Hating herself, Diana made swift calculations. No, if Petty’s clock was right, the visitor could not have been Adrian. She gave her answer, adding that according to her mother Petty had been very nervous.
“As she would have been if she was lying—though, as Mummy said, why should she lie?” Another thought struck her. “Adrian, you are sure it wasn’t you who first suggested calling on Aunt Rose?”
“Of course, I’m sure. I didn’t want to see her.”
Believing him, she felt comforted. How often, she asked, had he seen Rose Somervell, and were they at any time alone together? Adrian leant his head on his hand and rumpled his hair.
“Let’s see,” he said slowly. “There was the first time, with Blundell. Then, maybe a week later, he and I were invited to tea, and he was called away, so I stayed on alone. Next—oh, yes!—she’d a box to some theatre, asked Blundell and me to come along. I remember I had to borrow a clean evening-shirt from Ladbroke—that’s our house-surgeon—because I’ve got down to one decent one. Soon after this the three of us spent a week-end at Blundell’s cottage. She drank a fair amount of brandy, and got quite expansive. That sums it up, I think, except—oh, yes—I had tea again at the flat, by myself, and, of course, there was the Sunday lunch.”
“Did you drop in for tea?”
“She wrote me a note, asking me to come, and not being able to work that afternoon—they were doing a repair job in the research room—I went along. That was the time I noticed how hopeless her memory was getting. I could have sworn she’d forgotten I was coming, though she covered it up pretty well.”
“But did you answer her note?”
“No. She said she’d expect me unless I rang up to the contrary, so I left it at that. Still, I rather imagined her extreme cordiality on that occasion came from believing I’d come off my own bat. It’s an odd thing,” he remarked dispassionately, “how even at that age personal vanity is still the main drive. As Adler put it—”
“She usedn’t to be so woolly-minded,” Diana pinned him down. “Mummy spoke of it, too. How, on the whole, did she strike you?”
“Physically, remarkably fit,” he replied, weighing the question. “Mentally slack, very slow on the uptake. She’d stare at you, ask you to repeat a thing, and then like as not come back with something totally irrelevant. She’d a bad trick of talking in circles, if you get me. And that wasn’t all. Once she started pouring tea into a full cup. Made the hell of a mess, and never noticed it. Oh, quite a few things of that sort!”
“Did you think of drugs?”
“Drugs?” Again he considered. “Well, a person dependent on morphia does tend to be absent and vague when a dose is overdue. I’ve seen them get drowsy. She did that. She’d yawn a lot, and at the theatre that evening she dozed right off. Still, she didn’t fidget or grow irritable, and she hadn’t the look of a morphia-addict, none of the sparkle that follows an injection. On the contrary, I found her always rather dull; but to tell the truth, I didn’t study her very closely. I wasn’t interested.”
“What did you and she talk about?” asked Diana curiously. “Your work, your plans?”
“Hardly mentioned them—which you may think surprising, in view of that will. Neural pathology meant just nothing to her. She did once ask me, jokingly, if Blundell was right about my having a big future in front of me, but straight away she side-tracked on to Blundell’s financial cleverness, and rambled off on a long yarn about things and people I’d never heard of. It was the same when I spoke of operating for five months in Madrid, under Mendoza. Her sole reaction was to reminisce about a bull-fighter who’d thrown her a rose. And yet”—Adrian wrinkled his brow—“after the first time or two she always kissed me most affectionately. I supposed she did that to almost anybody; but Blundell assured me I’d scored a hit.”
“It’s quite evident you did,” agreed Diana briskly. “Now, about that Sunday meal. It’s probably unnecessary to go into it, but what did you have to eat? Were you at all upset?”
His searching glance told her he had caught her meaning.
“Not me,” he answered curtly. “It was better food than I’d been having, and I enjoyed it. What was it, now?” He made an effort to recall. “We started with alligator pear—first I’ve seen in England—and then there was roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and so on. After that, some kind of tart with cream, and toasted cheese wafers for a finish. Coffee and port—good stuff. I remember all four of us did full justice to it.”
“Four!” Diana grew alert. “Why, who else was there?”
“Didn’t I say? Some old theatrical manager. Bald, thin, fiery beak of a nose. Great pal of hers.”
“Felix Arenson,” murmured Diana promptly. She pondered the information and shook a doubtful head. “Did he leave when you did?”
