MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
their own interest, continued to keep their mouths shut!”
“I see,” said Enid slowly.
“I was very much struck by the demeanour of that Nurse Bradfield in the witness-box,” he went on eagerly. “Sir Joseph reduced her to a drivelling state of terror. Now, why was that? You remember, maybe, how he pressed her as to who else came to the flat besides Mr. Roger; and how at last she had to admit that several ladies and gentlemen came there, and that often she really didn’t know who they were! Now, isn’t that a singular thing? We have the master of the house lying ill—not ill enough to have a night nurse, but still, ill enough to have a nurse all day. And yet a lot of people come and go—to lunch, to play bridge, and to take Mrs. Lexton out in the evening! Now that, to me, sounds very odd, not to say suspicious.”
“I quite agree that it does seem strange and heartless,” said Enid in a troubled tone. “But I liked Nurse Bradfield. I thought her a truthful woman, though it was plain she was awfully frightened of Sir Joseph.”
“I never can understand why an honest witness should feel frightened when in the witness-box,” exclaimed Mr. Finch in a tone of contempt.
“Oh, I can understand it so well!” cried the girl. “I know I should be terrified, especially if Sir Joseph were cross-examining me as he cross-examined that poor woman.”
“Well, be that as it may, Miss Dent, my point is that it came out very clearly that a certain number of men, all friends and admirers of that pretty little lady, came in and out of the flat during the poor chap’s illness.”
“And you actually think that Mrs. Lexton——” and while she was seeking for the right word he broke in with:
“If my theory is correct, I am inclined to think that Mrs. Lexton must have a shrewd suspicion as to who the man was who did that terrible thing—and I shan’t be at all surprised if she makes what is commonly called a good marriage before the year is out!”
“But what an awful thing—to allow an innocent man——”
Again he cut across her words: “She’s a thoroughly selfish woman, and only thinks of herself. But capable of murder?” he shook his head. “Oh no, Miss Dent! The folk who are inclined to think that of her know but little about human nature. I don’t claim to know more of the set Mrs. Lexton lives in than one can gather from the newspapers, and perhaps I ought to say from proceedings in the Bankruptcy Court. But, though they’ll do almost anything for money, those sort of people stop short at murder, believe me.”
“Still, you do think it possible that Mrs. Lexton may be shielding a murderer?”
Mr. Finch hesitated. “That’s it exactly. I think she may be shielding a murderer. How did she strike you in the witness-box?”
“I thought her very clever,” said Enid Dent slowly. “Her one object was to produce a good impression, and she succeeded.”
Instinctively Mr. Finch lowered his voice.
“I watched her very carefully, and listened even more carefully, while she was in the witness-box, and I made up my mind that she believes Dr. Gretorex to be an innocent man. Did I say believe? I think she knows he is innocent.”
“I think another thing,” said Enid, and she, too, allowed her voice to drop.
“What’s that, Miss Dent?” Mr. Finch bent forward.
“I feel quite sure”—and suddenly her pale face became red—“that Roger suspects who did it. I think that’s why he wouldn’t give evidence.”
“God bless my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Finch, “I never thought of that! You may be right, after all. But if it’s true, well, then he’s——”
“Very quixotic?”
“No, Miss Dent. Saving your presence, I was going to say he’s a damn fool.”
Chapter Eighteen
That same morning, the morning after the conclusion of Gretorex’s trial, Ivy awoke late. For a moment she remembered nothing, for she had gone through a very terrible strain the previous day, a greater strain than she herself had been aware of, at the time.
And then, all at once she remembered—remembered everything, and a sense of something akin to ecstasy flooded her heart. She flung her white arms above her head and stretched herself out luxuriously. Then—for it was very cold—she snuggled down into bed again.
How marvellous to know that her ordeal was over. All over—all over! That from now on she need never see any of the people who had been connected with this awful episode in her life. Perhaps, though, she would make an exception as to Paxton–Smith, for he had been so awfully kind to her, and he admired her so much! His description of how brave and plucky she had been in the witness-box would surely delight Miles Rushworth. Yes, Paxton–Smith should remain her friend.
Meanwhile she would follow his advice. She would go away, that is, to the country for a few days, to the delightful cottage near Brighton belonging to Lady Flora Desmond. She could not go today, unluckily, for Lady Flora had lent the cottage to some tiresome people. But they would be leaving soon, and then she would go down there and have a thorough rest.
Ivy felt she wanted what some of her friends called “a rest cure,” after all she had gone through.
All at once there came a knock on the bedroom door—a knock, and a quick whispered conversation outside. Something, too, very like a giggle.
She called out sharply “Come in,” and the day maid came in with a broad grin on her young face.
“Cook thought maybe that you’d like to see the paper she takes in, ma’am. There’s such a beautiful picture of you in it!”
And on the pink silk eiderdown the maid put down two picture papers, the one that Ivy always glanced at every day, and another paper.
Why, yes—there was the picture, and a very good one, too. Ivy had been snapped by a Press photographer just as she had stood on the doorstep of Duke of Kent Mansion, a moment before she got into Paxton–Smith’s car. She gazed with pleasure at all the details of her becoming costume. What a good thing that she had bought that charming little model hat just before poor Jervis’s death. She had soon discovered that what is called “mourning headgear” is apt to be singularly unbecoming.
“It does look nice, ma’am, don’t it? Cook says as how you looked bewitching while you was giving evidence,” ventured the girl.
“I wasn’t thinking of how I was looking,” said Ivy.
And indeed this was the truth. As she had stood up there, the target of all eyes, she had only thought of her coming cross-examination by Sir Joseph Molloy.
And then the girl made a mistake, and she knew that she had done so as soon as she had said the words.
“It does seem sad about that poor Dr. Gretorex, don’t it?” she exclaimed.
For at once Ivy burst into tears—angry, frightened tears. It was too bad, too bad, when she herself had succeeded this morning in entirely banishing Roger from her mind, that he should be thus stupidly, cruelly, thrust into it again.
“Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry! Please forgive me!” And the tactless young woman almost ran out of the room.
Nurse Bradfield came in to see what was the matter. She looked wan and worn. Unlike Ivy, she had not slept the previous night; unlike Ivy, the face of Roger Gretorex, especially his expression as he had uttered, in answer to the awful question, the quiet words, “Only that I am innocent,” rang in her ears.
She had felt then, and she still felt now, a most painful sensation of doubt.
Was it possible, was