The Devil's Caress

by June Wright

  She badly wanted to ask Katherine Waring the reason, but dared not. Ordinarily a doctor had every right to demand an explanation of every detail of the prospective case, but somehow this was different.

  The reserved unemotional tone had gone from Katherine Waring’s voice when she had spoken. Marsh had never heard her speak thus before. It was almost as though the aloof honorary she had known intimately in the medical world was beseeching her for a favour. The position was fantastic.

  Dr. Waring spoke first. “Marsh, you are so trustworthy, so discreet. I cannot let King die like this. You are a good physician, Marsh. I have been observing you for a long time now. You have a great career in front of you. Let this be the beginning. “

  A sudden thrill of excitement passed through her. She had never before felt anything like this exhilaration of spirit; neither during her long hard years at the University, nor in the grinding monotonous term at the hospital. She thought she had lost the gift of spontaneity. But she answered Dr. Waring in her usual calm deep voice.

  “I will attend your husband, Dr. Kate.”

  The older woman touched her shoulder for a brief moment. “Thank you, Marsh. I will give you all the assistance I can. King kept a medical chart. It is in the laboratory. You may find it of some use. But first, have some breakfast. Things have probably become slightly disrupted in the kitchen, but ask Jennet to serve you at once.”

  The girl hesitated. “I would like to see the patient first. And Larry should know about your decision.”

  “A good doctor should keep herself fit,” Dr. Waring declared, with a disarming smile. “Go and have something to eat. I will see King, and tell Larry about arrangements.”

  “Very well,” she agreed reluctantly. Brushing aside a small feeling of rebellion she went downstairs.

  Miss Jennet was not in the kitchen, but a clatter of crockery from the dining-room indicated that she was setting the breakfast-table. A smell of burnt fat pervaded the room, and the teacups that had stood on the table waiting to be filled were there again. This time they were stale with dregs and the triangular pieces of bread and butter were now crumbs or half-eaten crusts.

  In front of the hot range, quiet and comfortable as an animal, stood the imbecile boy. Between his hands he held a long, shining, carving knife. He was passing one finger along its fine edge in a caressing way that was not nice to behold. The sharp edge made no impression on the thick hard skin of his finger. A soft crooning sounded from his wet lips.

  “Sam!” Marsh said. Her voice rang out along the stone-floored kitchen.

  The boy lifted his arm holding the knife. It was an action that implied defence. He turned round, the blade of the knife glittering in contrast to his dull eyes. He saw Marsh and grinned, shambling over to meet her. She watched his approach warily.

  She realized she had frightened him and lowered her voice. “Sam, put that knife on the table, please.”

  The boy regarded her without a change of expression. Still grinning he came nearer, holding the blade like a dagger ready to throw.

  “On the table, please, Sam,” she repeated firmly.

  He glanced down at the knife in his hand. Then his eyes came back to Marsh. They looked cunning at first, then bewildered and frightened. He was at the end of the table now, not eight feet from where the girl held her ground in the doorway. He was as dangerous as a panic-stricken animal is dangerous. She dared not take her eyes from him.

  “Very well, Sam. Give it to me.”

  She held out her hand steadily for the knife. The imbecile’s eyes blinked rapidly, and he smiled again, lifting his arm.

  A quick footstep sounded behind Marsh as she moved sideways. Another minute and the boy, bewildered by her commands, would have thrown the knife straight at her head.

  “Sam!”

  It was Michael Waring. He went unhesitatingly to the boy’s side and slid one arm along the lumpy shoulders.

  “What game is this, Sam? What a fine knife! A beautiful gleaming strip of steel, so sharp and destructive and yet so lovely.” His voice fell to a whisper as he gently ran his fingers down the imbecile’s hands and gripped the handle of the knife without exerting any pull away from him. The knife was released, and Michael dropped his arm.

  “Thank you, Sam,” he said, as though in appreciation of a gift. The imbecile grinned happily and loped past Marsh out of the door.

