by June Wright
“Hullo, Sister Gullett? This is Marsh Mowbray. I’m at Matthews.”
Amelia Gullett’s voice came over sonorously. “Doc, you fool! I told you not to go down there. You’ve run into a pretty upset. What do you want?”
Someone had come into the parlour behind her. She lowered her voice. “Sister, find out the name of Kingsley Waring’s nurse for me, will you?”
“I can tell you. A little slut if there ever was one.”
“I know her. She’s here at Matthews. I want the one before. She trained at the Queen Vic. She shouldn’t be too hard to trace. No, don’t ask me why. Just find her name and how I can contact her.”
There was a pause before Sister Gullett said, “I’d like to know what you are up to.”
“I’d like to know myself. You’ll do as I ask?”
Sister Gullett grunted. “I’m going on night-duty tonight.”
“I’ll call you up tomorrow morning early then. Do your best. It’s important.” She hung up the receiver before the ward sister could protest further, and turned to finish her drink.
Only a table away, Simon Morrow sat. He smiled at her. “Good morning, Dr. Mowbray.”
“Good morning,” she returned ungraciously, wondering how much he had overheard. His blandness and extreme courtesy aroused her distrust.
“How is everybody at Reliance?” he asked, taking off his gloves. An affectation in such warm weather, Marsh thought. “Is Henry Arkwright supporting Katherine in his usual treacly way? So anxious to be leaned on, poor Henry. And the tortured Michael? How is he? I see King’s young partner has left. Katherine must feel her last link with King broken.”
Beneath his suavity, Marsh thought she detected a question. “Dr. Kate read the will this morning,” she informed him. “The party is breaking up.”
He inclined his head. “The corpse is left denuded of its flesh. How soon do you go?”
“When Dr. Kate asks me,” Marsh replied evenly. “Is there any message you want me to convey?”
His hands paused as he was opening his cigarette-case. The lid flew back suddenly. “I can wait until I see Katherine,” he said pleasantly.
Marsh dropped some money on the table, nodded and went out. She found Morrow’s conversation irritatingly abstruse.
III
Luncheon was in progress when she arrived back at Reliance. Katherine Waring glanced up briefly as she entered, but she did not smile or reply to Marsh’s apologies. She seemed distrait and did not speak much during the meal. She had withdrawn herself farther away from the others.
In sharp contrast to his mother, Michael Waring was in good spirits. The morning’s bequest was the cause of his animation. Evelyn Peterson had easy material to work on. Marsh watched her effortless inveiglement with a certain grim amusement. There was, as Evelyn had said, an identical streak in both natures; a bold insensitive trait. They were making plans for a bathing expedition that afternoon.
Surgeon-Commander Arkwright, his eyes goggling at the girl’s behaviour, turned to Marsh. “Don’t forget our little cruise on the briny, will you.”
Evelyn heard him, and, to test her power, cried: “Sailing! I would love to come.”
Michael’s face darkened and he glowered across the table.
“No, no,” Arkwright said, flinching under the fierce gaze directed on him. “The ship will only fit two. Comfortably, that is. Some other time.”
The girl opened her eyes at him, registering disappointment.
“You’re swimming with me,” Michael declared angrily.
Evelyn gave him a sidelong glance, and smiled until the angry gleam left his eyes.
Surprisingly Delia Arkwright came into the conversation. “Henry, you must take Dr. Mowbray out. She deserves a pleasant outing for a change. So many unpleasant outings you have had, haven’t you, Doctor?”
Marsh stirred her coffee and started to reply casually. She really did not care whether she went with Henry or not, and was in the middle of saying so when something in Mrs Arkwright’s stare and a delayed reaction of her words made her stop.
She faltered, holding her coffee-spoon poised over the cup. She had a quick conviction that it was Mrs Arkwright who had seen her returning to Reliance the night before. She was glad of the slight disturbance when Betty Donne came in to eat a belated meal.
