of Thaxted, and since the hospital was close to the M11 he chose to travel to and fro. After a day in the operating theatre or a session in Outpatients he enjoyed the drive, and the drive to the city in the early morning, even in midwinter, was no problem—the Bentley swallowed the miles with well-bred silent speed while he considered the day’s work ahead of him.
He joined the motorway and sat back, relaxed behind the wheel, reviewing several of his patients’ progress, weighing the pros and cons of each case and, that done, allowed his thoughts to roam.
Miss Henrietta Cowper, he reflected, at first glance was a nonentity, but he suspected that there was more to her than that. A square peg in a round hole, perhaps? Was there an intelligent brain behind that small, plain face? He thought that there was. Mrs Carter had seen that and resented it.
So why didn’t the girl train as a nurse, or, for that matter, go into computers or something similar? Her home had looked shabby from the outside, but the street was a quiet well-kept one, despite it being in one of the East End’s rundown areas.
He turned the car off the motorway and drove for another ten minutes or so along a country road, until he slowed between a handful of cottages and turned again past the church, up the main street of the village and then through his own gates. The drive was short, widening out before the front of the house. He got out and stood a moment looking at it—white walls, half timbered, with a tiled roof, charming lattice windows, glowing with lamplight, a porch and a solid wood door.
Its Tudor origins were apparent, although since then it had been added to from time to time, but nothing had been changed during the last two hundred years. It stood overlooking the wintry garden, offering a warm welcome, and when the door was opened a Labrador dog galloped out to greet him.
Mr Ross-Pitt bent to greet the eager beast. ‘Watson, old fellow—wanting a walk? Presently.’
They went in together to be greeted by his housekeeper. Mrs Patch was elderly, stout and good-natured. She ran his home beautifully, with the help of a girl from the village and Mrs Lock, who came to do the rough work twice a week. She said comfortably, ‘There you are, sir. I’ve just this minute taken a batch of scones out of the oven—just right for your tea.’
He put a hand on her plump shoulder. ‘Mrs Patch, you’re a treasure; I’m famished. Give me five minutes...’ He went along a short passage leading from the roomy square hall and opened the door at its end.
His study was at the side of the house, its French doors opening onto the garden. Now its crimson velvet curtains were closed against the dark night and a fire burned briskly in the steel grate. He sat down at his desk, put his bag beside his chair and turned on the answering machine. Most of the messages were unimportant, and several were from friends—they could be dealt with later.
He left the room and crossed the hall to the drawing room-an irregular-shaped room with windows on two sides, an inglenook and a ceiling which exhibited its original strapwork.
The furniture was a pleasing mixture of comfortable armchairs and sofas, lamp-tables placed where they were most needed, and a bow-fronted cabinet which took up almost all of one wall. It was filled with porcelain and silver, handed down from one generation to the next. He remembered how as a small boy his grandmother had allowed him to hold some of the figurines in his hands.
He had inherited the house from her, and had altered nothing save to have some unobtrusive modernising of the kitchen. He disliked central heating, but the house was warm; the Aga in the kitchen never went out and there were fires laid in every room, ready to be lighted.
He went to his chair near the fire and Mrs Patch followed him in with the tea-tray.
‘It’s no night to be out in,’ she observed, setting the tray down on a table at his elbow, ‘nor yet to be in a miserable cold room somewhere. I pity those poor souls living in bedsitting rooms.’
Was Henrietta Cowper living like that? he wondered.
Each week he spent an evening at a clinic in Stepney; only the two young doctors who ran it knew who he was and he never talked about it.
It had given him an insight into the lives of most of the patients—unemployed for the most part, in small, half-furnished rooms with not enough warmth or light.
On occasion he had needed to go and see them in their homes and he had done what he could, financing the renting of an empty shop where volunteers offered tea and soup and loaves. No one knew about this and he never intended that they should...
Presently he got into his coat again and took Watson for his evening walk. It was still raining and very dark, but he had known the country around his home since he’d been a small boy; he followed well-remembered lanes with Watson trotting beside him. The country, even on a night such as this, was vastly better than London streets.
If, during the following week, Mr Ross-Pitt thought of Henrietta at all it was briefly; his days were full, his leisure largely filled too. He rode whenever he could, and was much in demand at his friends’ and acquaintances’ dinner tables, for he was liked by everyone, unfailingly good-natured and placid. Too placid, some of his women-friends thought; a delightful companion, but never showing the least desire to fall in love.
It was on the next Monday morning that he went down to the occupational therapy unit to check on a patient’s progress since he had operated on him to remove a brain tumour. His progress was excellent, and he told Mrs Carter so.
‘Well, I’m sure we do our best, sir, although it’s hard going—there’s that girl, not turned up this morning. I knew she would be no good when she was taken on—’
‘Perhaps she is ill?’
‘Ill?’ Mrs Carter snorted in disgust. These young women don’t know the meaning of a good day’s work. she’ll turn up on Wednesday with some excuse.’
He answered rather absentmindedly and Presently went away, his mind already engrossed with the patient he was to see that afternoon—a difficult case which, would need all his skill.
It was on Wednesday evening that he went along to the clinic, after being at the hospital for most of the day. It was another wet night, cold and windy with a forecast of snow, and the dark streets were gloomy. There was a light over the clinic door, dispelling some of the dreariness.
He parked the car and went inside, past the crowd in the waiting room, to the two small rooms at the back. Both doctors were already there. He greeted them cheerfully, threw his coat onto a chair and put on his white coat.
‘A full house,’ he observed. ‘Is there anyone you want me to see?’
‘Old Mr Wilkins is back again—blood pressure up, headaches, feels giddy...’
Mr Ross-Pitt nodded. ‘I’ll take a look.’ He went into the second room, cast his eye over Mr Wilkins’ notes and then fetched him from the waiting room. After that he worked without pause; the clinic was supposed to shut at eight o’clock, but it never did. As long as there was a patient waiting it remained open, and that evening it was busier than usual.
It was almost nine o‘clock when the younger of the two doctors put his head round the door. ‘Could you cast an eye over this girl? She’s just been brought in—came in a greengrocer’s van. Looks ill. Not our usual type of patient, though; ought to have gone to her own doctor.’
‘Let’s have a look...’ Mr Ross-Pitt went into the almost empty waiting room.
His eye passed over the two elderly women who came regularly, not because they were ill but because it was warm and cheerful; they were the first to arrive and the last to leave. It passed over the young man waiting for his girlfriend, who was with the other doctor, and lighted on the small group on the bench nearest the door—a shabby young man with a kind face and an elderly woman with beady black eyes, and between them, propped up, was Henrietta, looking very much the worse for wear.
Mr Ross-Pitt bit back the words on his tongue and went to bend over her.
‘Miss Cowper, can you