  “Did you frighten him?” Michael asked angrily. “You fool! What have you done to him?”

  “I did not mean to frighten him,” Marsh answered coldly. “I saw him playing with that knife and told him to drop it.”

  “You must have done something,” he insisted. “Come on, tell me. Sam wouldn’t act like that without cause.”

  “I did nothing. The boy should be locked up. He is dangerous. Has Dr. Kate seen him like that?”

  “You blab to my mother and I’ll root your tongue out. Sam is all right for those who know how to handle him. I’d rather see him dead with his brains out than sent to some foul institution. He shouldn’t be locked up any more than Rex should be.”

  Remembering Rex’s contrary behaviour earlier, Marsh decided that the dog had something in common with Sam. She forbore an acid comparison as Michael was still surveying her darkly.

  Suddenly he smiled. “Have you seen my father yet? I waited up as long as I could to tell him about your visit, but he did not come in.”

  “Yes, I have seen him,” she replied steadily. “What time did you go to bed?”

  “About two or three. I can’t remember clearly. Are you so interested? I thought my father was your concern.”

  “He is—very much my concern. I found him this morning lying on the golf-links. He had been there all night.”

  Michael’s eyes narrowed and his mouth was a tight line. His hands were clenched in the pockets of his dressing gown.

  “Are you trying to tell me he has been murdered?”

  For a moment the girl was speechless. The question had stunned her even more than Katherine Waring’s pronouncement.

  “What are you saying?” she managed to whisper. “Are you mad? Your father had a hypoglycaemic attack. He is very ill.”

  Michael brought his clenched hands out of his pockets.

  “Is he dying?”

  “I can’t tell you yet. Pneumonia might develop.”

  “Is my mother going to attend him?”

  “No,” said Marsh. “I am. Excuse me, please. I must have some breakfast and go to him.”

  Michael looked at her oddly. “You will do everything Dr. Kate says, of course.”

  “Your mother is a physician of wider experience than I. Naturally I will be guided by her advice.”

  She went over to the table. There was some toast in a rack near the stove and a tall silver coffee-pot.

  “You fool!” Michael said again savagely, and slammed the door behind him.

  Miss Jennet came hurrying back into the kitchen, clicking her tongue in distress. She made no secret of having overheard Michael Waring’s heated words from the dining-room.

  “You must not let Michael upset you,” she assured Marsh. “He is a very hasty boy. He paints, you know. So temperamental. Let me pour your coffee. Honey or marmalade?”

  “Marmalade, thanks. Is he any good?”

  “I am not sure,” answered Miss Jennet, as she busied herself at the stove. “He shows me his work occasionally. I find it startling, but I don’t pretend to be any judge. I do hope he behaves for a while. Poor Kate! And so like her, don’t you think?”

  Marsh grunted. She found Miss Jennet’s chatter irritating. She so obviously prided herself on being able to see below the surface of the minds of others.

  “So—so visionary, the pair of them. But Kate won’t get temperamental. Is Kingsley very bad? Will he die?”

  She turned round as she spoke, her face
puckered with fear and misery like a child’s before it bursts into tears; a child who wanted the world to be happy and suddenly found it was not.

  Marsh got up and went round the table to her. How many times had she done this at the hospital; the firm kind hand on the shrinking shoulder and the firm kind voice asserting that everything that could be done was being done. Such cold hackneyed words, and poor recompense for the patient gratitude you received.

  II

  Katherine Waring was coming down the stairs when Marsh left the kitchen.

  “Did Jennet give you something to eat? Good. Come now and I’ll get you King’s chart.”

  “Did Larry find the key?” Marsh asked, following the older woman out on to the verandah.

  “The key? Oh, you mean King’s. No, this is a duplicate.”

  The girl thought it was strange that Dr. Kate had not produced it during the frenzied search through Waring’s pockets, but she said nothing. Her sympathy went out to her hostess in her tribulation and surmounted the little doubts in her mind. Katherine Waring was carrying a load that was unknown to all save her. She alone had been privileged to learn Dr. Waring’s unhappy suspicions.

