Antidote to Venom (3 page)

Surridge and Renshaw passed on to the small Indian animals and from them to the monkeys. Here things were not so satisfactory as in the snake-house. A lot of monkeys had been ill lately with something like flu. A marmoset and a lemur had died, and one or two others seemed in an unsatisfactory way. Both men were worried about the affair.

“If there's not an all round improvement by the end of the week I'll wire for Hibbert,” Surridge said, referring to the calling in for consultation of the chief medical officer attached to the London Zoo, a matter which they had already discussed. “No reflection on you, of course. But I think we should have a second opinion.”

“I should welcome it,” Renshaw agreed.

They passed on, continuing their round, dealing with the hundred and one matters which in a place of such size are continually arising. Then Surridge returned to his office, and for the hour still remaining before lunch, settled down to get out his monthly report for the next meeting of his committee.

For some years he had given up going home in the middle of the day, lunching instead down town at his club. Ostensibly this was for the sake of his business: to keep in touch with the other men of the city and be
au fait
with what was going on. Really his motive was quite different. The society of his wife had become a strain and he was glad of any excuse to avoid being with her. He believed she also liked the arrangement, partly for the same reason as his own, and partly because it left her freer and saved trouble in the house.

Presently he left the office to walk the half mile or more to the club. He usually went with a man named Mornington, an artist who lived near the Zoo and whose work, being carried on exclusively at his home, left him in need of the society of his fellows. But to-day there was no sign of Mornington, and George went on alone.

As he walked his thoughts reverted to his own circumstances. The question of money was growing more and more pressing. He would have to do something about it, something drastic. He could give up his play of course, but he didn't want to do that unless it proved absolutely unavoidable. It was not so much for the excitement of the gambling, though he enjoyed that, as for the companionship. An even more important reason was that he now owed a considerable sum. If he stopped playing he would inevitably have to find that money, whereas a run of luck on one evening might clear him. This had occurred already on three separate occasions, on each of which he had won back a pretty considerable amount. There was no reason why the same thing should not happen again. If, and when, it did, that would be the time to stop.

Then there was his aunt's legacy. He did not know what she was worth, but it must be several thousand: say seven or eight thousand at the most moderate estimate. And at her death he would get most of it—she had told him so. What, he wondered, would his share amount to? After death duties were deducted and one or two small legacies to servants were paid, there should be at least five thousand over. Five thousand! What could he not do with five thousand? Not only would it clear him of debt, but he could get that blessed car for Clarissa as well as several other things she wanted. They could take a really decent holiday; she had friends in California whom she wished to see, and for professional reasons he had always wanted to visit South Africa. In countless ways the friction and strain would be taken from his home life. And all this he would get if only the old lady were to die! Last night she had looked particularly ill; pale like parchment and more feeble and depressed than he ever remembered having seen her. Again he told himself that he didn't wish her harm, but it was folly not to recognise facts. Her death was the one thing that would set him on his feet.

It happened that the first person he saw in the club was Dr. Marr. Marr was a man of about fifty, tall and spare, with a look of competence and a kindly smile, which when it broke out transformed his rather severe face, making it radiate good will. He was a general favourite, particularly, George had heard, among his panel patients.

George had often compared their lives, which in most respects were a complete contrast. Marr was happy at home: Margaret Marr was one of the salt of the earth. He had a big practice and seemed to have plenty of money, though George in fairness admitted that he worked for it. Also he held certain official positions, including that of police doctor for the district. He never lunched at the club when he could avoid it, preferring his home to all other places upon earth.

“Unexpected seeing you here,” Surridge greeted him.

“I know,” returned the doctor. “I'm lunching Ormsby-Lane. Down from London for a consultation. What's the best news with you? Have you sacked that poor devil Cochrane?”

They talked over the case for a few moments, while George wondered how he could introduce the subject of his aunt, whom he knew Marr attended. He had to be careful about what he said. It must not look as if he were thinking too much of the old lady's money.

Then Marr himself gave him an opportunity. “I didn't see you last night at Cooper's lecture on his Sinai excavations,” he observed. “Interesting stuff and fine pictures.”

“I should have liked to go,” George returned, “but I couldn't. We had the aunt to dinner: Miss Pentland, you know.”

“Oh, yes. I was out seeing her a couple of days ago.”

