Seeing is Believing

'No. Only a bruise and a torn dress.'

'But was the fellow trying to…?'

'I don't know. Trying to kill her too, more probably.'

'What do you mean, trying to 'kill her too?’' asked Sharpless, after a pause as though for confused thought.

'Nothing. Just a slip of speech.'

Sharpless's powerful fingers fastened on his arm. 'You don't think anybody tried to kill Vicky? Not deliberately?'

'No, no, no!'

'I hear you've fallen for Ann.' 'Yes. I have.'

'Good luck, old boy. I'd be more congratulatory, only at a time like this…' In the dimness he swept his arm towards the house. He stiffened. His tone altered, and his voice deepened. All his heart was in it. 'Don't let her die,' he said. 'Dear God, don't let her die!'

'Steady.'

'But what are they doing up there, anyway? Something's up. I know it. More people came from the hospital or somewhere. But they won't even let me in. Wait! I forgot to ask you. What time is it?' 'You did ask me. I said —'

Distantly, the church clock answered them by beginning to strike.

'Only twelve?' demanded Sharpless in an incredulous voice. He had whirled round after counting the first three. 'Only midnight? Cripes, it can't be. There's something wrong with that clock. It's two o'clock in the morning, or more. It must be.'

'Frank, you've got to get hold of yourself.'

'I tell you, there's something wrong with that clock!'

But there was nothing wrong with the clock.

They discovered this long before its clang had struck the quarter, the half-hour, the three-quarter, and the hour again.

In Sharpless's present frame of mind, Courtney thought it best to keep him away from the house, in case he made a scene. He sat Sharpless down on a stone bench under the trees. He got him to smoking cigarettes. The lights of the house burned more brightly as those of the town died; and still no word came from the sick-room upstairs.

The clang of the church clock got into their thoughts. They heard it when it did not strike, and were startled by it when it did.

While the hours dragged on, Sharpless talked. He talked monotonously, quickly, in a low voice which rarely varied in key. He talked of himself and Vicky Fane. Of what they were going to do when she was well. Of what he was going to do at Staff College. He said he might be sent out to India, and gave a long description of life in India. He quoted his father and his uncles and his grandfather for this.

Dawn, Courtney thought, could not be far off. It would come white and ghostly among the fruit trees.

The church clock struck two-thirty.

Ten minutes later, while Sharpless was recalling an interminable childhood and a game called Little Wars, the back door of the house opened.

'Captain Sharpless!' called Mrs. Propper's voice. It poured with acid. 'Captain Sharpless!'

With Courtney following him, Sharpless ran.

'They think you'd better go in,' said Mrs. Propper gravely.

'Steady, Frank!'

'I can't face it,' said Sharpless. 'I can't!'

'You've got to. Damn it, don't turn into a weak sister now! Go on.'

Sharpless walked slowly through the kitchen, past a blubbering Daisy. He stumbled over a chair in the dining room, and only found his way out when Courtney switched on the lights.

In the downstairs hall, a little group was stumping down the stairs: with many pauses, as though nobody could drag himself away from the room above. First came little Dr. Nithsdale, then Sir Henry Merrivale, and then a man in a white coat. But what struck Courtney like a blow across the skull was the expressions on their faces.

The man in the white coat, though his forehead looked damp with perspiration, was smiling. H.M. had a heavy, sour glare of relief. Even Dr. Nithsdale, though a fierce-looking little man with a bedside manner which would have alarmed Methuselah, appeared less assertive than usual.

His voice was low but penetrating and shrill.

'Mind,' he said, 'I'll no' say it wasna a bonny guess! Ye've Sco'ish blood in ye're veins, I hae nae doot. Hoots, dinna trouble tae deny it! But I'll no' say, either, mind you, that the leddy's oot o' danger or owt like it, until—'

He paused. His eye fell on Sharpless, who was standing by the newel-post.

'Hoots!' said Dr. Nithsdale, stopping short. 'Here's. a lad could du wi' a dose o' physic! Losh, mon, hauld tight! Ye're-'

'Is she dead?'

'Hoots!' said Dr. Nithsdale, with rich scorn.

It was H.M. who answered. He steadied Sharpless as the latter put both hands on the rail of the staircase.

'It's all right, son,' H.M. said gently. 'Take it easy. She'll live.'

Thirteen

Friday passed, and Saturday. It was Sunday afternoon before Chief Inspector Masters, who had been very busy in the meantime, again called for a conference with Sir Henry Merrivale.

Philip Courtney had also been busy.

He had now taken down about ninety thousand words of the memoirs. Of these, after matter libelous, scandalous, or in bad taste had been removed, he estimated that roughly a fifth would be publishable. He was well satisfied. This would keep the book in proportion; and he was in no hurry to get it done.

Some anecdotes it cut him to the heart to strike out. One was a vivid and realistic account of H.M.'s first serious love-affair, at the age of sixteen. But as the lady concerned was now the wife of a Cabinet Minister, noted throughout England for her pious works, he judged it best omitted.

The other was a particularly fiendish trick — H.M.'s technique seemed to improve with his advancing years — devised for the discomfiture of Uncle George. But, since it concerned a certain use to which not even Satan himself would think to put a lavatory, Courtney regretfully omitted it as well.

Dictation, too, was difficult. They were not interrupted by the inquest, which was held on Saturday and adjourned at the request of the police after Arthur Fane's body had been formally identified by Hubert.

But they were interrupted by H.M.'s sudden passion for visiting chemists' shops.

Courtney would not have believed there were so many chemists in the world, let alone Cheltenham. He knew, of course, that something was up. If H.M. had gone about showing photographs for identification, or asking pertinent questions about people, he could have understood it. But H.M. did none of these things.

He would go into the shop, ask for a prescription of one sort or another to be made up, and loiter for a ten minutes' chat about nothing while the chemist filled it. No name was mentioned, no question asked.

As a result, H.M.'s purchases were accumulating. Their number and variety would have been regarded with envy by the man in Uncle George's arithmetic-sums. They moved even Major Adams, H.M.'s host, to remonstrance.

'But dammit, my dear chap!' expostulated the major. 'After all, I mean to say, dammit!'

'What's wrong, son?'

'Well, if you feel you must haunt chemists' shops, why don't you buy something useful? Shaving soap? Razor blades? Tooth paste? To date,' said the major, counting, 'you've bought fourteen bottles of cough mixture, twelve bottles of soothing syrup, nine bottles of horse liniment, eight bottles of—'

'You let me alone, son. I know what I'm doing.'.