by June Wright
“Beastly brute,” he observed, coming up to her. “Won’t pass anyone he knows. I can’t imagine how King ever let him get like this. Give me the leash.”
“I don’t want him. Could you take him back with you to the house?”
Arkwright shook his head doubtfully. “I’ll try, but Rex wants his walk.” He bent over the animal, holding the dog’s jaw. “Been down to the village. Everything is shipshape for the funeral. I suppose you signed the certificate?”
She nodded. Arkwright did not look at her. “All for the best”, I dare say. What treatment did you use on poor King?”
“You have no right to ask me that,” Marsh said, a small flame of anger starting to rise up in her.
Arkwright glanced up for a moment and then bent over the dog again. “Don’t go overboard, my dear. You are so young and inexperienced I was surprised that Kate . . . I am sure you did your best.”
“Will you try to move Rex now?” she asked coldly. “I want to go for a walk.”
As though sensing the antagonism in the air Rex moved off abruptly. He pulled the leash from Arkwright’s hand and circled around with his nose to the ground. Marsh followed without a word to Arkwright. The dog had paused and was trying to pick something out of the sandy soil bordering the road. It was a long slim piece of steel, a knitting-needle, and she bent to pick it up. Even before she recognized it Arkwright was behind her. He snatched it out of her hand.
“It belongs to my wife,” he said, his face fiery red. “She must have dropped it.”
Remembering Delia Arkwright’s empty hands before lunch, Marsh was surprised at his agitated manner. She left him with Rex running around him barking loudly.
She had walked for some distance along the road before she directed her footsteps. The flight from Reliance had been instinctive. Unimpulsive by nature, it took Marsh as long to shake off impressions as it did to absorb them. Tightening her coat again, she looked down at it with a new significance. The little township was now in view, the red brick hotel standing out amongst the weatherboard cottages.
III
The bar of the Tom Thumb was filled with fishermen, roughly clad silent men with calloused hands clutching their tankards. In contrast to the taciturnity in the public bar the private saloon was a babble of noise. Marsh threaded her way through the tables where sporting men sat drinking with sleek-looking women, past peaked yachting caps and leathern golf-bags, to a table in a corner.
A man glanced up from nearby as she sat down. She observed a look of recognition although she did not know him herself. With him sat Shane, dressed in his whipcord breeches and leather jacket. He had seen her come in, but his dark grim countenance had not changed expression. Both men were drinking slowly and what little talk passed between them was not started by Shane.
Todd Bannister’s mother came through the swing doors from the bar, expertly carrying a loaded tray. She set it down, answering the badinage smilingly. Shane’s companion signalled for her attention. He must have been someone of importance for immediately the drinks were served she went to his table. Her straying glance fell on Marsh, and the smile vanished. After a few words with the man she came over to her.
“Mr Morrow says would you care to join them?” she told Marsh, whisking a damp cloth over the table.
The girl glanced towards them indifferently. They were an ill-matched couple; Shane with his surly expression and rough clothes and Morrow in impeccable tweeds. He had a thin almost effete face and a faintly superior air. He was smiling at her, waiting for her to come. She nodded to him curtly, for she remembered Katherine Waring knew him.
“I didn’t come here to drink,” she replied. “Convey my regrets to Mr Morrow. But I would like to see Mr Bannister for a moment.”
Mrs Bannister did not want Marsh to talk to Todd. He was busy in the bar, but she could convey a message. Even as she spoke Todd burst into the room. Voices calling his name greeted him on all sides. He appeared to be popular and answered with his usual half-impudent manner. He caught sight of Marsh, and immediately a delighted look spread over his mobile face.
“If it isn’t my little medico marvel! All right, Mother, she won’t hurt me. Please let me talk to her for a while.”
Mrs Bannister gave him a friendly pat, but a faint shadow seemed to cross her placid face.
Todd drew up a chair. “Delighted to see one of the bereaved household. There is another out yonder getting nicely plastered. Celebrating, I suppose.”
“Michael Waring?” Marsh guessed, disturbed.
“The same. The lad will end in his grave before he puts his hands on the ducats.”
“Is he . . . is he talking?” she asked.
Todd brought his bright gaze to bear on her. “Why are you worried about his conversation, I wonder? No, as a matter of fact, he is dead silent. A glassy eye and a cleaved tongue, you know. What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. Please don’t talk so loudly. That Shane man is behind us.”
Todd swivelled round in his chair. “So he is! Hullo there, Bruce. Good-day to you, Mr Morrow.”
“Is that Simon Morrow?” Marsh whispered. “The surgeon?”
“Sure is. Looks like being the big noise round here now—that is, if his health is good.”
He spoke lightly, but Marsh frowned at a note in his voice. She began to play with the brightly polished brass ash-tray.
“He called on Dr. Waring after we brought her husband home,” she remarked.
“Did he now? He must have been after some business. He’s our local coroner.”
The girl’s hand jerked, and the ash-tray nearly fell off the table. She snatched at it nervously. “Why do you talk in that loose indiscreet way?” she asked. “It’s not funny.”
