A Duel
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 14: In Cuthbert Grahame’s Room
On Isabel’s return to the house she was greeted on the threshold by Martha, the Martha Blair whose connection with Gregory Lamb’s present place of residence seemed destined to have a considerable bearing on Isabel’s future life, and, at least, to settle the debated question of what her future name and title were to be. Martha’s whole attitude was significant of some great happening. Her hands were raised; it seemed that if possible her hair would have been raised too; her eyebrows were elevated to quite a perceptible degree. Her eyes and mouth were wide open; agitation, of a not unpleasant kind, streamed from every pore of her. Behind was Jane, every whit as interested as her companion; but as she happened to be both the younger and the smaller her opportunities for display were less pronounced. Outside stood Dr. Twelves’ dogcart; the horse, untended and untethered, apparently content to stand still as long as any one desired.
Martha broke into speech before Isabel had a chance to plant her foot upon the doorstep.
“Oh, Mrs. Grahame, the master! Mr. Cuthbert, ma’am!”
“Mr. Cuthbert, ma’am!” echoed Jane from the rear.
“Mr. Cuthbert? Well, what’s the matter with Mr. Cuthbert? Let me come in, don’t stand there blocking up the way! Do you hear, what’s the matter with Mr. Cuthbert?”
“He’s dead, ma’am--he’s dead.”
The words broke from both the girls in chorus.
“Dead? What do you mean? What nonsense are you talking? He was well enough when I went out. I’ve never seen him better.”
“He’s had an accident, ma’am, and it’s killed him.”
“Accident? How could he have an accident? Is Dr. Twelves in the house? Where is he?”
“The doctor is in Mr. Cuthbert’s room. He’s been there this half-hour and more.”
She went upstairs to Mr. Cuthbert’s room. Her pulse did not quicken; inwardly as well as outwardly she remained calm; she was a woman whose self-control was above the average; yet she was reluctant to enter that room. It was with an effort she induced herself to grip the handle; when she had done so she had to force herself to give it the necessary twist. Even then she lingered on the threshold.
“Who’s there?” came the doctor’s voice, in accents of inquiry. She showed herself.
“What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
The doctor was standing at the head of the bed. He had something in either hand. Instead of replying to her inquiries he looked at her from beneath his overhanging brows, as if he had been her accuser.
“Why do you look at me like that? Do you hear me ask you what has happened? Have you all lost your senses? Why don’t you answer?” He waved his hand towards the bed. Her gaze followed his gesture, with an effort. She knew what she would see; she did not want to see it. Instantly her glance returned to the doctor.
“Is he--is he dead?”
“Quite dead.”
“But I don’t understand. When I left him he seemed brighter and better than I have ever seen him before.”
“He’s been killed.”
“Killed! What do you mean, he’s been killed?”
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