The nurse had been serving and was now ready for her lunch, as the others rose. Dr. Waring’s eyes were on the three red lines across her cheek. She paused beside her chair as she went out, and murmured something in the girl’s ear. Betty, who had been sitting stiffly at the table, suddenly relaxed and a smile of pure gratitude spread over her face. She looked up at Dr. Waring and touched her hand fleetingly. She reminded Marsh of a dog to which its master had unexpectedly given some attention.
On their way out, the telephone rang from its position at the foot of the stairs. Marsh had difficulty in restraining from darting forward to reach it before Dr. Waring. If it was Sister Gullett there was a chance she might recognize the voice. She felt a moment’s panic when Katherine Waring asked who was calling.
“For you, Marsh,” she said, holding out the receiver. “Mr Bannister.”
Todd Bannister’s voice held an injured note. “Say, she has a nerve asking who was calling. Does she usually check on all the calls?”
“What is it you want?” Marsh asked, one eye on Dr. Waring.
“You, my sweet surgeon. I shall die if you don’t come out with me this afternoon. I was completely prostrated to know I’d missed you this morning. Though Mother was pleased. She really must learn to like you, Marsh.”
“I can’t come,” Marsh said. “I have an appointment.”
“Who is he? I demand to know. Marsh, there is a mirror just nearby and I can see myself. I’m positively green. I’m tortured with jealousy. Can you play golf with me tomorrow?”
Katherine Waring was going up the stairs slowly.
“I may be able to. I’ll let you know. But do something for me.”
“My life is yours. Mother’s life, too, if you like.”
“Speak to Betty,” she whispered cautiously.
“Oh, Marsh, my dearest! You’ll have me going neurotic, too.”
“I think you are already,” she replied teasingly. There was a pause. “Todd? Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Hold on a minute.”
She put the receiver down and went back to the dining-room. Betty was just sitting at the table, the smile still on her lips.
“Todd Bannister wants a word with you,” Marsh said.
The nurse looked up vaguely. “Who? Oh, tell him I’m having lunch. You talk to him,” she suggested slyly.
“I already have,” Marsh retorted. She went back to the telephone. “Hullo, Todd?”
“Todd has gone,” said another man’s voice. “Is that Dr. Mowbray?”
“Who is that?” Marsh asked. “I was speaking to the Tom Thumb.”
“Shane. What’s the progress?”
Marsh glanced about her. “You shouldn’t have called here,” she said nervously, lowering her voice. “I will try to see you later.”
“What progress?” Shane repeated inexorably. “And don’t ring off, please.”
“A little,” she whispered. “But I can’t tell you now. Please be patient.”
“You have only one more day.”
“No,” she said hurriedly. “Listen carefully, Shane. I can’t speak any louder. Someone might hear. It is impossible to work quickly. Already people are suspicious. Trust me.” It cost her pride an effort to say that.
“Why don’t you ask for an explanation, instead of trying to discover one?”
“I can’t,” she said desperately.
“You mean you dare not,” he rejoined. “You have only tomorrow.” The receiver was replaced in he
r ear.
She went upstairs to her room, trying to subdue a sudden sensation of panic. The knowledge that she was working against time and that Shane was harassing her made a clear and level vision difficult to maintain. She began to get ready for the expedition with Arkwright, and her movements were stiff and clumsy as she tried to hurry. She put on a bright yellow shirt and rolled up her slacks to just below the knee.
A more open inquiry was indicated, as speed was necessary. It was Evelyn Peterson’s opinion that everyone knew of her investigations. If that was the case then she would start a direct attack at one on Henry Arkwright.
He was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, singing a sea charity in a wobbling baritone.
“Hullo!” Marsh called, and ran down the stairs in her canvas sneakers. With a stupendous effort she added, “Ship ahoy!”
Arkwright beamed happily. “Aha, my shipmate! All ready for the decks? Shall we splice the main brace before we go on board?”
