Red Shadow (7 page)

There came a day when the man whom she supposed to be a doctor departed from his usual routine. As a rule, after spending a few minutes beside her bed, he crossed the room, conversed with the woman, and then went away. This time he did not go away. He came to the foot of Laura's bed, frowned a little, and said,

“Well—you're better.”

Laura said, “Yes.”

She was sitting up in bed with three pillows behind her. There was a fire in the room, but the screen hid it and the air was not very warm. The woman had wrapped Laura in a silk shawl which had been a Christmas present from Agatha Wimborough a year ago. It had a deep amber fringe, and shaded yellow embroideries on an ivory ground. Laura took a special pleasure in the soft feel of the silk and the beautiful delicate work.

The man pressed his lips together for a moment. Then all at once he smiled.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“A doctor?”

“Oh yes. Well, you're not going to need a doctor much longer—but I shan't want to be dismissed when you're well. Trina tells me you don't talk—you don't ask any questions. Why is that?”

A faint smile touched Laura's lips.

“Why should I talk—and what questions should I ask?”

“You might want to know where you are.”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, I would rather you thought it mattered,” Laura let the heavy fringe slip through her fingers. Its deep colour made them very white.

“You call Trina Nurse, and you call me the doctor—” He paused and then shot at her, “Don't you?”

Laura inclined her head.

“But we've got names of our own, you know.” He turned half round. “Come here,
liebchen
—it's time you were presented in form. This is Miss Catherine Werner—called Trina by her friends. And I am Alexander Stevens—whom my relations call either Alec or Sasha, according to whether they are in an English or a Russian mood. I am a first cousin of Vassili's—of your husband's. Our family is of Russian origin, you know, but we are quite Anglicized. As you are my cousin's wife, I hope I am permitted to call you by your Christian name. We are relations now, and though you won't want a doctor for very much longer, I hope we are going to be very good friends.”

He had taken Trina by the arm when he said her name, and continued to hold her lightly, though his eyes never left Laura's face. He saw a little colour come into it, a pale ghost of the rich carnation which had made her beautiful, but she did not speak. Her hand trembled on the amber fringe.

“And still you do not ask me where you are, or why you are here,” said Alec Stevens.

Laura shook her head.

“It doesn't matter,” she said under her breath.

“And you do not ask me where Vassili is—or do you call him Basil? Doesn't that matter either?”

The colour faded.

“Where—is—he?” said Laura with white lips.

“You didn't really want to know. Don't turn pale like that—there's no need. He's in Paris, and Trina and I are looking after you. Come—we haven't done it so badly—have we?”

Laura's heart quieted again. It had begun to beat in a terrified manner, but now it quieted. Paris was a long way off. The truce held.

When she could speak, she said,

“You've been—very kind.”

Trina said something in a low voice. Then she came round and shook up Laura's pillows.

“You have talked quite enough. Sometimes Sasha forgets that he is a doctor—but I remember all the time that I am a nurse. If he doesn't want to make you ill again, he had better leave you to me.” Her voice grated a little; it had dark, hard tones in it.

Alec Stevens shrugged his shoulders and went out frowning.

After a few minutes Trina followed him. She came out of Laura's room on to rather a dark landing. Three other doors opened upon it. A staircase descended from an upper story to one side of it and wound down to the ground floor from the other.

Catherine Werner went down the stair, pushed open the first door she came to, and entered a small room furnished as a study. Alec Stevens looked up from the writing-table as she came in.

“What do you want? I'm busy,” he said, speaking English.

Catherine came up to the table. She rested the tips of her fingers on it and looked at him—hard.

“What did you want to talk to her like that for?” she said in Russian.

“Speak English!” said Alec Stevens. “You have improved, but you need all the practice that you can get. Even now you could not pass for English as I do. And you must not only not speak Russian—you mustn't so much as think Russian. Waking or sleeping, there must be nothing but English.”

Her expression did not change in the least.

“I asked you a question, Sasha,” she said.

“And you are not to call me Sasha.”

Trina laughed.

