Only a memory E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Historical Romance
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 363

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

INTRIGUE. TENSION. LOVE AFFAIRS: In The Historical Romance series, a set of stand-alone novels, Vivian Stuart builds her compelling narratives around the dramatic lives of sea captains, nurses, surgeons, and members of the aristocracy. Stuart takes us back to the societies of the 20th century, drawing on her own experience of places across Australia, India, East Asia, and the Middle East.    It seemed strange that a brilliant surgeon like Doctor Mary Courage should even consider being an assistant general practitioner in a small Yorkshire town. With her qualifications, she would easily have been welcomed anywhere. Yet the move — and Doctor Mark Bellamy — brought Mary the love and happiness denied her by her tragic past!

Leseprobe

Only a Memory

Only a Memory

© Vivian Stuart, 1961

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

ISBN: 978-9979-64-471-2

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

____

For my friend, Mina Doolan, of Winnipeg, Canada, in memory of a happy visit she paid us and in gratitude for her unfailing encouragement

CHAPTER I

“READ this, will you, Francis?” Dr. Bellamy invited. He passed the letter he had just opened, with its enclosures, across the desk to his assistant. “It’s another application for your job. But this time it’s from someone you probably know, since she trained at the Royal Benevolent . . . a Dr. Mary Courage.

Francis O’Donohue took the proffered letter and studied it with interest. Watching him, Dr. Bellamy thought how lucky he had been in this young assistant of his, and then, suppressing a sigh, reflected that he was going to miss Francis very much when the time came for him to leave the practice. But it would be selfish, in the circumstances, to attempt to hold on to him, much as he wanted to, and unjust, all things considered, to seek to alter the boy’s decision.

Francis had come through a bad time. He had suffered, as few young men of his age were called upon to suffer, as the result of an action brought against him for negligence, at the very outset of his professional career. The action had been a malicious one and the Court had completely exonerated him from blame, but the case, with its ensuing publicity, had so shaken his faith in himself that he had come very near to abandoning the work he loved. The fact that he had carried on was a tribute to his strength of character, Mark Bellamy was aware, and he was glad to see that no sign of what he had endured showed now in Francis’ dark, good-looking face. His expression was serene and untroubled, and his smile, when, his perusal of the letter and its contents finished, he handed them back was warm and confident.

“I don’t know Miss Courage personally,” he said. “She must have been a student when I was at the Royal. But”—he gestured to the letter—”she’s very well qualified, isn’t she, Mark?”

“She is indeed,” Mark Bellamy confirmed. His brows met in a thoughtful frown. “As a surgeon . . . you’ll have noticed that in addition to a London Fellowship, she was. awarded the Elleston Gold Medal in her final year. That’s a somewhat rare distinction at the Royal, isn’t it?”

Francis inclined his head. “Oh, yes. It’s awarded about once in five years and very seldom to a woman.” He, too, was frowning now. “I ought to have heard of her, if she got the Elleston. That usually leads to great things.”

“And haven’t you heard of her?”

“Not to my recollection, no. Only one woman received it in my time—a very dedicated and exceptionally brilliant young woman called MacLeod. She came from the Outer Hebrides and she was quite lovely. She had that extraordinary colouring you only see in a true Celt.” Francis’ brow cleared and he smiled reminiscently. “Blue eyes and absolutely jet black hair, you know the type. As a student, I remember, she had a fantastic record . . . she passed top in every subject, no one else came near her. She had everything, Mark—brains, looks, tremendous ability and, to cap it all, complete singleness of purpose.”

“You sound as if you fell rather heavily for Miss MacLeod,” Dr. Bellamy suggested, amused. “Did you, Francis?”

“I fell with several hundred others,” the younger man admitted. He shrugged. “But she never looked at any of us. I tell you, she was dedicated, Mark. One of those rare women to whom her work meant everything. It was her whole life, right from the start. She wasn’t interested in anything else, and as for romance, well . . . she was known—most respectfully, I might add—as ‘The Ice Princess.’ There was something about her, I don’t know—breeding, perhaps, that set her apart. Although I believe she came of a very poor family and had to make her way by means of grants and scholarships. But—” —he broke off—”I’m digressing, I’m afraid. This isn’t exactly helping you to choose a new assistant, is it?”

“On the contrary, I rather think it may have a bearing,” Mark Bellamy returned thoughtfully. He consulted the letter again, reading from it aloud, half to himself and half to the listening Francis. “She was house surgeon to Stacey-Carruthers . . . no doubt the Gold Medal got her that . . . then surgical registrar to Sir David Lambton for two years.” He looked up, a question in his grey eyes as they met those of his assistant. “That’s odd, isn’t it? I’m not up to date in these matters, but I thought three years was the usual term for a senior registrar’s appointment at the Royal?”

