The Story of Ivy · Chapter 8 (1/2)

VIII

After a good night of deep, healthy sleep, Ivy Lexton awoke. She sat up in bed and then, all at once, she remembered.⁠ ⁠…

Her first sensation was one of intense, almost painfully acute, relief. True, she would still have, for just a little while, to play a part. But playing a part was to her second nature. Now and again, but very rarely, in moments of suspense, and now and again in moments of panic, there would appear before a pair of astonished eyes another woman altogether to the everyday Ivy.

She slid out of her comfortable warm bed and softly opened the door of her bedroom, to see that the grandfather’s clock in the hall marked a quarter past nine.

The kindly, fussy old cook came out of her kitchen, and when she saw the slender figure, clad in diaphanous pale pink ninon trimmed with lace, standing half-in half-out of the door, she hurried down the passage and whispered, “Go back to bed, ma’am! I won’t be a minute in getting you a cup of tea. I scarcely slept a wink all night, I was that upset. Mr. Lexton was such a nice young gentleman.”

“Thank you very, very much, cook!”

Tears, genuine tears, rose to Ivy’s eyes. What cook said was so true⁠—Jervis had been “such a nice young gentleman,” especially during this painful illness. It seemed so strange to think of him as gone, forever, from a world which on the whole had treated him so kindly, and of which he had been so contented a denizen. Ivy did not put the thoughts which haunted her mind in those words, but that was the purport of them.

After she had had her breakfast, she began to feel oddly restless, and so, earlier than was usual with her, she got up and dressed. Nurse Bradfield, it appeared, was still asleep.

The newly-made widow hesitated as to what she should wear. Finally she decided on a pretty black georgette frock she had bought from a friend who had started a profitable little business in French models, some of which she cleverly managed to smuggle over from Paris.

After she had put it on, Ivy looked at the reflection of herself in the long narrow panel of looking-glass set in the wall at right angles from the window. Yes, the dress was charming, and looked just right.

She ran across to a walnut-wood chest, and took out of it the hat she had bought yesterday. For the first time, since she had come into the flat last night, she smiled. The little hat was so chic, really chic! And it made her look so⁠—well, why not say it to herself?⁠—so absolutely lovely.

Slowly, reluctantly, she took off the hat, and then she went into the drawing-room.

The blinds were still drawn down. How strange! Then she remembered why they were drawn down.

She wandered about the room, feeling just a little dazed. Should she telegraph for Roger Gretorex? It was so stupid of his mother to have given up the telephone. No one could be so poor as that; it was just meanness and affectation! But if she wired she knew he would come back at once. She also knew that she could trust him to take off her shoulders all worrying, maybe even unpleasant, arrangements.

And yet the fact that she was now a widow would certainly make Roger “tiresome.” So unfortunately certain was this that she felt it better to leave him alone, at any rate for the present. Also she was a little afraid of seeing him just now. After all, owing to his being a doctor, he had such an uncanny knowledge of⁠—of poisons, and of their effect on the human body.

She sat down; then she got up again, and at last she began moving about restlessly.

Suddenly she told herself that she might as well sit down and write to Miles Rushworth. It could be quite a short letter. He would of course remember that in her very last letter she had said that poor Jervis was worse, and that she was feeling anxious.

She wondered how long it takes for a letter to get to South Africa. And then with a sensation of relief came the thought that she could cable. It would be quite natural for her to do that as, after all, her husband had been in Rushworth’s employment.

She went over to the writing-table, and, sitting down, drew a telegraph form towards her. She would write it out, and then take it herself to the post office. She didn’t feel, somehow, like sending a cable to Rushworth over the telephone. That is the worst of living in a flat. Everything one says may be overheard, especially from the hall.

But instead of taking up a pen, she put her elbows on the table and gazed in front of her.

There had suddenly come over her a most unexpected sensation of loneliness. Oh, if she had one good man friend who wasn’t in love with her, and who would help her through the next few days! She did so shrink from⁠—from everything. Laying her head on the table, she began to sob with self-pity.

The door opened, and the nurse came in. Ivy looked up.

“I’m so miserable! So miserable! I don’t know what to do!”

“Don’t you worry about anything, Mrs. Lexton. Dr. Berwick will be round pretty soon. I telephoned to his house just now, and left a message for him. Mrs. Berwick was shocked to hear our dreadful news. She said she was expecting the doctor back any minute now. I expect Dr. Gretorex will be in some time today, too. Surely he’ll see to all the things that have to be done.”

“All the things?” Ivy looked timorously at Nurse Bradfield, and shivered.

The other saw her look of dismay. “Poor little thing,” she said to herself, “she’s not much more than a child, after all.”

