CHAPTER XXVI
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.