The Story of Ivy · Chapter 8 (2/2)

Her look of appeal, her tears, did touch the doctor. He asked himself idly what age this lovely little woman could be? She looked so amazingly young. Not a day over twenty! But she must, of course, be much older than that, for Jervis Lexton had talked on one occasion as if they had been married quite a long time.

Ivy felt the wave of kindly feeling, and was reassured.

“I shall be so lonely now,” she said plaintively.

“Have you no woman friend who would come and stay with you, Mrs. Lexton? In any case, you ought to communicate with your husband’s lawyers. I suppose Mr. Lexton’s life was insured?”

“No, Jervis was not insured.”

She looked surprised at the question.

“He quarrelled with his lawyer last year,” she added forlornly. “And our one really great friend, Miles Rushworth, lives at Liverpool, but he is in South Africa just now.”

“You mean the owner of the Rushworth Line?”

“Yes, my husband was in his London office. I’m going to cable to Mr. Rushworth. It’s so dreadful to feel I’ve no one to turn to.”

“I should think Dr. Gretorex might be able to help you?”

He uttered the commonplace words in a tone he tried to make matter-of-fact. Still, he threw her a quick look, and he did become aware that the half-question had disturbed her. Though how much he had disturbed her he was never to know.

She turned to the writing-table, and began piling the papers which lay on it to one side, and then there rose before her inner vision a view of Roger Gretorex’s surgery as it had looked on that evening when she had been surprised, just for a moment, by his old charwoman. She saw again the jar labelled “Arsenic” standing on the deal table.

“I’m not quite sure where Dr. Gretorex is just now. Besides, he’s so dreadfully busy.”

Dr. Berwick reminded himself that the poor little woman had undoubtedly been trying to put an end to Gretorex’s infatuation. Gretorex’s own letter had proved that. So it was decent of her not to send for him just now.

“I must be going, Mrs. Lexton, for I have a great deal of work to get through this morning.”

He took her hand in his, and then he felt startled, for it was icy cold. Poor, pretty little thing! She had evidently had a more serious shock than he had supposed. In her own childish way she must have been really fond of that feckless, yet not unattractive, chap.

True, she had been no more use in the sickroom than an officious, affectionate child would have been! And only this last week he had thought it oddly heartless of her to have been out almost the whole of every day. But he realised, now, that she had never before come in contact with serious illness.⁠ ⁠…

However, there could be no doubt as to her real grief and sense of loss. There were black lines round her long-fringed, violet eyes; marks of tears still stained her roseleaf-tinted cheeks. And⁠—and she was really so lovely that now, when bidding her goodbye, he did hold her hand maybe a thought longer than he need have done.

“Get out of doors all you can,” he said feelingly. “Go and walk in Kensington Gardens now, till lunch time. And don’t worry about anything! As far as will be possible, I promise to save you all trouble and anxiety.”

She gave his strong hand an affectionate squeeze.

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you, doctor, I shall never forget how awfully kind you’ve been.”

Till a few moments ago she had thought Dr. Berwick very unkind, but Ivy Lexton was dowered with so great a power of self-deception that she really did believe what she had just said.

As the doctor was going quickly through the hall, Nurse Bradfield came out of the dining-room.

“You wanted to see me, Dr. Berwick?”

“Did I? Well, I don’t think I need trouble you after all, nurse. Wait a moment, though. I’d just like to have your address. I suppose you are leaving here today?”

Nurse Bradfield was genuinely surprised. She had felt so sure that the doctor thought but poorly of her; and she on her side had no wish to nurse under him again. Still, one never can tell! She took a card out of her handbag, and handed it to him.

“There’s going to be a postmortem,” he said suddenly, and then he looked at her hard. Had she had no suspicion of anything being wrong?

Her evident astonishment answered his unspoken question even before she said in a surprised tone: “Have you any doubt yourself, doctor, as to the cause of Mr. Lexton’s death?”

He nearly replied: “The greatest doubt! In fact, I don’t feel I can sign the death certificate.”

But he checked himself. It wouldn’t do for her to go and frighten that poor little woman. After all, his suspicions might be⁠—he certainly hoped they were⁠—absolutely unjustified.

And then it was her turn to astonish him.

“I hope Mrs. Lexton won’t be put to any great expense,” she murmured. “In spite of this lovely flat, and her wonderful clothes, I’m afraid they were very poor. In fact, Mr. Lexton, when he was wandering so much these last two days, talked a lot about money, and seemed to blame himself very much. But I should say that it was she who was extravagant!”

“Extravagant?” said the doctor, surprised. “Is Mrs. Lexton extravagant? I should have thought she had very simple tastes.”

Nurse Bradfield smiled to herself. “Men are soft where a pretty face is concerned,” she reminded herself tolerantly.

Then aloud she said: “Mrs. Lexton spends a great deal of money over her clothes⁠—and I know that she is a good bit in debt. There was a man here the day before yesterday who said he wouldn’t go away till he was paid. But he had to, at last, for she wasn’t in till midnight. We must hope that Mr. Lexton was well insured.”

“He wasn’t insured at all,” said the doctor shortly. “I asked Mrs. Lexton, for had he been, she ought at once to have informed the insurance company.”

For the first time in his professional life Dr. Berwick went home in what he himself described as “the middle of his round.”

Mrs. Berwick saw the motor draw up outside their little house, and running out into the hall she opened the front door.

“Darling!” she cried, “did you forget anything?”

“No, Janey, I forgot nothing. But I’ve got to arrange for a postmortem, so I thought it better to come back here, rather than ring up from a call office.”

She saw that he was excited and disturbed, and, being a wise woman, she asked him no questions. But she was not surprised when, instead of going straight off to the telephone, he turned into their sitting-room, and shut the door behind him.

“Janey?” he said slowly. “You know that that poor chap Lexton died last night? Mrs. Lexton, as usual, was out. She came in to find him dead.”

“How dreadful!”

“He was better, it seems, in the morning⁠—very much better. Then Roger Gretorex came in and sat with him some time alone or so I gather from the nurse.”

There followed a long, pregnant silence between the husband and wife. Then there came over Mrs. Berwick’s face a look of terrible dismay.

“D’you mean that you suspect⁠—?” And there was a world of horror in her voice.

“I don’t suspect anything,” he answered sharply. “And I certainly don’t want you to put words into my mouth, or even thoughts into my mind. There’s going to be a postmortem, so we shall soon know part of the truth, at any rate.”

She waited a moment, and her voice sank almost to a whisper.

“Then Mrs. Lexton consents to a postmortem?”

“Her consent was not asked,” he said brusquely. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Janey. If there’s been any foul play, she’s not in it. I’ve thoroughly satisfied myself of that.”

“But Roger Gretorex? A doctor? How terrible!”

“I know,” he muttered. “But, Janey?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I think it’s ninety-nine chances to one against my half-suspicion turning out to be the truth. What with his impudence in prescribing for my patient, and that queer love-letter of his⁠—well, I’m prejudiced against the chap.”

“I’m not surprised at that,” she breathed.

Indeed, she, Janey Berwick herself, felt strongly prejudiced against Roger Gretorex.