“It is,” Francis agreed, “if you’re aiming for any sort of consultant’s job in the future.”

“Well, Miss Courage only appears to have done two years. Her appointment terminated in April, I see, April of last year. Just eleven months ago. Since then, she doesn’t seem to have been working, or at least I can find no record of any other appointment here. No—” he leafed through the papers which had been clipped to the application—”not a thing. That’s funny. And now she’s applying for a post as an assistant in a general practice . . . here in Denborough, of all places! An industrial town, miles from London, with nothing whatsoever to recommend it, that I can see, to a woman with her qualifications. A young woman, too—she says she’s twenty-eight, I think. Yes, that’s right, she does. It’s all a trifle puzzling, isn’t it, Francis, when you come to think about it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She could have her reasons,” Francis pointed out. “Couldn’t she?”

“I suppose she could,” Mark Bellamy conceded. “But I wonder what they are. Illness, do you think? Or trouble of some kind? This girl is evidently a surgeon of some promise. Why should she give up a registrarship at the Royal, on a firm like Sir David Lambton’s—with all the glowing prospects she must have had—in order to become a Health Service G.P. in the north of England? Unless, of course, she’s been compelled to . . . it simply doesn’t make sense otherwise, does it?”

Francis did not immediately answer him. For a moment, recalling the circumstances in which he himself had come to Denborough, a spasm of pain flickered across his thin, sensitive face. Although he had been exonerated, he had run away from the publicity and the whispers, from the pointing fingers and the barely concealed mistrust which had followed his appearance in court. Neither he nor his hospital had been negligent, but in spite of this he had blamed himself, would never cease to do so. He had buried himself here for almost three years, working with Mark and trying to quieten the voice of his conscience by dint of leaving all major decisions to the man who employed him.

He did not regret the years he had spent here—how could he possibly regret them, when they had brought about his salvation? And when they had given him, in addition, Mark Bellamy’s friendship, his trust and gratitude, his confidence? Working together, they had built up this practice to what it now was, and Francis was proud of their achievement, satisfied with the work he had done under Mark’s guidance.

He sighed. Part of him hated, even now, the thought of giving it all up, of leaving Mark and putting an end to an association which they had both come to value very highly. But part of him—the part he had kept in subjection for so long—remained unsatisfied and obstinately determined to succeed where, before, he had failed.

He could, he knew, have joined Mark in partnership. They could have gone on together for the rest of their lives, if he had been prepared to accept what Mark was so willing to give him— what, in fact, he had frequently offered after their first year together. The practice could have carried them both as partners, without Mark’s having to make any financial sacrifice. In any case, Francis knew, his chief would not have minded in the least if it had, for he lived very simply and frugally and cared little for money. Mark Bellamy was the most generous of men, and he had wanted him to stay, had been anxious for him to accept a partnership although, when Francis had finally refused it, he hadn’t pressed the point or tried to make him change his mind.

He had simply let him go, without reproach or argument, and now, sitting in the familiar, shabbily furnished consulting room, Francis wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, whether or not he had made the right decision. He had made it, he was aware, because his conscience still tormented him and because, deep in his heart, he was afraid and doubted himself. It wasn’t enough to stay in Denborough, basking in the reflected glory which his patients’ love for Mark cast so comfortingly over him. It wasn’t enough to accept trust which was given to him because Mark had earned it. He had to make his own way, in his chosen field. He had to fight his own battles, learn to trust and depend on himself, without Mark behind him. He had to stand squarely on his own two feet, alone, if he were to regain completely the self-respect he had lost.

Later on, perhaps, when he had done what he had set out to do, he would come back, Francis thought. Always providing, of course, that the new assistant who took his place here did not also take the chance that he had thrown away. It was on the cards that whoever Mark chose to succeed him would do so : it had to be and was a risk he must accept.

His mouth twisted wryly as his thoughts returned once more to Dr. Courage’s letter. Hers was the seventh application to come in, apart from a list of names supplied by the local medical council, and he found himself wondering why Mark was giving so much time and thought to it “You’re considering her very seriously, aren’t you, Mark?” he said, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” Mark confessed, “I am. None of the others amount to much, do they?”

“No. But”—Francis asked the question on impulse—”will you like working with a woman? I didn’t think you went for women much.”

Mark Bellamy, taken by surprise, looked up from the letter to stare at him, the colour slowly rising to his cheeks.

