A Fallen Woman. Nancy Carson

delicious liaison with Kate Stokes was still seldom far from his mind. He missed some aspects of Kate even now; her looks, her playfulness, her teasing, despite his affection for his bride.

      It was after he and Harriet had returned from honeymoon in Llandudno that they had called at the home in Holly Hall of his mother and father, who received them cordially in their parlour.

      ‘I have some news for you, Clarence, my boy, which I’d prefer to break to you privately.’ Dr Froggatt spoke solemnly, which put the happy couple on edge, as if some unwelcome announcement was about to shatter their contentment.

      Harriet glanced at Clarence with a look that questioned why she should not be party to the conversation, since they were now husband and wife. With a single glance and nod of his handsome head, however, she understood. He would tell all afterwards in any case.

      Dr Froggatt summoned the maid and asked her to provide tea for the ladies, and to convey a bottle of whisky and two glasses to him and Clarence in the surgery.

      As Mrs Froggatt and Harriet remained in the small parlour with its chintz curtains and ageing mid-nineteenth century furniture, Clarence followed his father into the surgery, where Dr Froggatt normally dealt with his patients. He closed the solid oak door behind them. Shelves of medical books, bottles, jars and other paraphernalia lined two walls of the surgery. A mahogany desk with a leather-bound top spanned the bay window to enjoy the benefit of natural light. It was strewn with papers and the assorted trappings and instruments of a general practitioner. The doctor took the chair that also lived in the bay behind the desk.

      The maid tapped on the door and delivered the whisky and glasses, which she placed deferentially before him. He took the bottle, opened the cork and waved her away unsmiling. As she shut the door behind her, he began to pour.

      ‘What’s this mysterious news then, Father?’ Clarence asked as he drew up a chair at the other side of the desk facing the window. He took the glass his father proffered, sipped the strong amber liquid and crossed his legs.

      ‘Your Uncle Septimus…’

      ‘What about him?’

      ‘He passed away while you were on your honeymoon. Quite suddenly.’

      ‘Good gracious!’ Clarence gasped, uncrossing his legs. He leaned forward in the chair in anticipation of hearing some detail. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear it, Father.’

      ‘I didn’t think it appropriate to interrupt your conjugal frolics with the sad news.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Nothing you could have done anyway.’

      ‘So what was the cause of death?’ Clarence enquired at once, not wishing to dwell on the subject of conjugal frolics.

      ‘Blood clot – on the brain, or so I’m led to believe. As I’m not his personal physician, I can only go on what his own quack in Wolverhampton reported. Funeral’s on Monday. Eleven o’clock. St Peter’s church.’