The Night Calls

by David Pirie

  She thanked him, and we were taking our leave when to my surprise she called me back. Bell had already observed that we were acquainted and withdrew tactfully to wait outside.

  I moved to the bed. ‘My sister speaks very highly of you, though I understand she has not seen you for a time, is that right?’

  I was hardly prepared for this. ‘No, I have been … studying,’ I said, aware that it probably sounded unconvincing. ‘But I would like very much to see her. Where is she?’

  I had been evasive, now I was perhaps revealing too much, but her face softened for I am sure she could read me quite well. ‘I can tell you where to find her,’ she replied. ‘She has not been herself entirely. I know I have worried her, though I must tell you I have concealed some of the symptoms from her. I do not want her concerned.’

  She proceeded to tell me where her sister was studying during the day, and soon after that I left her. It was obvious the sisters were close, and a part of me was overjoyed by the luck that had given me this chance to find Miss Scott, but I was also troubled by something else. Bell was waiting patiently on the stairs and said nothing as we descended to the hall where the butler ushered us in to see Carlisle.

  He was sitting in a comfortable chair, reading the paper in his ample drawing room, and his manner now was very gracious. ‘Ah, doctors,’ he said, and then winked at me, ‘for even the humblest student deserves the title. You must take some refreshment.’ He wandered over to a well-stocked side table. ‘It is nothing serious, I trust. I am very hopeful of an heir …’

  Bell looked a good deal more grave than he had upstairs. ‘Oh, I am afraid there can be no possibility of children at present.’

  Carlisle had been taking up a decanter of sherry, and now he turned, his expression quite changed as the Doctor continued. ‘She has a circulatory imbalance that has been exacerbated by a constitutional infection.’ It is lucky Carlisle was not looking at me for he would have seen me react to these words with impatience. But his own reaction was odd, for he showed nothing but anger.

  ‘I have warned her time and again. She was parading around in the cold after church on Sunday …’ And he strode back to join us, quite forgetting the refreshments in his irritation.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Dr Bell softly, ‘you have … no symptoms yourself?’

  Carlisle glared at him. ‘Symptoms? Of course not. There is nothing at all wrong with me, Doctor. But this is not good news.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Doctor, keeping his eyes fixed on him. ‘You must be very understanding. It is not a pleasant condition.’

  He nodded, I felt somewhat unconvincingly. ‘For me,’ he said, ‘it is a great disappointment.’

  I am afraid this was too much for me. Here was Carlisle huffing and puffing about his own disappointment in not getting the heir he required without giving the slightest thought to the pale woman lying upstairs on the bed. All the loathing I had always felt for the man returned to me. ‘If she hoped to become a mother,’ I said quietly, ‘then I imagine her disappointment will be even greater.’

  He looked round at me. ‘That is hardly your concern, Mr Doyle. You will be back, I take it, Dr Bell?’ I was not, it would seem, included in the invitation.

  Bell told him he would be calling within the next few days, and shortly afterwards we were shown out. Our cab had been told to wait but there was no sign of it and we walked in silence to the end of the street. It was dark and a little wind had got up but I would not look at the Doctor. In fact I was so angered by all I had seen and heard in that house that I almost walked off in the other direction.

  Eventually the sound of our footsteps was interrupted by his voice. ‘You have views on the case, I apprehend,’ he said drily, for he could see quite well how exercised I was.

  And now all my feelings erupted. ‘I am sorry, Doctor,’ I said with some vehemence. ‘A circulatory imbalance that has been exacerbated by a constitutional infection! That is palpable nonsense. You have talked to me about the necessity of precise observation and analysis, of your method. And now here is the result! Not diagnosis, but a cover and a fiction.’

  I suppose I expected Bell to rise to my own anger, but he did not. Indeed he seemed almost amused by my outpouring. ‘Of course it is,’ he replied tersely. ‘She has syphilis.’

  ‘And he gave it to her,’ I rejoined.