“I’ve no prejudice where women doctors are concerned,” he defended mildly. “Nor, contrary to anything you may have heard or may think about me, Francis, am I a misogynist, you know.”

“No, of course not, Mean——” Francis broke off in embarrassment.

Idiot that he was, he reproached himself, thrice-damned idiot, to have phrased his question with such appalling lack of tact! Mark never talked of the girl to whom he had once been engaged. He had never explained what had gone wrong or why she had apparently married someone else, and Francis, sensing tragedy, had neither asked for an explanation nor expected one. It had all ended long before he himself had come to Denborough and, he had decided, was no concern of his, if Mark didn’t choose to tell him about it.

But he had heard several different and conflicting versions of the story from some of the older patients, and he was aware— because Mark didn’t speak of it—that whatever had happened must have hurt him very badly. Nowadays, save for his purely professional contact with them, Mark avoided women and spent such leisure as he possessed either fishing or bird-watching, almost invariably alone. The only women in his life were Miss Vane, the surgery receptionist, and Nellie James, his cookhousekeeper. Both were devoted to him, but both were in their late fifties. And Mark was thirty-four . . . .

He said, reddening, “Oh, dash it all, Mark, I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t mean——”

“I know you didn’t,” Mark assured him. But, since you have asked, I’ll tell you. I’m not particularly keen to take on a woman assistant but, on the other hand, I do want someone with some experience. This is a large practice and a busy one, as who should know better than you do? Dr. Courage is exceptionally well qualified. The other applicants—with the exception of the one from Wetherby, who is too old—are all youngsters just out of medical school, so I haven’t really an awful lot of choice, have I? More especially when my aim and object, as again you know, is to engage an assistant who will eventually become a partner.” He smiled, without reproach, at Francis’ obvious discomfiture. “I’d rather have you as my partner than anyone, Francis, but since you won’t take it on, it behoves me to look around, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. Of course it does, Mark. But——”

Mark Bellamy’s smile widened. “It has occurred to me,” he went on, “that Dr. Courage and the paragon of your student days are one and the same person. If they are, then obviously her application is one I must consider very seriously indeed. Do you, by any chance, remember Miss MacLeod’s Christian name?”

“The Ice Princess?” Francis hesitated. “Good lord, yes, I do. It was—Mary.”

“Well, then! If the Elleston Gold Medal is only awarded once in five years, the chances are, I should say, that Mary MacLeod is Mary Courage.”

“Yes, but . . . that would mean that she must have married.”

“People do,” Mark pointed out dryly “Especially attractive young women with Celtic colouring, however dedicated. And it’s—how many years since you left the Royal?”

“Nearly five. But even so . . . the Ice Princess! Still, I suppose it is possible. Only, as far as I can remember, there was no one on the staff called Courage.”

“Women doctors do not necessarily always many their fellow physicians and surgeons, Francis. I rather imagine that, like nurses, they tend just as frequently to many their patients, and for much the same reasons. After all, they——”

“Mark!” Francis was on his feet, suddenly excited. “I believe you’ve got something there. The name Courage has begun to ring a bell.”

Mark Bellamy laughed. “I thought it might. Was he a patient?”

“Yes, he was—but after my time. I heard about him from Miles Carter, who was R.S.O. You know I always look him up when I go to London? Well, once when I was down, Miles took me to see this chap Courage—I can’t remember when it was exactly, but I haven’t forgotten Digger Courage. He was an Australian civil air-line pilot, who was brought in after a crash with multiple injuries, which included a fractured skull and shockingly severe bums.” Francis frowned. “They had him on the D.I. list for months and no one thought he had a hope in hell of pulling through. But, for some reason, he did. Miles said it was generally believed that he made it because he lived up to his name. Anyway, he became a sort of byword at the Royal and their star patient They were frightfully proud of him, and the nurses absolutely worshipped him, I remember.”

“And possibly Miss MacLeod did too,” Mark said. “Whose patient was he, do you remember?”

Francis thought for a moment. “He was Sir David Lambton’s. Of course, that’s how she met him, Mark! Miles told me that Sir David patched him up when he first came in, and Mary MacLeod was Sir David’s registrar. That fits, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly seems to,” Mark agreed.

“The poor chap was in a long time. I believe he had about a dozen operations, all told—a succession of skin grafts and plastic repair jobs, for which they called in Sir Martin Stokes. When Miles took me to have a look at him, he must have been about halfway through. I didn’t see him when they’d finished with him, but I seem to recall hearing from someone or other that the final results were little short of miraculous.” Francis looked at Mark, his eyes bright with interest. “What an extraordinary thing if Mary MacLeod did marry him, Mark! May I have another look at that letter—the one from Dr. Courage, I mean? Does she mention being married?”

