Detective and mystery stories; England -- Fiction; Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction
“He’s been sent for. Lady Kean has been taken ill again. I doubt if
he’ll be back this morning. You’d better cancel any engagements he had
for to-day.”
The old man made a clucking sound with his tongue against his teeth.
“It’s a pity she’s so delicate, sir,” he ventured.
And Fayre, overwrought to the verge of hysteria, almost laughed aloud
at the utter inadequacy of the remark.
Chapter XXIV
The report of Sybil Kean when Fayre rang up at lunch-time was not
reassuring. The heart attack had been less violent than either of
those that had preceded it, but she had not rallied well. Fayre,
remembering the letter she had sent him and the conviction she had
expressed in it that the next attack would prove her last, wondered
whether the wish to live had not forsaken her. In his heart he knew it
would be better, both for her and for Edward, if she died. The
connection between the unopened letter in his note-case and the
Draycott trial was becoming clear to him at last. There was only one
person for whom Kean cared enough to shield at the expense of his
professional honour; that was Sybil, and Sybil, as was now evident
from her letter to Fayre, had some secret knowledge of the case which
she may or may not have been aware that she shared with her husband.
Fayre went over the events of the evening of March 23rd. So far as he
could remember, he had parted from Sybil Kean in the drawing-room at
Staveley shortly before six o’clock. From then onwards she had been
invisible, presumably in her room, and had not appeared again until
she joined the party in the drawing-room just before eight. He knew
the country round Staveley well enough to realize that this would
leave her ample time to reach Leslie’s farm by six-thirty, or
thereabouts. It seemed incredible that any one in her state of health
should have been capable of such an effort and, in Sybil’s case,
doubly so, for, apart from her delicacy, she had always been indolent
and easy-going to a fault, the last person to screw herself up to such
a pitch of nervous tension as such an expedition would entail.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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