IN THE DOCTOR'S SURGERY
The delay had only been a trifling one, but Cleek did not, after all,
get downstairs in time to witness the first meeting between the worthy
doctor and his adored one. By the time he did reach the old-fashioned,
daintily kept dining room, the couple were apparently engaged in the
commonplace phrases of ordinary social life.
But Cleek was too well versed in that most complex of all studies--human
nature--to be deceived. The veriest child could have seen and understood
every word or motion of his hostess, and a pitying smile crept up
Cleek's face as he noted the bearing of the would-be lover. Cleek's
entry with young Wynne drew their united attention.
"Hello! Doc!" was Wynne's boisterous greeting. "Lost your best patient,
eh? Never mind, saved you killing her yourself."
The remark was decidedly in bad taste, but its effect on Dr. Verrall was
almost startling. Every drop of colour fled from his face, and for a
moment he looked as if he could have struck the youth.
It was with an obvious effort that the doctor continued his talk with
Miss Wynne, but it was Cleek alone who noticed these signs of
perturbation. Again his memory reverted to the night of the murder. He
had sent Mr. Narkom flying for the doctor, and it had been strange that
Verrall should have been so conveniently on the spot--almost, in fact,
as if he had expected a call--rather than at his own house, nearly a
mile away. He had been on foot, too, and not in a motor which he
assuredly would have been, had he been out on his ordinary rounds. There
was something fishy about the whole affair and Cleek decided to keep
both his eyes open.
His entry, however, with young Wynne's announcement of his sudden attack
of faintness, made him an object of extreme solicitude on the part of
Miss Wynne.
"Crocked up, poor beggar, and came near being a new patient for you to
kill, doc," explained young Wynne, as he led Cleek into his place at the
table. "Came within an ace of rolling over, and I bet you a new hat,
Jenny, it's those beastly strong-smelling flowers you stick about all
over the place."
The speaker laughed as though he were making the finest jokes ever made,
and even his adoring sister could not but remonstrate.
"Bobby, darling, how can you be so rude to my poor flowers," said she,
colouring at his humour in front of this stranger. "I'm sure you ought
to be grateful to them----" then stopped short as if regretting having
spoken.
"Oh, that's right, rub it in," responded her brother with a little
sneering laugh. "I'm always being pulled up for something and just
because you sold a few for once, I suppose I shall never hear the last
of what those precious flowers of yours have done for me. Wish to
goodness I was on my own, like other fellows."
"Oh, Bobby," Miss Wynne said, softly, "you know I didn't mean----"
"No, but you let me know it, mean or no mean," he retorted sullenly,
"seems to me that the best thing I can do is to take myself off, and
then everybody will be better. I'll lunch at the inn, thanks. I say,
Headland, when you feel up to it, you might meet me there, and perhaps
we can have a bit of sporting chat together and these two can spoon
amongst the flowers."
With which final dig at his sister's pet hobby and the doctor's evident
devotion, this engaging young gentleman lurched out of the room and down
the little passage leading to the front door without another word.
A strained silence fell on the party for a second until Jennifer,
recovering herself first, said in explanation:
"He's such a big overgrown schoolboy, Mr. Headland, and I'm afraid he's
jealous of my beautiful hyacinths. Please don't give Bobby's rudeness
another thought or I shall feel horribly ashamed."
Cleek shook his head smilingly.
"Pray don't mention it," he said in a smooth tone. "Boys will be boys,
you know, and I rather like a dash of sport myself."
That seemed to set the girl at ease, and Cleek had an opportunity for a
moment of watching and making notes in that wonderful mental diary of
his.
It was not until coffee, made by Jennifer's own capable and slender
fingers, had been served and the gentlemen given permission to smoke,
that Cleek managed to secure the opportunity he so strongly desired, of
seeing inside that little surgery door.
Diving his hand into his pocket, and having assured himself that the
object he sought was reposing safely at the bottom, he gave vent to a
little exclamation of well-simulated disgust.
"Nuisance, Miss Wynne. I am sorry, but I've left my cigarette case up in
your brother's room. Would you mind if I ran up and got it?"
"Oh, I'll get it for you," said the girl, quickly. But that was the
very thing Cleek was most anxious to avoid.
"No, my dear young lady, I know just exactly where it is and I promise
not to thieve anything----"
With a little asinine snigger at his own humour, Cleek had crossed the
tiny room and was on his way up the staircase before Miss Wynne could
find time to remonstrate.
It took him but a second to reach the landing, and swiftly, silently he
grasped the handle of the surgery door. It yielded to his touch, sprang
open upon well-oiled hinges, and in another moment Cleek had achieved
his object and stood in the little room.
His eyes, trained to observe quickly, took in the shelves of drugs, once
dispensed and used so freely by the dead doctor. The vast array of
bottles stood dust covered and dull, many with spider's webs over the
stoppers. All but one, that is, and at that one Cleek's heart gave a
leap, and his hand shot out, then stopped poised over it. The label on
the bottle bore the medicinal name for prussic acid, and the dust had
been brushed from the neck and stopper. Around the centre lay the marks
of long, slender fingers!
Cleek's hand dropped again, and for a second he stood stock still, his
brows knitted, the little nerve in his temple throbbing incessantly and
his chin pinched up between one finger and thumb. Suddenly he switched
on his heel, a new train of thought aroused by the sight of some white
powdery atoms that lay at his feet.