Mark shook his head. “No, not in this.” He. gave Francis the letter. “But that could be the explanation for the eleven months when she wasn’t working. And, of course, it could also explain why she packed in her registrar’s appointment, couldn’t it?”

“I suppose it could. But it seems odd that she hasn’t said anything about being married in her application.”

“Oh, I don’t know. She probably intended to tell me if she came here for an interview. After all, this is only a formal application to be considered for the job, on her professional qualifications.” Mark held out his hand for the letter. “From my point of view, it would simplify matters very considerably if she were married. She could live out, for one thing, and for another—” he grinned at Francis with a faint hint of malice— “

“it would mean that I could indulge to the full those misogynistic inclinations of which you suspect me, without being hauled over the coals for it! And, in addition, I could go on being a confirmed bachelor without the gossips marrying me off to my new assistant, couldn’t I?”

Francis joined in his laughter. “Are you going to ask her to come here for an interview?” he questioned. “I must admit, I wish you would—my curiosity is now thoroughly aroused. And seriously, Mark, if Dr . . Courage is Mary MacLeod, you’d be getting an assistant in a million.”

“I doubt if she will be any better than the one I’ve had,” Mark told him smilingly. “But, be that as it may, I think there would be no harm in asking her to come here. She says she’s prepared to come at any time and I consider she’s worth seeing don’t you? Whether or not she’s who we think she is . . .” He studied the letter heading. “She gives a London telephone number and says she is in from six every evening. What time is it now, Francis?”

“Five to seven. Shall I get the number for you? I might recognize her voice——” But Mark had already lifted the receiver on his desk, and Francis waited, filled with a strange sense of expectancy, for the call to come through.

“Vintage 8007?” Mark’s voice was level and impersonal. “I wonder if I might speak to Dr. Courage? This is Dr. Bellamy of Denborough, Yorkshire . . . yes, certainly, I’ll hold on.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “They’re calling her. You take it, Francis. Tell her that I’m interested in het application and arrange for her to come up to see me as soon as possible. Any day that suits her, and say we’ll meet her train. Don’t ask any questions, just arrange for the interview.”

“No questions?” Francis echoed, disappointed. “But what about my curiosity? Dash it all, Mark, I——”

“It’s good for you to learn to restrain your curiosity, my lad. In any case, the suspense will brighten our dull lives a bit . . .” He passed over the receiver. “She’s on the line now.”

A cool, clear voice answered Francis’ uncertain hullo. “Dr. Courage speaking,” it said. “Is that Dr. Bellamy?”

“I’m Dr. Bellamy’s assistant,” Francis said. He did not recognize the voice. “Dr. Bellamy has asked me to suggest that you come up here to see him, at any time that suits you. He is very interested in your application and——”

“I’m doing a locum at the moment,” Dr. Courage put in. “But it ends on Friday. I could come up to Denborough on Saturday, if that would suit Dr. Bellamy. I believe there is a train leaving King’s Cross for York at about ten a.m. and probably I could get a train on to Denborough from there, could I not?”

Francis heard the faint suggestion of a lilt in her voice then, and he smiled to himself as he supplied details of the York connection. Dr. Courage had no discernible accent now, but he Was certain that she had once possessed one and, as they talked on, he became more convinced than ever that Mark’s reasoning had not been at fault. This was the girl he had known as Mary MacLeod all right—it couldn’t possibly be anyone else. His pulses quickened and suddenly he was eager to see her again, to see and talk to her and find out whether the passing years had changed her or whether, after all, she had fulfilled her early promise.

“If it would help at all,” he offered, flashing a sidelong glance at Mark, “I could drive into York and pick you up. It’s less than an hour by car and, if I did, you’d be able to see a bit. of the surrounding countryside, wouldn’t you, on the way back here?”

“Oh . . .” her hesitation was brief, “that is very kind of. you, very kind indeed. But won’t you be too busy, Doctor—I didn’t get your name, I’m afraid.”

“O’Donohue. Francis O’Donohue. We don’t have a Saturday afternoon surgery, so I could easily manage it, if you’d like me to. Dr. Bellamy is very good about off-duty. In fact—” He closed an eye, insolently, to Mark’s mouthed injunction to him to “come off it”—”he’s a very decent sort of chap all round. I know he won’t in the least mind doing any calls that come in on Saturday afternoon, he never does So that’s settled then, isn’t it? I’ll be at York Station around two to meet the London train, and I’ll drive you back here.”

