George had taken the trouble to find the doctor who was attending Mrs. Cochrane to check the man’s story. It proved to be Dr. Marr, a friend of his own, who lived close by. Marr confirmed the details of the case.
“I’m sorry if he’s going to lose his job,” the doctor went on. “Though he’s a man I don’t personally get on with—bad manner, you know—the family is decent. Mrs. Cochrane is a really good sort of woman and the son and daughter are doing well. The daughter’s in service with the Burnabys: you must have seen her scores of times, and the son has a fairly good job at a garage.”
The Burnabys, father and daughter, also lived close to the Zoo and were friends of the Surridges. Surridge had often noticed the maid, and now that his attention had been called to the matter, he saw that she was like her father. His own feeling was that after a week’s suspension Cochrane might be re-started, but when he discussed the affair with his chairman, Colonel Kirkman, he found him adamant. A man who had so abused a position of trust could not be kept. If the medicine were so important, Cochrane’s course was obvious. He should have seen his immediate superior and had proper arrangements made for his relief.
“We’re not unreasonable people,” Kirkman went on. “If he had asked for leave he would have got it. I don’t see, Surridge, that you can possibly keep him. The Committee wouldn’t stand for it.” Cochrane had remained suspended since the incident, and it was to pass on this verdict that George had now asked him to call.
The interview was even more unpleasant than George had anticipated. Cochrane took the news badly. He spoke very bitterly, but George couldn’t help himself.
“I’m sorry, Cochrane,” he concluded. “When you think the thing over you’ll see that I have had no alternative. There’s some money due to you, and if you go to Mr. Harley you’ll get it. And I may say that if in a private capacity I can help you to a job, I’ll be glad to do it.”
The question of the man’s successor would have to be settled without delay, but he decided to postpone it for the moment, as Renshaw, his chief assistant, was waiting to accompany him on the daily inspection.
The Zoo was in process of transformation from the old-fashioned arrangement, in which the houses of the various exhibits were massed together with small barred pens attached to each, to a modern layout, with larger areas for the animals, reproducing as far as possible their natural surroundings. An adjoining estate of twenty acres had recently been added to the old four-acre park, and the new houses were being built and the animals moved into them as finances permitted. George was very keen on this work and had infected the staff with his enthusiasm.
The main walk already referred to, still however remained the centre of interest. On its right were five blocks of buildings containing respectively the elephants, certain large cats such as pumas, jaguars and cheetahs, the tigers, and the lions. Behind these houses was an area of garden with three pools, for polar bears, penguins and seals. At the other side of the pools were seven more houses, for snakes, small Indian animals, small monkeys, large monkeys, camels, dromedaries, and rhinoceroses respectively. The arrangement was like a D, where the five houses along the walk were represented by the vertical line, the pools by the central area, and the other houses by the curved back. Of these latter, the snake-house was nearest Surridge’s office at the top of the D, and between the monkey-houses—that is, half-way round the curved side—there was a small private door leading out to an adjoining road. This was not used by the public and was always kept locked.
It was Surridge’s custom to begin his inspection with the snakehouse, work down the curved side of the D, and so on to the other houses. The collection of snakes was extremely good, one of the best features of the Zoo. There were two immense anacondas, constrictors not far from twenty-five feet long and each capable of swallowing a small sheep at a meal. There were English adders, and the dreaded puff adders from South Africa. There were brown snakes, black snakes, green snakes and yellow snakes, whip snakes, cobras and rattle snakes. There were a pair of ringhals, appalling reptiles which can shoot a jet of poison from ten feet away, unerringly reaching their victim’s eyes, as well as many harmless and beautifully marked creatures. All seemed to Surridge in good condition. Whether there was something that suited them in the air or soil of Birmington, or whether their health was due to the care of their attendant, Keeper Nesbit, Surridge did not know, but he secretly believed that Birmington had more success with its snakes than any other zoo in the world.
It was for this reason that the Burnabys, with whom the dismissed watchman’s daughter was in service, had come to the district. Burnaby had been professor of pathology at Leeds University, from which position he had recently retired. During the latter part of his life he had specialised on the use of snake poisons in treating various diseases, and he had been looking forward for years to the time when he could retire and write his magnum opus, the book descriptive of his researches, which would make him famous. Wishing to continue his investigations, and knowing the reputation of the Birmington Zoo for its snakes, he had asked George for special facilities to experiment with his collection, and these George, with the approval of his committee, had granted. The old man had thereupon bought a house close by, fitted up a laboratory, and with his daughter to keep house for him, had settled down to work. He had even been granted keys to the snake-house and some of the cages, as well as to the private side door, which latter saved him a long walk round through the main entrance.
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 wh
en, 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.
Antidote to Venom Page 3