George hastened to improve the occasion. “I hope it was only a social call? She seemed a little tired last night, though not exactly ill.”

The doctor shrugged. “Well, she's getting on in years, you know.” He paused, shook his head, then changed the subject.

George's heart gave a leap. Marr, he knew, was if anything an optimist, and such a remark in such a connection could surely mean only one thing. Her doctor also thought Lucy Pentland's health was failing. George longed to press for more definite information, but while he was weighing the pros and cons the opportunity passed. Marr interrupted himself in the middle of a sentence. “There's Ormsby-Lane,” he exclaimed. “Excuse me, old man, I must go and meet him.”

Lunch passed without further incident, and after a chat in the smoking-room, George returned to his office. Frequently he had to pay calls in the city at this hour, and twice a week he played a round of golf, but on this occasion there was no such engagement and he walked back with the artist, Mornington.

There was plenty of work to keep him busy all the afternoon: reports, statistics, estimates to be prepared, technical articles in the journals to be read. Also he was doing a paper for the Zoological Society on the effect of environment on animals in captivity, and he wanted to arrange the notes he had already collected.

In spite of this, he could not keep Marr's remark, and particularly Marr's gesture, out of his mind. From an optimist they certainly did look significant. Marr, he would stake his life, thought badly of his patient. And he, George, was medically no fool. In qualifying as a vet he had learnt a lot about human ailments. He could see for himself that quite unmistakably the old lady was going down the hill…

And that would mean—five thousand pounds!

Chapter III

Venom: Through the Eye

During the following week George had the stroke of luck at cards for which he had been hoping. On two successive nights at the club he had won: enough to meet his immediate difficulties and a little more. For the time being his financial crisis was over, though cynically he told himself that before long it would recur. He had been to see his aunt, and to his secret delight—which he tried unsuccessfully to hide from himself—her break-up seemed to grow more and more imminent. Incessantly he wondered how long she was likely to last, though always he pulled himself up with the reminder that he did not really wish her harm.

In the Zoo he had been a good deal worried about the epidemic among the monkeys. Three more animals had gone down with it and another had died: a valuable old gibbon from Siam which the Zoo could ill afford to lose. It was a serious matter, upon which drastic action must be taken. George had rung up Hibbert, the London Zoo vet, only to find that he was from home. He had then put through a similar call to Edinburgh, this time with more satisfactory results. Mr. M'Leod, their medical expert, the secretary replied, would leave for Birmington by the first train. He had experience of a similar outbreak among the monkeys of his own Zoo and would bring a serum which had proved efficacious in that instance. He believed it would effect a cure in this one also.

On the afternoon on which he received this news George had a very nasty headache, and when he had finished his essential work, he decided to relax until it was time to go to the station to meet M'Leod. A stroll round the grounds, looking at the visitors always rested him. It amused him to notice how like the people were to the animals and the animals to the people. They did the same things, obviously from the same motives, though the people tried to hide these motives and the animals didn't. Usually, he thought, with a rather bitter smile, in any such comparison the animals had the best of it.

His eyes passed from one visitor to another and then rested on a woman who was standing watching with an amused smile the evolutions of the penguins, as they swam and dived and made a great fuss over nothing very apparent. She was what is expressively called “easy to look at.” She was perhaps a little below medium height and had a comfortable well rounded figure, dark hair and a sensible competent kindly face, not at all beautiful, but full of personality and charm. She was extraordinarily well dressed: indeed, it was this which had first attracted George's attention. As far as he could see, her clothes were neither fashionable nor expensive—they were not at all what he had been told was smart—but there was a suggestion of extreme daintiness and good taste which he considered more telling than either.

He stood looking at her for some minutes. What restfulness there was in that face! He wondered if he might speak to her, then after a momentary hesitation he went over.

“You're interested in the animals?” he said with some diffidence. “I'm the director here and I've been watching you. You look as if you felt more than mere idle curiosity.”

“Oh, but I do,” she answered, and he couldn't remember when he had heard so delightful a voice, low pitched and soft and musical, so different from the nasal squawks of most of Clarissa's friends. “I love them. I don't believe the people who say they have only instinct. I'm sure they have their own thoughts and weigh things up and take decisions, just as we do.”

“I know it,” he declared. “I've seen it again and again. Do you know the story of the polar bear who baited a trap for umbrellas?”