“If you’re sure it won’t be putting you out, Dr. O’Donohue——”

“Not in the least,” Francis assured her. He waited for a moment, hoping that she might remember his name, but she evidently did not, for she simply thanked him again, mentioned that she expected there would be an evening train back to London about five and rang off.

Francis slowly replaced his own receiver. “Well,” he said, “she’s coming on Saturday,. Mark.”

“And you’re meeting her in York,” Mark returned dryly, “while that decent chap Bellamy does all the Saturday calls! All right, all right, he won’t in the least mind doing them. But am I to gather, from your eagerness to drive all the way to York, that Dr. Courage is your Celtic beauty in person?”

“I’m not sure,” Francis evaded. “At least not absolutely sure. But I think so.”

“Then I shall be extremely lucky if I succeed in persuading her to come here.”

“Oh, yes, undoubtedly. She sounded quite keen, though, Mark. And she has agreed to an immediate interview, so she must like the sound of the job.”

“It’s to be hoped she does. But I expect I can rely on you to exercise all your well-known persuasive powers on my behalf during the drive from York, can’t I?” Mark was smiling, and Francis echoed his smile. “I’ll do my best for you,” he promised lightly, and wondered, as he said it, whether or not he would be successful in his efforts. It seemed strange, all things considered, that Mary MacLeod should be seeking a post as assistant to a general practitioner, and stranger still that she had seemed genuinely keen and interested in the prospect of such a post in a town like Denborough. However, if she had married “Digger” Courage, no doubt general practice offered her a better chance of a normal married life than if she were working long hours in a big London teaching hospital. And . . .

The surgery door-bell pealed an imperious summons and Mark said, looking at his watch, “Oh, lord—seven-fifteen. About time we made a start, I suppose, Francis, or we’ll never get through. Tell Miss Vane she can send my first patient in, will you, as you go past the office? And if you don’t mind, I’d like you to take any urgent calls that come in during the evening, because I’ve promised to go and see old Jessie Landon at eight. She’s failing fast, I’m afraid, so it’ll take me at least an hour . . .” He sighed. “Have you any outstanding calls?”

“None,” said Francis cheerfully, “but I expect Miss Vane will have collected a few more for me by this time. I’ll do them when the rush slows down, shall I? Then we might manage supper together for once.”

“Right-oh, old boy.” Mark rose, took off his jacket and reached for his white coat, which hung on a peg at the back of the consulting room He was buttoning himself into it when Miss Vane’s knock sounded on the outer door. “Come in!” he invited briskly, fastening the last button and feeling automatically in the coat pocket for his stethoscope. “I’m ready.”

Miss Vane entered, her thin, lined face and faded blue eyes lit briefly by a smile as she glanced from one to the other of them.

She was a tall, angular woman, of strict nonconformist upbringing, who concealed her disapproval of the world and its evils behind a studied effusiveness. Francis had tried to like her and could not. But she did her work with admirable efficiency, he was forced to admit, and was a veritable mine of information where both the patients’ illnesses fend their addresses were concerned. Her chief fault was that she was over-conscientious and inclined to worry needlessly over what Francis himself considered small and irksome details. His call lists were the subject of a certain amount of friction between them but, apart from this, they got on well enough on the surface, although it was Mark to whom she gave all the Jove and devotion of which her repressed and somewhat puritanical nature was capable.

Miss Vane did not disapprove of Mark. In her eyes, Mark Bellamy could do no wrong . . .

“Oh, Doctor——” She addressed herself to Mark, as she always did when anything upset her. “That ring at the surgery door just now . . . I expect you heard it?” When Mark nodded, she went on a trifle breathlessly, “It was the police!”

“Oh!” Mark looked at Francis, making a wry grimace. “What did they want? Has Dr. O’Donohue been exceeding the speed limit again or have I parked without lights as usual? Tell us the worst!”

“There’s been an accident, Doctor.” Miss Vane’s tone was a reproach to his levity. “Two cars were in collision at the comer of Belmont and Peterfield Roads and there are several people injured, the policeman says. They’ve sent for the ambulance, but one of the injured men is haemorrhaging very severely and the policeman asked if you or Dr. O’Donohue could come at once, as they can’t control the bleeding. He’s afraid it may be too late by the time the ambulance gets the patient to hospital and——”

Mark cut her short. He said quietly, “Off you go, Francis. Take my car, it’ll be quicker, it’s parked outside. And my bag’s on the front seat.”

“Right.” Francis needed no second bidding. He found the traffic policeman waiting beside Mark’s Humber and they got into it together. “Down Frensham Street, Doctor,” the constable advised, “and then first left—that’ll bring you out at the Belmont comer. It’s a nasty smash, sir, very nasty.”

