As she drove towards London, the two phrases echoed through Henrietta's mind-What shall I do? Where shall I go?

For the last few weeks she had been strung up, excited, never relaxing for a moment.

She had had a task to perform-a task laid on her by John. But now that was over-had she failed-or succeeded? One could look at it either way… But however one looked at it, the task was over. And she experienced the terrible weariness of the reaction.

Her mind went back to the words she had spoken to Edward that night on the terrace -the night of John's death-the night when she had gone along to the pool and into the pavilion and had deliberately, by the light of a match, drawn Ygdrasil upon the iron table. Purposeful, planning-not yet able to sit down and mourn-mourn for her dead.

"I should like," she had said to Edward, "to grieve for John…"

But she had not dared to relax then-not dared to let sorrow take command over her…

But now she could grieve… Now she had all the time there was…

She said under her breath, "John…

John…"

Bitterness and black rebellion broke over her…

She thought, I wish I'd drunk that cup of tea…

Driving the car soothed her, gave her strength for the moment… But soon she would be in London. Soon she would put the car in the garage and go along to the empty studio… Empty since John would never sit there again bullying her, being angry with her, loving her more than he wanted to love her, telling her eagerly about Ridgeway's Disease-about his triumphs and despairs, about Mrs. Crabtree and St. Christopher's …

And suddenly, with a lifting of the dark pall that lay over her mind, she said aloud:

"Of course. That's where I will go. To St.

Christopher's…"

Lying in her narrow hospital bed, old Mrs.

Crabtree peered up at her visitor out of rheumy twinkling eyes.

She was exactly as John had described her, and Henrietta felt a sudden warmth, a lifting of the spirit. This was real-this would last!

Here, for a little space, she had found John again…

"The pore doctor. Orful, ain't it?" Mrs.

Crabtree was saying. There was relish in her voice as well as regret, for Mrs. Crabtree loved life; and sudden deaths, particularly murders or deaths in childbed, were the richest parts of the tapestry of life. "Getting 'imself bumped off like that! Turned my stomach right over it did, when I "card. I read all about it in the papers-Sister let me 'ave all she could get 'old of-reely nice about it, she was. There was pictures and everythink … That swimming pool and all. Ts wife leaving the inquest, pore thing, and that Lady Angkatell what the swimming pool belonged to! Lots of pictures. Real mystery the "ole thing, weren't it?"

Henrietta was not repelled by her ghoulish enjoyment. She liked it because she knew that John himself would have liked it. If he had to die he would much prefer old Mrs.

Crabtree to get a kick out of it, than to sniff and shed tears.

"All I 'ope is that they catch 'ooever done it and 'ang 'im," continued Mrs. Crabtree vindictively. "They don't 'ave 'angings in public like they used to once-more's the pity. I've always thought I'd like to go to an 'anging… And I'd go double quick, if you understand me, to see 'ooever killed the doctor 'anged! Real wicked, 'e must 'ave been.

Why, the doctor was one in a thousand! Ever so clever, 'e was! And a nice way with 'im!

Got you laughing whether you wanted to or not. The things 'e used to say sometimes!

I'd 'ave done anythink for the doctor, I would!"

"Yes," said Henrietta. "He was a very clever man. He was a great man."

"Think the world of 'im in the 'orspital, they do! All them nurses. And 'is patients!

Always felt you were going to get well when 'e'd been along."

"So you are going to get well," said Henrietta.

The little shrewd eyes clouded for a moment.

"I'm not so sure about that, ducky. I've got that mealy-mouthed young fellow with the spectacles now. Quite different to Dr.

Christow. Never a laugh! 'E was a one. Dr.

Christow was-always up to 'is jokes! Given me some norful times, 'e 'as, with this. treatment of "is. 'I carn't stand any more of it, doctor,5 I'd say to 'im and, 'Yes, you can, Mrs. Crabtree,' 'e'd say to me. 'You're tough, you are. You can take it. Going to make medical 'istory, you and I are.' And 'e'd jolly me along like. Do anythink for the doctor, I would 'ave! Expected a lot of you, 'e did, but you felt you couldn't let 'im down, if you know what I mean."

