Antidote to Venom (5 page)

She smiled entrancingly. “Tea in this wilderness? Are you a complete wizard?”

He showed her the case. She gave a little cry of satisfaction. “That was all that was required to make it perfect,” she assured him. “But I think we'd better wait till we come back. Don't you?”

He would have been delighted to have had it anywhere or nowhere, at that moment or never, but all he said was: “Right-o. Then shall we start?”

A rough path had been beaten by many feet over the coarse grass and scrubby heather of the mountainside. There were no trees and they could see the curving contours of the ground stretching away into the distance, the dark green broken here and there by the browns and greys of outcropping rock. Little runnels of water crossed the path and a more vivid colouring in the grass showed boggy patches. The air was sharp and clear and exhilarating, and the thin yellow sunlight, streaming nearly horizontally, threw dark shadows everywhere.

They reached the top after a short climb and stood gazing round them. Nancy breathed a soft “Oh!” and to hear that sound more than recompensed George for all the trouble and expense of the outing. It was indeed a splendid panorama which lay before them. As George had said, the view to the north was of mountains, peak rising after peak with dark valleys between, while southwards lay the plain, with the white streak of the road they had come by, winding down backwards and forwards and getting narrower and narrower, till eventually it disappeared in the haze of the low-lying ground.

Climbing in the comparatively low temperature had been pleasantly warm, but the wind at the top proved a different matter. They did not wait there long. After gazing for a few minutes in one direction after another, Nancy said she was cold and they began the descent.

Up to this everything had gone on in a perfectly normal way, and had Clarissa herself been there she would have seen nothing to which she could possibly have taken exception. But as they climbed down the rough track something happened which changed the whole character of the expedition.

Stepping on a small stone where a little stream flowed across the path, Nancy's foot slipped. She splashed into the water and would have fallen had not George leaped forward and caught her in his arms.

He had not intended that their little excursion should be anything but a pleasant meeting between acquaintances, but he had not reckoned with a situation of this kind. The contact swept away his caution and paralysed his powers of resistance. For a few moments he stood motionless, then with a hoarse cry of “Nancy!” he crushed her to him and covered her face with kisses.

At first she struggled. “No, no, no,” she gasped, trying to escape from his arms. But presently she became quiet and then, slowly, she turned to him and threw her arms round his neck.

When he released her both stood as if dazed. Then she gave a little moan. “Oh,” she cried, “we shouldn't have done that. It was so pleasant, and now we've spoilt it all.”

“We've spoilt nothing, Nancy,” he returned. “We love each other. This was bound to come.”

She shivered. “Oh, no,” she repeated, “we shouldn't have done it. We were wrong. We must forget it.”

He turned down the hill. His heart was still pounding, but he controlled himself and spoke quietly. “We can never forget it. This is too big a thing to forget. It's fundamental.”

She began to walk by his side. “No, we must forget it. It can't come to anything but unhappiness.”

“It has happened,” he returned doggedly. “Nothing can change it, and we can't forget it.”

She looked more troubled. “Your wife,” she said, softly. “You know you told me—”

He shook his head impatiently. “That can't affect it. I have never—” he hesitated as if for a word, then went on, “I have never—felt for her—as I do—for you.”

She made a gesture as if to stop him, but she didn't speak and they walked in silence to the car. In silence she got in, merely shaking her head when he murmured something about tea. “Let us go back,” she said at last. “We must think what is best to be done.”

This time he drove slowly, letting the car for the most part coast down the long hill. His mind was in confusion. He did not know what to suggest. Already he was beginning to realise the two outstanding features of the situation: first, that he loved this woman as he had never before loved anyone, as he had not known that anyone could be loved, and secondly, that to proceed further with the affair would mean complete disaster. Not only would there be the terrible break with Clarissa, which he could face, but also entire financial ruin through the loss of his job, which he didn't see how he could.

Lost in thought, he drove steadily on till an exclamation from Nancy told him that they were approaching Neverton. “Stop,” she warned him. “I must get out here.”

“But we've settled nothing,” he returned, as he drew in to the side of the road.

“It's been settled for us,” she declared, “by circumstances. It will be misery if we don't see each other again, but it'll be greater misery if we do. We must part: now.”

George felt that in theory she was right: they would have to part. But not then: at least not finally. “We can't,” he insisted, “just say good-bye like that, as if we were strangers and I had casually given you a lift. It may be that when we have thought things over we shall decide you are right and that we shall have to part. But we can't do that unless we are absolutely sure there's no other way. No, Nancy, I'm not unreasonable, but I can't agree to that. We must meet again to settle what we're going to do.”