She smiled delightfully. “I'm sure I don't. What is it?”

“The bear acquired an umbrella complex; he wanted to collect them and break them up. It's believed that someone poked him with an umbrella and that started it. However, his problem was how to get people to put their umbrellas within his reach, and he solved it in a tremendously ingenious way. He put a bit of fish on a ledge above his head, almost, but not quite out of his reach. Then when a likely umbrella hove in sight, he sat up and ogled the fish, whining and pretending he couldn't reach it. The kind-hearted spectator realised the trouble and reached in with his umbrella to poke the fish down. There was a whirl of fur and the umbrella departed this life.”

She laughed; a rich gurgling whole hearted laugh of amusement and enjoyment: to Surridge an entrancing sound. “Lovely,” she exclaimed, “but I'm afraid you're pulling my leg.”

“I didn't see it myself,” he admitted, “but I've heard it's perfectly true. But whether or not, you're right about animal's reasoning powers. I remember the case of a wolf,” and he went on to tell a number of anecdotes of the creatures under his care.

She was a fascinating person to talk to. She really listened for one thing, and when she did speak, it was to make some witty comment or ask some really understanding question. It was a long time since George had spoken to anyone so sympathetic. “Would you care for a peep behind the scenes?” he went on presently, and when she enthusiastically agreed, he spent a delightful hour showing her that side of zoo working which is usually hidden from the public.

It was perhaps inevitable that a good deal of their talk should become personal. He learnt something of her tastes and was thrilled to find them very similar to his own. They liked the same kind of music, and though she knew much more of literature than he, so far as he had followed her they had the same favourites. They were at one in a love of travel, of mountains and of Italy. In a word, George enjoyed their chat more than anything he had experienced for a long time.

He wondered who she was and where she lived, but to his veiled and tentative questions she returned blandly unilluminating replies. Presently she said she must go, and though she thanked him for his attention, she was vague about paying a further visit.

As George Surridge went to the station to meet M'Leod he sighed. What a woman! What grace, what sympathy, what kindliness! He could not help comparing her to Clarissa. If only he had a woman like this to confide in, to share his joys and sorrows, what a different life he would have led and what a different man he would be!

She had not gone an hour till he bitterly regretted not having given her his own name and asked hers. Done in that open way, he now felt that she would have responded. Always that had been his failing—through indecision or timidity to miss his opportunities. By the time he decided on his action and screwed up his courage to the sticking point, it was too late: the moment had passed.

For a time his duties put all other matters out of his mind. M'Leod proved a pleasant and competent man. He examined the monkeys with immense care, and said the disease seemed the same as that with which he had already dealt, in which case his serum would probably prove efficacious. With considerable skill he administered it. He was staying over till next day, and Surridge took him to the Club for dinner and on to a show at the city's principal theatre.

But when at last George Surridge got to bed, thoughts of the woman he had met took possession of his mind to the exclusion of all else. He pictured her as he had seen her, so charming and restful, so elegant in general effect, so dainty in such matters as gloves and shoes, so clear complexioned and healthy looking, so easy and graceful in her movements. What humour and intelligence there was in her expression, what vitality in her eyes, what kindliness in her smile! Never had George been so impressed by a casual encounter.

Next day as he moved about on his lawful occasions, the memory of the meeting remained as a sort of background to all he did. An intense longing to see the woman again was growing up in his mind, and vaguely he began considering plans for finding her.

As during the forenoon he carried out his daily inspection, he met Professor Burnaby coming out of the snake-house. Burnaby was a tall, lean old man with a high forehead and the clean-shaven, clean-cut features of the thinker. He peered at Surridge shortsightedly through his thick spectacles, then hailed him.

“You're coming round this afternoon, I hope,” he went on in a thin, high-pitched voice. “It's going to be a great occasion for the house of Burnaby.”

Surridge now remembered that there had been an invitation for himself and Clarissa to a cocktail party to mark the engagement of Joyce, the old man's only daughter. He had intended to plead another engagement, but really there was no reason why he shouldn't go, and he answered pleasantly that he was looking forward to it.