“Practically, because while I waited for Blundell outside his door I saw this what’s-his-name bird going out.”
“I see.” Diana paused. “And Elsie Dilworth? When was she there?”
Adrian started, winced, and backed into his shell.
“Who told you she was there at all? I’d almost forgotten it.”
Diana explained. He listened with a set expression, nodded, and reconsidered her question.
“We were at the table. She wanted to consult Blundell about some shorthand notes. I’d say she hung about a good five minutes. I noticed Mrs. Somervell turned decidedly snappish. You see, Blundell was carving, and had to leave off.”
“I suppose,” said Diana calmly, “Elsie wanted a glimpse of you and made the notes her excuse. Am I right?”
“Ask me another,” he muttered, and was silent, only to strike the table softly with his clenched fist and exclaim under his breath, “God, I’m a prize ass!”
A poisoned dart of suspicion stabbed Diana’s mind. After all, why not? Adrian was human, lonely. This woman had thrown herself at him. . . .
“Adrian,” she said gently; “you weren’t engaged to me then. If you’ve been making love to Elsie Dilworth, don’t be afraid to tell me. Was it that?”
He glared at her.
“Me make love to that neurotic female? Not a chance! Here, if you’re taking that tack, I’d better cough up the whole story—such as it is.”
He hesitated, then with a cold and dogged reluctance set forth details every word of which, to Diana’s thinking, rang true. Elsie Dilworth, well over thirty, plain, and fairly intelligent, had sat next him at table in Bloomsbury Street, and had been exceedingly pleasant. From displaying a keen interest in neurology and brain-surgery she had taken to inviting him up to her comfortable bed-sitting-room in the evenings to partake of cocoa and biscuits. She was company, Diana was away, and fast-dwindling finances permitted him few outside diversions. Now and then, by way of return, he had taken Miss Dilworth to a cinema—and there, for him, the thing ended.
Not so with Elsie, who after a bit began making heavy claims on his sympathy. She would pour out the woes of her starved existence, lamenting the fact that life was passing her by and giving her none of the things she craved.
“Women of all ages talk like that to a doctor,” said Adrian bitterly. “Even if we’re only students, they seem to look on us as their legitimate prey and turn themselves inside out. I blame myself for not putting a stop to this at the start, but I was in the thick of it before I saw where it was leading. When I did try to side-step, it only made matters worse. At last I had to tell her quite baldly just how impossible it was for me to think of marrying. It seemed more tactful to put it like that,” he explained apologetically.
“So you gave her lack of money as an excuse!” Diana hid a pitying smile. “Poor darling! Did it work?”
“Like hell, it did!” he exploded. “Wait till you hear.”
Simply to avoid her, he had taken to staying out at night, but whatever time he returned there was Elsie, waiting up in the vain hope of consolation. Never had she been attractive—and since she had begun making herself up and losing every vestige of good sense and reticence the very sight of her was loathsome. Finally, she cornered him and adroitly managed to put him in the wrong. Why couldn’t they still be friends? It was all she asked. It was a fine, warm Sunday. Wouldn’t he show she was forgiven by taking her into the country?
“Well—I did. God, what a day! She commenced by being coy, and finished by—no, it makes me sweat to think about it!”
“Floods of tears, I suppose?”
“Yes—and worse. She threatened suicide if I kept turning her down. We were in a punt at Richmond,” added Adrian between his teeth. “I’m sorry now I didn’t let her jump overboard.”
“Instead of which you kissed her,” Diana murmured, but he was in no mood to respond.
“I had to do what I could to smooth her down. I tell you, I was desperate. I got her home—and went out for a drink. Stayed out till one in the morning—and then, when I did sneak up to my room, dog-tired and disgusted, I give you two guesses as to what I found. Elsie, draped on my bed, in some vile sort of négligée, literally saturated with scent! That put the lid on it. I picked her up bodily and carted her across the hall—yes, kicking and screaming with hysterics. The whole house must have thought I was murdering her. I decided right then to hunt another boarding-place, but she forestalled me by clearing off herself, early next morning. And that’s that.”
“And you didn’t see her again until the Sunday Aunt Rose died?”
“Not once.”
“But to-night—what possessed her to come?”
“I’ve told you, I haven’t the foggiest notion. She barged in, wild-eyed, talking the most incomprehensible rot. To get rid of her I told her I was engaged to be married. She turned a sort of pasty-green, gave one gulp, and bolted.”
