Twenty-four hours after this Esther slammed down the lid of her steamer
trunk and sat upon it. If her breath came quickly it was less from her
exertions than from the stinging memory of her curt dismissal half an
hour agone. Whenever her thoughts recurred to it her eyes flashed and
her lips tightened into a thin line. It was the second time since she
had entered this house that she had been extremely angry, although
perhaps in the present instance it might be foolish of her to be so
sensitive. She knew she ought to consider the source of the affront,
yet all she could think of was the fact that never before had she been
treated with such scant courtesy.
The funeral was over. The family, including the doctor, the old butler
and herself, as well as Captain Holliday, had followed the body to its
interment in the British Cemetery, and had then returned to the house
for a late lunch. Immediately after this Miss Clifford, in the
presence of Lady Clifford, had taken her hand very simply and said,
"Thank goodness, my dear, you don't have to leave us at once. I am
afraid now my poor nephew is going to want looking after, and it will
be such a comfort having you." This had touched and pleased Esther,
who had nodded understandingly, more than glad to be of use. She
recalled later that Lady Clifford had not spoken, but at the time she
had not thought of it. As far as Esther was concerned, it was in no
way a question of money, she would have been delighted to remain as a
friend as long as the family needed her. She felt decidedly troubled
about Roger. He still refused to give up, but his temperature rose
regularly each afternoon towards nightfall--not very high, yet high
enough to cause alarm. He undoubtedly had "walking typhoid," which,
though apparently mild, had sometimes disastrous results. She wanted
to have a word with him about himself, but there was no opportunity.
He had disappeared directly after lunch, she suspected because he
resented the presence of Holliday. Thinking she was sure to see him
later in the day, she busied herself in a variety of ways, doing all
she could to be useful.
About half-past four she went to her own room to put herself tidy for
tea. As she was in the act of brushing her hair before the mirror,
Lady Clifford's maid, Aline, entered after a perfunctory knock and
informed her briefly that her ladyship wished to speak with her in the
boudoir.
"Certainly, I'll come at once," she replied, laying down the brush, and
not altogether liking the sidelong glance the woman bestowed upon her
out of her close-set eyes, nor the way she lingered unnecessarily
inside the door.
Entering the boudoir, she sensed at once an altered atmosphere,
something not easy to describe, yet part of the general, rapid,
business-like readjustment she had observed going on for the past two
days. Next her attention was riveted by the chic, black-clad figure of
her employer, standing in the centre of the pale grey carpet, minus her
voluminous, inky veil which, during the early half of the day, had
transformed her into a creature of mystery. Her mourning was
exceedingly elegant and smart. Esther, gazing fascinated, wondered in
spite of herself how long before Sir Charles's death it had been
planned. She had never been able to rid her memory of the fashion-book
incident.
The veil shed, Lady Clifford stood revealed as a figure electric with
renewed energy. Her eyes shone like grey stars, her hair, freshly
waved, was glossily golden, one foot in its well-cut suede shoe tapped
the floor with nervous impatience. Her hands, milky-white against the
dead black of her dress, waved in the air a cheque upon which the ink
was still wet. Esther caught a glimpse of the almost crimson enamelled
nails, while a breath of the characteristic perfume wafted towards her.
The next instant she drew in her breath sharply, for, in a metallic
voice, the Frenchwoman had informed her that her services were no
longer required and that she was at liberty to leave at once.
"Yes, certainly, Lady Clifford, I will go immediately," Esther heard
herself saying in a collected tone, though the blood was singing in her
ears.
What was it all about? What had happened?
"I have made the cheque out for an extra week," the ringing voice
continued carelessly, "since in all probability your engagement here
terminated rather sooner than you expected."
"Oh, no, please, Lady Clifford, I couldn't take it, really! Will you
alter the amount? I haven't earned it, you know."
"Certainly not. I must ask you to take it as it is."
"Oh, but really, I can't..." Esther continued in earnest protest,
really meaning it, feeling it impossible to accept favours from this
woman.
She was rudely cut short.
"Will you kindly leave me now? I have a great many things to attend
to. Good-bye."
That was all. Hot to the roots of her hair, Esther had left the room,
blindly colliding with Chalmers as she did so.
"I beg pardon, miss!" he apologized with his invariable courtesy. "I
hope I haven't hurt you?"
"Not at all, Chalmers, it was all my fault."
