The Gemel Ring Page 8

  “Ah, Miss Dawson, so you have tracked me down, have you? Can it be that your many talents include that of detecting?”

  The gross unfairness of this remark rendered her speechless; all she could do was stare at him, her mouth open, so that he added infuriatingly: “Close your mouth, my good girl, you appear half-witted.”

  This unkind remark acted like a douche of cold water. “And so would you,” she snapped, “if anyone dared to speak to you like that. I never heard such arrogance!” She choked with rage and mortification.

  “Rudeness, too, surely?” he prompted helpfully. “Accept my apologies, Miss Dawson. Dear me, I seem to be eternally apologising to you, don’t I? Either my manners have become deplorable or you are more touchy than most girls.”

  He had drawn her across the narrow cobbled pavement and up the double steps to the front door, where he paused, giving her the opportunity to say furiously:

  “I am not touchy—and I’m glad that you realise that your manners are quite impossible!”

  He grinned at her so disarmingly that she only just stopped herself in time from smiling back at him. Instead she composed her lovely features into what she hoped was a cool mask, and seeing that there was no escape from the firm grip he had upon her arm, entered his house.

  The hall was wide and cool and full of bright colour by reason of the great vases of flowers on the side tables against the panelled walls. Its black and white marble floor faded into the dimness at the back of the hall where the staircase, oak and uncarpeted, led to a half landing, then twisted out of sight. She was given little chance to see more, however, for the professor, his hand still on her arm, walked her to a double door half way down the hall. They were on the point of entering the room beyond when a portly, middle-sized figure appeared from the archway by the stairs and advanced to meet them, and the professor paused long enough to say carelessly:

  “Hullo, Potter—I’ve brought someone back for tea, do you suppose Mrs Potter can do something about it?”

  The portly man inclined his head and contrived to take a long look at Charity at the same time, “Of course, sir—would the young lady wish to tidy herself?”

  Both men turned to look at her so that it was only by a great effort of will on her part that she refrained from putting a hand to her hair or even whipping out her compact to see if her nose shone. She said “No, thank you,” with dignity and smiled at the man, who smiled back with admiration, and approval and no hint of familiarity and opened the door for her. As they went inside the professor said softly: “A conquest, dear girl, you have the estimable Potter in the hollow of your capable hand. Do you always find it so easy?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Charity with some asperity, and fell silent as the beauty of the room struck her.

  It was large and high-ceilinged with its wide windows draped elaborately with a rich cherry-coloured brocade, the same colour was under her feet; a carpet of a thick softness into which her sandals sank luxuriously. To her confused gaze everything in the room seemed of the richness found only in films and the pages of glossy magazines, and yet she could see that the furniture was used, even faintly shabby, a fact which only served to highlight the great portraits on the walls and the silver in the great glass-fronted cabinet against one wall. Her green eyes tried to take everything in at once and failing, came to rest upon the figure of a very small old lady sitting very straight-backed in a lavishly buttoned and fringed crinoline chair.

  The old lady was dressed in black with an old-fashioned white lace collar, boned to stay up under her chin and a quantity of gold chains dangling down her front. She searched among them now and lifted a lorgnette on the end of one of them and peered through it at Charity, speaking at the same time in a gruff rather deep voice.

  “Everard—how unusual to see you at this time of day, dear boy, and with such a pretty girl too—she is a great deal prettier than that fair-haired young woman with the lisp.”

  She transferred her bright blue eyes to Charity. “No doubt you are wondering why I speak in English, for I am not an Englishwoman, you know; but you, I imagine, must be the nurse Everard mentioned he would have to fetch from England.” She nodded briskly to the professor, who stood listening to her, a smile on his face. “Introduce her, Everard.”

