The Story of Ivy · Chapter 22 (2/2)

“Mrs. Lexton,” he said in a low voice, “is going to be arrested, I understand, this evening, or tomorrow morning. The Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard are completing what they consider a very strong chain of evidence against her. I have here copies of three letters which have come into their possession. You had better glance over them, Rushworth.”

He got up and, leaning across his table, handed a number of typewritten sheets to his client.

How strange looked those burning words of love and longing, transcribed on a bad old typewriting machine! But the man now reading them could visualise Ivy’s pretty flowing handwriting, and, as he read on, he turned hot and cold.

Then he started on Gretorex’s letter; the letter acquiescing in Ivy’s decision that there should be a break between them.

“That was written,” observed the solicitor, “after Lexton’s mysterious illness was well started. I think you will agree that it is the letter of a man who was certainly unaware of what was going on?”

He waited a moment, then he added: “They’ve unluckily traced all your cables to the lady, Rushworth, as well as yours to me. I fear that you are certain to be called as leading witness for the Crown, if Mrs. Lexton is sent for trial, as seems now inevitable.”

“That would be monstrous! What is my connection with the case?” exclaimed Rushworth. “Surely I had the right to give all the help in my power to the wife of one of my own people?”

“They will call you in order to prove that Mrs. Lexton had a strong motive for wishing to get her husband out of the way,” returned Oram in a doleful tone. “I hope you refrained from writing to her? If you did, I trust she had the sense to destroy your letters.”

“It is this man Gretorex, if, as you seem to think, he is entirely innocent, who should be called, not I,” said Rushworth in a hard voice.

“Roger Gretorex will certainly refuse to give evidence against her. They’ll try to make him. But they’ll fail. He worshipped Ivy Lexton, and I fear he still loves her.”

Then the old man sighed. “It’s an awful story, Rushworth,” he observed, “however you look at it.”

The other threw the typewritten sheets of paper back on the table. He rose, and rather blindly he felt for, and found, his hat and stick.

“I must be going now,” he said shortly. “If I’m wanted, you know where to find me, Oram.”

He felt humiliated to the depths of his being. His passion for Ivy Lexton had turned to bitter hatred. Yet he knew that their fates were linked together, and that through what had been his mad infatuation for this woman, a name which was known and honoured all over the world, was not only going to become a laughingstock, but also to be smirched and befouled forever.

As he went down the fine staircase of the old house, he exclaimed wordlessly, “By God, that shall not be!”

He waited a moment in the hall, and in that moment he thought of a way out.

It was a way made possible by the fact that an unpleasant experience at the beginning of August, 1914, had taught him the value of gold. Since the Saturday which had preceded the outbreak of war, he had always kept a thousand pounds in gold, and a thousand pounds in Bank of England ten-pound notes, in the private safe of his London office.

He walked quickly to the corner of a quiet street where he had left his car, and threw the chauffeur the address.

Then he looked at his watch. If what old Oram had said was true with regard to the probable arrest of Ivy Lexton, there was just time to accomplish that which he had planned to do in what had seemed but one flashing second.

“Stop at the nearest telephone box,” he called out. And the chauffeur drew up at a tube station.

Rushworth was in the telephone box for a long time, for he had to a certain extent to speak in parables. But the young man whom he had called up, and had had the good fortune to find at home, at last understood exactly what was wanted of him. He was an airman to whom Rushworth had once been magnificently generous.

“Right-ho!” came the young voice down the line. “I’ll be quite ready. I understand you want me to take my wife, too, and that you’ll motor her down here from town. Her passport’s always OK. You can trust me. Afraid? Not much!”

Rushworth’s face looked strained and white as he came out of the telephone box.

He was well aware that he was inciting that lad to do, from pure gratitude, a very wrong thing. Well? If it “didn’t come off,” he, Rushworth, would take all the blame, of course. But he felt pretty sure that the plan he had made would succeed, for it had the two essential qualities which spell success. His plan was bold and his plan was simple.

True, he wondered uncomfortably if the police had traced that last wire of his from Paris. He was glad indeed that Ivy had had the wit to telegraph her country address. And then, as he evoked her lovely face, her beckoning eyes, his own darkened, and filled with wrath and pain.

He did not go himself into his London office. Instead he sent in his chauffeur, with the key of his private safe, and armed with minute instructions as to what he was to take out of it.

