The Other Linding Girl

by Mary Burchell

  “Hasn’t he?” The assistant surgeon looked disproportionately surprised. “Well, I suppose that depends on what one thinks are the things that matter. I can’t say Seton appeals to me as a person. But what makes you. think he’s lacking in stiffening and weight?”

  “Why, he pretty well admitted it,” Rachel explained. Though— she could not have said why—an odd feeling of uncertainty began suddenly to invade her. “He doesn’t even do anything regular for a living. He said as much. He said he lives by his wits.”

  “Lives by his wits?” Oliver Mayforth gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, I suppose he does, in a way. That’s to say, he wouldn’t live long if he didn’t use his wits,” he added grimly. “Nigel Seton is one of the most brilliant experimental chemists in the country, you know, and engaged on pretty dangerous stuff most of the time.”

  CHAPTER II

  “You can’t be serious!” Rachel turned her head and stared in astonishment at her uncle’s assistant surgeon. "Nigel Seton a

  daring experimental chemist? I don’t believe it.”

  “And physicist,” Oliver Mayforth added, presumably in the interests of accuracy.

  “But then why does my uncle think so—so poorly of him? He spoke as though he were almost a waster.”

  “Oh, well—” the assistant surgeon smiled tolerantly. “Sir Everard is pretty extreme in his likes and dislikes, you know. He’s one of the most brilliant surgeons in the country—but on strictly conventional lines. The kind of thing that Seton stands for is an anathema to him, and to have the offender actually in his own family doesn’t make things easier. The Setons are both casual and unconventional, and so far as Hester is concerned—”

  He paused and looked as though he had now reached a somewhat distasteful subject. But then he seemed to recall that they were even now speeding to what might well be a gravely injured Hester and, with an effort, he spoke moderately.

  “The fact is that Sir Everard can see no fault or frailty in his wife, and prefers to channel all the family criticism into his attitude to Seton. That’s over-simplifying the case, of course, but it’s the basic truth at the root of his prejudice.”

  “Yes—I think I see.” Rachel was quiet and very serious now. “He—my uncle—is deeply devoted to his Hester, isn’t he?” “He adores her, with the kind of adoration you find only between an elderly husband and a young attractive wife,” was the rather sombre reply. “I mean—there’s always an element of anxiety—insecurity—about it. The feeling that anyone so young and attractive cannot surely be satisfied with a much older man. That’s why he leans over backwards to find her beyond reproach, and to trust her much further than he can see her.”

  “Mr. Mayforth, you’re a very observant man,” Rachel said. “Miss Linding—” he seemed a different man from the one who had called her Rachel and paid her marked attention earlier in the evening—“I’ve had a lot of opportunity to observe this particular situation. Hester is not a matter of great concern to me. But I think the world of your uncle, and I’d do most things to see he wasn’t mortally hurt in his affections. If I were a praying man, I’d be praying now—that we don’t find a situation which makes it impossible for him to keep his illusions any longer.”

  “But—” Rachel looked nearly as shocked as she felt—“what exactly are you suggesting that Hester is?—does?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything specific.” Oliver Mayforth took a corner with hardly anything to spare. “It isn’t my business to know just where a woman of her sort draws the line between enjoyable flirtation and technical infidelity. I only know,” he said savagely, “that she isn’t fit to polish her husband’s shoes, when it comes to what you called ‘the things that matter’.”

  They turned in between high gate-posts, and he brought the car to an abrupt halt before a large, imposing building with a porticoed entrance.

  “Here we are.” He took his hands from the wheel and turned to face Rachel before she could move to get out.

  “Don’t think,” he said with emphasis, “that I've just been gossiping idly on the way along. I’ve been trying to give you the outlines of a situation we’ve all got to handle as though it were dynamite. Whatever the rights of the case may be, we must keep Sir Everard from supposing there was anything queer about that car-trip with Keith Elman. You understand?”

  “Of course. You needn’t suppose I intend to take any line of my own,” Rachel informed him drily. “Whatever you—and Nigel Seton,” she added reluctantly, “may think is best, I’ll back you up as far as I can.”

