The Devil's Caress

by June Wright

  She spoke to Betty Donne. “Go downstairs and tell that indecent person to stop playing at once.”

  The nurse went out of the room. Marsh waited for the music to stop. She was standing right over the sick man, with her head turned away as she listened.

  Then Kingsley Waring spoke. The mask had slipped from his face. He gasped for breath and with his eyes on Marsh’s face jerked out vehement words between pauses.

  “You . . . devil, Kate. I . . . I’ve . . . always loved . . . you.”

  The girl turned on him swiftly. His eyes were wide open for a minute, then they flickered and fell half-closed. His lips moved but no sound came from them. She snatched up the mask and placed it back on the exhausted face. The cylinders hissed.

  “Breathe in, Mr Waring,” she ordered sharply. “Breathe in . . . breathe in.”

  Betty Donne entered the room quietly.

  “Get Dr. Kate again,” Marsh said to her. “Why is that person playing still? Didn’t you go downstairs? Who is it?”

  “Michael,” the girl replied. “He won’t listen to me. He is drunk.”

  “Filthy swine,” Marsh said under her breath.

  This time Katherine Waring did not come to the foot of the bed. She stayed in the doorway, staring at the figure on the bed with its face nearly obscured by the oxygen mask. She glanced at Marsh, feeling her eyes on her. Then she moved over to the bed and lifted the mask for a moment. A slight spasm of pain crossed her fine features as she saw the changing face of her husband.

  “Dr. Kate—” Marsh began, her voice deep with emotion. The other woman looked at her again. The girl strove to speak.

  “Michael,” she jerked out. “Do you think . . . Ask him to stop playing. Miss Donne says he is drunk.”

  Katherine Waring nodded slowly and left the room.

  With her finger on Waring’s flickering pulse Marsh waited. It should happen soon now. The room had grown suddenly quiet. Betty Donne stood like a statue on the opposite side of the bed, but she shuddered when a noise came from the dying man’s throat.

  The music stopped abruptly, breaking off in the middle of a bar. Then came a discordant crash of chords as though Michael was banging the keys with closed fists.

  The mask had slipped again from Kingsley Waring’s face, and Marsh did not replace it. The eyes were half-closed above still eyeballs. The mouth slowly sagged open.

  Chapter Four

  I

  It was after midnight when Marsh finally left Kingsley Waring’s room. She fumbled her way down the passage to her own room like a drunken woman. The house was quiet, as quiet as the death-room she had just left. Somehow she had managed to stay erect until all the others had retired, Katherine Waring in a state of control which Marsh would have regarded with apprehension in any other.

  Her feet felt leaden as she tried to tiptoe, and when she located her own room and pushed open the door she reeled against the jamb in exhaustion. Fully clothed she collapsed on to the bed, her mind and body sodden with weariness. She tried to rouse herself and put up one hand to turn down the lamp, but the effort was too much. She was asleep almost before her relaxed hand dropped back.

  She did not awaken until Miss Jennet’s gong sounded for lunch. Downstairs the rest of the household, quiet and subdued, were gathered in the living-room sipping pre-luncheon sherry; all except Katherine Waring. She was still in her room, and Marsh, going down after a hasty toilet, met Betty Donne bringing up a tray.

  The nurse was very pale now, but her eyes still shone with a peculiar brightness. Her movements conveyed a fussy eagerness. All she wanted was to wait on Dr. Waring, run errands for her and make herself indispensable.

  Marsh found a silent group in the living-room. Surgeon-Commander Arkwright was the only one attempting to say anything, but as he spoke in such a hushed tone and repeated his conventional clichés so often no one listened. His wife sat beside him, her hands working together as though she missed the knitting she had evidently discarded for the time being. Michael Waring watched her fidgeting hands with hazy eyes. Marsh was shocked at the appearance of his young face, so deeply lined and puffy with drink. He held a cigarette in his shaking hand and ash was scattered all over his clothes.

  At the windows looking out to the ocean Laurence Gair stood with his back to the others. Miss Peterson was alongside him, addressing him in low tones.