"I know," said Henrietta.

The little sharp eyes peered at her.

"Excuse me, dearie, you're not the doctor's wife by any chance?" ?^»

"No," said Henrietta, "I'm just a friend." "I see," said Mrs. Crabtree.

Henrietta thought that she did see.

"What made you come along if you don't mind me arsking?"

"The doctor used to talk to me a lot about you-and about his new treatment. I wanted to see how you were."

"I'm slipping back-that's what I'm doing."

Henrietta cried:

"But you mustn't slip back! You've got to get well."

Mrs. Crabtree grinned.

«I don't want to peg out, don't you think it!"

"Well, fight then! Dr. Christow said you were a fighter."

"Did 'e now?" Mrs. Crabtree lay still a minute, then she said slowly:

"'Ooever shot 'im it's a wicked shame!

There aren't many of 'is sort…"

We shall not see his like again… the words passed through Henrietta's mind. Mrs.

Crabtree was regarding her keenly.

"Keep your pecker up, dearie," she said.

She added, " 'E 'ad a nice funeral, I 'ope."

"He had a lovely funeral," said Henrietta obligingly.

"Ar! Wish I could of gorn to it!"

Mrs. Crabtree sighed.

"Be going to me own funeral next, I expect."

"No," cried Henrietta. "You mustn't let go. You said just now that Dr. Christow told you that you and he were going to make medical history. Well, you've got to carry on by yourself. The treatment's just the same. You've got to have the guts for two -you've got to make medical history by yourself-for him."

A f\Ct Mrs. Crabtree looked at her for a moment or two.

"Sounds a bit grand! I'll do my best, ducky. Carn't say more than that."

Henrietta got up and took her hand.

"Good-bye. I'll come and see you again if I may."

"Yes, do. It'll do me good to talk about the doctor a bit." The bawdy twinkle came into her eye again. "Proper man in every kind of way. Dr. Christow."

"Yes," said Henrietta. "He was…"

The old woman said:

"Don't fret, ducky-what's gorn's gorn.

You can't 'ave it back…"

Mrs. Crabtree and Hercule Poirot, Henrietta thought, expressed the same idea in different language.

She drove back to Chelsea, put away the car in the garage and walked slowly to the studio.

Now, she thought, it has come. The moment I have been dreading-the moment when I am alone…

Now I can put it off no longer… Now grief is here with me.

What had she said to Edward? "I should like to grieve for John…"

She dropped down on a chair and pushed back the hair from her face.

Alone-empty-destitute…

This awful emptiness.

The tears pricked at her eyes, flowed slowly down her cheeks.

Grief, she thought, grief for John…

Oh, John-John…

Remembering-remembering… His voice, sharp with pain: /// were dead, the first thing you'd do, with the tears streaming down your face, would be to start modelling some damned mourning woman or some figure of grief.

She stirred uneasily… Why had that thought come into her head?

Grief… Grief… A veiled figure… its outline barely perceptible-its head cowled…

Alabaster…

She could see the lines of it-tall, elongated … its sorrow hidden, revealed only by the long mournful lines of the drapery …

Sorrow, emerging from clear transparent alabaster.

If I were dead…

And suddenly bitterness came over her full tide!

She thought, Thafs what I am! John was right. I cannot love-I cannot mourn-not with the whole of me… It's Midge, it's people like Midge who are the salt of the earth.

Midge and Edward at Ainswick…

That was reality-strength-warmth…

But I, she thought, am not a whole person.

I belong not to myself, but to something outside me…

I cannot grieve for my dead…

Instead I must take my grief and make it into a figure of alabaster…

"Exhibit N. 58 Grief, Alabaster. Miss Henrietta Savernake."

She said under her breath:

"John, forgive me… forgive me… for what I can't help doing…"