  “Good girl.” He gave her shoulder a brisk pat, which was also a curt indication to move, and Rachel climbed out of the car, somewhat impeded by the long skirts of the white evening dress, which now seemed sadly out of place.

  Together they went into the Nursing Home, where they were greeted—perhaps “received” was more the word—by a handsome, capable-looking woman in uniform.

  “Mr. Mayforth—I’m very glad to see you, sir. Mr. Seton said you were on the way.”

  “How is she, Matron?”

  “It’s difficult to say. Mr. Denbey is with her, but no doubt you’d like to go in yourself at once.”

  “Please. Can Miss Linding—Oh, this is Sir Everard’s niece, Matron—Can she wait somewhere, until we see how things are?”

  “Of course.” Matron made an Olympian sign, and a young nurse came forward and conducted Rachel to a handsome sitting-room on the other side of the hall.

  At first, as she came in, Rachel thought the room was empty.

  The she saw that the cause of all the trouble—young Keith Elman—was slumped in a chair, in an attitude of scared dejection.

  It was difficult not to feel some pity for him and, coming forward until she stood beside the chair, Rachel asked, not unsympathetically, “How are you feeling?”

  “Ghastly. How would you be feeling if you’d nearly killed the woman you love?”

  “I’d be wondering how best to keep a check on my silly tongue and not make more trouble over another man’s wife, I hope,” retorted Rachel sharply. “Pull yourself together and stop being such a wet.”

  “Who—the hell—are you?” The young man sat up slowly and pushed back his dishevelled hair.

  “I’m Rachel Linding—Sir Everard’s niece.”

  “Oh—then of course you would be against me.”

  “I’m not against you or for you,” Rachel informed him briskly. “I’m in favour of some tact and common sense, and it was a good thing you didn’t make that stupid remark about my aunt to anyone less well-disposed than I am. I know you’re probably horribly shaken, but if you really have any regard for Hester, you’ll try to stiffen up a bit, and help to sort out the trouble, rather than increase it.”

  He stared at her resentfully. But he straightened up instinctively, at her astringent words, and looked slightly less distraught.

  “You mean you’re not here to ask questions on your uncle’s account?”

  “Of course not! It’s not my business to make enquiries or pass judgment. I only arrived today. But, whatever the complications, of your position may be, my own common sense tells me you’re not going to help anyone—least of all Hester—by talking as though you have some sort of sentimental claim on her.”

  This approach was unpalatable, Rachel could see. But the basic sense of it did seem to get through to him. For after a few moments he said, rather sulkily,

  “I guess you’re right. Forget what I said. I was a bit past myself. D’you suppose one can get a drink in this place?”

  “I should think so. If they decide you need a stimulant,” Rachel said, not without humour, and she found a bell and rang it.

  The pleasant young nurse appeared again and, on Rachel’s

  explaining that young Mr. Elman was suffering slightly from shock, she undertook to find something.

  “It will probably be some foul medicated draught,” the young man prophesied gloomily, when she had gone.

  But when the d
rink came it proved to be acceptable and, to Rachel’s profound gratitude, was accompanied by a cup of coffee for herself.

  “Is anything known about Lady Linding—about my aunt—yet?” she enquired anxiously.

  “No, Miss Linding. I’ll let you know as soon as there’s any news. Mr. Mayforth’s with her now.”

  “And Mr. Seton?”

  “He’s gone to break the news to Sir Everard. I suppose—” she shook her head gravely—“he felt he should, as he was more or less responsible.”

  “Responsible?” Rachel looked astonished.

  “Well, I mean—of course it was an accident ” the nurse amended hastily. “But he was driving the car, wasn’t he?”

  “He? Oh, w-was he?” stammered Rachel, suppressing an indignant protest and, at the same time, giving Keith Elman a quelling glance. “I didn’t know the full facts of the accident,” she added hastily.

  “I don’t think anyone does.” The young nurse sighed. '“It’s a sad business.”

  Rachel agreed that it was, and the nurse went away again.