  Charity, the professor’s hand still clamped to her arm, walked over to the old lady’s chair and looked down at her with interest while her companion performed introductions with careless grace. So this would be his grandmother—she must be very old; Charity guessed, though clear enough in her mind even if she appeared frail, and she guessed too that the frailty hid a disposition of iron. She wondered how they got on together, the professor and his small, rather fierce grandmother, as she set about hedging the string of questions being fired at her.

  The professor had offered her a chair near his grandmother and gone to sit in a great winged armchair close by, taking little or no part in the conversation, if the questions being shot at her, and her monosyllabic replies, could be called that. It was a relief when Potter came in with the tea tray, which he set down before Mevrouw van Tijlen with the quiet remark that Mrs Potter had just that minute taken a sponge cake from the oven and as the professor and his guest had arrived unexpectedly, she had taken the liberty of sending it up.

  He had barely closed the door behind him when the old lady asked:

  “You find it surprising that my grandson should employ an Englishman?”

  Charity smiled. “No, I don’t think so, though I daresay it’s unusual. Probably there is a good reason for doing so.”

  She was given an approving stare. “A sensible enough answer, but you seem a sensible young woman—nice voice, too.” She poured tea and handed the cups and saucers to the professor, who gave Charity hers without comment and went to sit in his chair again.

  “Do you like this house?” demanded the indefatigable Mevrouw van Tijlen.

  “The hall and this room are very lovely,” said Charity politely, “I haven’t seen anywhere else.”

  “You like antiques?” the blue eyes snapped at her. “Portraits, jewellery?”

  Charity put down her cup. “Very much, though I know very little about such things.”

  Her hostess snorted delicately. “Better than pretending to a knowledge you don’t possess, anyway.” She cast a malicious glance at the professor, who munched cake and took no notice. “Some of these modern chits… There are several interesting pieces in this house—they’re Everard’s now, of course.” She gave him another look, but this time of deep affection. “You’re not talking, dear boy.”

  Her grandson eyed her with a kindly twinkle. “Dear Grandmother, what chance have I had?”

  “Impertinent fellow!” She allowed him to help her to a lavish slice of cake and turned her attention to Charity once more.

  “My dear,” she said in a voice suddenly faintly pathetic, “I’m a tiresome old woman, am I not? Everard is very good to bear with me.”

  “Take no notice of her,” counselled her grandson cheerfully. “She’s angling for sympathy, and if the truth’s known, most of the time it is she who bears with me. If you’ve finished your tea, come and look at the silver in this cabinet—some of it is English. An ancestress of mine married an Englishman who took refuge here during the reign of Cromwell; their daughter married a Dutchman in her turn and brought the silver with her as a dowry.”

  Charity, very conscious of him standing beside her, examined the pieces he pointed out, made a few intelligent remarks about them and then, her interest suddenly caught, exclaimed: “What is in that little red velvet box?”

  When he spoke she could hear hesitancy and surprise in his voice, and his answer was brief. “A gemel ring,” was all he said, and when she waited to hear more and realised that he wasn’t going to enlarge upon his meagre statement, she felt regret; she would have liked to have examined the ring—held it in her hand. Even at that distance, she could see that it was very old, the two
rings skilfully locked in a design of clasped hands over a heart.

  She said out loud, speaking her thoughts: “Oh, I remember—‘but I return a ring of Jimmals to imply thy love had one knot, mine a triple tye’.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance and she couldn’t understand his expression at all.

  “You know your Herrick.” There was faint amusement in his voice and she felt a wave of annoyance at herself; here was another item he could chalk up against her for being a know-all.

  “I—I just happened to remember it,” she answered lamely, and waited for him to tell her about the ring, but he made no further remark; it would be some family treasure with a sentimental tale attached to it, a tale which he would consider no concern of hers. Nor was it.

  She stood awkwardly, looking away from him, until the old lady said tartly: “You won’t get him to talk about the gemel ring, Charity Dawson, so come over here and talk to me.”

