antiseptics-all of it in the past these twenty years. I thought of that-and of Bataan and Corregidor, and the nurses who were there and what they did.
My heart gave a kind of bow of homage. But it was heavy with longing, too. So I tried to put the war out of my mind and looked out at what I could see of the landscape from the window.
The Brent house stood on the very edge of a little town called Balifold; it was not quite country and not quite suburb. It was, I believe, among the outlying hills of the Berkshires, not far from Lenox and Stockbridge, although we had changed trains, I think, at Springfield. It had once been, and indeed still was, a rather elegant neighborhood. The Brent house itself was enormous, solid and ugly, except where ivy had crept over the chimneys and around the stone balustrades, softening their rather grim outlines.
The grounds were extensive and were enclosed with a very high and solid stone wall. There were tall, grilled iron gates, formal lawns, thick, clipped shrubs, old trees and, directly below me, a wide slope of lawn, bordered by a tall thick hedge. This hedge was broken at one end by steps and another gate which led. I guessed (and correctly) to the garden, where my patient was said to have been cleaning a gun-at eleven o’clock of a dark February night.
I was looking down at the lawn and steps when there was a flutter of a blue cape and Drue came hurriedly from somewhere out of my range of vision and crossed the lawn. She was running, so the red lining of her long blue nurse’s cape fluttered, and I could see the hem of her starched white skirt. Her hood was pulled up over her head but still I was perfectly sure it was Drue. She disappeared down the steps and behind the hedge and was there for a long time, for I watched.
Indeed when she did finally emerge it was perceptibly darker with the fall of an early, dreary twilight. She came directly toward the house and she was carrying something under her cape. I was sure of it because of the way she held the edges of the cape together, the crook of her elbow beneath the heavy folds, and the oddly surreptitious way she hurried toward some side door.
However, it wasn’t more than ten minutes after that that she came, all fresh and crisp in her white uniform and cap, with only the color in her lips and in her cheeks to prove that she’d been, not a quarter of an hour ago, running across the lawn in what I could only describe as a surreptitious way. She came in quietly, closed the door behind her and went at once to stand beside the bed. Her eyelids were lowered, so I couldn’t see her eyes, but I could see her mouth and the passion of anxiety in the lines of her slender figure.
Young Brent moved a little and spoke again. He said, “But that’s murder. Murder. Tell Claud. There’ll be murder done.”
He said it clearly; he said it imperatively; he said it with a complete, forceful conviction. He was drugged and unconscious and did not know what he was saying, at least, I sincerely hoped he didn’t know.
But Drue cried, “Craig!” in a sharp whisper. “
She waited and I waited, and he didn’t move, or speak.
“Delirium,” I said finally, my voice sounding unnaturally high.
“Delirium?” She seemed to weigh it, still watching him fixedly, and to arrive at some secret rejection. “Why would he say that? If it’s delirium.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” My voice was still a little high. “They say anything in delirium. Who’s Claud?”
“That’s Dr. Chivery,” she said. “The Chiverys are very close friends.”
It didn’t help much; if there was any remote and fantastic grain of truth in Craig Brent’s words, which Heaven forbid, Dr. Chivery wasn’t the man to do anything decisive and prohibitive about it. My one encounter with that gentleman was sufficient to convince me of that.
Drue was leaning over the bed again. “Craig.” Her voice was low, but clear and urgent. “What do you mean? What murder?” After a long pause, she said, “
There was no answer, and I had had time to pull myself together.
“He spoke in delirium,” I said again but more positively. “If there was going to be a murder, I don’t think the murderer would take anybody into his confidence beforehand. It isn’t done.”
She turned that over in her mind and smiled a little and looked at me. “No. You’re right, of course. It was silly of me to think of anything else. There isn’t any change, is there?”
I shook my head and just then the door opened again. A man, the butler, I thought, stood there. He was a big man, enormously dignified in his black coat, with intelligent, light-blue eyes. He didn’t come into the room but made a kind of gesture toward me, which was a nice blend of respect and authority. Drue said, “He wants you. I’ll stay.”