“My dear Alec—I asked you a question. I asked you why you wanted to talk to Laura like that.”

Alec Stevens laid down his pen and began to light a cigarette.

“Well, I didn't do it for fun, my dear. I wanted to see how she would react when I mentioned Vassili.”

“I thought she was going to faint.”

“But she didn't faint. She's much better. I am really quite satisfied—the experiment told me what I wanted to know.”

Catherine leaned forward a little.

“I won't have experiments tried on her—she's my patient!”

Alec Stevens blew out a lazy cloud of smoke.

“And mine,
liebchen.
”

“It's a dangerous game to pretend to be a doctor.”

He inhaled comfortably.

“Where's the danger? She's getting well, isn't she? The whole of Harley Street couldn't do more for her than that. She's getting well like a house on fire. Vassili is in luck—she's a healthy creature as well as a beautiful one. When she gets her colour back, she'll be worth looking at. Did you see her flush when I startled her? A wonderfully sensitive skin. But I don't suppose she has any temperament. What should you say?”

Trina's eyes flashed black lightnings.

“I should say you had better be careful. Vassili won't stand poaching.”

“Bah! He isn't in love with her. She's not his sort—he likes a girl who'll sit on his knee. Besides, he's a long way off—and people who are recalled to Moscow don't always come back. They'll be wanting him before long.”

“What do you mean?” she said breathlessly.

He made a gesture with his cigarette.

“Absolutely nothing. What should I mean? I like to score you off—you rise so easily. And there, my dear, I make you a present of two new idioms. You can practise introducing them into conversation. But remember a little idiom goes a long way. Overdo it, and you are the comic foreigner at once.”

Catherine sprang back from the table.

“You will laugh at me once too often! Yes, I tell you so! I will not have it! And I will not be kept in the dark and made the catspaw!”

“
A
catspaw, my dear. The use of the definite article is a thing you've got to watch—it's a hopeless giveaway.”

Catherine put her hands behind her.

“I keep my temper because I do not choose to compliment you by losing it. No doubt you are seeing how I shall react. Very well then—here I am—and I am warning you that you can go too far. I ask you now, seriously, why are you so interested in Laura's progress? Why do you test her? Has anything happened?”

“The lawyer wants to come down and see her,” said Alec Stevens, frowning.

“Her lawyer?”

He laughed.

“He's her lawyer now. He
was
Bertram Hallingdon's lawyer. He wants to come down and see Bertram Hallingdon's heiress—and I want the exact psychological moment for letting him come. If she is too ill, he will not tell her anything, and he may be troublesome and want another opinion. If, on the other hand, she is too well—” He shrugged and made a gesture, “You understand—if there is valuable information going, there is no need that she should be able to take it in, and yet she must not be too obviously unable. And that is what I mean by the exact psychological moment.”

“What are you going to do?” said Catherine Werner.

“I am telling Mr Rimington that he can come down to-morrow. You will have to put on that nurse's dress.”

“It doesn't suit me.”

“And what does that matter? He's not being had down here for you to get off with him, is he? Besides, you look very well in it—I told you so when you tried it on.”

She made a face, turned with a flick of her red skirt, and went towards the door. But before she reached it she stopped.

“When is Vassili coming back?” she said.

Alec Stevens blew out a cloud of smoke.

“I don't know, and I don't care,” he said.

CHAPTER IX

“Unfortunately, my cousin had to leave his wife almost immediately. He had business in France which could hardly be set aside. As the only possible treatment was a complete rest, it was really better for him to be out of the way. She is progressing very favourably.”

Mr Rimington inclined his head.

“I am glad to hear it. And you think she will be able to attend to business?”

Alec Stevens pursed up his lips.

“Well, I hardly know what to say. You will have to judge for yourself. Don't tire her, and don't excite her. I think the nurse had better remain in the room, if you don't mind.”

Mr Rimington lifted a large white hand an inch or two from his knee and let it fall again.

“I would rather see her alone,” he said in his ridiculously soft voice.