  ‘Probably—’

  He was about to go on but I interrupted. ‘Certainly. He is a customer of Madame Rose’s, I saw him enter the place. I cannot be a party to this. You are colluding with her husband because he is your patron. It is the greatest hypocrisy.’

  We were into the next street now under a flickering gas lamp. It was the strongest language I had ever spoken to the Doctor and at last it had its effect. He stopped and turned and, as always with Bell when he was angry, he fixed his gaze on me, his features half in shadow.

  ‘He is not my patron, laddie, and I wouldn’t care a ha’penny if he were. You have always doubted my working method, but at least obey one of its more simple rules.’ He put his face close to mine, and his voice became a sonorous whisper as it so often did when he was at his most emotional. ‘Look at all the facts before drawing conclusions. Yes, “circulatory imbalance” is a crude fiction. But I am hoping her condition improves and it gives me time. You can be sure he will refuse examination. And there is no guarantee he even has symptoms: it is probably dormant in him.’

  The idea repelled me. ‘But it is still our job to speak out.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked

  ‘Because,’ I answered fiercely, ‘it is just.’

  ‘Just!’ his eyes flashed. A carriage came so close I was frightened he would be clipped by the horse’s hooves, but he did not move an inch. ‘I will tell you what will happen if we do. Sir Henry will denounce his wife, make public allegations of a vile kind. There are plenty of doctors who would help him commit her to a private asylum. What would they call it? “Moral insanity” or some tripe like that! She would probably be incarcerated for the rest of her life. Is that just?’

  ‘No,’ I said, appalled and somewhat taken aback but still incensed. ‘It is monstrous.’

  His tone softened a little. ‘Yes, like so much that goes on in our fair city! And we doctors can be as bad as the rest. But some of us, if we have any compassion, try to protect our patients rather than see them crucified. That is our choice, Doyle. And unless you provide irrefutable proof of your suspicion, then I tell you that poor woman’s only hope is that you keep it quiet. Surely you must see, judging by what you have told me, that your own family followed exactly this principle. Now I will bid you goodnight.’

  THE SIGN IN THE BEDROOM

  Next day I knew what I had to do and felt no hesitation. There were some household chores to complete but no lectures to attend, so by eleven o’clock I was making my way to a small medical library that then lay behind Surgeon’s Square.

  The place was deserted for it was not much used, and I saw her almost as soon as I entered. She was seated at a small table, head bent down over a textbook, frowning. And I recall the fright her appearance gave me, for she looked pale and troubled.

  I walked forward at once and she looked up. If I had expected her to smile I was disappointed, but her face took on a little animation.

  ‘Mr Doyle?’ she said. ‘You are a stranger.’

  ‘It is the last thing I want to be, I can assure you.’ I smiled now, for I wanted to reassure her.

  ‘My sister tells me you were studying.’

  So she had visited this morning, but I did not think it wise to talk about her sister.

  ‘Yes, but I wish I had come sooner, and therefore I must ask your forgiveness. You are making progress?’

  She closed the book with a gesture of irritation. ‘No, I am not.’ And when she looked back up at me her eyes, which were today more green than brown, had softened and I knew she was speaking from the heart. ‘I shall not disguise, Mr Doyle, that I had hoped to see you. To tell the truth I have been …
frightened.’

  Now I felt even more foolish and cowardly for staying away. A whole range of awful possibilities presented themselves. ‘Is it Crawford?’ I said.

  Her brow furrowed and she bit her lip a little as she collected herself. ‘Sometimes I think I am followed. I do not know if it is him. I saw him once in the street, but I managed to avoid him. Perhaps I am just upset because my sister is unwell. But there is something more … I think, Mr Doyle, someone has secretly entered my lodgings, though I have not seen them.’

  ‘So how do you know?’

  ‘It is so stupid. A small thing. I would like to show you, and yet I cannot. For it is in my bedroom. Some coins were placed there.’

  Naturally her words shocked me and I told her that, whatever the risk, she must show me exactly what she had found at once. Although Miss Scott did not understand, she saw my determination and agreed.