She was right. For when I had crossed to him the butler (William Fanshawe Beevens, age fifty-four, in the Brent employ for twenty-one years; so the record, later, ran) beckoned me into the hall.
“Mr. Brent,” said he, “wishes to speak to you. It will be only a moment.” Well, of course I could leave. Drue could stay with our patient. The butler added, “Will you come this way, please?” and started off down the hall.
We went downstairs, making almost no sound on the padded steps. The great hall with its black and white marble floor was empty, except for the butler and me. I thought fleetingly of the state trooper; if he had been about I believe now that I would have told him of my patient’s words, delirious though I thought-at least, I preferred to think-they were. But in any case the trooper was not about and, when I inquired (very casually), the butler said briefly that he had concluded his inquiry and gone.
“It was merely a matter of routine; customary when there is an accident with a gun,” said the butler. He gave me a fleeting look from those intelligent, light-blue eyes and led me to a door with carved, dark wood panels which looked extremely thick. Just as we reached it, it opened and a woman came out.
She was rather an extraordinary woman; very small and dark with dead black hair, done in a high pompadour after the fashion of thirty years ago; she wore a white starched blouse (the kind that used to be called a shirtwaist and had a starched stock collar) and a very full black skirt which all but touched the floor. She had a tiny waist with a big belt and extravagantly curved hips. On one shoulder a watch was pinned and she smelled of violet sachet. She wore pince-nez, rimless, with a gold chain fastened to a gold button on her other shoulder. She must have been fifty or more; it was difficult to tell. Altogether she was a page out of the past and a page that I may as well admit I am fully equipped to remember.
But the thing I noticed mainly was the bright, inquisitive way her dark eyes peered out of her small, sallow face. She gave a short kind of nod and went on and, as I am a truthful woman, petticoats rustled as she crossed the marble floor. Otherwise, however, Maud Chivery moved with an utter and complete silence which never ceased to astonish me. You had to have your eyes fixed rigidly upon her to be aware of her activities; you would be sitting in the very room with her and, if you didn’t watch and let your thoughts drift away and then turned to speak to her, she would be gone, vanished altogether from the room without a sound, unless there was that faint taffeta rustle and you couldn’t always hear that. An unnerving woman, really, but one I learned reluctantly to respect.
Naturally, I didn’t then know that it was Maud Chivery, Dr. Chivery’s wife and an intimate, indeed almost a member of the household-for she had been all but its mistress (ordering the household, hiring and training servants, getting Craig off to school and seeing that he went to the dentist, acting, even, as a hostess for Conrad Brent on occasion) during the long years of Conrad’s widowerhood. I checked her down then as another member of the Brent household and, candidly, one not likely to raise its level in point of general attractiveness. Then Beevens had opened the door and was ushering me into the presence. It was exactly that.
My first feeling was a wave of sheer self-amazement that I had had the enormous temerity to call him, flippantly to Drue, Papa Brent. My second was another kind of shock; for I found myself instantly, yes and seriously, on guard. Against what I didn’t know, unless it was some quality of incalculability in the man who stood there on the hearth-rug watching me.
I did know then, too, that Drue Cable’s position (or rather lack of position) in that household was not in any possible sense due to a mere misunderstanding between lovers that a word or two might have cleared up. It was nothing so trivial. When I saw Conrad Brent I sensed that. I also thought (queerly, unexpectedly) that there was danger somewhere in that house.
Naturally, one may say that where guns go off and shoot people there must be danger, and it doesn’t take any sixth sense to realize it. But it was more than that. It was something else entirely; something that had nothing to do with reason. In fact, it didn’t seem to have anything to do with me; it was just an intangible thing that hovered in the very air of that room. The queer part of it, of course, was that it should be intelligible to me. I am never prescient; I have a good stomach, no nerves and little imagination.
Beevens closed the door behind me, and Conrad Brent said, “My wife tells me that the nurse who accompanied
