CHAPTER TWENTY
“If he comes round again it will be a miracle,” the doctor said. “You should have kept him in bed at all costs.” His voice was sharp and severe.
Rollison said: it would have helped if you’d stayed.”
“I have other patients. And I could not get a nurse quickly.”
“Let’s stop arguing about it, shall we?” Rollison glanced down at the old man, whose face was blue from forehead to chin and who seemed hardly to be breathing. “Do everything you can for him. If he can be pulled round again, he may be all right—I don’t think there are any more shocks in store for him.”
The doctor said: “This is a ridiculous business. First a woman who ought to know better excites him by quarrelling, then you— oh, never mind. Did you give him the good news?”
“Yes.”
“At least he had that,” said the doctor.
He turned away and Rollison went back into the study. He looked quickly through the two wills. One, dated several years ago, left a few minor bequests, a token legacy to Clarissa and the residue of the estate to Geoffrey Arden, described as “my only son”. The other was dated eleven months ago—soon after the death of Geoffrey. Clarissa wasn’t mentioned in it; there were no minor bequests; the estate was left to James Arden Mellor in its entirety. There were instructions about the efforts to be made to trace Jim if he had not been found at the time of Arden’s death.
There was no doubt that old Arden hated Clarissa; yet he had allowed her to stay here.
Rollison went to the door and as he opened it the doctor called softly. “Oh, Rollison.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry I spoke like that. The collapse must have been unavoidable. There was little I could have done, had I stayed—no one could have anticipated that he would get out of bed.”
“Of course not.”
“He’ll probably want to see you if he comes round.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Don’t be too long, I beg you.”
The doctor went back and Rollison went quietly to the main landing and looked along the passage towards Clarissa’s room. He went along to the room and pushed open the door but no one was there. The faint smell of perfume persisted. Rollison went downstairs and the butler came hurrying forward, to inquire:
“How is he, sir?” it’s still touch and go. If Miss Clarissa returns I should like her to telephone me at once.”
“Very good, sir.”
Rollison nodded and the butler opened the door. As he did so, the rounded gleaming nose of Clarissa’s car slid into sight. She stopped, glanced at the door, looked quickly away and sat quite still.
“Never mind that message,” Rollison said. “And Miss Clarissa won’t be coming in just yet.”
He went to the car and she drew in her breath and turned to face him. The window was down. He saw every line of her face: its soft loveliness; the strain at her eyes and her lips. Her vitality was at its lowest ebb.
“Where are the letters, Clarissa?”
“Destroyed,” she answered.
“Please don’t lie.”
“That is the truth. How is he?”
“It’s touch and go.”
“And I suppose you blame me for it?” She spoke without bitterness—in a tone of resignation; but the devil of suspicion tormented him. He could not be sure of her. This might be part of the deception which she had acted from the time they had first met.
Rollison said: “Move over, will you?”
She obeyed and he got in, took the wheel and switched on the engine. He drove to Hyde Park, kept close to the near side and let the car move slowly.
“It’s no longer a question of blaming anyone. I asked you to look for papers—so if there’s need to blame, blame me. Where are the letters?”
“I destroyed them.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I thought them best destroyed. No one will know what was in them now. If my uncle hadn’t been an old fool he would have destroyed them a long time ago. They were blackmailing letters. He has been paying blackmail for several years.”
“When did you first know?”
“When I read the letters.”
“What did they say?”
