The Night Calls

by David Pirie

  PART THREE: HIS MOVE

  THE HOUSE ON THE WAVES

  The next day I was feeling a little more cheerful as the Doctor and I sat opposite Miss Elsbeth Scott in a well-appointed private dining room in one of the city’s travelling hotels. It was an enormous relief to be free of all prying eyes, not least those of her landlady.

  The Doctor had, it turned out, once operated successfully on the proprietor’s mother and an excellent meal was served, with venison pie as the main course followed by a whole Stilton cheese. Here was a quantity and quality of food I had rarely seen and Miss Scott seemed duly grateful, though she ate only a little as the Doctor engaged us with humorous stories about some of the legendary figures at the university in his earlier teaching days. Clearly they were giants in those times, but highly combative ones like James Syme, an extraordinary surgery teacher, who once threw a student out of the window for impudence. Fortunately it was the ground floor.

  Soon the conversation turned to more serious matters, and she thanked Bell for his letter. ‘I have done as you said: nobody knows I am here. Not even my landlady.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bell, cutting himself another slice of the cheese. ‘I do not wish to alarm you. It may even be, Miss Scott, that though our man is still at large, you have no further part in his scheme. Everything I see tells me his taste is catholic, and I have hopes you were only involved in order to point the finger at Crawford. But I have to be honest and warn you there is something about this man’s style which concerns me. That is why I would feel happier if nobody knows your whereabouts. And, in this respect, the suspension may work in our favour. Now, I understand from what you have told me that there is a place near Dunbar where you could study.’

  ‘Yes.’ She had finished her meal and was attentive. ‘It was left to me and my sister by my father. While we are suspended I would be happy to spend some time there provided you keep me informed of my sister’s condition and I can return if she needs me or I wish it. But I have no wish to run away from this, Dr Bell.’

  ‘I assure you it is not running away,’ he said firmly. ‘But we must not take any risks. That is why I think it should be given out to everyone you are making a visit to London. Is there someone at your cottage to assist you and keep an eye on things?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘An excellent woman from the town, Mrs Henderson, has always helped us with the caretaking. Once we send word, she prepares the place and comes in to clean and cook.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Bell. ‘If you will inform her you are coming, I have every hope we can bring this whole affair to a conclusion before the suspension is over.’

  And so our plans were laid. The Doctor had already made arrangements for Miss Scott to leave her present lodgings, with its monstrous landlady, and move on to another boarding house that was run on somewhat friendlier lines. This move, however, which was already in train, could only be public and afforded her limited protection. In addition, therefore, it was given out that she had arranged a visit to London commencing almost at once. But she would leave the train at Dunbar, where I would be waiting to transport her up the coast to her cottage.

  Naturally I was entranced by the scheme, for it held out the promise of half a day with Miss Scott herself; and perhaps there might indeed be other days, for I had been delegated to bring her news of our progress in the enquiry.

  On the appointed morning, which was auspiciously warm and sunny, I travelled to Dunbar by the earliest local train possible. Once there I chatted to the porters and soon established the best and cheapest carrier for Miss Scott and her luggage. Only a few hours later, after her arrival, we were being transported merrily along the coastal road in a fly, driven by a wry old codger with a sweet grey mare, laughing and talking for all the world as if we were on some happy excursion.

  When her cottage came into view, the picture was complete. For it was a charming old white-washed building, placed in a jewel-like setting by a sandy bay. Perhaps on a dull day it would not have looked nearly as cheerful, but today it was resplendent.

  Her luggage was duly unloaded and afterwards I gave the man his fee which, like my train fare, had been generously provided by the Doctor. Now we were on our own, for Mrs Henderson had left word that she would be there later. I think both of us felt a little strange, and I busied myself with carrying the luggage as she took out her key.

  And then she stopped me. ‘Mr Doyle?’

  I turned. She was smiling. ‘I want you to try something. It was what we did when we were children. Try shouting something, anything, as loud as you like.’

  I saw at once what she meant. ‘Charlatan,’ I yelled at the top of my voice, for it was the first thing that came into my head and the word rang around the beach before us. Nobody popped their head up to complain, but we both laughed.

  ‘Do you see?’ she said. ‘We can say anything we like,’ and she called out a slightly peculiar rhyme that was then popular in the faculty, a relic of its bodysnatching days.

  Burke’s the butcher, Hare’s the thief

  And Knox the man who buys the beef

  I countered by calling one of the seagulls Latimer. No doubt it was all childish and silly, but at the time I could not quite believe the wonder of having all this space to ourselves. For the first time in my life I was in a place where no words or activity could offend.

  Was there also a slight apprehension? After all, I was quite unused to this degree of isolation. Perhaps a little, but I did not dwell on it.

  Inside, the cottage was plain enough but quite comfortable, for Mrs Henderson had bought provisions and made everything ready. It was only now, I think, that both of us became aware of our physical proximity here. For this reason we occupied ourselves with our tasks. I settled her luggage in the rooms while she tended the stove and prepared to make us tea. For a time there was silence, broken only by the most mundane conversation, such as when she asked me, somewhat gravely, if I took sugar.

