Antidote to Venom (4 page)

“Yes; a nice fellow.”

For some moments they discussed the engagement, and then George politely turned to the old man's work. “How are you getting on recently?” he asked. “It's some time since I heard.”

Burnaby shrugged. His manner lost its slight exuberance and he spoke as if he was facing disappointment.

“Well, it's rather slow. I'm doing a new set of experiments which I hope will be more successful. That, by the way, reminds me that I want some more venom. I'd like to take it from one of the king cobras. Nesbit has promised to give me a hand. You've no objection, I suppose?”

George, as a matter of fact, had an objection, though he didn't say so. This taking of venom from large snakes was dangerous work. They were so extra-ordinary quick. One person gripped their neck in a sort of tongs and thus theoretically immobilised them, while another either allowed them to bite a sponge or other absorbent article, or abstracted the venom direct from the tooth with a Pravaz syringe. But though the principle was good, it didn't always work out in practice. It wasn't easy, for example, to grip the neck securely without injuring the snake, and only a little carelessness would enable it to strike before capture or to escape from its pillory. However, Nesbit, the keeper, was an able man and could be depended on to take every precaution. Besides, the original permission given Burnaby by the Board specifically covered the operation.

“You use guinea-pigs for your tests?” George went on, for something to say.

“Not recently,” Burnaby returned. “I've been using mice for some time for the preliminary experiments and guinea-pigs only for final confirmation. Mice are cheaper and easier to get.”

“It's quite a big trade, isn't it, producing animals for experiment?” asked Capper, who was standing close by and had heard Burnaby's remark.

Burnaby agreed. “One feels sorry for the little creatures,” he went on, “but what is one to do? By the way, Surridge, have you met my nephew, David Capper? I owe him a lot. He's the most wonderful amateur mechanic and wood-worker, and he's made me many an intricate piece of apparatus for my work which I never could have got otherwise.” He turned to Capper. “Mr. Surridge has been very kind to me about the snakes, David.”

When a little later the trio broke up and Burnaby drifted away to speak to other guests, George saw that once again Capper was regarding him with that same appraising, questioning look that he had observed before. This time he was going to speak, but Capper forestalled him by suddenly turning away to greet a lady who was passing. George had no further chance to put his question, but during the remainder of the evening the man's conduct remained a puzzling and slightly disturbing recollection.

Chapter IV

Venom: Through the Affections

For some couple of months after the Burnaby's reception time passed uneventfully for George Surridge. Once again some unexpected luck at poker recouped the greater part of his losses and left him in easier, if still precarious, circumstances. His relations with Clarissa remained much as usual: if they were not happier, they were not visibly worse. On the other hand, things at the Zoo were better. The elephants had arrived in good condition and had proved great acquisitions. The disease among the monkeys had ceased and there had been no more deaths. They had received some rare and greatly prized small cats from Indo-China: creatures which not even the London Zoo possessed. The rebuilding was going on satisfactorily and the new watchman in Cochrane's place was doing well.

But though George's position was temporarily easier, he was still very short of money. If only, he thought for the hundredth time, he had his aunt's five thousand! Nothing less than a sum of this magnitude would put him permanently right. A few pounds at poker was well enough; it would meet gambling debts and immediate necessities, but to obtain the fundamental improvement his circumstances needed would take something very different.

With intense though hidden interest he had noted the change in Miss Pentland's health, and he had been a little shocked at his own disappointment when he found it was not deteriorating as rapidly as he had hoped. That she was ill he felt sure; her face had the drawn pallor of disease. And she was, he thought, getting weaker, though so slowly that there seemed no promise of an early inheritance.

Invariably at this stage George reminded himself that he did not wish the old lady any harm. But as the days passed, his disappointment at her continuing strength changed to actual dismay. More than anything he had ever wanted, he longed for that money.

Then one night a dreadful idea shot into his mind. She was ill and very old: she must die soon. If her death was too much delayed—could it not be—accelerated?

George was filled with horror when he realised just what he had been thinking. Why, that would be—he could scarcely bring himself to frame the word—that would be
murder!
Good God, how dreadful! Hastily he banished the thought.

But in spite of all his efforts, it came back. It grew, not less hateful, but more familiar. He toyed with the idea, wondering how such a thing might be done, then again assured himself with vehemence that nothing in heaven or earth would ever induce him to be guilty of such a hideous crime.

Still the horrible suggestion lurked in the recesses of his mind.…

The next afternoon it happened that George had business at the other side of the city, and when it was finished he took a bus back. As he sat down he glanced indifferently round. Then a hand seemed to grip his heart. There, just opposite him, was the woman whom he had shown round the Gardens, and whose image had ever since remained in the background of his thoughts.

