night,” she said again, and then added politely as an afterthought, “I was sorry not to meet Mr Waring.”
A strange expression passed over the upturned face of the other woman. Then it became serene and reserved once more. Marsh continued up the stairs with an odd sensation of discomfort.
V
Her clothes had all been unpacked and neatly arranged in drawers and cupboards. There was a hot-water bag in the turned-down bed and a pair of Marsh’s severe white silk pyjamas lay ready. In the adjoining bathroom her few toilet articles had been placed side by side on the ledge over the hand-basin. No gesture of comfort had been omitted, even to the pile of magazines and light literature on the bedside-table.
A gust of wind, sucking the curtain out of the casement window, roused Marsh from the lethargy that had overcome her. She crossed to the window and the curtain blew inwards against her face. She held it aside with one hand. Her bedroom overlooked the red-soiled yard where her car was still parked in the shadow of the pine-trees. The thick evergreens formed a natural garage and would prove an adequate protection against the weather.
A flickering light from the house, probably a torch, swept across the yard as though to reassure her concerning her car. It was a quick, faint illumination but Marsh’s eyes widened in a startled fashion. She was certain that someone was sitting in the driving seat of her little runabout.
She leaned out of the window, the rain beating down on her head and shoulders, but it was impossible to see anything. Presently she drew back and began to get ready for bed.
It was a comfortable bed, far different from the narrow hard mattress at the hospital. Marsh relaxed with a deep sigh. It was good to remember that there was no chance of being called in the middle of the night to go to a patient. She was to stay there until that little tense nurse of Dr. Waring’s brought her a breakfast tray. She gave another sigh and lolled over on to her side.
She was warm and drowsy when the first disturbing noise occurred. She turned on to her back and opened her eyes wide in the darkness. Somewhere, not far away, a horse had whinnied. She recalled the stranger on horseback whom she had watched climbing the cliff. He was an odd person to go riding in such inclement weather. Marsh rolled back again and tried to recapture the warm drowsy feeling.
The effect of Dr. Waring’s brandy had worn off. The idle thought of going downstairs to get another passed through her mind. She had been so relaxed and sleepy, and now the feeling had gone. She began with sheep jumping over a fence and worked through a series of other monotonous tricks to reciting Materia Medica. This last usually proved infallible.
Suddenly she was jerked into a tense listening position.
Between the rise and fall of the wind came an unmistakable sound of someone outside crying. It was as continuous as the crank and whine of the windmills the other side of the yard, but whereas one could become accustomed to the sound of the windmills, the steady moaning was infinitely disturbing.
“What a place for a rest cure!” Marsh muttered grimly, heaving herself up and feeling for her dressing-gown.
She had no idea of what she was going to do. Getting out of bed was a purely mechanical movement; as though she was back at the hospital and a patient was restless and disturbing the ward. She fumbled for matches and relit the candle, feeling a certain sympathy for Todd Bannister’s complaints.
Shading the candle, she opened her door. The passage was dark and very still. It seemed unnaturally quiet, as though behind each of those closed doors the occupant stood waiting and listening. She crept down between them to the stairs.
The candlelight flickered dangerously as the draught swept up the stair well. Marsh steadied it, curving her hand completely around the flame, and began to descend.
At the foot she paused and listened. The sails of the mills still clanged harshly as they spun round in the gusty wind, but the moaning had stopped. She stood undecided. Her feet were cold and her nerves were on edge. Then an overwhelming urge for another brandy took hold of her, and she forgot about the crying. It may have been her imagination. No one else had been disturbed by it to her knowledge. She would find a drink and go back to bed.
A faint thread of light lay at the end of the hall. Kingsley Waring must still be in the library.
The library was the first room she had entered at Reliance. She had been cold and stiff from the long drive and had not observed her surroundings over-keenly. Only the fire and the wine had been of importance, although she did recall Katherine Waring opening an immense cupboard and selecting a particular bottle. All the liquor must be kept in that cupboard. The drinks in the living-room had been served from a tray.
Marsh blew out her candle, placed it on the table at the foot of the stairs and went forward. The door of the library was slightly ajar, but she knocked gently before pushing it open. A wave of sweet warm air rushed into her face.
The fire in the open place was a blazing stack of logs. A deep leather chair was placed with its back towards the door. From it a pair of long legs were stretched upwards to the mantelpiece. Marsh could see the top of a dark head and a slim twitching hand curved around a glass. Before she could speak a huge black dog arose from a shadowy corner and growled.
“Down, you brute!” said the man in the chair.
The animal retreated. The feet were removed off the mantel and the dark head peered around the corner of the chair. “What the hell do you want?”
The voice was slow and slurred. The face was a surprisingly young one, although deeply lined. A pair of dull eyes stared Marsh up and down deliberately, almost insultingly.
“I thought Mr Waring was here,” Marsh said.
The young man laughed raucously, causing the dog to stir and make a noise in his throat. He got to his feet and went over to the cupboard.
“He’s not here. He went out. He will be disappointed when he finds out what he missed. Drink?” He held up a bottle.
“Yes,” said Marsh, before she thought. She passed over the young man’s insulting inference. “Brandy.”
She took the glass and drank quickly.
The young man stared at her with narrowed blo
odshot eyes, “Who the hell are you?” he asked rudely.
She told him her name. “One of Dr. Kate’s little pets,” he suggested, with a sneer.
Marsh moved over to the fire and spread out her hands to the roaring blaze. “And who are you?”
“I,” said the young man, punctuating his words as he drained. his glass, “I am the son and heir, Michael Waring. More brandy?”
“No,” she answered curtly. “And you’d better stop, too. You’re far too young to be drinking spirits.”
Amelia Gullett, the ward sister at the hospital, had told her of Michael Waring. Barely twenty-two and already he drank like a fish. His behaviour at the University, where he was supposed to be engaged on a medical course, was notorious. Only his parents’ standing had saved him from disgrace and expulsion. At the rate he was going, even the Warings’ influence would fail.
He was still staring at her, but a spark had come into his dull eyes. “Young, am I?”
He lurched over and seized her by the shoulders. “Tender in years, maybe, but not in experience. Take a sample of this.”
Before she could turn her head Michael Waring kissed her hard on the lips. It should have been a silly adolescent show of defiance, but somehow, even while he held her, Marsh realized he was right. There was a viciousness about him that seemed almost decadent.
She gave him a push that made him break away and go reeling towards the armchair. He fell into it, cocking one leg over the arm and watching her mockingly.
“Father didn’t miss much, after all. Another of Dr. Kate’s little disciples, are you? So aloof—so untouchable!”
“Good night,” Marsh said. She could see a likeness to Katherine Waring in the boy’s drunken face, and felt sick.
“No, don’t go. I want to talk to someone. To unburden my soul, as it were.”
“Good night,” she repeated, and made for the door.