Death of a Viewer by Herbert Adams — Read

Lord Bethesda was still in the room where Roger had left him. The room he had shared with his unfortunate wife. It was a handsome spacious apartment with lofty panelled walls. Many of the Priors of old no doubt lived in comfort whatever austerities they may have deemed good for their weaker brothers. There was the incongruity in its present furnishings as was shown in her ladyship’s room downstairs. The twin beds, some distance apart, were of the good Tottenham Court Road brass of some years ago. Each had a silken coverlet embroidered with a golden coronet with the appropriate number of knobs. The large dressing-table of Regency design carried a profusion of bottles and beauty aids. Two spacious wardrobes with mirror panels were of Victorian walnut. The Chinese carpet was soft and irreproachable. Near the dressing-table stood an escritoire that bore on it three large photographs in heavy silver frames showing Master Ambrose at different stages in his young life. A Recamier bed-sofa and chairs of many styles ancient and modern added variety if not dignity to the room. The fine old basket grate with a wrought-iron Suffolk fire-back set in a finely carved marble mantel had not been removed, but was screened by an electric fire with many bars. Neither the old Welsh Lion nor his lady would have claimed aesthetic tastes. If they pleased themselves what else mattered?

Lord Bethesda was seated at a substantial circular table. He was clothed as before except that he had removed his coat and collar and tie and had donned a dressing-gown. Apparently he was waiting for the nurse the doctor had promised to send. He looked more composed than he had previously done. The pills the doctor had insisted on his taking had been effective.