“They usually are,” Francis stated grimly. He changed down expertly for the left-hand turn. “Who’s involved in it, do you know?”

“One of Lychett’s delivery vans, Doctor, and a black Rolls saloon which looked to me very like Sir Charles Denning’s. The Rolls was chauffeur-driven, with two passengers, but beyond seeing that they were a lady and a gentleman, sir, I didn’t pay them much attention. I was too busy trying to get the van driver out of his cab. He’s the one that’s bleeding, sir—something awful it is.” The constable, a young, fresh-faced man, expelled his breath in a heavy sigh. “That’s why the sergeant sent me to fetch you, sir. We’re trained in first aid, of course, but a thing like mis is a bit beyond us. Left now, Doctor—it’s over there, see, where the crowd’s gathered.”

“Yes, I see.” Francis slowed down, nosing the car in as close as he could to the little crowd of passers-by which had started to collect, as crowds always seemed to, about the two wrecked vehicles. One of these, a heavy red and cream painted delivery van, lay on its side, the glass protecting the cab smashed to smithereens by the force of the impact and the offside door tom bodily from its hinges. The car with which it had collided, a Rolls Royce Silver Wraith, had come to rest at right angles to it, with twisted wings and a badly damaged bonnet, one front wheel against the base of a shattered lamp post.

Francis recognized the Rolls and also—although he had never previously spoken to him—the man who was seated, half in, half out of the rear part of the big, luxurious car. Sir Charles Denning, owner of the Denning Mill and the town’s leading industrialist, was a familiar figure in Denborough, an aiderman and a Justice of the Peace and, Francis recalled, the recently adopted Tory candidate for the Denborough and Lynham Division. That he had been injured was evident from the fact that he had a rug wrapped loosely about his shoulders and was sitting, hunched and silent, with his face buried in his hands.

Francis reached into the Humber for Mark’s medical bag, and the policeman who had accompanied him cleared a way for him through the crowd, leading him to where, stretched out on the pavement with his head pillowed on a coat, the unfortunate van driver lay. A beautifully dressed woman of about thirty-five, her mink cape trailing unheeded in the mud of the road, was kneeling beside him, doing her best to control the bleeding from a severed artery in the man’s right leg. She had applied a tourniquet and was exerting pressure at a point above the injury, Francis noticed approvingly, assisted by a police sergeant to whom she was giving low-voiced instructions as she worked. Both were so concentrated on their task that it was not until he spoke that they became aware of his presence.

“Dr. O’Donohue, thank heaven you’ve got here, sir!” The sergeant yielded his place at the injured man’s, side with evident relief. “Her ladyship and I have been doing what we could, but—” he spread his big hands in a helpless gesture—”the bleeding won’t stop.”

“You seem to have done remarkably well,” Francis told him. He set down his bag, feeling inside it for gloves and the instruments he would need. In a case like this, asepsis would have to yield to expediency, he knew—the bleeding had to be stopped and it could not wait until the patient reached hospital, for already he had lost a great deal of blood. He knelt beside the woman in the mink cape—Lady Denning, he supposed, from what the sergeant had said.

“Just ease that tourniquet a little, please, Lady Denning,” he requested, “so that I can see . . . thanks, that’s it.”

He worked swiftly and competently. As the pressure on the tourniquet eased, he located the site of the severed vessel and clamped one end. The other came to light after a little careful swabbing and probing and he tied both off. “Right his voice was calm. “Now release the tourniquet altogether, please. Fine . . .” He swabbed again, frowning as his hands moved. The bleeding had been arrested, he saw with satisfaction. He waited to make sure and then set about cleaning and dressing the wound, his mouth compressed as he studied the position of the fractured bone.

Lady Denning rose to her feet with a little sigh.

“I’m afraid,” she said shakily, “that I may be going to faint, Doctor. So if you don’t mind, I—I think I’ll leave you now, I——” The police sergeant, moving quickly, caught her as she fell. Francis, still working oyer his patient, was dimly aware of the stir behind him and a gasp from the crowd. And then, evidently, they carried her away, the crowd parting sympathetically in order to make a path for her.

When the ambulance arrived, Francis had the van driver strapped up ready for them. “Take this chap in at once,” he ordered the bearers, “he’s severely shocked and has lost a lot of blood. And there’s a compound fracture of the tibia with . . .” he went into technical details and stood aside. “I’d better see about the others, while you’re loading him into the ambulance. It might be necessary for you to take them along to Casualty too. But our surgery’s quite close and I may be able to deal with any minor injuries there, without holding you up.”