  Then I went to help her bring down the ancient cups while she reached for the kettle. And, as is the way with these things, we brushed against each other. I felt, I will admit, decidedly awkward and moved away, with a murmured apology, but I was aware she had her eyes on me and I turned to face her.

  She was smiling at our mutual embarrassment, so I smiled too and we continued with our chores.

  It was then that I found myself face to face with a framed photograph. Here was a man, handsome but not impeccable, with more than a hint of amusement, and beside him two little girls, who were unexpectedly stiff and correct. She saw me looking at it.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘My father bribed us to sit still with the promise of jam omelettes. Your bribe is tea and scones. I am sorry there is no jam.’

  I turned to her, for I knew that determined tone. ‘My bribe? To sit still?’

  ‘No,’ she said pouring the tea. ‘To do what you never do, Mr Doyle. Talk about yourself.’

  And so there was no escape, nor to be truthful did I really want one. I saw she had justice on her side, and that now, having shared her own personal life to a degree that in other circumstances would have been utterly impossible, it was time for her to share mine.

  At first even now I tried to hide a little of what had happened in our household. I spoke of my father as he had been when I was little, of my pride in him and his design of the zoological memorial. But she saw quickly enough, when she discovered my age at that time, that I was describing the past. And so I was driven to admit that something had happened to him.

  She was so sympathetic that I felt no guilt in breaking this confidence. As time wore on and our own confidences brought us closer, I saw how incredibly foolish I had been to imagine that Miss Elsbeth Scott would be in any way distracted or repelled by the circumstances in my home. As to Waller, I mentioned, of course, that we had a lodger who had helped us through these times. Since I had no way of knowing if my very worst suspicions of the man were founded on truth I did not dwell on them. But I had in any case no need
to labour the point, for Elsbeth acknowledged at once how difficult Waller’s presence must have been for me in these awful circumstances. And we moved back to talking about my father.

  ‘In the end,’ I said at last, ‘it is as if we have both lost fathers, for I feel as if he is dead, inside a shell.’

  She was looking at me with such intensity. ‘You think he may come back from it?’

  I hesitated to say what I had never said before. ‘I always hoped. But my mother … endured a great deal while I was away from home. She is always loving to me, but I know her greatest dread. It is that my life will go like his. That I will fail to make anything of it. I share her obvious doubt on the subject …’

  And so the moment had passed. I had expressed my worst fear and we went out to stroll the dunes. Our talk had brought us together, and in my gratitude and relief we returned to happier topics, and I was marvelling at the wonder of her father’s little domain, when she stopped me.

  ‘You have yet,’ she said, ‘to see the best feature.’

  I was about to question her, but she put a finger to her lips and indicated we should walk around the dune. And there it was.

  The structure was unique, a cross between a summer house and a tiny pavilion. It was a small white building, elevated from the sand by bricks, but its most remarkable feature was only visible when I stepped inside. Elsbeth had deliberately timed our inspection for high tide, and she made me wait while she removed the shutters. Then she called me in.

  The sight was unforgettable. It looked as if she was actually standing in the waves, like some impish goddess, as she removed the dark ribbon from her hair and let the ringlets cascade down around her shoulders. Slowly I grasped that the whole of the front of that little one-room house was glass and the place had been deliberately designed so that, at high tide, the room itself seemed to be almost within the sea.

  ‘Is it not a marvel?’ she said, hardly containing her laughter. ‘My favourite place on earth. It was once my aunt’s folly and since I was a child, I always thought it was a magical place.’

  Then she came to me and I held her. I still recall the sound of the waves and the feeling of her skin and hair and the absolute happiness I felt at that moment. Some would say that this was to take advantage of the situation and exploit my position of trust. I can only laugh at such scruples. She could trust me utterly for I loved her and would stand by her no matter what.

  When the moment had passed and we had said what we both felt, she could hardly contain her amazement. ‘It is so strange,’ she said, her eyes shining, ‘because I always believed that anything could happen here.’

  ‘I believe it.’ I did.

  ‘But now,’ she said, ‘I have something more to believe in. You are wrong about yourself. And I want to show you that.’

  I kissed her again then, but suddenly we heard voices. And I looked up and saw a group of people walking along the sand: a man and a woman with two young children who cantered around happily. They had not seen us.

  ‘That was always the way,’ said Elsbeth. ‘We would be alone in the world, weeks could go by without a soul, and then walkers would appear. Well, they are almost gone.’

  I do not recall how long we stayed there, but I know we talked a good deal about our feelings for each other, and how for the moment they must remain private but, once the business was finished, we could be a little more open. I told her some of my friends had already guessed we were walking out for they had recalled my great interest in her on our first encounter. Before we left she let me do up her hair again with her ribbon.

