Scales of Justice by Ngaio Marsh

Mark’s coming to look at you,” she said.
    “My God!”
    “He was at the Cartarettes and if you ask me, there’s going to be some news from that quarter before any of us are much older. At least,” Nurse Kettle added rather vexedly, “I
would
have said so, if it hadn’t been for them all looking a bit put out.” To his horror she began to take off his shoes.
    “With a yo-heave-ho,” said Nurse Kettle out of compliment to the navy. “Aspirin doing its stuff?”
    “I… I think so. I
do beg
…”
    “I suppose your bedroom’s upstairs?”
    “I do BEG…”
    “We’ll see what the doctor says, but I’d suggest you doss down in the housekeeper’s room to save the stairs. I mean to say,” Nurse Kettle added with a hearty laugh, “always provided there’s no housekeeper.”
    She looked into his face so good-humouredly and with such an air of believing him to be glad of her help that he found himself accepting it.
    “Like a cup of tea?” she asked.
    “No thank you.”
    “Well, it won’t be anything stronger unless the doctor says so.”
    He reddened, caught her eye and grinned.
    “Come,” she said, “that’s better.”
    “I’m really ashamed to trouble you so much.”
    “I might have said the same about my bike, mightn’t I? There’s the doctor.”
    She bustled out again and came back with Mark Lacklander.
    Mark, who was a good deal paler than his patient, took a crisp line with Syce’s expostulations.
    “All right,” he said. “I daresay I’m entirely extraneous. This isn’t a professional visit if you’d rather not.”
    “Great grief, my dear chap, I don’t mean that. Only too grateful but… I mean… busy man… right itself…”
    “Well, suppose I take a look-see,” Mark suggested. “We won’t move you.”
    The examination was brief. “If the lumbago doesn’t clear up, we can do something a bit more drastic,” Mark said, “but in the meantime Nurse Kettle’ll get you to bed…”
    “Good God!”
    “…and look in again to-morrow morning. So will I. You’ll need one or two things; I’ll ring up the hospital and get them sent out at once. All right?”
    “Thank you. Thank you. You don’t,” said Syce, to his own surprise, “look terribly fit yourself. Sorry to have dragged you in.”
    “That’s all right. We’ll bring your bed in here and put it near the telephone. Ring up if you’re in difficulties. By the way, Mrs. Cartarette offered…”
    “NO!” shouted Commander Syce and turned purple,
    “…to send in meals,” Mark added. “But of course you may be up and about again to-morrow. In the meantime I think we can safely leave you to Nurse Kettle. Good-night.”
    When he had gone, Nurse Kettle said cheerfully, “You’ll have to put up with me, it seems, if you don’t want lovely ladies all round you. Now we’ll get you washed up and settled for the night.”
    Half an hour later when he was propped up in bed with a cup of hot milk and a plate of bread and butter and the lamp within easy reach, Nurse Kettle looked down at him with her quizzical air.
    “Well,” she said, “I shall now, as they say, love you and leave you. Be good and if you can’t be good, be careful.”
    “Thank you,” gabbled Commander Syce, nervously. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
    She had plodded over to the door before his voice arrested her. “I… ah… I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you are familiar with Aubrey’s
Brief Lives,
are you?”
    “No,” she said. “Who was
he
when he was at home?”
    “He wrote a ‘brief life’ of a man called Sir Jonas Moore. It begins: ‘Sciatica he cured it, by boyling his buttocks.’ I’m glad, at least, you don’t propose to try that remedy.”
    “Well!” cried Nurse Kettle delightedly. “You
are
coming out of your shell, to be sure. Nighty-bye.”
    During the next three days Nurse Kettle, pedalling about her duties, had occasion to notice, and she was sharp in such matters, that something untoward was going on