Cautiously he bent down and touched one of the crumbling balls.
"Magnesia," he muttered. "By all the Gods--and that remnant of pellet in
the dead man's mouth!" And the good Dr. Verrall was a friend of the
family, so of course he would have access to this long-forgotten surgery
which Cleek himself would never have known existed had it not been for
the providential opening of the door. What, indeed, was the connection
between Miss Jennifer and the dead "Miss Cheyne"?--or was it Dr.
Verrall, after all? Bobby Wynne? Cleek dismissed him from his mind
altogether as utterly harmless, though again there was the reluctance of
that youth to allow him to enter this very room. There was the trail of
magnesia, too. Now if he could find any trace of that most child-like
and bland of medicines in Master Bobby's own room---- This thought
caused a sudden recollection of the two below and he moved away quickly.
Swiftly and as noiselessly as he had entered, he passed out, the problem
rendered still deeper by the knowledge he had obtained.
Darting into young Wynne's room, he gave it a lightning scrutiny, but
there was no trace of magnesia to be found. But of course this room
would be swept out every day and so no remnants of dust and powder would
be permitted to lie there.
Down the staircase he went once more, stopping only to withdraw his
silver cigarette-case from the pocket it had never left, and his hand on
the dining room door to open it, he stood rigid, for through it came
Miss Jennifer's metallic and artificial voice.
"Edgar, dear, you are sure we are safe? I don't trust this man----"
"Perfectly safe, darling," came the deep-toned answer. "Leave everything
to me and fear nothing. You shall be safe, that I swear."
"Oho!" Cleek's lips puckered for a soundless whistle. "Edgar, eh?" So
Dr. Verrall's name was Edgar, too, for it was certainly that personage
who had answered her question and their relation to one another now was
obvious.
Had she meant Edgar Verrall then, and not Sir Edgar Brenton after all?
Yet the initial on the revolver was B. Last night he could have sworn
that she was in love with the young baronet and was planning to marry
him, but now he asked himself: "Which Edgar was it?"
Without a sound, he let go the handle, and after a swift glance round to
see that his action was not likely to be observed by a servant if one
there were, he backed noiselessly half-way up the staircase and then
came down again, heavy-footed and whistling.
When he entered the room, it was to find the lovers calm and collected.
"Please forgive me, Miss Wynne," said Cleek, genially, flourishing the
cigarette-case in his fingers. "I've been the deuce of a time, but the
dashed thing had fallen down behind the dressing chest, and I had a
regular hunt for it. I hope Mr. Wynne won't mind my intruding on his
sanctum. You must explain it to him for me."
"Oh, no, not Bobby," said that gentleman's sister a little absently, "so
long as you do not disturb his racing calender, that's all that matters
to him."
Cleek forebore to comment upon this other than in a general: "Oh, boys
will sow their wild oats, you know," and then went forward and held out
his hand.
"Well, good-bye, Miss Wynne, and thank you for a pleasant luncheon. I'll
look you up again some time if I may. You've been awfully kind putting
up with me, and that young brother of yours is a real good sort."
Then he smiled, took his departure, and went presumably to meet Mr.
Narkom.
Yet had the occupants of the house he had left been watching his
movements they would have been surprised to see that his footsteps led
him exactly in the opposite direction from that of the village police
station. He simply vanished round the angle of the house and stood on
the gravelled path, apparently absorbed in looking at the gnarled old
wistaria plant which covered the entire wall. His memory for rooms had
told him that that small tightly closed window was that of the surgery
in which he had made so momentous a discovery. The garden all round him,
shut off from the main road by a fairly high wall and shielded by tall
elm trees, was a veritable paradise of flowers.
Flowers had always been a passion with Cleek himself, and for a few
moments he stood there drinking in the exquisite perfume of the
hyacinths which hung round him like a cloud of sweetest scent. Blue,
pink and purest white, with tulips and all the various kinds of narcissi
grouped about them they transformed the place into a fairy glen. Looking
about him Cleek recognized what constant care and attention had been
expended upon the spot. It was a harmless hobby and possibly a paying
one in a small way, but not sufficient to pay Master Bobby's racing
debts. Cleek's brows drew together involuntarily. Again he saw the flush
of pain, and if he were not mistaken of remorse too, in Jennifer Wynne's
face.
His eyes wandered mechanically from bed to bed, coming to rest on the
one just beneath the window.
Yes, there was undoubtedly a footprint, long and narrow, a woman's
footprint obviously, clearly marked and only partially concealed by the
tulip leaves. His eyes flashed up to the ivy which stretched green and
unbroken to the surgery window. Unbroken? No, it certainly was not, for
closer observation revealed the fact that many of the branches were torn
and bruised. Someone light and lithe had evidently climbed up and thus
obtained an entry to the surgery. _But who?_
Cleek stood there, his brows pulled down, his chin pinched hard as he
thought of the prussic acid and other things. It could not be Jennifer
Wynne herself, for obviously she would not have entered the room from
the outside, nor young Wynne, either. Who was it?
The breeze stirred the leaves of the ivy and Cleek found himself gazing
mechanically upon a little fragment of material caught in the sharp
twigs. He looked at it for several minutes before he realized the clue
which lay before him.
Then his hand shot out, the stuff lay in the open palm, and with it
something more--a man's life.