  The laboratory was a square brick building, which lay apart from the house in the ti-tree spinney. It consisted of one large room with a smaller one leading out of it. Along one wall ran a stainless steel bench, holding test-tubes and chemicals in sealed bottles. The other two sides of the room were lined with book-shelves that reached almost to the ceiling. A surgery divan lay on the left of the entrance, and a filing cabinet and a sterilizer were on the other side. The smaller room was used as a store-room and occasionally as a dark-room for inspecting X-ray plates.

  Kingsley Waring might be a surgeon, but his interest in his profession was catholic. It embraced all spheres that went to make up the magic art of healing.

  “There is everything here that any doctor could wish for,” Katherine Waring said, as she specified the contents of the laboratory. “In that cupboard are the drugs. A limited supply of each, but enough for one patient’s prescription. You may use whatever you want.”

  “Thank you,” said Marsh, and crossed the room to examine the labels.

  “In the store-room,” Dr. Waring went on, in an even tone, “are the oxygen cylinders.”

  Marsh swung round abruptly. Words of sympathy and understanding crowded in her mind, too inarticulate to voice. She stammered slightly: “No—Dr. Kate. I trust it won’t come to that.”

  Katherine Waring watched her struggle for expression. A smile hovered around her mouth. Then her eyes dropped away from Marsh and her lips took on a firmer line. The girl followed her gaze to the bench. On it, with its point resting in a fold of cotton-wool, lay a hypodermic needle.

  “You know how he did it,” Katherine Waring said softly. “A stronger injection of insulin. I think he wanted to die when he was walking on the cliffs. Poor King!”

  The girl was silent. There was nothing anyone could say.

  “Marsh!”

  “Yes, Dr. Kate?”

  “Do you think it would be better if we let him die? King wanted it so. What would you say, Marsh, if I asked you—”

  “No,” she said violently. “I could not have a hand in that.”

  Dr. Waring turned her back. She opened a drawer in the filing cabinet, and began to finger through folios.

  “You know I could not do that,” Marsh repeated. “Neither could you, Dr. Kate.”

  Katherine Waring lifted out a card. “I am not asking you to, Marsh,” she said gently. “Here is King’s chart, and the key of the laboratory. Do your best for him.”

  Surgeon-Commander Arkwright was coming up the path as they left the building. His face looked ashen in the dull cold light, and was further enhanced by a grey stubble which he had not yet removed.

  “I have been looking everywhere for you, Kate. What is all this about King? Miss Peterson told me he was out all night on the links.”

  Dr. Waring motioned Marsh to walk ahead. The path was narrow.

  “It is quite true what Miss Peterson said, Henry. An attack caught King when he was out on his walk last night. You know he always takes one before going to bed.”

  “I have considered that habit of King’s unnatural for a long time, and last night was filthy. How did the attack come on? He told me at dinner he had had his needle.”

  “I don’t know, Henry. Perhaps he forgot to take it,” Katherine Waring replied vaguely. Marsh had the impression she was attempting to baulk Arkwright’s intention to get to the bottom of the matter.

  “King wouldn’t forget,” he said stubbornly. “I saw him heading this way before dinner. What probably happened is that he miscalculated his dose and had an insulin reaction.”

  Marsh glanced sideways to catch a glimpse of Dr. Waring’s face.

  Arkwright went on: “Another habit I never approved of in King is this experimenting in lines outside his own sphere. You can’t do everything in medicine.”

  Still she made no comment.

  “Well, what are you going to do, Kate? Get King to a hospital in town?”

  “It is impossible. The track from the house to the road is impassable by now. He will stay here. Dr. Mowbray has my instructions.”

  “King won’t like that,” Arkwright said. “You know what he thinks of women doctors, if you don’t mind me mentioning it.”