  Marsh, who had been standing in the doorway reluctant to join them, glanced over her shoulder as Betty Donne came hastily down the stairs. She still carried the tray and there were traces of tears on her face. She hurried into the kitchen.

  Then Katherine Waring came slowly down, stately and remote in her black dress.

  They all turned towards her as she entered the living-room, and Henry Arkwright rushed over to her side, clumsy with sympathy.

  “My dear Kate, my very dear Kate. A shocking blow! Like losing the ship’s rudder. But you must keep your flag nailed to the mast. A splendid fellow, King!”

  He wanted to throw a supporting arm around her shoulders, but she held him off by giving him one hand while she extended the other towards Delia Arkwright, who took it without a word. It seemed to Marsh that Mrs Arkwright was waiting for words of condolence from Dr. Kate, obstinately refusing to be the first to sympathize.

  Michael Waring lurched to his feet as Katherine Waring looked at him gravely.

  “My dear mother,” he began, drawling the words, but something in her gaze stopped him from saying anything further. He fell back into his chair with a mutter.

  She waited for Gair, who came forward slowly and touched her hand for an instant. “King was a great surgeon. He will be missed very much.”

  Still at his side Evelyn Peterson spoke up defiantly. “I am one of those who will miss him the most.”

  “I am sure you will,” Katherine Waring answered gently, and Arkwright gave a slight cough. The lines either side of Gair’s mouth deepened.

  “Marsh, my dear,” said Katherine Waring. Her voice was soft and meant for her alone. She pressed the girl’s hands.

  “Dr. Kate, I—”

  “You did all you could. You did a grand job, Marsh.”

  Miss Jennet came to the door, easy tears spilling out of her eyes when she saw the drawn face above the stark black dress. Dr. Waring patted her hand gently and led the way to the dining-room, her head high and her shoulders firm and straight.

  “Magnificent woman!” Arkwright muttered to Marsh.

  “Shouldn’t remain a widow long. They say Simon Morrow—”

  Marsh moved away from him in disgust.

  Luncheon was not a very pleasant meal. Almost at once, Dr. Waring began to speak of funeral arrangements. It would take place the next day.

  “I know King would have liked to be buried in Matthews,” she said, not looking up from her plate. “Perhaps, Henry, you could finalize matters in that direction.”

  “Certainly, my dear Kate, certainly. You couldn’t have thought of a better notion. King loved this place.”

  “I want the funeral to be private. I know you all would like to stay for it, but afterwards …” her voice trailed off.

  No one spoke. She turned to Marsh, who had been avoiding Gair’s sardonic gaze. “It seems a pity that this tragedy should interrupt your well-earned holiday, Marsh. I shall be here for a while, and if you should care to stay on it would make me very happy. Will you, Marsh?” Her tone was almost compelling.

  When the girl agreed to stay the mockery went out of Gair’s eyes and he frowned. He addressed his hostess.

  “Forgive me, Dr. Kate, but I must ask your permission to remain here for a short while. I was working on something for King in the laboratory. I am sure he would want me to finish it. We must carry on the way he wanted, mustn’t we?” He spoke easily, and Katherine Waring inclined her head.

  “Very well, Larry.”

&nbs
p; “Naturally,” he went on, “I must ask for Miss Peterson’s assistance. There is such a number of notes to check. She knows King’s handwriting so well, don’t you, Evelyn?”

  The nurse, who had been sitting pale and silent, hardly touching her meal, suddenly gave Gair a dazzling smile.

  “I certainly do, Larry.”

  Dr. Waring glanced from one to the other, the thin line between her brows deepening.

  “Sister Donne could be of the same help,” Delia Arkwright stated flatly. “There is no reason why Miss Peterson should be detained.”

  Betty Donne, who had been listening tensely, interrupted eagerly, “Oh yes, please, Dr. Kate.”

  “You keep out of this,” Evelyn said angrily. “I know the job Mr Gair wants done. You couldn’t do it.”