He walked over to the Rolls. A quick examination of Sir Charles Denning was sufficient to tell him that shock and probable concussion, in addition to some bruising, would render his removal to hospital advisable. He left the ambulance men to help the mill owner into their vehicle and turned his attention to the chauffeur,, who was waiting, white-faced and obviously in pain, supported by one of the bystanders. His head had been roughly bandaged and someone had fashioned a competent sling for his left arm.

“It’s his wrist, Doctor,” the man from the crowd explained, as Francis came over to them. “Paining him something cruel, is that wrist. Do you think he’s broken it?”

“I think he’d better have an X-ray to find out,” Francis returned, when he had inspected it. He smiled reassuringly at the chauffeur. “It would be as weir for you to go along to hospital with the ambulance, I think,” he said. “They will X-ray that wrist of yours and set it for you right away, which should relieve the pain. I don’t imagine they’ll keep you in, though, once you’ve received treatment.”

“Very good, sir, if you think I should. But——” At the door of the ambulance, the chauffeur hesitated, his expression anxious. “Just a minute, sir, before I go.”

“What is it?” Francis questioned. “Don’t you want them to take you to hospital?”

“It’s not that, Doctor—it’s her ladyship. She was helping with that poor devil in the van, sir, and carrying on as if nothing had happened. But I think she’s hurt too. It’s not like her to faint the way she did, not at the sight of a drop of blood. Her ladyship is a trained nurse.”

A trained nurse, Francis thought—that, of course, explained the effectively applied tourniquet. He frowned, as he helped the chauffeur into the ambulance, trying to recall what he had heard about Lady Denning. She was Sir Charles’ second wife, he knew : they had been married for about five or six years and he thought that someone had told him that she had nursed her husband through a severe illness, prior to their marriage. It was something like that, anyway. Lady Denning was obviously a good deal younger than Sir Charles—too young, at all events, to be the mother of the Denning son and daughter, who were both in their twenties.

He smiled again at the chauffeur. “I’ll go and see if there’s anything I can do for her ladyship,” he promised, “so don’t you worry any more.” He gave brief instructions to the ambulance driver and closed the door. “You get off now, Bearer. That lad with the fractured tibia oughtn’t to be kept hanging about any longer and if I find that lady Denning is in need of hospital treatment, I’ll drive her over myself.”

“Right, Doctor, thank you.” The driver went round to his own seat and, as the ambulance pulled away, Francis retraced his steps to the Rolls. He found Lady Denning, apparently quite herself again, searching for her handbag in the back of the car. She turned on bearing his voice, the bag in her hand, and for the first time since his arrival at the scene of the accident, Francis was able to take stock of her appearance.

She was, he decided, an extremely attractive woman. Fair and blue-eyed, she wore her hair in a neat chignon in the nape of her neck—a style that few women could carry off without its seeming severe. On her, however, it looked charming. And he found the frank, friendly smile she gave him as attractive as the pleasantly low-pitched tone of her voice, with its faint suggestion of huskiness. He replied to her questions concerning her husband and the injured van driver, and then, deliberately blunt, suggested that she permit him to examine her.

“Your chauffeur told me that he thought you had also been hurt, Lady Denning. I had to send him to hospital for an X-ray and he wouldn’t go until I’d promised to find out how you were.”

Her expression softened. “Dear old Bates, he fusses quite unnecessarily! I assure you I’m quite all right, Doctor. Just a small bump on the head—or at least that’s all I can find. It’s here—” she guided his searching hand—”you see, it’s really nothing, is it? Though possibly it might account for that stupid faint. I can’t imagine what came over me—I’ve never fainted before in my life, you know. I’m afraid it must have upset you rather, but I was trying to help.”

“You did help,” Francis told her, with conviction. “That van driver owes his life to you, Lady Denning. If you hadn’t acted so promptly . . .” He broke off, his fingers probing gently, feeling her wince. “Does that hurt? You’ve rather a nasty cut here. I think, if you don’t mind coming to my surgery, I ought to put a couple of stitches in it for you.”

“Well—” she looked at him uncertainly—”if you really think I ought to, Doctor. You’ve done so much for us already, you’ve been more than kind.”

“I can drive you to the hospital if you’d prefer it?”

“No.” Lady Denning looked down at her mudstained dress and at the marks on her hands. “I think perhaps if you would be so kind as to drive me to your surgery, I’d like to clean up a little before I go to the hospital. It might upset my husband if he saw me looking like this. They will admit him, won’t they, if he’s concussed?”

“I’m sure they will,” Francis confirmed.