He caught her shaking fingers and held them firmly.
“What’s the matter, Marsh Mowbray? You’ve changed. The last time I saw you, you were a cool efficient person, busy aiding the sick. Today you look like an uncertain sixteen-year-old. Have a drink and tell Uncle all.”
Before she could protest he had leapt up and was edging his way through the tables agilely. She watched the slim figure with its neat small head vanish through the swing doors.
Perhaps she could do with a drink. It might stop her jumpiness. The fact that Simon Morrow’s eyes were constantly on her was making her nervous. And when Mrs Bannister came into the room with another tray of drinks, and looked at her in a grave appealing way, she felt that one drink would not be enough. She was glad when Todd came back.
“Here you are!” he said cheerfully. “My own invention. Guaranteed to brace the nerves and stimulate the imagination.” He seated himself and lifted his glass. “Now what shall we drink to before we get down to business?”
Marsh sipped her drink. “Nothing. And there is no business to get down to.”
Todd’s eyes began to sparkle. “I have it! Mr Morrow, will you join me in a toast?”
The man at the next table turned his head at once, and raised his glass in reply.
He had been listening, Marsh thought resentfully.
Todd stood up. “The king is dead!” he announced. “Long live the queen!”
The chatter in the room subsided a little. Curious eyes were directed to them. Simon Morrow set his glass down again without touching its contents. He turned back to Shane and began to talk quietly.
“That fixed him,” Todd whispered to Marsh. “The queen will have to battle hard against the pretender. I wish her luck, bless her ruthless heart.”
It had fixed Marsh, too. She had remembered all at once that Todd was just a casual acquaintance she had picked up on the road to Reliance. She had let her confusion of mind run away with her.
“I must go,” she said abruptly, and got up.
“You haven’t finished the beautiful drink I gave you,” Todd protested. “Neither have you even begun
to pour forth your heart to Uncle.”
“I am going,” she repeated. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Didn’t you like what I said about your hostess?” he asked shrewdly. “Haven’t you found her ruthless?”
“Listen, Mr Bannister—”
“Mother won’t mind if you call me Todd.”
“Dr. Waring is an outstanding person. Your opinion of her is one of the many attacks and misunderstandings a distinguished person has to bear. Those who are closest to Dr. Waring can judge her for themselves. Where is your mother?”
“You don’t really want her, do you?” he asked, in alarm.
“I want the clothes I left here the other day.”
Todd Bannister’s face fell. “And I thought you’d come to see me—even if it was just to blow off steam,” he complained. “Mother is in the bar. Go outside and I’ll get her for you.”
The girl said awkwardly, holding out her hand: “I did come to see you in a way. I have had a few bad nights. I thought you might help blow the cobwebs away.”
His smile was ecstatic. “Like a sea breeze? Come down again, won’t you? And you will call me Todd, won’t you, Marsh? I mean what I said about Mother not minding.”
It was hard to know where sincerity began and pretence left off, but she had to laugh at his prattle. “Like a sea breeze,” she agreed.
But when she met Mrs Bannister in the lobby she was not at all certain about Todd’s assurance. The woman was cordial but distant and seemed to eye her surreptitiously. She produced the skirt Marsh had abandoned. It was pressed and neatly folded, and she hurried away to get some paper to make a parcel.
When she came back Marsh was staring at the aspidistra at the foot of the stairs. It was a good one of its kind, but she did not know that. She did not even see it.
“What’s the matter?” Mrs Bannister asked quietly.
Marsh roused herself. “Nothing,” she replied. “Nothing. I—I am very tired. There has been trouble at the place where I am staying. I suppose you heard.”
“Yes, I heard.” She started to wrap up the skirt. “What did Todd—my son, say about it? About Mr Waring’s death?”
Marsh was surprised. “Not much. I can’t remember. I doubt if he mentioned it at all.” She stared at the parcel Mrs Bannister held, trying to snatch at an elusive thought. “Oh—thanks very much.” She put it under her arm and turned to leave.
“Dr. Mowbray!” Mrs Bannister said. The girl paused and looked back. “Dr. Mowbray, don’t think it rude of me, but when are you going back to town?”
“I don’t know. Not yet, anyway. Dr. Waring asked me to stay on.”
Mrs Bannister came nearer. Her voice was lowered. “You don’t have to stay unless you wish. Why don’t you go now? You came down here for a rest and a holiday. A bereaved household is no place for that. Go back to town.”
Trying to understand the woman’s curious vehemence, Marsh said gently, “Perhaps I could come and stay here.”
“No,” said Mrs Bannister, backing away. “No, I don’t want you.” She turned and hurried back to the parlour.
Shrugging, Marsh stepped out into the wind.
IV
The air was fresh and salty on her face as she walked briskly along the road. Her mind had become clearer and more dispassionate, and she now felt ashamed of her precipitous flight from Reliance. She had run away not only in body but in her mind, which was a far more despicable and cowardly deed.
Death, even to those more familiar with its insignia, was never pleasant, she told herself. There was a horrid excitement attached to it which caused repercussions to those connected with it. An unholy thrill that lowered discreet barriers and caused people to say or do things almost the same as they would under alcoholic or drug influence.
