Читать книгу Wax - Ethel Lina White - Страница 8

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WHEN Sonia walked in at the gate of Stonehenge Lodge two afternoons later, she felt, not only an old member of the staff of the Chronicle, but that London had withdrawn to an incredible distance. The ancient town, with its worn cobbles, its murmurous underground river and hollowed pavements, had hypnotised her almost to the belief that she had lived there all her life.

When she was shown into the drawing-room Mrs. Cuttle was entertaining two other guests; or, to be accurate, she was at home to them while they entertained her.

Sonia had been prepared to find her hostess the pathetic creature of her dream. She had come in a generous spirit—eager to champion her, if help were necessary or possible. It was, therefore, rather a disappointment to discover that the lady was stolid, prosperous, and very well satisfied with herself.

As she sat enthroned in a corpulent chair, she reminded Sonia of an over-stuffed satin pin-cushion. Her eyes were blue and expressionless, except when they rested on the tea-table which gleamed with the best silver. Then they reflected complacency.

Sonia recognised Nurse Davis—still in becoming uniform. The other girl, who was tall, slight, and had honey-gold hair, was introduced as Mrs. Nile.

She chatted like a fountain, while Nurse Davis rolled on like a river, leaving Sonia free to study the room. It was large and crowded with good furniture; the carpet was a hand-made Sparta—the hangings expensive. But there was too much of everything; from the Italian landscapes on the walls to the vases which held more flowers than they could display effectively.

"It's the room of a greedy person," thought Sonia. Then she softened her judgment to "Or someone who's been kept short."

In spite of its size the drawing-room was warm and airless. A huge fire burned in the brass dog-grate, and heavy blue velvet curtains shut out the still grey November daylight.

Presently Sonia felt too torpid even to attempt to talk. At the same time her mind remained acutely receptive and tuned in to capture every impression.

She seemed to be a spectator of some domestic drama. At first the action was sluggish, for the talk was of servants. Nurse Davis declared that there was a domestic famine, and told long stories of the local ladies' shifts and difficulties. She had barely stopped for breath when Mrs. Nile gave a lively exaggeration of the system of bribery and corruption by which she said she kept her servants.

Mrs. Cuttle listened with pursed lips and nods. Presently she explained her own domestic arrangements.

It was like listening to a vast cistern being emptied drop by drop. She spoke slowly—often pausing to capture an elusive word. Yet she remained unflurried, and resisted any attempt to hurry or help her account.

"My girls are quite good. Well, not too bad. But I have to let them sleep out. It suits me. They come at seven and prepare the supper before they go."

This was the gist of her long and detailed statement. But had she been outside Time, instead of being enclosed in a padded chair, she might have realised the future significance of her domestic arrangements.

When at last she ran dry, Nurse Davis rushed into the gap.

"Your house is always so beautifully kept," she gushed. "This room looks as if it had just been spring-cleaned."

Mrs. Nile caught Sonia's eye with an elfin grin.

"Mrs. Cuttle has no pets," she said.

"No." Mrs. Cuttle nodded complacently. "Mr. Cuttle would like one, but cats scratch the furniture and dogs bring in dirt. I have a husband, so I don't want an animal."

"And I have a husband, two dogs, and a cat with expectations," remarked Mrs. Nile. "You can't keep a good woman down."

Still listening with detachment, Sonia decided that she liked Lilith Nile. She might be provocative and indiscreet, but she was also good-natured, amusing and gay.

Presently Mrs. Cuttle explained the delayed tea. "I'm waiting for my husband."

"I suppose he'll be bringing some girls along?" suggested Nurse Davis archly.

"I wouldn't put it past him. They won't leave him alone."

She spoke with placid indifference; and, when a few minutes later the alderman burst in, accompanied by Miss Yates and his model, Bessie Blair, Sonia saw no change in her face.

The alderman went directly to his wife and kissed her.

"Here we are, my love. These girls have missed their tea, so I ran them up in the car. They've been out at Lady Priday's. Poor Bessie's been modelling all the afternoon."

"Sit down, Bessie," invited Mrs. Cuttle.

She spoke a second after both her visitors were seated.

Miss Yates, who managed to look willowy even in a short belted fur coat, was completely at home. She ran her sharp eyes over the room, as though, when she was its mistress, she would know how to deal with its deficiencies, or rather superfluities. Sonia could see that she was both quick and capable; she watched Mrs. Cuttle slowly pouring out tea, as though she ached to sweep her off her chair and finish the job.

The alderman introduced a new element into the stuffy room. Every one grew more vital, and ceased to talk of servants and clothes. He flirted indiscriminately with the ladies, with the exception of Miss Yates and Sonia. But, while he was distantly polite to her, Sonia felt that there was an understanding between Miss Yates and himself.