Aloud she said, “I thought of going out presently. Not for long”⁠—fear had flashed into Ivy’s face⁠—“only just for a few minutes.”

She added kindly: “I shouldn’t try to write, if I were you, Mrs. Lexton. I’d just lie down and have a rest. I don’t suppose you’ve had much sleep?”

Ivy answered plaintively, “I lay awake all night. You see it was such a shock, nurse, such a dreadful shock,” and she thought that what she said was true.

In a way it had been a dreadful shock, for Ivy had never come face to face with death. She had been still a pupil at a fashionable school when her father had killed himself.

The nurse led her to the comfortable sofa. “You lie down here.”

Ivy obeyed, wondering why she felt as she did feel⁠—so thoroughly upset and unnerved.

She had been lying down perhaps ten minutes when she heard the now familiar knock of Dr. Berwick. She started up, and what natural colour she had left her cheeks. Angrily she told herself that it was stupid to feel frightened. There was nothing to be frightened about.

The door opened, and the doctor strode into the darkened room. He turned a frowning, preoccupied face on the newly-made widow. Then, when his eyes rested on the tear-stained little face, his expression softened.

“I’m more sorry than I can say that I happened to have been away all yesterday, Mrs. Lexton. I only came back this morning.”

Ivy began to cry, and again he felt touched by her evident distress.

“Sit down, Mrs. Lexton. Do sit down. I’m afraid you’ve had a terrible shock.”

“A dreadful, dreadful shock!” she sobbed, “I had no idea that Jervis was so ill.”

“Last time I was here he was certainly better,” he said quickly. “You thought him better too, didn’t you?”

“I did. I did indeed.”

She was trembling now, and though she was consciously playing a part, her emotion was still genuine.

She sat down on the sofa and the doctor drew up a chair and sat down too, a little to her surprise.

“If you feel up to it,” he said, “I want to ask you a few questions. I mean as to what happened yesterday?”

She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “I can’t tell you very much, for I was out a great deal yesterday. But nurse never left Jervis, not for one moment. She’s been most awfully kind, and⁠—”

He cut her short, brusquely. “I know she’s a good old thing. What I want to know is whether Mr. Lexton received any visitor or visitors yesterday?”

“Visitors?” She looked at him in surprise. “Not that I know of. He was far too ill.”

In a tone which he strove to make light, he observed, “I thought that your husband might have seen Dr. Gretorex for a few moments.”

The colour rushed into her face.

“He can’t have seen him. Dr. Gretorex is in the country.” Then, a little confusedly, she added, “At least, I’m nearly sure that he is.”

“Ah, well, then he can’t have come in, of course.”

A knock sounded on the door, and Nurse Bradfield came into the room.

Ivy welcomed her presence. Looking up into the kind face, now full of sympathy, she exclaimed:

“Dr. Berwick has been asking me if my husband saw anyone yesterday? But I’m quite sure Jervis wasn’t well enough to see anyone.”

“Mr. Lexton only had one visitor,” said the nurse quickly, defensively, “and that was Dr. Gretorex.”

“I thought,” said the doctor, turning sharply on Ivy, “that you said just now that Dr. Gretorex was in the country?”

“He was to have been in the country, staying with his mother for a long weekend.”

There was no mistaking Ivy’s look of surprise. Not that she thought it mattered, one way or the other, whether Roger Gretorex had come in or not yesterday.

“At what time was he here?” asked Dr. Berwick.

The nurse waited a moment. “I suppose it would have been about four o’clock. He didn’t mean to see Mr. Lexton.”

Said Dr. Berwick grimly to himself, “Oh, didn’t he?”

Nurse Bradfield went on, a little nervously: “He asked for Mrs. Lexton, and when he heard that she was coming in soon⁠—you said you wouldn’t be out long,” and she turned to Ivy⁠—“he said he would come in and wait. After he had been in the drawing-room about ten minutes, he rang for the maid and asked to see me. I told him I thought Mr. Lexton on the whole better, and then he inquired if Mr. Lexton would care to see him. He said he couldn’t stay long, as he had a train to catch⁠—”

Dr. Berwick said negligently, “Did you leave them alone together, nurse?”

“Yes, I did, doctor, for I knew they were great friends. Dr. Gretorex thought Mr. Lexton less well than the last time he had seen him. In fact, he saw a great change.”

“Did he tell you that?”

She replied quickly, “He told me that he thought him very far from well, and that he was distressed at the change he saw in him.”

“You never told me all that,” said Ivy plaintively.

“I ought to have done, Mrs. Lexton. But the truth is I was too upset, when Mr. Lexton took a turn for the worse, to remember anything.”