  This was far harder than it sounded. Her landlady would never, under any circumstances, countenance a male friend’s presence in the house for any reason whatsoever. However, as I soon established, the woman’s rigidity of mind had one advantage: she was obsessed with routine and took a walk each day after lunch at exactly the same hour between three o’clock and three-thirty. Even Miss Scott was not supposed to enter during this time, but she had made an ally of the kitchen maid. This woman would let her in and, after the maid had disappeared back to her duties, I could in turn be admitted.

  At the appointed hour we waited around the corner from the house, lurking there like two felons, pretending to be looking in the window of a small grocery shop. It was not an easy task, for the window contained almost nothing of interest at all, and the shopkeeper kept beckoning for us to enter. But three o’clock came, and five minutes went by, and still the landlady did not appear. Fortunately a customer had entered the shop, so its owner’s attention was distracted, but the landlady’s non-appearance was so unprecedented that, after a few more minutes, Miss Scott began to think something was wrong and we must abandon our plans. At last, after we had been there almost a quarter of an hour, she alerted me and I turned to see that the door of her lodgings had opened and Miss Maitland stood there. She could not see me but, for the first time, I could observe her properly. She wore a long black outdoors dress and her face was quite as mean and tight-lipped as I had expected. Then she turned to the left, as Miss Scott had said she would, and soon she was out of sight.

  Without hesitation, for we had already lost valuable time, Miss Scott walked ahead of me to the house and knocked on the front door while I lingered by one of the tiny adjacent front gardens, out of sight. At last it opened, and though I could not see the maid, her voice was quite audible and, excited.

  ‘Oh, miss,’ she exclaimed, ‘you must be careful for she is in a fair temper. It is lucky she did not see you. And it is not my fault, miss, I swear it is not.’

  It seemed there had been some accident while the maid had been scraping her employer’s boots, and I heard Miss Scott’s comforting word as the front door closed. There was a pause, rather longer than I would have liked, while no doubt she heard the story and ensured the maid was safely in the kitchen, for we could hardly risk the woman’s employment by involving her, and then the door opened.

  I moved along the path as discreetly as I could and entered. Miss Scott was already halfway up the darkened staircase so I closed the front door quietly and followed her. The stairs were shadowy and grim with heavy curtains, and I realised I was in one of those typical Edinburgh households which is permanently arranged on the basis that someone is dying or has just died. Even the blinds were half-drawn.

  I walked on tiptoe and reached Miss Scott on the first landing, who was glancing nervously downstairs at the sound of a closing door. Then she led me to the end of the corridor and through a doorway.

  Her bedroom was shadowy, but even so it had a much more cheerful air than the rest of the place. There were some personal things: a small picture of a man I took to be her father and some books and letters. Elsbeth turned and gave a little smile, for it was evidently strange for her to see me here. I mouthed a ‘thank you’ for her courage before she indicated the window sill next to the brass bed.

  And I took in a breath. For lying there on the window ledge, was a small, intricately-constructed pile of coins. They were arranged just as they had been in the room at Madame Rose’s and in the street by Samuel’s corpse. I went as close as I could: there was copper and some silver, all carefully assembled into a minute pyramid. I was sure now it was the same.

  ‘And you woke up to see this?’ I whispered. ‘You have not touched it?’

  She talked very softly, coming close so I could hear her. ‘I was aghast. Naturally I told Mrs Maitland. She said I had merely piled up my change and forgotten it, but I know I had not. It was not there when I went to sleep. The door was closed.’

  I was moving to the window when suddenly we heard from below the one noise in the world both of us dreaded: the front door closed with a bang.

  Elsbeth jumped, and I turned. ‘It is what I feared,’ she said. ‘She is so exercised by what happened with her boots, no doubt she has been to the cobbler and now wishes to report the damage. Oh, Mr Doyle, what are we to do?’

  I reassured her with more confidence than I felt that I had my evidence and would leave at once, taking care I was not seen. We arranged a meeting place and I was out of the door in a second.

  There was another landing above and I wondered whether to hide there, but in the end decided it was not worth the risk. Just as I was thinking this a voice called down from above, a strident female voice. ‘Lettie,’ it shouted in harsh tones.