  Gair pulled the carafe towards him and poured water into his tumbler. “If it is all the same to you, Dr. Kate,” he bowed towards her, and also to Delia Arkwright, “Miss Peterson would be more suitable. Knowing King’s handwriting so well,” he added, a malicious gleam in his eyes.

  “How long will the work take?”

  “I am afraid I cannot tell you,” he replied, his eyes on Marsh again.

  Then Miss Jennet came in with the coffee. When she reached Michael she whispered to him. He looked up at her, and rose to his feet.

  “What is it, Jen?” Katherine Waring asked. “Where has Michael gone?”

  The little woman said apologetically: “I knew he wouldn’t mind, but I have run out of wood in the kitchen. He has gone to get it for me.”

  “Where is Sam? That is his work. We must keep him to his tasks if he is to show any advancement. I told you that before, Jennet.”

  She began to back out of the room. “Yes, I know, Kate. But I can’t find Sam anywhere.”

  Dr. Waring frowned. “When he comes in, send him to me. He must learn a sense of responsibility, and the jobs I have set will help him that way.”

  She got up from the head of the table. “Has everyone finished? Marsh, I want you in the library. Will you excuse us, please, Delia?”

  “Perhaps the boy has run away,” Arkwright suggested, as he got hurriedly to his feet.

  Miss Jennet, who was still at the doorway, agreed eagerly.

  “Such a relief for you if he has gone, Kate dearest. You know, he has been behaving in such a funny way lately, I can’t help thinking something—” Her excited voice suddenly faltered as she looked up at Katherine Waring. “I must get back to the kitchen.”

  Marsh went to follow Dr. Waring, but Betty Donne slipped in ahead of her. “Dr. Kate?”

  “Yes, Betty? What is it? I am in a hurry.”

  The girl’s flush was rising again. “Dr. Kate, please let me stay here with you for a while. At least until the others go.”

  “My dear girl,” Dr. Waring said, regarding her closely. “You look quite feverish. Are you all right?”

  “Yes—no. Yes, I’m quite well. Please let me stay.” There was a beseeching note in the girl’s voice.

  “Very well, Betty,” she agreed, after a short hesitation. “Perhaps you could go and help Jennet in the kitchen.”

  The nurse swallowed. “Anything you want, I will do, Dr. Kate.” She shot a look of animosity at Marsh as she turned away.

  II

  The library was cold and just a little stuffy; as though it had not been aired properly since the night Marsh found Michael Waring there. Dr. Waring pulled the windows down at the top, drawing back the heavy drapes. A fire was set in the open hearth and she knelt before it and waited until it crackled and blazed. Then she rose to her feet and went to the cupboard.

  “Drink? What would you like?”

  “Not for me, thanks,” Marsh said. She watched the other woman pour herself one.

  “Sit down, Marsh.” She pulled a chair nearer to the fire. “Cigarette?”

  “Thank you, Dr. Kate.” The girl sat down, her eyes following her hostess as she moved around the room. Presently she came to stand behind her chair and Marsh looked at the fire instead.

  “About the death certificate, Marsh.”

  “Yes, Dr. Kate?”

  She moved again and placed her empty glass on the table. “You will be able to give one, you know. You treated King. You haven’t written one up yet, have you?”

  “No, I wasn’t quite sure—”

  “There need be no post-mortem,” Dr. Waring interrupted. “You have nothing to worry about. You are entitled to sign the certificate.”

  “Very well,” Marsh said, half-rising. “I will do it now if you like.”

  Katherine Waring went to the desk at once. “It need only be a simple affair,” she said, taking a sheet of paper from a drawer. “Here is a form. Come and sit down.” She guided Marsh to the chair in front of the big table. “I hope this pen will suit you.”

  The girl took it and studied the paper in front of her.

  “Cause of death—pneumonia,” Katherine Waring dictated, running one finger along the line.

  Marsh dipped the pen into the ink and held it poised above the form. “Pneumonia?” she queried, glancing up. “Do you think that will be enough? What about the diabetic condition?”

  Dr. Waring moved her hand from the desk and placed it on Marsh’s shoulder. “King died from pneumonia. The events leading up to it are of no importance now.”