“He has a heart condition, so I hope they will. It’s not serious now, but “—her tone was anxious—”perhaps I could ring up, from your house, to find out how he is and suggest their keeping him in? Then I can go along to see him when I’m looking more respectable.”

“And when I’ve stitched that cut on your head, Lady Denning,” Francis reminded her.

“Yes, there’s that. All right, Doctor . . . then thank you. What about—” she shivered, as her gaze went to the two wrecked vehicles—”the car? Ought I to telephone our garage and ask them to move it, do you think?”

“I’ll have a word with the police sergeant. I expect he’ll deal with it for you, if you’d luce him to.” Francis took her arm and led her to where he had parked Mark’s car. He installed her in the front seat and, when he had spoken to the sergeant, got in beside her and started the engine. “Everything’s under control, Lady Denning. The sergeant is taking statements from various witnesses at the moment, but he says you’ve already given him yours.”

“Yes.” The blue eyes were suddenly full of tears. “I do hope they won’t blame Bates for the accident. It honestly wasn’t his fault. That van came out of a side road, without warning and much too fast. Bates tried to avoid hitting it, but it was impossible.” Again Francis felt her shiver and, glancing at her covertly, he saw that she was very pale. Evidently more shocked than he had realized, his mind registered, or perhaps this was a case of delayed reaction. Her pulse had been rather fast and thready. He said, as he put the Humber into gear, “I should try not to think about it, if I were you, Lady Denning.”

“Yes, all right, Doctor,” she agreed, “I’ll try. Only—” she broke off, turning in her seat to look at him—”you know, I don’t know your name or where your surgery is or anything. I never thought of asking you. I’m afraid I must be a bit dazed.”

Francis halted at a light signal. “That is understandable, in the circumstances. But my name is O’Donohue, Francis O’Donohue, and the surgery is a couple of hundred yards down the next street.”

He saw her brow furrow. “I don’t think I’ve heard of you, Dr. O’Donohue. Have you been here long?”

The lights changed and they moved forward again. Waiting for a break in the oncoming line of traffic, Francis answered her question abstractedly. “I’ve been here nearly three years, as assistant to Dr. Bellamy. But I’m moving on as soon as he can find someone to take my place. You see, I——”

“To . . . Mark Bellamy? You mean you’re Mark Bellamy’s assistant and you’re taking me to his surgery?” A note of something approaching panic sounded in the lovely, husky voice. “Dr. O’Donohue, please, you must stop the car—you can’t take me there. I’d no idea where you were taking me, I . . .” Her voice trailed off suddenly into silence and, pulling up hastily, Francis saw to his consternation that, for the second time that evening, his patient had fainted.

He hesitated for a moment, feeling for her pulse, and then flung himself out of the car with a stifled exclamation. Lady Denning was slim and slightly built but, even so, he had some difficulty in lifting her from the car. He carried her up the steps to the door of the surgery and past Miss Vane’s small cubbyhole of an office, silencing her startled enquiry as to what he was doing, with a brusque, “Open the door for me, Miss Vane. And then ask Dr. Bellamy to come, would you? At once—it’s urgent.”

Miss Vane obeyed the first part of his instructions. She opened the door of his consulting room for him, her eyes wide with surprise as she watched him lay his unconscious burden on to the examination couch, but she made no move to go in search of Mark. Instead, she came on hesitant feet to stand at his elbow, looking down at Lady Denning’s white, shuttered face, the last vestige of colour draining from her own. When Francis asked her peremptorily why she had not gone to fetch Mark, she countered with a question of such apparent irrelevance that he lost patience with her.

“Why have I brought her here? Why not, for any sake, when she was hurt in that accident and has a cut on her head that requires stitching? Go and get Dr. Bellamy, please. I want him to see her because this is the second time she’s collapsed and I’m afraid she may be seriously hurt.”

But still Miss Vane made no move to go. In a thin, unhappy voice, she repeated her question. “But why bring her here, Dr. O’Donohue? Don’t you know who she is?”

“Of course I know! She’s Lady Denning, wife of Sir Charles Denning of Crosby Hall. I’ve just sent him to hospital and his chauffeur too. But I thought she was all right——”

“Oh, Doctor, how could you?” Miss Vane whimpered. Her voice broke on a sob as Francis bent once more over his patient. “To bring her here, when you could so easily have sent her to the hospital! It was so thoughtless, so unnecessary. It——”

“Get me some brandy,” Francis demanded. Lady Denning’s eyelids flickered and, after a moment, she opened her eyes. Her gaze met Miss Vane’s, coldly and with reluctance but with a gleam of recognition in them, and a faint smile, lacking all warmth, curved her lips.