The Chain of Destiny. Betty Neels

house as a domestic worker. Whichever way she looked at it, the list was depressing.

      She looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, and for some reason she wanted to burst into tears at the sight of him. She said in a slightly thickened voice, ‘Oh, do go away…’

      Despite her best efforts, two large tears rolled down her cheeks.

      ‘I’ll go when I’m ready,’ he told her coolly, ‘and don’t, for pity’s sake, start weeping. It’s a waste of time.’

      She glared at him and wiped a hand across her cheeks like a child. She wasn’t sure why he seemed to be part and parcel of the morning’s miserable happening; she only knew that at that moment she didn’t like him.

      He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her, stretching out his long legs before him. ‘You have to leave here?’

      ‘Yes.’ She blew her nose and sat up very straight. ‘Now, if you would go away, I have a great deal to do.’

      He sat looking at her for a few moments, frowning a little, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Miss Davinish tells me that you have no job. Perhaps I could have helped in some way,’ his blue eyes were cold, ‘but it seems that I was mistaken.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll bid you good day, young lady.’

      He went away as quietly as he had come, and she heard his car drive away.

      CHAPTER TWO

      SUZANNAH DID her best to shake off the feeling that the not very solid ground beneath her had been cut from under her feet. She might not like the professor, but he had offered to help her and she badly needed help, and like a fool she had turned his offer down; she hadn’t even thanked him for it, either. A pity he hadn’t had the patience to stay a little longer until her good sense had taken over from her stupid bout of weeping. She winced at the thought of the cold scorn in his eyes. And yet he had been so kind when Aunt Mabel had been ill…

      As for the professor, he drove back to London, saw a handful of patients at his consulting rooms, performed a delicate and difficult brain operation at the hospital and returned to his elegant home in a backwater of Belgravia to eat his dinner and then go to his study to catch up on his post. But he made slow work of it. Suzannah’s red hair, crowning her white, cross face, kept superimposing itself upon his letters. He cast them down at length and reached for the telephone as it began to ring. It was Phoebe at her most charming, and she had the knack of making him laugh. They talked at some length and he half promised to spend the next weekend at the manor house. As he put the phone down, he told himself that it was to be hoped that Suzannah would be gone.

      He spoke so forcefully that Henry, his long-haired dachshund, sitting under his desk, half asleep, came out to see what was the matter.

      He had a long list the next day, and when it was over he sat in sister’s office, drinking coffee and taking great bites out of the sandwiches she had sent for, listening courteously to her rather tart observations on lack of staff, not enough money and when was she to have the instruments she had ordered weeks ago?

      ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he told her. ‘We need another staff nurse, don’t we? We didn’t get a replacement for Mrs Webb when she left. You’re working at full stretch, aren’t you, Sister?’

      She gave him a grateful look. Sister Ash was in her fifties, a splendid theatre sister and, although she had a junior sister to take over when she was off duty, she was hard-pressed. Just like Professor Bowers-Bentinck to think of that, she reflected; such a nice man, always calm, almost placid when he was operating, and with such lovely manners. She thanked him and presently he went off to the intensive care unit to take a look at his patient. It was as he was strolling to the entrance, giving last minute instructions to his registrar, Ned Blake, that he stopped dead.

      ‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before?’

      ‘A change in treatment?’ asked Ned.

      ‘No, no, my dear chap—nothing to do with our patient. Keep on as I suggest, will you? I’ll be in the earliest I can in the morning, and give me a ring if you’re worried.’ He nodded goodbye and went out to his car and drove home, where he went straight to his study, sat in his chair for five minutes or more, deep in thought, and then picked up the phone.

      The voice which answered him was elderly but brisk. ‘Guy, dear boy, how nice to hear your voice; it would be nicer still to see you…’

      He talked for a few minutes and the voice said cosily, ‘Well, dear, what exactly do you want us to do?’

      The Professor told her.

      Suzannah spent several days packing up the contents of the cottage. There was little of value: a few pieces of jewellery which her aunt had possessed, one or two pieces of silver, a nice Coalport tea service… She put them into cardboard boxes and carried them down to the post office, where Mrs Coffin stowed them away safely in an attic. The new assistant teacher had called to see her too, and had been delighted to buy the furniture, which was old-fashioned but well-kept. Everything else Suzannah had promised to various people in the village. And, this done, she set to, writing replies to every likely job she could find advertised which could offer her a roof over her head. Several of her letters weren’t answered, and those who did stated categorically that no pets were allowed. It was a blow, but she had no intention of abandoning Horace, so she wrote out an advertisement offering her services in any domestic capacity provided she might have a room of her own and Horace might be with her, and took it down to the post office.

      Mrs Coffin, behind the counter, weighing out oatmeal for a beady-eyed old lady, greeted her with some excitement. ‘Don’t you go posting that letter, m’dear, not if it’s a job—there’s something in the local paper this morning…’ She dealt with the old lady and then invited Suzannah to join her behind the counter. ‘Just you look at that, love.’ She folded the paper and pointed at the situations vacant column. ‘Just up your street.’

      Suzannah, with Mrs Coffin breathing gustily down her neck, obediently read. A competent, educated person was required for a period of two or three months to sort and index old family documents. An adequate salary would be paid and there was the use of a small flatlet. Pets not objected to. Good references were essential. Application in the first instance to be made in own handwriting. A box number followed.

      ‘Well,’ declared Suzannah and drew a great breath. ‘Do you suppose it’s real?’

      ‘Course it is, m’dear. Now you just go into the room at the back and write a letter, and it’ll go with the noon post.’ Mrs Coffin rummaged through a shelf of stationery behind her. ‘Here, take this paper, it’s best quality and it will help to make a good impression.’

      ‘References…’

      ‘You can nip round to the vicar and Dr Warren when you’ve written it. You just sit yourself down and write.’

      The dear soul pushed Suzannah into the little room at the back of the shop and pulled out a chair, and, since she had nothing to lose, she wrote.

      Three days went by and, though she had made up her mind not to depend too much on a reply, she was disappointed to hear nothing. She got up early on the fourth morning and wrote out her own advertisement once more, and was putting it into an envelope when the postman pushed several letters through the letterbox. There were still outstanding matters arising from her aunt’s death and, trivial though they were, she had dealt with them carefully; she leafed through the little bundle to discover most of them were receipts of the small debts she had paid, but the last letter was addressed in a spidery hand on thick notepaper and bore the Marlborough postmark.

      Suzannah opened it slowly. The letter inside was brief and written in the same spidery hand, informing her that her application had been received and, since her references were satisfactory, would she be good enough to go to the above address for an interview in two days time? Her expenses would be paid. The letter was signed by Editha Manbrook, an elderly lady from the look of her handwriting, which, while elegant in style, was decidedly wavery.