As she watched him ogling Nurse Davis, whose pink bow-shaped lips and dimpled cheeks were wreathed in smiles, it struck her that the alderman was a figure which might become legendary. When the Twentieth Century had rolled away, an old civic Register and contemporary gossip's diary might resurrect the Amorous Alderman as a brilliant, fantastic figure capering against the faded tapestry of the past.

Already his flirtations and popularity were proverbial. On this occasion he was specially tender to his mannequin, Bessie Blair. Pale, with brown hair and green eyes, she had the symmetrical figure and features of a model, together with a reverential attitude towards clothes.

"Cake, Bessie?" asked Miss Yates.

Sonia was sure that Mrs. Cuttle resented the invitation. She opened her lips dumbly, as though in a vain struggle for speech. At that moment her stupid blue eyes were pathetic, as they strained against her handicap of inarticulation.

"Oo, they do look tempting," said Bessie, "but I daren't. The icing might start my tooth aching again. The stopping has come out of a back tooth."

"Dear, dear," clicked Nurse Davis. At the call to her sympathy, she changed instantly from a voluptuous Reubens goddess to a kind and motherly soul. "I've something that will cure that."

Opening her bag, she drew out a small case containing glass tubes.

"I've just been giving a patient a hypodermic," she explained. "Here, Bessie. Crunch this morphine tablet and put it in your tooth, but be careful not to swallow the saliva."

"Why?" asked Bessie.

"Because it's poison."

"Oo!" Bessie took up the case and read the names on the tubes. "Digitaline, atropine, strychnine, hyoscine, morphine...I thought you couldn't get poisons?"

"You couldn't. But I'm a nurse and use them medically."

"But how thrilling. I got The Trial of Madeline Smith out of the free library. It must be thrilling to be in a famous trial. Every one looking at you, and describing you and your dress, and wanting to marry you."

"But what about the eight o'clock walk?" asked the alderman.

"Madeline Smith got off. And anyway, she'd be dead by now. Nurse, do tell me. How many of these little things would it take to kill any one?"

"Let me think." Nurse Davis was purposely vague. "Each pilule is one seventieth of a grain. Perhaps eight or ten. But even a doctor can't say definitely. All drugs and poisons act differently on different people. And there's always an outside chance of an abnormal case."

"Anyway, there's somebody's death in that wee bottle," persisted Bessie. "Isn't it thrilling? How long would they take to act?"

"About a quarter of an hour if injected. Four or five hours, perhaps, taken by the mouth."

"Would the person know she was taking poison?"

"Yes. You'd have to disguise the taste in some highly seasoned food."

It was plain that Bessie was fascinated by the poisons. But as she watched the girl's empty, amiable face, Sonia received the feeling that she was but the mouthpiece of a stronger will. She was a model; usually, a lay-figure on which to drape clothes—now, a machine wound up to ask questions.

"Which would taste least?" she persisted.

"Hum," pondered Nurse Davis. "I should say digitaline was the least bitter."

"And what would it do?"

"It's a narcotic, so it would make you very sleepy. The breathing becomes stertorous, and there are some unpleasant symptoms. The least exertion is fatal. Gradually the heart slows down and then it stops."

"How thrilling," gasped Bessie. "Suppose any one took a fatal dose, could you bring them round again?"

"Yes, if the dose is not too heavy, and it's taken in time with a stomach-pump and a wash-out. But once it's right in the system you're good as dead."

Involuntarily Sonia studied the circle of listeners. She noticed Miss Yates' strained face, her greedy hollow palms and curving crimson-tipped fingers. The laughter-lines sprayed round the alderman's eyes had deepened to spurs in his concentration. Pretty Mrs. Nile was thoughtful, and seemed to have grown a few years older. Bessie's cheeks were flushed with excitement.

Mrs. Cuttle alone was unmoved, as she dipped a corner of her napkin into hot water and wiped a spot of grease off the teapot.

Sonia shuddered. She told herself that, here in the room, were three women who would like to be sitting in Mrs. Cuttle's chair. She was the predestined victim—superfluous, stupid, helpless.

The alderman broke the spell with a laugh like an exploding bombshell.

"Well, Nurse, now you've told this young lady exactly how to poison some one, you'd better tell her what she'll get if she tries it on."

With a feeling of relief Sonia shook off her morbid fancy. She saw the scene as it was in reality—a prosperous middle-class drawing-room, filled with ordinary people of sound morals and conventional virtues. The alderman was a clumsy bumble-bee, blundering from flower to flower; but he always kissed his wife before he went out and when he came home.

And yet—in spite of the muffins and the best china—in that warm, flower-fragrant room, the Spirit of Murder had actually struggled to birth in the dark cell of one brain.