Then before she was out of earshot, she had heard him saying to his
mistress:
"I was going to ask, my lady, as I hear the nurse is about to leave,
whether you'd care to have Thompson drive her down to her hotel. He's
waiting to know."
The reply came crisp and uncompromising:
"Not at all; let her get herself a taxi."
It was the crowning touch to an exhibition of rudeness unparalleled in
her experience. Never before, happily, had she felt herself pushed out
of a house where she was neither needed nor wanted. She had served her
purpose, she could get herself a taxi and quit the premises.
Burning with indignation she returned forthwith to her room and began
throwing things into her trunk, anxious not to lose a minute in getting
away. Since the occasion when she had been forced to intervene between
Sir Charles and his wife, Esther had been afraid that the latter must
cherish resentment towards her, but till now there had been no open
sign of it. During the past ten days, indeed, Lady Clifford had spoken
very little to either of the nurses, but that little had been polite.
This abrupt change of attitude indicated plainly that tact was no
longer necessary. There was something superbly arrogant in the way in
which she washed her hands of Esther, lost no time about getting her
out of the house.
Stay--was it because of Roger's evident liking for her? Did Lady
Clifford resent that? Or could it be that she definitely wanted Esther
out of the way?
She was too deeply humiliated to think very clearly, and yet, sitting
there on her trunk, she felt her attention drawn by this new idea.
What if it was true that Lady Clifford was _afraid_ to have her in the
house? She had not had time properly to consider this fresh
possibility when a knock came at the door.
"Who is it? Come in," she called indifferently.
She expected one of the servants, come to inquire about taking her
luggage down, and, consequently, she was unprepared when the door
opened to reveal the big, stolid bulk of the doctor. His slow-moving
eyes glanced about the little room, taking in her preparations for
departure. When he spoke it was in a tone unexpectedly agreeable.
"I thought of inquiring, Miss Rowe, what plans you have for the
immediate future? Is it your intention to go back at once to New York?"
"I don't think so, doctor, but really I don't quite know what I'm going
to do."
He nodded and cleared his throat slightly.
"I think I have mentioned to you that for the present I do not intend
to resume my practice. I mean to take a short holiday instead, so you
of course understand that I shall not require your services."
"Oh, perfectly, doctor," she replied quickly, sure that her voice must
betray the irony she felt. As if she cared, indeed, whether he wanted
her or not!
"I take it, then, that you may remain in Cannes for some time. Have
you any friends here?"
Really! She had never before discovered his taking any interest in
anyone's personal affairs. What had come over him? She replied with a
certain reserve:
"No, none at all. I shall go for a few days to a pension Miss Clifford
told me about. After that I have no idea what I shall do."
He appeared to ponder this information, though for the life of her she
could not see how it could interest him. At last, eyeing her trunk
absently and tapping his chin as if in thought, he spoke again.
"In that case I may as well drive you down to your pension. Let me
know when you are ready to go."
Completely taken aback, she hastened, perhaps overhurriedly, to
disclaim the proffered civility.
"Oh, no, thank you, doctor, I'll just take a taxi. I couldn't think of
troubling you."
"It is no trouble," he returned firmly and in a manner that brooked no
dispute. "I should prefer to see you safely to your destination. In
any case, I am going that way myself."
Much as she shrank from the thought of half an hour in his company, she
did not well see how she could refuse, particularly as it seemed as
though he were making an awkward effort to atone for his past rudeness
to her. Accordingly she resolved to put a cheerful face on it.
"All right, then, doctor, if you're quite sure it's not putting you
out. I'll be ready in a quarter of an hour."
Not till after he had gone did she recall his words, "I am going that
way myself." Why, she had not told him where the pension was! Never
mind, perhaps he was sorry for his behaviour to her; she would give him
the benefit of the doubt. It was surely unlike him to be so gracious.
She shook her head over the puzzle he presented.
Her packing done, she put on the coat of her costume over her marron
crêpe-de-Chine jumper--the one she had bought in the Croisette--and
going to the mirror adjusted her little felt hat carefully. She
recalled the fact that, except for the blouse, these were the same
clothes she had worn that day she first called to interview the doctor,
and later had gone on for tea at the Ambassadeurs. How long ago it
seemed! The costume and hat looked as new and smart as ever, she had a
indeed scarcely worn them since she went on the case. She could hardly
realise it was less than two months since she had answered that
advertisement.
She sighed as, mechanically, she tucked a fresh handkerchief into her
breast pocket, and started for Miss Clifford's room to say good-bye to
the old lady. She hoped she would see Roger, but she did not like to
ask where he was.