  “Yes, I know, Henry. Dr. Mowbray is thoroughly capable. She will be in charge of the case.”

  Arkwright fell silent at the note of finality in her voice.

  Betty Donne was waiting on the verandah again as they approached­. She drew Dr. Waring aside and Marsh heard her say quietly: “Mr Morrow has called, Dr. Kate. He heard about Mr Waring in the village.”

  Katherine Waring’s face seemed to harden suddenly.

  “Thank you, Betty. Where is he?”

  “In the library. May I bring you a tray there? You haven’t had any breakfast yet.”

  She replied to the nurse’s solicitous suggestion a little impatiently and went indoors. Marsh, who was scraping her shoes free of mud, glanced up to find Betty’s eyes on her. There was such an expression of dislike in them that she felt disturbed.

  Henry Arkwright slid a hand under her elbow as they entered the house. He bent his head towards her confidentially. She could smell his stale breath and see the grey bristle on his chin and jowls more clearly.

  “I know it is Kate’s idea,” he murmured, “but if you feel like slipping your moorings at all, I’ll take over King. After all, a girl like you, a very attractive young girl, can’t have had much experience in diabetic cases.”

  She thanked him for the offer and tried to edge away. Then Delia Arkwright came down the stairs with her knitting in her hand, and he moved away at once. Marsh took the opportunity to escape, and went up to look at her patient.

  III

  Laurence Gair was still in Kingsley Waring’s room when she entered. He was rummaging through a tallboy, scattering clothes on to the floor. She eyed him coldly and suspiciously, but he did not appear abashed.

  “Mind your own business, dear Marsh,” he said, pushing the clothes back and shutting the drawers.

  “I intend to,” she retorted. “You may go now, Larry.”

  “Go? What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said,” Marsh said calmly. “Mr Waring is my patient. If I want to consult you, which is hardly likely, I will send Miss Peterson to tell you. Just now, I would like to examine my patient without any strangers present.”

  Gair looked angry. “What is this, Marsh? You have no right—”

  “Dr. Waring’s instructions,” she interrupted. “I believe she told you the arrangements.”

  “Told me? She said nothing about it.”

  Marsh turned to the bed. “If you see Miss Peterson, tell her to bring my case
from my room.”

  Gair came up to her swiftly. He was breathing hard. “My dear Marsh, I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you don’t stop this nonsense. Get away from that bed.”

  She regarded him steadily. “If you try any strong-man stuff, Larry, I shall put in a report to the Medical Board. Dr. Kate has asked me to attend her husband, and that is the end. You may as well be resigned to it.”

  “Katherine Waring told me nothing of this. She came in, but she did not tell me. Are you sure you have it right? Aren’t you just a little inexperienced to be handling a case like this?”

  “Sneering does not help you, Larry. I am a physician, and I know more about diabetes than any surgeon does. How would you set about the case? Start cutting him up on the off-chance that the sugar will show itself in an abdominal cyst? You surgeons are never happy without a scalpel in your hands.”

  Suddenly his anger left him, and his face returned to its smiling captious mask. “You always were a rude girl, Marsh.”

  Marsh opened her mouth to retort, but a knock came at the door. Evelyn Peterson came in carrying a case. She had dressed herself in a tight-fitting white uniform but her dark unruly hair was uncovered. Marsh eyed it censoriously as she took the case. She snapped open the lid and took out her stethoscope, slipping it round her neck.

  “Will you go now, please, Larry?”

  “No,” Gair retorted. “I want to talk to you.”

  Miss Peterson looked from one to the other with interest, and pouted when Marsh told her to leave the room but to stay within call.

  Turning her back on Gair she drew back the blankets and commenced her examination. From the heart she moved up and down the lungs, listening intently. Her earlier prognostication was verified. The exposure to which Kingsley Waring had been subjected had brought on pneumonia. She began to plan her treatment and picked up the chart Katherine Waring had given her. In order to prescribe correctly she had to see the amount of insulin Waring might have taken on previous occasions.