He was a large man with a bald head and strongly marked black eyebrows. Everything about him was large except his voice. His smooth white face had no lines. His heavy white eyelids drooped over eyes of a most peculiar pale blue.

“Well, you'd better come up,” said Alec Stevens, and led the way. “The nurse will be handy if you want her. She can wait on the landing.”

Mr Rimington made no reply. He appeared to require all his breath for the quite easy ascent.

At the top of the stairs Alec Stevens turned and knocked upon a door. Catherine Werner opened it—but a Catherine who was hardly recognizable in her trim blue uniform and snowy cap and apron.

Alec Stevens led the way round the screen.

“Well,” he said, “here is Mr Rimington. And I've told him that he mustn't tire you. You must say at once if you find you are getting tired—Mr Rimington.”

Mr Rimington came round the screen and saw Laura in her embroidered shawl propped high against pillows. She made on him an instant and very strong impression. She had been ill, she was recovering, she was a singularly beautiful young woman; but behind and beyond these things there was something else; he did not quite know what it was, but it impressed him. He touched her hand, sat down on the chair between the bed and the screen, and heard Alec Stevens and the nurse go out of the room. He listened for the click of the latch, but the door closed quietly.

Mr Rimington nodded very slightly and turned to the bed.

“I am told that I must not tire you, so I will come to the point as quickly as possible. And as you have been ill, it will be best if I just run over the preliminaries, because, you see, I do not really understand how much you know.”

Laura spoke in a soft fluttering voice.

“Dr Stevens said—you were—Mr Hallingdon's solicitor.”

“Yes—his solicitor—and one of the executors of his will. I am here in both capacities.” He paused, turned his head, and shivered slightly. “Dear me—what a draught! I feel sure that you ought not to be in a draught like this. I wonder if that door is shut.” He pushed back his chair as he spoke, and disappeared behind the screen.

The door was not open; on the contrary it was closed. It was closed, but not latched. When a door is closed, it can very easily be pushed ajar; the merest touch will do it. The merest touch will latch it. Mr Rimington applied the flat of a large hand to the middle panel of the door. The latch clicked sharply, and he returned to his seat.

“Well, now we will begin. I am Mr Hallingdon's solicitor. And you are Mr Hallingdon's heiress. You know that?”

“Yes.” The word was just audible. She was watching her hands and the amber fringe of her shawl.

“Yes,” said Mr Rimington. “I wrote to you. You received the letter, of course?”

Laura did not answer. She heard Vassili Stefanoff's voice saying, “You are Bertram Hallingdon's heiress.” She couldn't remember anything at all about a letter. A light shiver ran over her.

Mr Rimington went on speaking.

“I received a reply from Dr Stevens. He said that you had married his cousin, Mr Basil Stevens, and that you were lying ill at this address, with himself and a nurse in charge. He stated that your husband had been obliged to go abroad on urgent business, and he enclosed a copy of your marriage certificate. I take it that all this is correct?”

Very faintly Laura said, “Yes.”

“I don't want to tire you, but I suppose you can listen to me for a little?”

He paused and looked at her with a half formed wonder as to whether his words were really reaching her. What kind of intelligence was there behind her pale unmoving features? The beautiful line of the lips did not change. The eyes were hidden by the down-dropped lids whose lashes lay dark upon the colourless cheeks. There was nothing to betray what she thought, or how much she understood.

Mr Rimington frowned and raised his voice.

“Mr Hallingdon was a very rich man.” Then, abruptly, “That doesn't interest you?”

Laura's lashes lifted. He saw her eyes, beautiful and most forlornly indifferent.

“Not very much,” she said. The line of her lips melted into the merest hint of a smile.

“That,” said Mr Rimington, “is because you have been ill. When you are stronger, you will find that wealth has its compensations. Now there's not the slightest necessity for you to worry about anything at present. The will has to be proved, and these legal matters take time. If you want money, it will be at your disposal, but you won't have to trouble yourself about your responsibilities for quite a while to come. You will, I hope, be completely restored to health before there is any need for me to trouble you with business matters.”