“Must get upstairs,” Rollison muttered.
He thought the stairs would be too much for him, and he had to rest three times on the way up, but when he reached the landing he felt steadier. The butler had come behind them, and now he went ahead and led the way towards Hilda’s room. When they reached it the door was standing open and a police-constable was on duty outside. He stood aside for Rollison and Cray to enter, but refused admittance to the cabby, who called out that he would wait outside.
Cray stepped swiftly to the bed on which Hilda lay.
It was a magnificent room, magnificently furnished, but Rollison had eyes only for Hilda, who was on her back, her face a bluish grey, her eyes closed and her body motionless.
Rollison muttered:
“It’s probably adrenalin, injected. I know she’s had one dose.”
Cray opened his bag, took out his wallet and scribbled a few words on a card. He handed it to the policeman who had climbed the ladder, and said:
“Get this made up at the nearest chemist, and tell them it is urgent.”
“Right, sir.” The man hurried out, and Cray began to examine Hilda, who did not stir. Rollison sat on the arm of a chair, staring at the bed; the Inspector stood on the far side. A few moments later, Gwendoline came in. She stifled a scream, moved slowly to Rollison’s side, and stood watching. Renfrew did not appear.
Only then was Rollison again aware of pain in his right hand. Looking down, he saw that there was a cut, still bleeding slightly, on the fleshy part of the wrist.
There was a big bump at the back of Rollison’s head, which was tender when he touched it and which prevented him from wearing a hat; apart from that, and a piece of lint and sticking plaster on his hand, he did not feel much ill-effect from his fall. He sat back in the easy chair by his desk, with Jolly pouring out tea, and the Lady of Lost Memory staring at him anxiously.
It was twenty-four hours since his fall. In the interim, he had been in no state to talk or think, and his head still ached.
When he had left Barrington House, Dr. Cray had said that there was a fair chance of Hilda recovering. She had been moved to hospital, and Rollison was reasonably certain that she would be in no further danger. The footman, Farrow, had disappeared from Barrington House. Gwendoline and Renfrew had told their story to the police, who had been non-committal, but Rollison knew that a search was already being made for Farrow.
He had not yet heard Jolly’s story, nor heard from Grice. The friendly cabby had brought him to the flat. Policemen remained at Barrington House with Gwendoline and Renfrew.
“Are you sure that you won’t have a tot of whisky or brandy in the tea sir?” asked Jolly.
“No thanks,” said Rollison. I’m all right.”
“All right!” exclaimed the Lady of Lost Memory. “You look on the point of death!”
She was wearing a tweed suit, which Jolly had obtained from a theatrical costumier’s, was bare-headed and very lovely. It was not imagination that her eyes were filled with alarm. Rollison looked at her, and sipped his tea before he spoke.
“I’m not quite as bad as that. You lock delightful, and much better.”
“Oh, please!” she said. “Mr. Rollison, what happened? Was it to do with me?”
“Only indirectly,” said Rollison. “It’s a long and complicated story, and I don’t feel up to telling it just now.”
“I think you should go back to bed,” she declared.
“I think I will turn in for an hour or two. You won’t go out again, will you?”
“Not if you wish me to stay here.”
“I do.” Rollison stood up cautiously, went towards the doer, and then turned towards her. “One small thing— Mrs. Barrington-Ley is ill, I wonder if you would care to write a note of regret?”
“Of course,” she said. “Is she seriously ill?”
“I think she will soon be all right,” said Rollison. “Jolly will take the letter round.” He nodded and smiled, looking very woebegone, and then entered the bedroom. Jolly closed the door, and regarded Rollison with mild surprise.
“I don’t want her to go out again and I can’t shut her up in her own room,” said Rollison, “so field headquarters are moved into here. What happened at the nursing home?”
“I saw Miss Armitage through the window, sir, but she was most adamant in her refusal to speak to me, and consequently there was nothing I could do. The police were there very soon after me. Had the young woman been amenable I might have obtained useful information.”
“She was right enough,” said Rollison. “I like to think that she’s usually right. I hope Grice will soon turn up with the full story. You know what happened, I suppose?”
“I understand that the matron was murdered, sir.”
“Who told you that?”
“I waited until the Superintendent was there, and then managed to overhear a little of what was said,” said Jolly.
“I see. Well, plenty was doing at Barrington House. I got off lightly. Are you in a receptive mood?”
“I think so, sir.”