On her way through the hall she met Holliday. His appearance was
decorous and subdued, as befitted the occasion, yet as he came up the
stairs in his dark, inconspicuously correct attire, she felt in his
manner something assured, almost proprietary, as if he considered
himself already master here. She inclined her head slightly and was
hurrying past when, to her surprise, he grasped her by the arm and
pulled her around facing him.
"I beg your pardon?" she said, a little offended by casual insolence,
and drew her arm away.
"Hello," he murmured softly, still detaining her by sleeve. "Stand as
you are; let me look at you."
His shallow eyes ran over her carefully, taking in every detail of her
appearance. Then he slapped his leg and gave a noiseless chuckle.
"By Jove!" he whispered deliberately, "by Jove!"
"Well, what's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing--only I've got it now."
"Got what?"
"Where it was I first saw you. Of course--fool that I was!"
He continued to stare, and then she saw his smile fade and a curious
reminiscent look take its place. She knew what the look meant. He was
trying to recall more of the occasion, and wondering how much of his
conversation with Lady Clifford she had overheard.
"I thought it would come back to you one day," she remarked easily.
"It's the hat that made the difference, you know."
She left him standing there motionless, looking after her, his eyes
narrowed in thought. She was careless now as to what he recalled or
didn't recall. What difference could it make?
"Come in, my dear. I'm trying to write some of my many letters--such a
trying task!"
The old lady was sitting up in bed with her writing materials before
her on a little bed-table. She smiled at Esther, but her face looked
weary and old, with lines of grief that had not been there a month ago.
"Are you going out?"
"I'm leaving, Miss Clifford. I came to say good-bye."
Miss Clifford's jaw dropped; she laid down her pen and stared.
"Good-bye? Not now, surely! I thought----"
"So did I, but it was a mistake. Lady Clifford doesn't need me any
more."
There was no doubt that the old lady was as much astonished as she was
distressed.
"But, I don't understand! I thought, of course, that you were going to
stay on a bit, at least until we know about Roger!"
Esther felt awkward, uncertain what to say.
"It's quite all right, Miss Clifford. Your sister-in-law doesn't think
there's any good keeping me on. She told me half an hour ago."
In spite of her efforts her eyes met the old lady's honest ones for a
second. Then the old lady shook her head helplessly, looking both
embarrassed and regretful.
"If only it were my house, my dear," she faltered uncomfortably. "Of
course you know how I felt about it. I took it for granted ...
besides, we looked upon you more as a friend than as a mere nurse, you
know that. Roger will be dreadfully upset when he hears."
"Never mind, I shall hope to see you very soon. I'm not leaving Cannes
just yet. I shall ring up to-morrow to inquire how you all are."
"Yes, please do!"
Miss Clifford took her hand and gave it a squeeze, troubled frown
wrinkling her forehead.
"I wish I knew what to do about Roger. I am sure he has kept going by
sheer will power and obstinacy. I am so afraid I shall have all the
same dreadful uncertainty over again, just as I did with poor Charles."
"Oh, no, he's a young man, remember," Esther reassured her quickly.
"He will be all right, only you must make him go to bed."
"I persuaded him to lie down after lunch, and he's sound asleep now, so
Chalmers tells me. I wonder if I ought to tell him you're going?
He'll be so cross when he finds out."
"Not on any account," Esther forbade her firmly. "It would be wrong to
disturb him."
"He is really very difficult," went on the old lady confidentially.
"Between ourselves, I don't know what my sister-in-law is going to
think of his behaving in this way, refusing to take the doctor's
advice. She's doing all she can for the boy, and if he continues as he
is doing he is almost sure to offend her. She's extremely sensitive!"
Esther was silent, hoping Roger would follow her advice about the
nursing-home.
"Well, au revoir, my dear! I'm very sorry indeed, and I shall miss
you. I shall never forget how kind you were to my brother."
Her brown eyes filled with tears as she kissed Esther's cheek.
There was no sign of the doctor when Esther slowly descended to the
entrance hall. She would have liked to slip away by herself, but it
was too late, Chalmers had just placed her luggage on the back of the
doctor's car; she met him coming back. Moreover, she had intended to
stop at the chemist's on her way down; now of course she dared not do
it. What Miss Clifford had said about Roger's symptoms and the
dreadful uncertainty had intensified all her vague fears, so that
suddenly she felt she must end the suspense at once--if possible,
before she quitted the house. Who could say what might happen once she
got away?