  Charity joined her hostess once more, relieved and at the same time sorry to move away from Everard van Tijlen’s disturbing presence, and amused at the little old lady’s gruff commanding manner and endless questions. After ten minutes or so she made her excuses and took her leave, and the professor, who had gone back to his chair again, made no effort to detain her, but got to his feet too, saying: “I’ll see you out—I daresay Potter is having his tea.”

  But whether he had been having his tea or not, Potter appeared as they crossed the hall, and went to open the door with another look of approval and a faintly complacent smile for Charity before he again took himself off in a discreet manner which was quite wasted; the professor’s cool goodbye could have been uttered before an audience of thousands without causing even the faintest lift of a brow.

  Charity didn’t see the professor for the next two days—at least, when he visited Mr Boekerchek she was naturally there to answer his questions, but his manner was so impersonal as to be offhand, and her own manner, in consequence, became more and more wooden. It was on the third morning that Mr Boekerchek surprised everyone by having a coronary. It took their combined efforts—the professor, hastily informed, the anaesthetist, Dof and Charity—to bring him round, and even then his condition gave rise for some concern. Charity, her mind and hands full with the complex equipment needed to keep her patient alive, listened to the professor’s instructions and hardly noticed when he went. The other two men followed him with the warning that they would be in theatre if they were wanted, adding the corollary that she knew what she had to do, anyhow; there was an emergency buzzer if she needed it and the panic trolley was at hand with everything on it she would need should Mr Boekerchek take a turn for the worse. She nodded quite cheerfully as they left her, knowing herself capable of dealing with whatever emergency arose, and set about the business of keeping her patient’s vital organs working until such time as he should become capable of doing it for himself.

  It was quite an hour later when the hospital alarm began to shrill. Charity took very little notice of it at first, she had heard similar alarms before, hospitals held fire drills as a routine, she supposed that this was one. She went on with what she was doing and was quite astonished when Zuster Doelsma put her head round the door with an urgent: “There is a fire in the X-ray department. It is quick and also severe. Patients are to be evacuated to the old wing, only those who are too ill to be moved must stay.” Her glance fell upon Mr Boekerchek’s far from healthy face. “He is not good, perhaps?”

  “He’ll do,” said Charity, “but not yet. I’ll stay.” She was trying to remember where the X-ray department was exactly. They had gone down two flights and through several passages—it must be miles away. “It’s a good way from here, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Two floors down—not near the wards, but the theatre is above it.” The Dutch girl prepared to go. “I must return to the ward, you understand? You are not afraid to be alone—perhaps not for long.”

  “Not at the moment,” said Charity, her attention more than half taken up by Mr Boekerchek’s precarious condition. She looked up and grinned, “I dare say I shall be petrified when I have time to think about it, but by then the fire will be out.”

  Zuster Doelsma looked doubtful, but an urgent voice calling her by name gave her the time to do no more than nod before she sped away.

  Charity went back to various jobs; Mr Boekerchek was improving, the pattern on the cardiograph gave proof of that, but he certainly wasn’t fit to be moved. Spurred on by his colour, which was almost human again, she became absorbed in her efforts to keep it so, so that the noise of the fire engines and the far-off sounds of those engaged in putting out the fire went unnoticed. Only after a little while, when she was charting her latest findings, she remembered what Zuster Doelsma had said about X-Ray being directly under part of the theatre unit. She cast her mind back in a desperate effort to remember what Dof had said—something about a lengthy op which would take all of three hours. Her eyes flew to the clock; there was still half an hour of that period to go and the professor would be in theatre… With an effort she dragged her mind back to what she was doing—her duty lay with her patient, even though her heart rebelled.

  Half an hour dragged by and Mr Boekerchek, who had been giving her a bad time of it again, was pulling round nicely when she smelled smoke. She rang the ward bell, but no one answered it, so possibly it was out of action. A nurse had been in some time earlier to tell her that all the patients had gone and was she all right on her own, and she had sent the girl away, saying that if she needed help she would ring. Now she sniffed the air again, a little puzzled. The fire would surely be under control by now and there could be no further danger. The smoky smell was decidedly stronger, but there was no question of moving Mr Boekerchek—or was there?