The meeting was so unexpected that for a moment he couldn't move. Then, recovering himself, he leant forward.

“I wonder if you remember me?” he asked diffidently. “We met some weeks ago at the Zoo.”

“Of course.” She smiled in a conventional way and he was thrilled to notice the colour deepen in her cheeks. There was a vacant seat beside her. With pounding heart he took it.

“An unexpected pleasure,” he went on as lightly as he could. “I have often hoped you would come back to take another look at our mutual friends.”

“I wanted to,” she answered, and he found that her voice was infinitely more moving and delightful even than he had supposed. “But I've not been able. I don't live here, you know.”

“I hope you'll manage it,” he went on. “After you left I remembered I had not shown you our photographs. We've got some quite decent ones. There's one I should think must be unique: of Tommy—you remember Tommy, the lion?—springing across his cage. It's rather fine.”

She smiled and her eyes lit up with interest. “How did you manage to get that?”

George warmed to his subject. “A fluke really,” he declared, going on to talk about the intricacies of animal photography. “But I can't explain it in a few seconds.” He paused and glanced out of the window. They were just about to leave the centre of the city. “I wonder if I might be very daring? I was just going to have some tea. Will you be extraordinarily kind and join me?”

He waited as if the retention of his job were at issue. Then a surge of delight passed over him as she answered: “That would be nice. Thank you, yes, I'll come.”

They were near what he considered the best restaurant in the city and he installed her in a secluded alcove. It was early and they had the place practically to themselves. George felt absurdly nervous: he couldn't understand what was the matter with him. He particularly wished to be easy and offhand, though pleasant in manner, but he knew himself to be addle-headed, tongue-tied and as self-conscious as a boy in his teens. On many occasions he had mentally rehearsed conversations with her, but now all these fled from his mind. He could think of nothing but the most inane platitudes, and even these he pronounced hesitatingly and without conviction.

But marvellously she didn't appear to notice it. Her lips formed themselves into a slow smile which turned his heart to water, while she spoke to him as if he were a normal human being, almost indeed her equal. Her soft low-pitched voice fell upon his ears like distant music. He was so moved that it took all his resolution to maintain his rôle of casual acquaintance.

Presently the subject of the Zoo animals palled and, without deliberate intention, they began to talk of themselves. He told her that he was married, believing it not only right to do so, but wise. On her part she was equally frank.

Her name, it appeared, was Nancy Weymore, and she was a widow. Her husband had been a doctor in Worcestershire, and had built up a large and lucrative practice when he developed sepsis from an infected cut and died in great pain. Then she had endured a further shock. It transpired that he had been living almost entirely upon income and had saved but little money. As she had none herself, she had therefore to find a job. She had been lucky in getting one as model in the fashion department of one of the big Birmington shops. Unfortunately, owing to a reconstruction, she had recently lost this job, and for the last three months she had been acting as companion to an invalid lady living in the country near Neverton, some dozen miles from Birmington. The old lady, she said, was a dear and she was very happy with her.

She did not tell all this to George in a breath. It came out bit by bit as they talked. Some of it, indeed, he grasped only by putting two and two together. Now that it had been suggested to him, he noticed that her clothes, while still conveying the impression of extreme neatness and good taste, appeared older and more worn than on their first meeting.

She seemed lonely and glad of the chance of talking, and their tea dragged out for nearly an hour. Then she said it was time for her bus and that she must go. He wanted to see her off, but she would not allow that.

“But I may see you again?” he implored as she collected her things. “There is so much I want to tell you.”

She demurred, though he thought not very decisively. An inspiration seized him. “Have you ever been on Orlop Hill?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Then you must come,” he declared firmly. “Orlop Hill is our chief beauty spot and no one can appreciate this country who has not been there. It's an escarpment of the Peak District and you can see the hills of that area to the north and to the south this great plain. There's a road for cars to near the top, and from there it's only a short walk to the beacon.”

“It sounds delightful,” she said, doubtfully. “How should we manage it?”

“Drive, of course,” he returned, excitement at the prospect swelling up within him. “I'll call for you at Neverton with the car. It's in the same general direction as Orlop and won't be much out of the way. Only on account of the short evenings we'll have to start early to get the view.”

She didn't seem very keen on the idea, but at last she gave in and a meeting was arranged. On Wednesdays and Saturdays George played golf, and on the following Wednesday he undertook to call for her instead.