  At once, dreading the voice would bring Miss Maitland up the stairs, I moved hurriedly down them. The hall was empty and now I saw there was another reason why it seemed so dark, namely the profusion of black wooden furniture, including a forbidding grandfather clock and an equally sombre table.

  There were voices from a doorway at the back, and I thought I had better seize my chance. I sprang down the last three steps, but then to my horror a door into the hall was flung open.

  It was far too late to open the front door, so I moved into a little alcove to one side of it, where some coats and hats were hung, pressing myself against them.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ said a fierce voice which I took to be Miss Maitland’s. She turned, evidently to the maid. ‘I am quite sure I heard someone on the stairs. Do you think we have someone in here?’

  The other answered quietly and neutrally.

  Then Miss Maitland’s voice sounded again and it was closer. ‘Well there is one way to see.’

  And I heard the footsteps coming directly to where I was hiding. I pressed myself against the coats and looked desperately round, but there was no exit, not even a window, while the coats afforded no concealment whatsoever.

  The footsteps were almost there, then they stopped and I heard a voice I recognised.

  ‘Miss Maitland,’ said Miss Scott from the stairs, ‘I am so sorry, you heard only me. I had to come back for a book I had forgotten. I went to the park hoping to find you, but there was no sign of you, so I came here and you were not here either.’

  ‘I should think I was not,’ came back the sharp voice. ‘There has been a famous waste of money, Miss Scott, and you know quite well I do not like my guests in the rooms at this time. But get your book if you must.’

  However, now another voice interceded, the voice from upstairs, which I now realised belonged to Miss Maitland’s elderly sister. ‘Lettie, I believe I have heard voices in Miss Scott’s room?’

  The silence that greeted this remark was quite horrible and it was quickly followed by another sound. Miss Maitland was mounting the stairs. ‘I cannot believe this could be so,’ she said in a soft tone that was worse than her loud one. ‘I am coming directly.’

  Soon I could hear her on the upstairs landing and needed no further prompting. The hall was empty and I came out and made for the front door. Gettin
g it open was by no means as easy as I would have liked for there was a big latch, but I did it noiselessly, and I believe I closed it noiselessly too, though there was a slight creak. Once I was outside my only thought was not to be seen from the window. So I put my head down and walked along the path and, once on the street, I turned the other way. Fortunately I heard no cry of outrage from above.

  An hour later Miss Scott arrived breathless and smiling at our appointed meeting place by the university to say that, though both Miss Maitland and her sister had suspicions, they had been unable to confirm any of them so she had incurred little more than the usual bad temper. And now both of us proceeded to the meeting I had hastily arranged with Dr Bell.

  The Doctor was, I must say, at his very best in what followed. I had been able to explain to him all the circumstances. I had already told him of the strange pile of coins Miss Scott had shown me, and how closely it matched the pile we had seen in the room at Madame Rose’s and the one beside the dead beggar. To another man the matter might have seemed trivial, but the Doctor knew far better than to ignore details and he saw at once that here was an opportunity for him to assess the evidence for himself.

  Indeed the speed with which he acted took both Miss Scott and myself by surprise. After a short chat, in which he was enormously courteous to Miss Scott, and offered her a personal apology for the university’s abysmal failure to champion the women’s cause, he listened to her story quietly. Gradually, as she talked, I could see his expression becoming more and more serious. When she had finished he got up at once and started putting his coat on, telling us we must both accompany him on what might yet become a serious investigation.

  Soon, therefore, the three of us were in front of her lodgings as Bell led us up to the door. Miss Scott looked concerned, but also amazed, to have one of the university’s most eminent teachers taking an interest in her affairs.

  It was only just beginning to get dark as we arrived, but Bell knocked on the door so loudly you would have thought it was midnight. A few moments later it was opened, not by the maid, but by Miss Maitland herself. She looked angry enough already at the noise but when she saw Elsbeth, myself and then Bell (who was unknown to her), her expression of irritation changed to fury.