“Not for me, thanks.”
He had been drinking heavily before and after lunch. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. His walk, too, was not quite steady, but Marsh put that down to his capacity for make-believe. He already felt a rising deck under his feet.
Once out of the house he came nearer and she let him slip his heavy hand under her elbow, smiling grimly to herself. That she of all women should descend to relying on her sex to attain an end!
“This is really very jolly,” he declared, encouraged. “I’m glad we are able to fit in our little jaunt before we leave Matthews.”
He is still trying to get me to go, Marsh thought. I must find out the reason.
The Waring’s boat-shed was the one built into the cliff on the other side of the cove where she had found Sam. This meant they had to follow the track that led towards Shane’s cottage.
She was thinking of him bitterly when Arkwright said: “That’s an odd sort of chap who lives over there. Who is he?”
Marsh replied carefully, “Beyond his name I know little about him.”
“You have met him, then?”
“Only by chance. He directed me to Reliance when I arrived here. He also helped me with Mr Waring and he was with me when I found Sam.”
She kept a close watch as she told Arkwright of the meetings. They did not sound like coincidences when listed like that.
But beyond stating, in his conservative dogmatic way, “I don’t like the fellow’s manner,” he did not appear suspicious.
She was led down a steep path cut in the side of the cliff. Sheltered from the wind, it was now very hot. At the end of the mole, a yacht was lifting in the swell. Arkwright directed her on to it, to a position where she would be out of the way. He then seated himself at the tiller and commenced to raise sail. They cast off and moved slowly across to the rocky entrance of the cove.
IV
Marsh waited until they were past the reefs and Arkwright’s attention was not wholly absorbed in the handling of the little boat.
“This is an ideal place for a talk,” she said presently. “There is no chance of being overheard. I want your help.”
Arkwright immediately reached out to pat her bare leg. Nothing delighted him more than being asked for advice by a woman.
Balanced forward, Marsh watched his unquestionable skill with the ropes, crouching now and then as he altered course and the boom swung over her head.
“When I said I knew nothing about Shane it was not exactly the truth,” she said. “He is a doctor.”
“Are you sure, my dear? I have never heard his name before.”
“He has spent most of his career abroad,” she replied, and then added in a steady tone, “He is not satisfied that Sam’s death was an accident.”
The gunwale near her feet skimmed the water before the little craft straightened.
“My dear, what are you saying? What does this fellow Shane know? I don’t believe he is a qualified man at all. Just a sensation-mongering quack. His suggestion is downright appalling. Why, Kate herself—” He found it difficult to speak.
Marsh looked over the blue water to the cliffs. From far out they seemed to rise straight from the sea, with only a thin curl of white around the base to denote the breaking of the slight swell.
Arkwright became more articulate. “Katherine examined the unfortunate boy herself. I was with her in the room. There was no hint of foul play. I suppose your friend Shane means foul play.”
“You examined the body yourself?”
“A cursory glance. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I must confess I was amazed at Kate’s sang-froid.”
He began to splutter again. “What right has Shane to say the boy’s death was intentional? Morrow was satisfied and so was Walker. It was well known that Sam spent a good deal of his time climbing around the cliffs. The wonder is he didn’t fall before this.”
“He wasn’t killed by falling on the rocks,” Marsh said, watching him closely. “He died from a stab in the base of his skull.”
The boat tilted again, and she caught at the mast.
“In other words,” she said loudly, “Sam was deliberately murdered.”
“Murdered!” Arkwright shouted the word.
“Yes, murdered.” Somehow, now that she had spoken the word instead of smothering its very shape in her mind, Marsh felt a curious relief. She had broken her own self-imposed reticence and could view facts more dispassionately.
After his first startled shocked exclamation Arkwright was quiet. He avoided her glance and gave all his attention to the course. His protrudent eyes were narrowed and his fat pink face was firmly set. His hands no longer wandered in search of shoulders or knees. One gripped the tiller projecting under his arm, while the other held the sail ropes as sensitively as a rider clasps a horse’s reins.