It was not till he was in bed that night that the real significance of the step he had taken began to knock for admission into George Surridge's mind. He did not wish to think of it, but he could not help doing so. What exactly had happened to him? Had he fallen in love with this woman, and if so, what was he proposing to do about it? If he went on with this friendship, how would it end? Would it mean the break-up of his home and the loss of his job?—in other words, his ruin?

He knew that on the grounds of expediency, as well as morality, he should not proceed with the affair, but when he pictured Nancy Weymore as she had appeared seated beside him in the restaurant: when he remembered what she had said and recalled the tones of her voice, he felt that if necessary he would risk all and every consequence to see and hear her again.

Fortunately it was not necessary that he should risk anything. He could meet her without fear of any resultant disaster. This drive on Wednesday would commit him to nothing. In itself it would be a quite ordinary excursion without any special significance, and they could part at the end of it as they had met, mere acquaintances.

But when he considered the matter further, George found that it was not quite as simple as he had supposed. He usually took a bus to the golf course, leaving the car for Clarissa. He couldn't get the car without letting her know why he wanted it, and he didn't feel like telling her a direct lie.

He saw, in short, that he would have to hire a car. Here was more expense. He could scarcely make ends meet as it was, and to take on a further outlay was the last thing he desired. However, that couldn't be helped. At least he needn't be afraid of the garage people talking: in the interests of trade they would keep their own council.

He need not be afraid either, of being seen on the Orlop Hill. At this time of year it would be as deserted as the Sahara. They could not go to a restaurant because none would be open. He would have to take tea with him. He could not very well use flasks from home, as Clarissa might notice their absence. It would be better to buy one of those tea outfits and have it filled at an hotel. Still more expense, confound it! However, he felt he was now too far committed to draw back.

Next day after lunching at the Club he went to a garage where they specialised in the hiring of cars, and arranged for an N.J. Gnat to be ready on the Wednesday. At an adjoining shop he bought a tea box—it cost him nearly three pounds—and left it in an hotel with the necessary orders. All this made him feel excited and upset. He oscillated between trepidation over the step he was taking and an almost unbearable eagerness for the time to arrive.

At length it did so. He woke that morning with the impression that something of overwhelming importance was about to happen, and sprang out of bed to look at the sky. Thank goodness, it was going to be fine. He dressed as in a dream and carried out his morning's work like an automaton, his mind full of what was coming. Gone were his fears and regrets. For that morning at least he would not have changed his position with any man in England.

His plans functioned without a hitch. He went as usual to the club for lunch, leaving early on the plea that he had to pay a call in the country. The Gnat, shining as if it had just left the makers' hands, was ready for him, as was also the well-filled tea-box. With the box in the rear and soft rugs on the seat beside him, he drove out of Central Square in Birmington, taking the road to the north-east.

He was annoyed to find that nervousness was again overtaking him, and that the nearer he came to Neverton, the worse it grew. Nancy had indicated that she would walk out along the road to meet him, from which he concluded that she did not wish him to call at her employer's house. He began now to worry about all sorts of things: whether he could be on the wrong road and so miss her, whether he could ever be as witty and interesting as not to bore her, whether she would enjoy the excursion. But no longer did he consider possible untoward results of the acquaintanceship: by now he could not see beyond the present.

At last, some mile before he reached the village of Neverton, his heart was set fluttering by the sight of a figure on the road ahead. Yes, it was she: a new Nancy Weymore in a tweed coat and skirt, a felt hat and tan brogues. Charming as she had looked in her town clothes, he thought she looked even more ravishing in these. He pulled up.

“I'm not late, I hope?” he said, anxiously. “You've come a long way.”

“I was just going to say how punctual you were,” she answered as she got in and settled herself beside him. “What a delightful car! New, surely?”

“Borrowed, I'm afraid,” he returned, smiling. “The family bus is in use to-day.”

To have as much time as possible on the Orlop, he drove quickly. The needle oscillated between forty and fifty, occasionally touching sixty, and, for George did not wish to risk being stopped, rigorously dropping to twenty-eight in controlled areas. The road soon began to ascend, and then as it wound higher and higher, they exchanged the fertile and populous plain, first for outlying farm-houses surrounded by pastures, and finally for the open moor. Presently they reached the summit and George drew into a parking-place where the road turned down a long gentle slope between two hummocks.

“The beacon's up there,” he said, pointing to the higher of the little peaks. “It's really not far. Are you game?”

“Rather,” she nodded. “What a perfect place! I had no idea there was anything like this in the neighbourhood.”

“Wait till you see the view from the top,” he advised. “Shall we have tea up there, or wait till we get back to the car?”