She was against it, but he was firm and at last she gave way. One further meeting she would agree to, but no others: and there were to be no letters. Finally it was arranged that on that day week—the first date that Nancy could manage—they should repeat their drive to Orlop. Wondering how he could exist for a whole week without seeing her, George drove back to Birmington.

That week dragged in a way he had never before experienced. He thought it would never come to an end. Fortunately, their secret remained intact. He had prepared a plausible story of a business visit to a neighbouring town for use in case of need, but he was relieved to find that this was not required. No questions were asked, and he was satisfied that no suspicions had been anywhere aroused.

On the next Wednesday he repeated his preparations. He hired the same car and had the tea box filled at the same hotel. He drove out to near Neverton, picked up Nancy, and went on to the hills. They had a walk, came back to the car, had tea, and returned as before.

In one way it was the most thrilling afternoon George had ever spent, and in another it was the most unsatisfactory. It was thrilling, wonderful and delightful beyond belief, because he was with Nancy. Alone with her he was completely happy. All he wanted was that time should stand still, and that they two could go on for ever just as they were. She, he believed, felt the same: complete and absolute bliss in a present which ruled out all disturbing thoughts of the future.

It was this powerful urge, to enjoy what they could while they could, that made the afternoon at once delightful and unsatisfactory, because when it came to an end it found them with the question of their future still undecided. Nancy urged a final parting, though not nearly so strongly as she had on the first occasion. He was for another meeting, this time definitely to settle the matter. In the end she once again allowed herself to be persuaded.

As a result there happened what, had they been in a normal frame of mind, they could easily have foreseen. At their next meeting they came no nearer to a conclusion, and a further excursion was arranged. So gradually they formed a habit. Every Wednesday afternoon, and often evenings in between, they managed to meet. And the more frequently they discussed their final parting, the further the decision receded from both their minds. These successive meetings began to form a continuous present, and future problems were more rigorously excluded than ever from their thoughts. Trouble might be coming, but why go out to meet it?

Chapter V

Venom: Through the Pocket

Now George Surridge began to learn what so many who had embarked on a similar experiment had discovered before him: the extreme difficulty of living a successful double life.

He knew perfectly well that the longer he continued his stolen meetings with Nancy Weymore, the more certain ultimate discovery would become. So far they had had extraordinarily good luck, but sooner or later they would meet someone they knew, and that for him would be the end.

There were so many danger points. The Orlop Hills were deserted in winter, but spring would soon come, and with every week the area would grow more dangerous. They would have to go somewhere else, but he could think of nowhere that would be safe. And it was not only their destination which was perilous. He might be seen—perhaps from another car—when picking Nancy up. While on the road they might break down, or worse still they might have an accident and be brought into court.

Then there was the devilish way in which people pressed enquiries, apparently for no object except idle curiosity. Someone might say to George, “I missed you from golf on Wednesday,” to which even the vaguest and most general reply might lead to disaster. If he excused himself for that day only, someone else might point out that he had not had his game for quite a lot of Wednesdays. If on the other hand he said he had business at the London Zoo every Wednesday, some fool might say: “I go to London on Wednesdays also. What train do you travel by?” George saw that nothing that he could invent would be final. Always some further question would be possible which might do the damage.

But the danger from outside acquaintances was as nothing compared to that from his wife. How easy for the wife of some other golfer to say to Clarissa: “John misses your husband so much on the golf course.” Then there were his colleagues at the Zoo. They golfed and drove about in cars. What might they not see?

Such were but a few of the sources from which ruin might come, but they were by no means the most perilous. What he feared even more was the enemy within the gates. He himself was deteriorating in certain ways. He was growing nervy and suspicious. Apart from Nancy his sense of dissatisfaction and futility was growing, and it made him irritable and absent-minded. More than once he had caught Miss Hepworth stealthily regarding him with an excited interest. She suspected something, the vixen! He must get rid of her. But how could he? She was an efficient secretary and to trump up an excuse for sacking her would only be to give himself away.

There was still another source from which disaster threatened: the most deadly of all. This fear oppressed George more than the others because of its inevitable nature. Discovery might result from some unfortunate accident, but from this enemy there was no escape. If only he were to carry on long enough as he was doing, ruin would come whether there was an accident or not. It was as certain and as unavoidable as death itself.