“Shall we go back?” Marsh suggested. “I’m afraid I’ve spoilt the afternoon.”
“No, no,” he protested hurriedly. “Let us stay here until we have thrashed this matter out. As you said, it is a good place for a talk.”
“You don’t believe what I have told you, do you? Or rather, you are trying not to believe it.”
Arkwright ignored her shrewd remark. “How is it you found Sam at the foot of the cliffs? He had been marked by the rocks and had all the appearance of being drowned.”
Marsh clasped her knees and rested her chin on top.
“Whoever did it,” she said musingly, “tried to make Sam’s death look like an accident. I am inclined to think he may have been killed in his bungalow while he was asleep and then carried to the cliff’s edge and thrown over. His room is only a few yards away, I believe, The currents are strong and his body was washed into the bay, where it became caught in the rocks.”
“Does Katherine know about this—this story?”
The girl turned her head. “I have not said anything to her.”
There was a pause, and then Arkwright spoke abruptly. “Go on. Who did it? And why?”
She returned her gaze to the cliffs. She did not like looking at Arkwright. His face and actions had changed. He was quite a different Henry Arkwright from the one who pressed heavy sympathy on Katherine Waring and hurried to do his wife’s bidding.
They were nearer the cliffs now. She could see miniature figures playing on the golf-course. Arkwright began to alter his course again. The yacht turned in the direction from where they had come; away from those toy figures, which might pause on the tees before driving off to gaze down on the little white boat on its plain of blue.
She tried to calm herself and to answer Arkwright’s question. Now that she had begun an open attack there was no turning back.
“I think Sam was killed because he knew something about Mr Waring’s overdose of insulin. He was a feeble-minded boy, but there was the risk that he might let drop some remark that might be taken notice of. In his pocket I fou
nd a snuff-box belonging to Mr Waring. It was his custom to carry his emergency glucose in it, but he did not have it with him the other night. That is why he could do nothing to stop the coma.”
Marsh forced herself to look at Arkwright. The sun was full in her face, and she shaded her eyes with one hand. But he did not speak or take his attention from the boat.
“You do understand, don’t you? Mr Waring died from pneumonia. I signed the certificate. But pneumonia was the direct outcome of his lying in a coma all night on the wet windy golf-links. And that coma resulted from someone strengthening his insulin and seeing that he carried glucose that night. That someone knew something about diabetes. Either it is a doctor or a nurse or a fellow-sufferer of diabetes.”
A slight sound, almost a groan, came from Arkwright. “A doctor, a nurse, a diabetic—it covers everyone at Reliance. Who should want King dead? I was attached to him. I admired him. I relied on him. He was my wife’s brother.”
Still watching him, Marsh said: “Mr Waring inferred that it was his duty to disgrace publicly those doctors who had made an unforgivable mistake in their careers. I know of yours,” she added abruptly.
Arkwright’s hold on the mainsail slackened. The boom wavered behind the girl’s head. “Who told you? Kate?” His fat jowls were quivering slightly.
“No, not Dr. Kate.”
“That little fiend, Evelyn, then?” he said, beginning to shout. “What King didn’t tell her, she found out. I did my best—my level best. I even tried to call in a specialist, but it was too late. I hadn’t handled a case like that before. You must believe me. King said he did. King—”
Marsh gazed at him steadily, not attempting to check his flow of indiscreet rage.
Arkwright had lost control of himself. His face was almost purple. He was careless with the boat. It jerked and twisted and once shipped some water. They were nearing the narrow rocky opening to the cove, where he should have been giving it his closest attention.
“I hated King. I always have hated King. So damned superior,” he went on, spluttering in his anger. A stream of saliva was coursing out of his mouth. “It was Kate’s fault. She egged him on. It’s all Kate’s fault. I could—I could—” He stopped abruptly, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.