“I’m sure seeing Roger Gretorex for a few moments can’t have done him any harm,” said Ivy gently. “They were great friends.”

But as she made that commonplace remark, she flushed again, remembering Roger’s highfalutin’ letter⁠—what a fool she had been not to destroy it at once!

“So I understood on that occasion when Dr. Gretorex, from my point of view, most improperly began to prescribe for him,” said the doctor, in a tone which, even to himself, sounded trenchantly ironic.

Meanwhile Nurse Bradfield, supposing that for the present the doctor had done with her, had turned towards the door.

“I should be obliged, nurse, if you would wait in the dining-room for a few moments. I should like to speak to you on my way out.”

“Certainly, Dr. Berwick.”

The good woman told herself with a touch of contempt that he could have nothing of any moment to say to her. She had done her duty, and more than her duty as a day nurse, to poor Jervis Lexton.

As she shut the door, Dr. Berwick turned to his late patient’s widow.

“In the circumstances,” he said, in a slow, emphatic tone, “I am afraid, Mrs. Lexton, that there must be a postmortem.”

“A postmortem?” repeated Ivy falteringly. “What is a postmortem, Dr. Berwick?”

She was trying to remember what it was exactly that Roger Gretorex had said about a “postmortem.” Much that he had said, during that conversation which had meant so little to him, and so much to her, was almost terribly present to her mind. But her memory as to that alarming word or expression had become dim.

Ivy Lexton had always remained, until today, most comfortably ignorant of all the terrible, strange, and awful things that now and again occurred outside her own immediate little circle of people and of interests.

The newspaper reports of a really exciting “society case,” of the kind which amused and intrigued her special set of friends, amused and intrigued her too; though only if there was nothing going on at the time in her own life of infinitely greater moment. As to what is called, often erroneously, “a murder mystery” she had never felt any interest at all.

Her look of innocent inquiry at once effaced from Dr. Berwick’s mind what might have been described as a gossamer suspicion which he had now and again entertained, during the last ten days, with regard to his patient’s wife.

He did not answer her question at once. Instead he asked her slowly, “I suppose you have some man relative who can see to everything for you? Though I advise that no arrangements be made today.”

“No arrangements?” She looked at him surprised. “Does that mean⁠—” she waited for a moment, then went on, “that poor Jervis’s funeral cannot take place as soon as nurse thought it might?”

“Nurse? What did nurse say?” he asked quickly.

She realised at once that she had made a mistake in mentioning nurse.

Ivy was only clever with regard to those men⁠—they were in the great majority⁠—whom she instinctively knew to be strongly attracted to her lovely self.

“Nurse seemed to think that the funeral could be on Thursday,” she answered in a low voice.

“Nothing can be settled till the postmortem has taken place, Mrs. Lexton. Once the cause of death has been ascertained, the funeral can, of course, take place at once.”

Ivy had moved away while he was speaking, and she was now standing by the writing-table, with her back to the window.

Slowly, mechanically, she repeated: “The cause of death?”

Though she uttered the four words in her usual voice, there had suddenly swept over her a sensation of intense terror.

“I’m sure that you feel quite as anxious as I do, Mrs. Lexton, to know what can have brought about your husband’s death in so sudden and mysterious a fashion,” said Dr. Berwick earnestly. “I have not concealed from you that to me this case, ever since I took charge of Mr. Lexton, presented more than one puzzling feature.”

Though, unlike his wife, he felt quite sure that the attractive, silly young creature before him had never returned Roger Gretorex’s love, she had certainly been foolishly imprudent. With indulgent contempt he told himself that she was the sort of woman who always likes to have an adoring swain hanging about her.

“I think it more than likely,” he said, getting up, and speaking far more lightly than before, “that nothing untoward will be discovered as a result of the postmortem⁠—which, by the way, simply means an examination. But still, if only for my own satisfaction, and I’m sure that my feelings will be shared by Dr. Lancaster, I should like to be able to put what is the truth, rather than a mere guess, as to the cause of Mr. Lexton’s death on the certificate.”

Again he had uttered those awful words⁠—the cause of⁠ ⁠… death.

She forced herself to say, with a look of childish appeal, “I daresay you’ll think it strange, Dr. Berwick, but this is the first time in my life that I’ve ever been even in the same house where⁠—”

She stopped, and he supplied the end of her sentence,

“⁠—there has been a death? That is not so strange as you may think, Mrs. Lexton. Some people go through a long life without coming in contact even with serious illness.”

“It’s that which makes it all so dreadful,” and again she melted into tears.

She was telling herself that if they really found out anything as a result of⁠—what was that strange, terrifying term?⁠—the postmortem, then this hard-faced man standing there might make a great difference, perhaps all the difference, to her being, well, worried.