She had been foolish in interpreting impressions as genuine reactions. She had run away because she, too, had come under the spell of that morbid excitement when she had allowed her imagination to control her intellect. Looking back on her state of mind she acknowledged honestly that doubt had been the predominant element. Doubt concerning none other than Katherine Waring herself.
The absurdity of the thought, overwrought though she had been, caused her to smile. It was as she had said to Todd Bannister: a remarkable woman like Katherine Waring was certain to be the victim of envy and misunderstanding. She had to suffer because of her distinction. Even those closest to her had to be guarded against in some measure.
Marsh’s heart went out to her again, full of warmth and admiration. Satisfied, her mind ceased its analytic prowlings. She walked steadily on, wrapped in a dream of hero-worship.
Had the girl been able to maintain that attitude of blind faith, Katherine Waring’s position in her life would have remained unaltered. If she had gone straight back to Reliance then, she would have been able to withstand Laurence Gair’s cynical innuendoes, Arkwright’s false heartiness, and the unbalanced demeanour of the nurse, Betty Donne. She could have endured the boy Waring’s uncouthness and the flamboyant Miss Peterson’s presence without trying to find a reason for their reactions to Kingsley Waring’s death.
It was such a small thing that stopped her as she was about to turn into the track leading to the house; a few bars of melody being whistled absently. Her forehead creased as the idle tune nagged at her memory and disturbed an unpleasant chord which seemed to belong to her former confusion of mind. The comfortable feeling of isolation and detachment gave way, as Marsh glanced back involuntarily and saw that the whistler was Shane.
It hurt her pride having to address this uncivil male. She considered most men egotistical and patronizing, but she had never before met one who so palpably ignored her.
Shane saw her motioning gesture and stopped.
“Well?” he asked curtly, one foot already in advance of its fellow. He returned her gaze without interest.
Marsh had had no subtle dealings with the opposite sex. She asked what she wanted to know bluntly and without finesse. “Why did you come to see Kingsley Waring the other night?”
Shane’s face altered. He no longer regarded her expressionlessly. “My good girl, what are you talking about?”
She stepped in front of him. “Please wait for a moment. I have something to tell you. You came to see Mr Waring the night before he died. You walked round by the verandah to the library window. We heard your footsteps. I want to know why you came.”
“You are a very direct young woman,” Shane said. “What makes you so sure it was I?”
“Because I was playing the piano when you arrived and that particular sonata is not yet so well known that you should whistle the melody by sheer coincidence. You also whistled it when we went to get Waring from the links. I want to know why you did not admit you knew him and why you took care not to come into the house.”
“You play quite well,” Shane said.
“You admit you were there that night? Why did you make your visit so secretive?”
He looked down at her thoughtfully. “There seems no point in denying I was there since you have it proved to your satisfaction. But I refuse to answer impertinent inquiries of forceful young women.”
“I am Dr. Mowbray,” Marsh said. “I attended Mr Waring.”
“What does that mean? Am I to read some special significance into those two momentous statements? Personally I don’t like women doctors.”
The girl said angrily, “If you were a doctor you still wouldn’t like us, but you would respect our capabilities.”
“If I had been Kingsley Waring’s doctor,” Shane replied softly, “I wouldn’t have let him die.”
“What do you mean? That statement is not only momentous but ridiculous.”
He shrugged. “Take it as you like. I was being enigmatic. An effect of consorting with the oligarch of Matthews.”
She guessed he was alluding to Simon Morrow
. “What did he say? A man of his standing should be more careful. I gave Kingsley Waring the only treatment possible. No doctor could have done more. It was not my fault that he died.”
Shane eyed her narrowly. “Take it easily. You’ll go to pieces if you go on like that. Walk along quietly for a while.”
Marsh took a deep breath. “You haven’t answered my questions yet.”
“I don’t intend to,” he retorted. “If you can give me good reasons, I may.”
She turned to him eagerly.
“Well?” he asked promptly.
The girl lowered her eyes. She dug her hands into the pockets of her coat and kicked at the loose soil of the road. “I can give you no reason but my peace of mind,” she said quietly.
“That is not good enough. Tell me why your peace of mind is disturbed.”
“No,” said Marsh. She had told him too much already, but there was a limit to her indiscretion.
She attacked again. A half-forgotten incident occurred to her. “Your horse? Did you find him?”
She felt the man beside her check his stride. Then he began to walk faster so that she was almost running to keep up with him.
“Saracen? Yes, he came wandering back to my cottage with a strained fetlock. He must have done the damage kicking the door of the hotel shed.”
“You don’t believe that,” Marsh declared. “Someone took him from the hotel that night and rode over to Reliance. I heard a horse whinny quite close. Was it you?”
Shane glanced down at her. “It could have been,” he said provokingly.
“It was you. You were the man waiting in my car under the pine-trees. You followed Waring on horseback when he went for his walk and your horse cast a shoe on the links. Rex found it. Why?”
“Why what?” Shane asked coolly.
“Why did you follow Waring?”