Then, when the man had brought him the heavy little canvas bag, and the envelope containing a hundred ten-pound notes, he threw him the address of some lodgings in a quiet street off Piccadilly, where he knew Lady Dale and her daughter were staying just now. His sister had made him promise that he would see Bella the moment he reached London, and he was fulfilling that promise.

When he was told that her ladyship was out, but that Miss Dale was in, and alone, he suddenly felt as if his luck was holding, after all!

Ivy had insisted on coming back to London before luncheon.

Not only was her mind now full of vague, unsubstantial fears, but she was aware that Miles Rushworth would call at her flat some time this evening. That, indeed, was a fact to which she clung and constantly returned with a feeling of reassurance and hope. Even so she had not allowed Lady Flora to telephone the fact that she was returning unexpectedly to the flat. She felt, somehow, that she wanted no one to know about her movements just now. She was beginning to feel that most terrifying of sensations⁠—that of being hunted.

Even when settled comfortably, and alone, in a first-class carriage of the train taking her to town, she found she could not rest, and she actually got up and began moving about.

It was such an awful sensation⁠—that of feeling that human hounds might be hot on her scent.⁠ ⁠…

She had bought her favourite picture paper at the station, and then she had had a shock, for a large photograph of Roger had confronted her on the front page.

Underneath the picture ran a long paragraph, stating that Dr. Gretorex, who was to have been hanged this morning for the murder of Jervis Lexton, had had his execution postponed on the very eve of its being carried out. Such a thing had not taken place in England for close on eighty years. But important new evidence had been placed before the Home Secretary at the eleventh hour.⁠ ⁠…

“New Evidence”⁠—Ivy turned those two ominous words over and over again, in her troubled, anxious mind. They now forced her to do what she had believed she would never, never have to do⁠—live over again, in imagination, a certain fortnight of her life, the first fortnight of last November.⁠ ⁠…

She found herself imagining, suspecting, wild, crazy things. For instance, the existence of minute peepholes in the ceilings of certain rooms in the flat? Even that seemed more likely than that Roger Gretorex should have “given her away” with regard to the fact that she had been once left alone by him with a jar of arsenic on the table of his surgery.

Besides, even if he had done such a cruel, despicable thing, what he had it in his power to reveal proved nothing, and could prove nothing. She knew herself to have been not only very clever, but also very very careful.

And yet, as the train sped nearer and nearer to London, she became more and more afraid.

The old cook was quite pleased to see “the missus,” and volubly she described the visit of Inspector Orpington and of his sergeant.

“No, they didn’t find nothing. How could they⁠—when there was nothing there?”

This Ivy believed to be nothing but the truth, and yet the fact that the two men from Scotland Yard had come to search the flat, filled her with a terrible foreboding.

And then, suddenly, she remembered Mrs. Huntley! With a sensation of sick fear she recalled how Gretorex’s servant had surprised her on what she now perceived to have been the most dangerous day of her life.

Vile, wicked, cruel old woman! However, she, Ivy, had already replaced the cap on the jar labelled “Arsenic” when Mrs. Huntley had crept into the surgery so slyly and softly behind her. But the jar had been there, on the table before her, and no doubt the old fox had noticed it.

Yes! It was probably some sort of gossip traced to Gretorex’s day-servant which had been the cause both of the reprieve, and of the presence yesterday of the Scotland Yard inspector here, in the flat. But, thank God, there was nothing⁠—nothing⁠—nothing that could be found, and for the best of reasons, that there was nothing to find.

Even so, all this was very frightening, as well as very annoying, if only because it meant new trouble and worry, just at a time when she, Ivy, would be wanting to pick up the old, and create the new, links, between herself and Rushworth.

She went into her bedroom feeling a little reassured. It is always better to know the worst, and Ivy Lexton thought she did know the worst now. And it was not so bad as she had feared.

Already she was mentally preparing the tale she would tell. And it ran somewhat like this: She had gone just for a moment to see Gretorex on the evening Mrs. Huntley had seen her in the surgery, with a message from Jervis, who was waiting for her hard by Ferry Place in a taxi. They two were on their way to a dance, and Jervis had suggested that Gretorex should come with them. But the fact had made so little impression on her mind that she had forgotten all about it, when asked if she had ever been to Ferry Place alone. If Mrs. Huntley mentioned the supper, she would simply deny that she had been the lady entertained by Gretorex. Mrs. Huntley had not actually seen her with her host. She had only seen her for that moment or two in the surgery.

But, even so, Ivy’s nerves were so far upset that she made an involuntary and violent movement of recoil, when she heard a sudden loud knock on the front door of the flat.