The source was finance. Before Nancy had come into his life he was spending rather more than he could afford: now he was spending a good deal more. There were all sorts of small expenses, each unimportant in itself, but the total amounting to a substantial sum. George was getting almost desperate. He was beginning not to pay bills, to forget tips, to decline any outlay he could possibly avoid. But cheeseparing was not going to be sufficient. He knew beyond the possibility of doubt that he could not go on as he was doing for long.

With growing frequency his thoughts turned towards his aunt, Lucy Pentland. If only he could get that money that was coming to him, not at some time in the distant future, but now! Not only would it remove this ghastly financial worry, but it would mean greater safety in every way. With more money he and Nancy could take better precautions. She could give up that wretched job of hers and go and live in decent surroundings in some place in which he could visit her. A tiny cottage somewhere with a garden and roses on the porch! He grew almost sick with desire as he thought of it. And it might become a possibility—if Lucy Pentland were to die.

George knew that her death could be brought about. He had heard, for example, about parcels of explosives being sent through the post which, on being opened, blew their recipients to pieces. He had pictured every step which would be necessary to carry out such a scheme, and he saw that it could be done with absolute safety. He had read of the introduction of poisonous pills or medicine into the victim's bottle of tonic. That would not be so easy, but it would be possible. There were various ways.…

But only in imagination of course. Obviously there could be nothing serious in these ideas. George didn't pretend to be a saint, but he drew the line somewhere. He knew that he could never do anything to hurt anyone. Murder? No, no! Hideous thought! He didn't mean it for a moment.

Yet Lucy Pentland's death would solve all his problems. He
must
ask Marr about her. But again, he dare not.

If George had been a little more introspective he might well have wondered why he dare not ask Marr. As nephew he naturally ought to show an interest in his aunt's welfare. What was it that made him shrink from the enquiry?

Then one day an event took place which seemed at first to be entirely unconnected with George and his affairs. It proved however to be of fundamental importance to his subsequent actions and fate, as well incidentally as providing the information about his aunt's health he had so greatly desired.

On that day as he stepped on to the road at the Zoo gates on his way to lunch Dr. Marr drove quickly past in his car. He looked grave and as he passed he made a gesture of concern to George. A little knot of men, evidently discussing something serious, looked at the car and nodded. George went across to them.

“It's Miss Burnaby, sir,” one of the group answered. “Knocked down by a car not ten minutes ago. They've taken her home.”

“Is she badly hurt?”

“They think she's dead. She could scarcely be anything else. The wheel crushed her chest.”

In spite of his preoccupation, George was a good deal upset. He had met Joyce Burnaby scores of times and had formed a sincere liking for her, and of course, owing to her father's work at the Zoo, he knew him very well indeed. A terrible thing for them both! The poor woman just about to be married, with a prospect of happiness she seemed up till then to have missed. If she really were dead, it would be a dreadful shock for the old man. He had come to depend so completely on her, and so far as George knew, he had no other relative except that unpleasant nephew, Capper. And Capper couldn't take a daughter's place.

As George considered these matters he was walking rapidly to
Riverview
. A few people were standing outside the door and a policeman with a note-book had evidently been taking statements. George went up to him.

“I'm a friend of the family,” he explained. “Can you tell me what has happened?”

The policeman noted George's name and address and then told what he knew. It appeared that Joyce Burnaby had met her fate exactly as had so many hundreds before her. She had stepped too quickly out from behind a bus, failing to see a car which was coming in the opposite direction. The driver had done his best, but he couldn't save her. She was believed to have been killed instantaneously. The doctor was then with her and they would soon know definitely.

George murmured a reply and walked into the house through the open door. At first he could find no one, then Lily Cochrane appeared, trembling and with a face like chalk. He beckoned to her.

“I came to see if I could do anything,” he explained. “Where is the professor?”

She answered him, he thought, eagerly, as if relieved to divide the responsibility. “He's very strange, sir: sort of dazed. He just sat down after they brought her in and I can't get him to speak or move.”

“I'll see him,” George told her. “It'll be a terrible shock, of course, but he'll be all right presently.”

The girl nodded. “He's in the study, sir.”

George went to the study. Old Burnaby was sitting in his chair, staring vacantly out of the window. He did not move as George came up.

“I called to see if I could do anything,” George repeated. “I've just heard this moment.”

Professor Burnaby made no reply. He slowly turned his head and for a moment looked dully at George, then faintly shook his head and resumed his fixed stare out of the window.

George felt the old man would rather be alone, but he looked so shaken and frail that he scarcely liked to leave him. He decided to get Marr to see him, and sat down to wait till the doctor should come downstairs. Burnaby took no further notice of him. Once or twice his lips moved, but George could not make out what he was saying.