  Charity stood quietly, trying to stay calm and assess the disadvantages and advantages of disconnecting him from all the vital instruments surrounding him and pushing his bed to the lift, or leaving him to maintain his steady improvement with the vague chance that they would both be burnt to a crisp.

  She found herself laughing at the very idea and then choked on the laugh at the professor’s snarling: “What the devil have you got to laugh about, Charity?”

  He had come in silently, still in all his theatre gear. He had even kept his theatre boots on, and he appeared to be in a very bad temper indeed. She decided not to answer him but asked instead: “Is the fire out, sir?”

  “No.” He was by the bed checking his patient’s condition. “The theatre is like an oven—I’ve left Dof to stitch up, there’s no danger from X-ray now.” He shot her a furious glance. “Why are you still here? Why did you not evacuate? Zuster Doelsma should have warned you.”

  “She did. I thought it better to stay and hope that the fire would be put out quickly. Mr Boekerchek hasn’t been too well,” she indicated the cardiogram with its telltale lines, “but he’s improving quite well now. I was just wondering if I should disconnect him and push the bed to the further lift.”

  A wave of warm, smoky air wafted gently in through the door, somewhere, not close, and there was a sound like the wind blowing. The professor pushed past her and disappeared into the corridor to return very quickly. “That’s your precious lift,” he told her irritably, as though it were all her fault, “going up like a torch. There must have been a short circuit in the electricity. Go down to the next floor by the end staircase.”

  “And leave you here? I won’t,” she told him roundly. “If we disconnect him now and push the bed through the ward to the head of the stairs…”

  The professor’s eyes narrowed to grey, gleaming slits. “Don’t be such a damned little fool. You’ll do as I say and you’ll do it now, and when you have you will find three men and send them up here to me.”

  It was impossible to disobey a voice like that—cold steel, and full of some feeling which she put down to bad temper coupled with a strong dislike of herself. The idea of leaving him there appalled her—supposing something frightful happened and
she were never to see him again? He would never know now that she loved him with all her heart; he was never going to know anyway, she reminded herself as she sped through the ward and down the stairs, not trusting herself to so much as look at him. It was pure good luck that Dof and the houseman, with the anaesthetist close behind, were coming towards her. They were half way up the stairs before she had finished telling them that the professor and Mr Boekerchek were still in the private wing.

  There was a wisp of smoke eddying around the theatre floor, but it looked safe enough and Theatre Sister was providentially coming towards her.

  “An intensive care room,” demanded Charity urgently, “Mr Boekerchek—they’re bringing him down.”

  The other girl nodded and darted down a short passage leading away from the theatre unit. “Here—it is the gynae theatre recovery room—it has everything necessary and the fire is not close.”

  They were whipping the bedclothes neatly aside as she spoke, switching on lights and heat and plugging in the sucker and oxygen and the cardiograph. They were ready when Mr Boekerchek, borne with all the care which might be accorded to the Crown Jewels, was seen in the distance.

  “Here!” called Charity urgently, and received her patient with careful efficiency, to tuck him up once more and connect him to the variety of apparatus awaiting him.

  The professor stood quietly by while she did this; only when she had finished did he address himself to her. “You should be perfectly safe here. I believe that the fire is now under control, and, in any case it is on the floor below and on the other side of the main corridor.” Without taking his eyes off her he said to Dof: “Go and see what is happening, there’s a good chap. And you,” nodding to the houseman, “see what’s happening in the theatre, please.”

  He remained silent until these two gentlemen had left to do what he asked, and although he didn’t so much as glance at the anaesthetist, Charity wasn’t surprised to see him going through the doors either. Which left herself and the professor, and of course Mr Boekerchek, whom one could hardly count and who wouldn’t be aware of the telling-off she felt sure she was about to receive.