a week.’ She paused. ‘It is kind of you to explain, Mr Ross-Pitt. I’m grateful’ She put a hand on the door. ‘Goodbye.’
‘I’ll drive you home. Stay where you are; it’s pelting down—you’ll drown.’
‘I live very near here...’
The engine was purring almost silently. ‘Where?’
‘Well Denvers Street; it’s a turning off the main road on the left-hand side, but there’s no need...’
He took no notice of that, but drove out of the fore-court into the busy main road. ‘The third turning on the left,’ said Henrietta, and then added, ‘It’s number thirty, halfway down on the right.’
When he stopped she started to scramble out, only to be restrained by his hand. ‘Wait.’ He had a very quiet voice. ‘Have you a key?’
‘The door isn’t locked; it’s flatlets and bedsitters.’
He got out and opened her door, and waited while she got out. ‘Thank you very much.’ She looked up into his placid face. ‘Do get back into your car, you’ll get soaked.’ She smiled at him. ‘Goodnight, sir.’
He gave a little nod. ‘Goodnight, Miss Henrietta Cowper.’ He waited in the rain until she had gone into the house.
A funny little thing, he reflected as he drove away. Lovely eyes, but an ordinary face. Of course, wet hair hanging around a rain-washed face hardly helped. He liked her voice, though. He turned the car and drove back to the main road, making for the motorway which would take him to his home.
He had a flat above his consulting rooms in Wimpole Street, but home was a rambling old house just south 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