  “And what do you suppose that statement meant?” enquired Keith Elman. “About Seton driving the car, I mean.”

  “I don’t know.” Rachel frowned. “It could be just a mistake, or—” in her mind’s eye, she saw very clearly Nigel Seton’s vivid face, with its unusual contrast of laughing eyes and determined chin—“I suppose he might take on the responsibility himself, to—to keep you out of it.”

  “But Seton doesn’t owe me anything!”

  “Not for your sake.” Rachel was deflatingly clear about that. “For hers. And, possibly, a little for Sir Everard’s. At any rate,” she added, half to herself, “he would have Oliver Mayforth’s cooperation on that ground. ”

  “But where do I come in, if that’s the story?” The young man looked half relieved at glimpsing a possible way out of his dilemma, but he obviously also faintly resented being completely brushed aside.

  “I shouldn’t think you come into it anywhere,” Rachel assured him cheerfully. “And, if so, you’re just about the luckiest young man in London. It isn’t often that one has a second chance, after making a fool of oneself.”

  This brisk form of comfort could hardly be pleasing to anyone’s vanity, and Keith Elman looked sulky again. But he no longer looked so nervous and jumpy. And, suddenly realising that she was deadly tired after her long, exciting day, Rachel went and sat in a high-backed chair by the fire, thankful to lean back her head and shut her eyes.

  There was silence for some minutes. Then a car was heard to draw up outside the house and, a moment later, there was the sound of someone’s hasty arrival. The muted tones of Matron’s voice alternated with a deeper note which Rachel thought she identified as her uncle’s voice.

  Both Rachel and her companion glanced anxiously towards the door. But the sound of the two voices died away into remoter regions of the house, and it was several moments before the door opened abruptly and Nigel Seton came into the room.

  He did not see Rachel at first, as the high back of her chair hid her from view, and he came straight over to Keith Elman. “You’d better get out of here now,” he observed, without ceremony. “You were simply the anxious friend, you understand, who accompanied Hester and me to the Nursing Home. I was driving the car when it got smashed up. You don’t really know anything more about the affair than that, if anyone asks questions. You happened to see the accident because you were in the forecourt of the Gloria when I smashed into the side of the entrance. But that’s all. Got that?”

  “Yes. No! What do you mean?” The younger man got unsteadily to his feet. ‘You can’t just rearrange facts like that.”

  “I have rearranged facts like that,” was the cold reply. “That’s the story I’ve told Sir Everard, and that’s the story we’re all sticking to. And if you try to rat on us because of your vanity or some—”

  “I’m not proposing to rat on anyone!” The other man took a quick step backwards, evidently not finding Nigel Seton’s expression reassuring. “I’m glad enough to be out of it, for the time being—”

  “For keeps.” Nigel Seton’s tone was almost gentle, but oddly dangerous. “If you must go fooling around with someone, choose someone your own age, who is unattached. But for now—just get home and to bed, and don’t run across me for the next few weeks, if you can help it.”

  “But I—I want to know how Hester is.” Keith Elman made an obvious effort to assert what he seemed to think were his rights.

  “I don’t know how Hester is,” was the grim retort.

  “But can’t I wait and find out?”

  “No.”

  “It’s what an interested friend would do—if that’s the role you want to cast me for.”

  “He might also go home when he could no longer be of use. You’re going home, young man—and now. I'm not risking your cracking up, once my brother-in-law starts asking more questions.”

  “O-oh.” The force of that argument obviously had its weight. “Then—all right, I’ll go. But I must know later. I must know how she is!”

  “There’ll be something in the papers, I don’t doubt,” Nigel Seton said callously. “Look in the Stop Press tomorrow morning. And now—get moving.”

  Keith Elman got moving.

  The other man did not even turn to watch him go. He stood where he was, staring down moodily at the highly polished table, with its stack of periodicals. Then, as there was the distant sound of the front door closing, he gave an impatient sigh, turned at last—and saw Rachel “Hello—” He came slowly forward until he stood before her in the glow from the fire. “I didn’t realise you were there.”