  The girl frowned at the form, hesitating. The pressure on her shoulder was light but firm. Quickly she wrote the word on the certificate. Dr. Waring removed her hand and wandered about the room again. When Marsh finished signing her name, Dr. Waring was pouring another drink at the cupboard.

  “Just leave it on the desk,” she said, without looking round. “I will give it to Henry. He will need it when he makes the funeral arrangements. That will be all.”

  Marsh left it folded neatly in the middle of the big cedar desk. At the door Katherine Waring called her name. She turned eagerly.

  “Yes, Dr. Kate?”

  She gestured towards the desk. “Thank you, Marsh.”

  Marsh went slowly upstairs. Her mind was clouded. She did not have a conscious thought, and yet she moved as though deep in thought. For a long time she sat on her bed, staring in front of her. She felt strangely unhappy but she could not define the impression further. In an endeavour to shake off the mood, she got up and went along to Kingsley Waring’s room. Although she and Betty had performed the necessary and unpleasant tasks immediately after the death, there were still some matters to be attended to.

  She opened the door quietly and stood for a moment looking at the body on the bed. It lay with a spotless sheet drawn right over the face; a vision of horrible immaculacy and neatness. Averting her gaze she went into the bathroom to clear up the litter that had been left there the previous night.

  The bathroom, white and chill, was a replica of the one attached to her own room. She found herself staring at her reflection in the mirror above the basin. Her eyes were wide and dull, and her hands hung aimlessly at her sides. How long she stood there she could not remember and she was aroused by the sound of someone entering the bedroom.

  She peered through the crack of the door. It was Betty Donne.

  The nurse’s cheeks were hectic and her eyes gleamed as she stood at the foot of the bed. The sheet had been folded back exposing Waring’s face, which looked grey against the whiteness of the linen. The girl was smiling, the corners of her mouth pressed downwards. Then she started to whisper, addressing the grey sunken shell of a man on the bed.

  Marsh strained to hear the macabre little monologue.

  “It has been done and I am glad. I hope you know I am glad you are dead. You were never fit to touch her or even to be with her. You are gone and she is better off without you. You never were as great as she is. You tried to drag her back and hold her down, but you can’t do that now.” The nurse took a deep
quivering breath. “I wonder if you realized what was happening. I hope you did. Everyone else realized it, so I think you must have, too. Were you frightened of death? I like to think you were. I like to think of you cringing and whining inside.”

  Marsh could stand no more. She pulled open the bathroom door, and the two girls stared at each other in horror. Betty Donne’s hands went to her face, and she glanced from the corpse on the bed back to Marsh again. She was panting and trying to speak.

  “Get out,” Marsh said. She crossed to the bedroom door and slipped the key on to the outside. “Get out quickly before you go completely insane.”

  The nurse ran past her, her hands still covering her face.

  Replacing the sheet, Marsh left the room, locking the door behind her. She went over to Katherine Waring’s room, placed the key in a conspicuous position and then went swiftly down to her own. She picked up the nearest coat she could find. It was the one she had borrowed from the Bannisters’ hotel, but she did not care. She pulled it around her firmly as she descended the stairs.

  Laurence Gair stood at the foot. “Marsh!” he said urgently. “I must talk to you.”

  She brushed past him. He called after her, but she took no notice.

  The big dog, Rex, got up with a sinister slowness as she stepped out on to the verandah, and she checked her haste. The animal’s leash lay on the back of a deck-chair. She snatched it up and clipped it to the collar. She was in no mood to bear with the dog’s whims, but she had to get away from Reliance.

  They went through the ti-tree scrub, the dog keeping up with her pace. The track was still heavy although the rain had passed over and patches of blue sky were visible through the whitening clouds. The wind blew strongly but the sea had calmed a little.

  At the road the dog stopped abruptly. His ears rose up to two sharp points and a low growl sounded deep in his throat. Henry Arkwright was walking towards them. His eyes were on the ground but he looked up when he heard Marsh trying to urge the dog on. Least of all would she be able to endure Arkwright’s nautical platitudes.