Was there anything she could do? It would be late, perhaps too late
before she would have a chance of reaching the chemist; the shop might
be closed. Her eye fell on the little cloak-room at the back of the
stairs, where the telephone was kept. Of course--she had a minute to
spare now. What was to prevent her telephoning? The chemist spoke
English--she could make him understand.
She cast a swift glance around; there was no one in sight. Then she
slipped into the little room and rapidly searched in the telephone book
for the name--Cailler, it was; she remembered because it was the name
of a milk chocolate. Ah, here it was! With gratifying dispatch she
got the connection, heard a voice which she recognised as belonging
with the curly blond beard.
"_Allo, allo! Oui, c'est bien_--ah, yes, it is the Pharmacie Cailler,
yes, yes.... What is it you say? I do not understand ... report?
Report of what? ... Needle? Hypodermic needle? ... But yes, yes,
mademoiselle, it has been sent already to your address; it came this
afternoon, so we have sent it to you."
"Sent it! But I haven't received it. Are you quite sure?"
"But yes, certainly, one hour ago, to Mademoiselle Rowe, the Villa
Firenze."
What was this? A suspicion crept into her mind.
"Yes, yes, monsieur. I'm afraid it must have gone astray. Could you
possibly look it up and tell me over the telephone what the report was?
It is rather important...."
Gripping the receiver hard, she held her breath, straining her ears for
the reply. It followed without hesitation, distinct and clear:
"But certainly, mademoiselle, I can tell you. The needle contained,
_tout simplement_, what one calls in English the pure toxin of typhoid!"
"Toxin of typh...."
The words died in her throat, the receiver dropped clattering down.
For an instant she sat as though paralysed, her dry lips parted, her
eyes staring in front of her. Then with a sudden rush the horrible
truth swept upon her, overwhelming her utterly. Curiously enough, it
seemed as though she had always known it from the first. How could she
have shut her eyes to the facts? Incidents, motives, all suddenly
fitted together like parts of a puzzle moved into place. It was all
clear now; she saw the entire plan, so simple, so natural, so
diabolically clever--the unsuspecting old man being done to death by a
natural disease that was prevalent at the time, while every effort was
made to save him, all the world looking on--"see, just to show you
there's no deception"--"all open and above board"--only the one flaw
which she, by accident, had hit upon. Yes, she alone of all the
household had held the clue in her hand, and had not had the wit to use
it, to follow it up! Fool, fool, that she was! Yet, no--not quite
that. The first injections were iron and arsenic, just what they
pretended to be; only the last one was the pure toxin, renewing and
intensifying the disease beyond hope of salvation. Even if she had
known then, it would still have been too late to rescue Sir Charles....
But then, there was Roger! Was he, too, an intended victim? Was
another murder in progress?
She jumped to her feet, pushed open the door blindly, ready to fly up
the stairs and warn him of his danger, tell him all she knew. It was
no time to mince matters, she must act and act quickly. If they
persuaded him to submit to those injections of so-called anti-toxin....
"Oh--Chalmers!"
For the second time that day she ran bolt into the dignified person of
the butler, who was crossing on his way to the stairs. She pulled
herself up and spoke to him in a choking voice:
"Chalmers, for God's sake wake Mr. Roger at once! Tell him I have
something to say to him. Tell him it's very important!"
"Yes, miss, certainly!"
Without betraying the least amazement at her husky voice and trembling
hands, the butler mounted the stairs steadily to do her bidding. She
remained where she was, clutching the back of one of the tall Stuart
chairs, listening to the man's measured tread and her own hammering
heartbeats. Oh, why wouldn't he hurry? Still, it would be all right
now, she had found out in time. Thank God, she had telephoned, thank
God, she knew ...
There was a slight movement behind her; she jumped apprehensively,
suddenly suspecting that someone was behind the cloak-room door she had
so rapidly thrown open.
She turned to see who it could be, but she was not quick enough. In
that instant a thick hand closed over her mouth, completely gagging
her, while a huge arm that seemed like the limb of a tree or the python
of her dream coiled around her with powerful force. She squirmed,
panted, choked; a horrible panic seized her. Then in the upper part of
her left arm she felt a sharp stab, piercing through her clothing deep
into her flesh.
Immediately, it seemed, her head swam round, consciousness melted in a
black mist. She knew nothing more.