  “No? They put me in here to wait.”

  “I see. Then—” he frowned slightly—“you heard what I said to young Elman?”

  “Yes, of course. Should I have stopped you?”

  “N-o. You had to be told some time, because we need your partial co-operation. Your overhearing that conversation saves further explanation.”

  “But why are you doing it? Why take the responsibility for that worthless young man?”

  “Because someone has to get Hester out of this mess,” was the curt reply. “And she’s my concern. It’s a—family affair, if you like.”

  “My uncle will blame you bitterly,” Rachel protested.

  “My shoulders are broad enough to take it.” He shrugged them slightly, as though testing their capacity to take burdens, and grinned unexpectedly.

  “Aren’t you being impossibly quixotic?”

  “No, of course not, I’m being severely practical,’ he declared. “Much the simplest explanation—other than the truth—is that I should have been driving my car.”

  “Why? I mean why, in the middle of a ball, should you take your own sister for a drive?”

  “She said she was bored—hot—had a headache—and wanted ten minutes of fresh air. Why shouldn’t her indulgent brother oblige her?”

  “I don't know—’ Rachel frowned doubtfully. “It seems feeble somehow, altogether too simple.”

  “No, no.” He laughed. “That’s the value of it. Simple, but impossible to disprove. That's what an explanation should always be. I learned that from a man who worked in Intelligence during the war. I remember his saying, “If you have to tell a lie, tell a simple one. People have died because they couldn’t resist adding artistic details to an otherwise dull but incontrovertible story.”

  “O-oh,” Rachel found herself shivering slightly. And then, as though by an association of ideas, she asked, “Is she very badly hurt, Nigel?”

  “I think so—yes.”

  “Then you’re taking on a very heavy responsibility, surely? Suppose she—dies?”

  “She won’t,” he replied, with cool confidence.

  “How do you know? Have they told you—?”

  “We Setons are indestructible,” he retorted, with a glance of such gay, laughing arrogance that she was suddenly reminded of his own position.

  “You cert
ainly don’t lack confidence,” she said, a trifle severely. “Is that what makes you take risks yourself?”

  “Risks?”

  “Oliver Mayforth told me what you really do.” And then she burst out, with a sudden indignation which surprised herself, “Why did you pretend to me that you were a ne’er-do-well? a sort of

  aimless playboy?”

  “Did I say that?” He looked amused.

  “You implied it. You said you lived by your wits.”

  “Oh—” He laughed. “It was an extension of meaning that I couldn’t quite resist when you looked so grave and severe. Do you mind?”

  “No,” said Rachel hastily, though she did. “But you said it on the telephone too—that first time I spoke to you. I wasn’t looking grave and severe then, and you couldn’t have seen me, anyway.”

  “That’s true.” He looked reflective. “I think that was more for your uncle’s benefit that time. He’d just been upbraiding me for a rootless, irresponsible young man. And then you—or your father—came on the phone, and presently he handed the conversation over to me and— oh, I suppose it was just a bit of private nonsense, Rachel. Though I don’t doubt,” he added wryly, “that your uncle would largely agree with the term as applied to me.”

  “But why?” Rachel pressed. “If you’re really hardworking and—and heroic—”

  “I’m not heroic, you silly child!” He looked almost annoyed. “I just do a job of work in my own way.”

  “Oliver Mayforth said you took risks,” Rachel insisted obstinately.

  “Don’t we all?” he replied lightly.

  “He said you took more than most.” She refused to be put off.

  “Does it matter?” He smiled down at her in the firelight. “For good or ill, the safe, conventional paths are not for me. That’s really what your uncle dislikes about me, I think. He regards me as gifted—in what I'm sure he would describe as an erratic and undirected way. He was very anxious for me to follow the orthodox paths of medicine, and was even willing to use his influence and his patronage, in his rather pompous way—”

  “He’s not pompous,” interrupted Rachel loyally.

  “Well, perhaps I’m prejudiced,” he said good-humouredly. “Anyway, I wasn’t prepared to be Sir Everard Linding’s well-trained stooge—”