There followed a moment of delay, and then she heard the cook waddling down the passage. She told herself that it was probably Inspector Orpington, and she mentally prepared her story, the explanation, that is, of that unfortunate encounter with Mrs. Huntley.

And then her heart leapt with joy in her bosom, for, “Is Mrs. Lexton at home?” was uttered in Miles Rushworth’s voice.

“I don’t know that Mrs. Lexton can see you, sir.”

“I think she’ll see me. Will you kindly say Mr. Rushworth has called to see her?”

Ivy heard him go into the drawing-room, and, after a few moments spent before her dressing-table in making up her face, she followed him.

Miles Rushworth was standing in the centre of the room, and when the door opened, and Ivy came through it, she looked so innocent and so appealing, as she advanced towards him in her plain black dress, that suddenly he felt as if all that had happened today had been only an evil dream. Almost he held out his arms.

And then he took a step backwards, for alas! he knew all that had happened today was no dream, but stark reality.

In silence she held out her hand, and perforce he took it in his, for a moment.

“I felt so sad, even in the midst of my own troubles, when I heard about your sister,” she murmured.

“Don’t speak of her!” he exclaimed violently. And involuntarily she shrank back.

She had put down that terrible, stern, sorrow-laden expression on his face to grief for his sister. But all at once she saw that he was gazing at her with an alien look⁠—the look of a stern judge⁠—on his sunburnt face.

What had he heard? What did he know? As she met that awful, accusing shaft of contempt, and yes, of loathing, a sensation of icy despair began slowly to envelop her.

“Do you remember Bella Dale?” he asked suddenly.

She answered in a faltering voice, “The girl on the yacht? Of course I do.”

“She was my sister’s dearest friend,” his voice sank. More strongly he said, “I went to see her this morning, and⁠—and now we are engaged.”

And then he could not but admire her, for Ivy threw back her head, and in a hard, clear tone she exclaimed:

“I wish you joy, Mr. Rushworth! Also I do want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, for all you have done for me.”

She knew now why he looked “like that.” He was ashamed, and well he might be.

Quickly she told herself that he wasn’t married yet. The fact that he was so moved showed the power she had over him. It had been foolish of her to suppose, as she had done for a moment, that he had heard something to her disadvantage⁠—why, there hadn’t been time!

But what was this he was saying?

“I’m the bearer of bad news, Mrs. Lexton.”

His voice had become almost inaudible. She moved, timorously, a little nearer to him.

“Bad news?” she echoed uncertainly, and once more terror filled her burdened, fluttering heart.

“You are to be arrested tomorrow morning on the charge of having caused the death of your husband by poison. The police claim to possess ample evidence to ensure a conviction; so you are in frightful danger.”

Arrested? In one fleeting moment she saw herself a prisoner in the dock where Roger Gretorex had stood. She visualised the Judge, the jury, the lawyers in the well of the Court, even the pitiless crowd of sightseers. The lifting of the black cap on to the Judge’s wig⁠—his awful words of admonition⁠—the condemned cell⁠ ⁠… the gallows.⁠ ⁠…

She who now had always fainted so easily, why did she not faint now? Because she was tasting the bitterness of death.

Yet she made no sign, though she was staring at Rushworth with dilated eyes. But for those large, terror-filled eyes, he would have thought that she had not understood the purport of his awful revelation of what now awaited her. And something like a spasm of pity shook him to the depths of his being.

“I think, nay, I’m sure, I can save you,” he exclaimed confidently.

Then he went on, speaking in low, quick tones: “I’ve arranged with a friend of mine who has got an aeroplane⁠—you remember Jack Quirk, on the yacht?⁠—to take you by air now, at once, today, to Spain. You will travel as his wife, on her passport. I’ve brought you a thousand pounds in gold, and another thousand in notes. From Spain you ought to be able to get a passage to South America without too much trouble. Quirk will arrange it all for you, and he will give you an address, where, if in need of help, you can write to me, once you are safe, far, far away.”

His voice broke. He was remembering a moment⁠—an immortal moment⁠—in their joint lives, when Ivy had certainly loved him, in her fashion.

He saw her lips, which were quivering under the dab of lipstick rouge, try to form the words, “Thank you.”

“I’m afraid there’s no time to be lost. We’d better not be seen leaving the flat together. I’ll say goodbye to you in the hall, and you’d better follow in about five minutes. My car is in Palace Row. Don’t bring anything with you. The front door may be watched, but I think not, as you are believed to be in the country.”