A few minutes later he heard Marr on the stairs and went out. “Well?” he asked, in a low voice.

Marr shook his head. “Instantaneous,” he returned, also speaking softly. “A fractured skull and crushed—” He swept his hand diagonally across his chest. “At least there was no suffering.”

“I think you should have a look at Burnaby,” went on George. “He seems pretty hard hit.”

“Where is he?”

“In there.”

Marr disappeared into the study and George hung about the hall, discussing the affair in low tones with the policeman. He did not like to go till he had heard Marr's report. This, he thought, would end the old man's research. After such a shock he would never have the stamina to continue work. And how much better it would be for all concerned if the work did stop! George had never liked all the handling of the snakes. He had feared an accident: either that someone would be bitten or that a snake would escape. It would certainly be an ease to his mind if Burnaby never again entered the reptile house.

Presently Marr reappeared. “He'll be all right,” he pronounced. “I've told him to go to bed and I'll send a nurse to see that he does it.”

“Who's going to look after things for him?”

“There's a nephew, a solicitor named Capper. I've 'phoned for him. He can make the arrangements and the nurse can stay for a day or two.”

“There'll be an inquest?”

“Oh yes. But it'll be formal. It seems to have been poor Joyce's fault.” He looked over his shoulder. “That all you want now, sergeant?”

“That's all, thank you, sir.”

“Then I'll go.” He turned again to George. “I'm going down town. Can I give you a lift?”

They discussed the accident and Burnaby's future for some time, then Marr made a remark which set George's heart beating quickly.

“No,” said the doctor, slowly, “I don't think the old fellow will survive this very long. It's been a great shock to him and his heart's not too strong. And there's another person whom I'm afraid won't be with us long. I'm sorry to tell you, Surridge, that your aunt, Miss Pentland, is seriously ill.”

George gripped himself. “I'm sorry to hear that, Marr,” he said, as steadily as he could, “terribly sorry. But I can't pretend it's much of a surprise. I've noticed how ill she's been looking and I've been going to ask you about her.”

“Yes,” returned Marr, “I've suspected it for some time and now I'm sure. It's cancer, and we can't operate, even if she could have stood it.”

George strove to steady the beating of his heart. He was not wholly callous and he found himself really distressed at the poor old lady's fate. But he was also human, and little surges of an almost painful joy shot through him. His aunt's death would be for her a happy release, and to him—it would mean just everything. This terrible lack of money would cease. The problem of Nancy would be solved.
All
his problems would be solved. His aunt's legacy was all that was needed to alter his life from the half heaven, half hell it now was, and to make it wholly heaven.

But one question was still unanswered: not a vital question exactly, but still a terribly important one.

“There's nothing immediate to be—er—anticipated, I suppose?” he asked, striving to give his manner only the proper interest.

Marr hesitated. “Nothing immediate in the sense of days,” he replied. “But I think we may consider it a question of weeks rather than months.”

A question of weeks! Then there would be legal delays over the granting of probate: it might be three or four months before the money was paid over—perhaps six months in all. Could he keep going for six months?

Not as things were up to the present. But now they would be different: he could borrow on his prospects. How he wished he knew the exact sum he might expect! He did not see, however, how he could find it out.

As it turned out he learnt it almost at once, and in a way he had never expected. A day or two later he received a note from Miss Pentland, asking him to call. He did so on the same day, and, to do him justice, he was really kind and sympathetic in his manner. He obtained his reward—if it could be considered a reward.

“I asked you to come,” his aunt remarked, after he had said his say, “because I wanted to tell you about my affairs. You know that I'm leaving you the bulk of my money—not that it's very much, I'm afraid. But I thought that as it will be soon now, I should give you an idea of how much I have, so that you shouldn't count on more than you'll get, and so be disappointed.”

George felt horribly ashamed as he heard these words, and tried hard to avoid letting her see the intensity of his interest.

She had, it appeared, about £12,000 in all. Of this, £1,000 each was to go to three old servants, and the whole of the remainder, less the death duties taxation, would be George's.

He sat trying outwardly to take the news calmly, but inwardly he was seething with a thrilled delight. Over eight thousand! Why, it was enormously more than he had expected! Suppose the Government took £600, which he imagined would be about their proportion, that would leave him £8,400, or say, deducting solicitors' fees and so on, a round figure of £8,000. And the most he had expected was £5,000! Truly his troubles were over.