Burnaby, who was very well off, lived close by in a small but charming house in some half acre of well-laid-out grounds. The road ran at the back of the house and at each side were the tiny estates of neighbours. In front was the glory of the little place: well kept sward sloping gently down to the River Choole, here a broad and sluggish stream. The grounds were separated from the actual water by the old towpath only, now practically unused. On the farther bank was one of the municipal parks, with its background of evergreen shrubs and fine trees. Houses were all but invisible from the grounds, and save for the occasional sight of strolling citizens at the other side of the Choole, it was hard to realise that “Riverview” was not far from the centre of one of the largest towns of England.

When George had finished at the office, he found it was time to start for the party. Calshort Road, in which the Burnabys lived, ran along the side of the Zoo and into it opened the small private door behind the monkey-houses, already referred to. George let himself out through this door to find Dr. and Mrs. Marr passing. They also, it appeared, were going to the Burnabys.

“Didn't expect to meet you here,” the doctor greeted him. “I thought cocktail parties were an abomination in your eyes?”

“I met Burnaby to-day and he asked me specially,” George answered. “He's been civil to me and I thought I'd better come.”

“But you've been so good to him about the snakes,” Mrs. Marr put in. “Only for you he would never have been given permission to carry on his experiments.”

“Oh, I don't know. He's trying to do something pretty useful.”

“What is it exactly?” Mrs. Marr asked. “I know he's doing a book on snakes, but what particular point is he working on?”

“Cancer,” her husband answered briefly. “You know that injections of venom cure haemophilia and other diseases, and he's been trying if it will kill the cancer cells.”

“The professor's very clever, isn't he?” Mrs. Marr went on. “I think it's marvellous that he's still working at his age. He must surely be nearly eighty?”

“Seventy-four, I believe,” Surridge replied. “I know because he had to give his age when applying for leave to conduct his experiments.”

“He looks older. I don't know what he'll do when Joyce goes away. I'm delighted about Joyce: she's a splendid woman and she's had a pretty dull time looking after him. She well deserves some happiness and I hope she'll get it.”

“The old man will get a housekeeper,” Marr put in.

“He'll have to, unless he has some other relative we've never heard of. That Lily Cochrane's a good girl, but she's too young to keep house for him.”

As she spoke, Mrs. Marr knocked at the door which they had now reached, and a moment later George was being greeted by Joyce Burnaby and her fiancé Alex Tansley. Joyce was a woman of about forty, with a calm dependable-looking face and clear straight-forward eyes; Tansley, a pleasant but ordinary looking man of about her own age.

Quite a number of people from the little world of the Birmington University were there, as well as some of the neighbours and leading citizens. Most were known to George, but as it happened, he found himself wedged into a corner with one of the few men he had never seen before. To his surprise he discovered that this was a relative of Burnaby's, a nephew.

“I didn't know he had a nephew,” George declared. “By the way, my name is Surridge, and I've got to know your uncle fairly intimately since he came to live here. I'm in charge of the Zoo and I meet him in connection with his snake serum work.”

As George said this he noticed that his new acquaintance treated him to a strange and rather searching look. He felt as if he were being somehow weighed up: as if the stranger were anxious to know what manner of man he was. He was about to remark on it jokingly, when the other looked away and answered quietly: “I know your name. I've heard my uncle speak of you. Mine, by the way, is Capper, and I'm a solicitor in Bursham. I know my uncle is very grateful to you for the facilities you have given him to carry on his work.”

They continued chatting for a few moments, during which time Capper's manner remained completely normal. But the more he saw of him, the less George took to him. He was certainly not too prepossessing in appearance. A man of some five and forty, he was short and stout, with a very narrow and almost entirely bald head and close set eyes of a rather too extreme shrewdness. His features were good, but his expression was sly and his movements somehow suggested those of a snake.

Capper, however, appeared to be a favourite of Burnaby's, for George heard the old man speaking to him in an almost affectionate tone.

It was some time before George himself had an opportunity to talk to Burnaby, but presently he managed to get near him.

“I haven't seen you to congratulate you on the engagement,” he said pleasantly. “I'm delighted on Miss Burnaby's account, but sorry on yours. I'm afraid you'll be a little lonely when she goes away.”

The old man rubbed his thin hands: a characteristic gesture. “I shall be indeed: terribly lonely. However, I'm so glad for Joyce's sake that I don't mind about myself. She's been so wonderfully good. I just can't say, Surridge, what I owe to her.”

“I can well understand it.”

“She certainly deserves some happiness, for it's been pretty dull for her here. But I think she's going to get it. You've met Tansley?”