Diana laid her hand on his clenched one.
“Had her coming anything at all to do with—this affair?”
He frowned and hesitated, still showing the same strong repugnance to the topic.
“If it had, she was talking in riddles,” he answered. “She babbled something about making mistakes and wanting to atone. There was some bilge about—about being willing to be my slave if only I’d chuck everything and come away with her, out of England.”
“Come away with her! Oh, what nonsense!” gasped Diana. “She must be mad.”
“She had it all mapped out,” he continued grimly. “Some friend in a shipping office had got her two passages on a fruit boat bound for God knows where. She offered to pay for them—oh, yes, I’m telling you. And now, let’s drop it. I promise you it won’t get us anywhere.”
“One thing more, and we’ll not mention Elsie again. She knew, of course, that you were friendly with Aunt Rose. Did she ever say anything about Aunt Rose’s money?”
“She may have done.” He did not look up. “She used to go on a bit about Mrs. Somervell’s selfishness. Declared she’d never been known to give a penny to any one who needed it. Once, if I remember rightly, she called her a grasping, nosey old fool.”
“Elsie said that? I’d never have thought it—but then, she does seem so utterly different from what I supposed. Oh, well,” sighed Diana despondently. “How futile all this is! The worst of it is we’ll have to wait days before we know what did happen to Aunt Rose. I rather hate having to go home and hear the family talk about it.” Adrian looked at her, then stared woodenly at the floor. Every word she uttered seemed a more ghastly blunder. The hand she had hoped he would take in his remained untouched on the seat between them, mute symbol of the breach no present effort of hers could heal. Joe’s customers drifted in and out. For a long interval neither she nor Adrian spoke. She could bear it no longer.
“Adrian!” she pleaded. “What’s come over you?” He started to speak, closed his lips and glanced away. “I can’t think why I was so stupid,” she whispered. “Oh, Adrian, we do love each other! Can’t we be ourselves again?”
“I don’t quite see how,” he said; “until this rotten business is cleared up—if then.” The final words came as by after-thought, slowly. “It’s not your fault,” he added. “So don’t think it. Here, it’s past eleven. Shall I take you home?”
“No, please. We’ll walk to the Strand, and I’ll get a bus. In the morning I mean to see Uncle Nick and find out—what I can. What will you do?”
“Me? Oh, carry on as usual.” He fumbled with small coins. “I’ve plenty to do.”
She told herself he could not fail to be anxious, but be that as it might she felt certain he would, as he said, continue to dissect brain-tumours, classify them, make careful notes for the treatise he was preparing. The desire seized her to shake him violently, force him to some display of emotion; but the feeling passed, leaving her limp. In a small voice she asked if he would ring her up.
“Of course,” he promised, but his tone lacked all warmth.
She knew, then, that in one thoughtless moment at the hospital she had wrought damage far beyond her ability to repair; and yet, even so, could she wholly regret having taken the sole means at her disposal towards banishing her doubt? Wretched though she now was, she had a blessed conviction which nothing could shake. A little suffering, and all would come right. It must. Rose Somervell, when all was said, could have had no real enemies. . . .
When she alighted at the Marble Arch, the two big cinemas were closed and darkened, but a stream of home-goers poured from the Tube exit. She felt a touch on her arm, and, turning, saw her father, tall, vague, distinguished, close at her side.
“Why, Didi! This is a surprise!”
He fell into step with her, the mild pleasure in his eyes giving place to indignation, also mild—for Herbert Lake, at his most vehement, remained a gentle soul. What was the meaning of this inquiry into Rose’s death? Disgraceful! The Home Secretary must be out of his senses. Did Pegs know? Oh, to be sure, Diana had not been to the theatre! Well, Pegs would be at home now, waiting to talk matters over. They must hurry along out of this beastly mist, so bad for the throat.
The park, an etching of dark trees and blurred lights, was shut from view. They reached their sheltered square, now deserted, and mounted their own steps. Herbert removed his hogskin glove, took out his key. Then, in a pitch-black hall, he stumbled and mildly swore.
“I’ve trodden on something. Great carelessness, leaving parcels on the floor. Didi, the light.”
Vivid glare, two smothered cries, and father and daughter knelt beside the huddled body which formed the obstruction. It was Margaret Fairlamb—still warm, but stone-dead.