  And then we went back to the little house to say goodbye. This was not too hard, for both of us were greatly cheered by the thought that I had been delegated to make regular visits and bring news of our enquiries. After my long walk back to the station, I stood dreamily waiting for the train and, as if to complete my memorable day, a porter informed me with due solemnity that I would be travelling the distance to Edinburgh on the London express which stopped here once a day. I climbed aboard, found a window seat and, as we shot clear of the station, I decided that on balance I must certainly be the happiest individual on the entire train. All my problems, even the one in my home, seemed less daunting. I was moving into a new life.

  THE NATURE OF INFECTION

  On a late afternoon, two days after my excursion, the Doctor and I sat upstairs in his private room, discussing the various strands of the case left to us now that Crawford was no longer a factor. It was another warm day and, though the conversation was somewhat unproductive following my visit to Dunbar, I was still in a high good humour. I looked around me as we talked and reflected for the first time that Bell’s secret room was much better suited to winter than spring. Its high windows filtered the sunshine all too effectively and the dark shelves, on which were placed the Doctor’s remarkable collection of criminal artefacts, seemed almost to repel what light there was.

  Consequently there was a dimness about the place even in broad daylight, and the walls were so thick that on the hottest days the temperature was not warm. Indeed it sometimes seemed to me that the whole room had a faintly unnatural chill about it, almost as if those objects on the shelves – ordinary things which had come so close to human cruelty – created their own grim atmosphere.

  ‘We must at all costs,’ the Doctor had his hands clasped together as he spoke, and was seated under the window which sent a meagre ray of light slanting past him on to his precious shelves, ‘make the most of what we have. Our man need not necessarily have known Crawford well, for Crawford himself was notorious both in the town and the university. But he certainly seems to have known someone would follow his tangle of clues and make the connection to Crawford. In other words he may know of my interest in the field.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Doctor,’ I shook my head, ‘that knowledge is not so remarkable. Very few people know of the existence of this room or the time and effort you have devoted to the study of crime. But a great many people know of your general interest in forensic matters. Moreover, the man who was responsible for molesting these various women could easily have observed the investigations following his activities. It would be a useful precaution, and he is no fool. In which case he could be quite unknown to either of us and still have made the connection.’

  The Doctor sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I agree it is not very much. So let us see what we do have. I would now discount all the religious imagery. The blood, they eyes, the psalm. I also believe Samuel’s death was a distraction or a trial. Our man is much more interested in women, especially fallen women. He must by all logic be a patron of Madame Rose’s for he knows its geography intimately. But we know also he patronises other brothels. There, I am sure, is his weakness, if we can use it. We will start from there.’

  The mention of Madame Rose’s now reminded me of something. Miss Elsbeth Scott and I had discussed several intimate subjects, and I had been able at last to talk to someone freely and openly about my own family. However, there was one subject we both found difficult and that was the plight of her sister Lady Sarah Carlisle.

  Although Elsbeth Scott was desperately anxious about her sister, she knew she could not press me for details, for my own position in the matter was extremely delicate. Essentially I had visited Lady Sarah in my role as Bell’s medical clerk, so anything I heard or observed was confidential. As a result the subject was only touched on lightly during our day together at the cottage. But Elsbeth exacted a promise from me shortly before I left her: which was that I would do everything in my power to help her sister. She was not asking me to break any confidence, but she must have first-hand reports, and I was the one to give them.

  I told Bell of this now, and he was humane enough to understand, but there were considerable difficulties. Carlisle had not been pleased to see me at the house on the first occasion, and after that Bell always visited alone. ‘Of course,’ said Bell, ‘I would never accept conditions in the treatment of any patient – it is for the doctor to mak
e conditions – but the fact remains he will not admit you. Therefore …’ He stretched out a languid hand to gather some papers and I half expected him to say it was impossible but I should have known better. ‘Therefore,’ he repeated, ‘we go when he is out.’

  We called unannounced at the Carlisles’s a few days later when Sir Henry was meeting some London dignitary at the university. I suppose we could have arranged our visit late one evening when Carlisle was off in pursuit of pleasure. But Bell was too proud a doctor to appear clandestine, nor did he wish to alarm Lady Sarah. On this occasion he could not be accused of deviousness, and he had prepared me with a warning. ‘There has been a faster deterioration in Lady Sarah’s condition than I expected,’ he said grimly. ‘At first her symptoms improved, giving me hope. Now the omens are far more serious and Carlisle already talks of getting another opinion.’

  Carlisle’s front door was opened by Drummond, the foppish butler I had disliked from the first. As soon as he saw me, his lips curled in distaste as if he would have liked to block my entry, but he merely bowed to Dr Bell who moved past him with a few words.

  Drummond went into Lady Sarah’s room ahead of us, announcing Dr Bell but not dignifying me with any description. Lady Sarah exclaimed with pleasure and I entered behind Bell.

  He had given me due warning, but even so her appearance was a terrible shock to me. Lady Sarah had never seemed as beautiful as her sister, but she was undoubtedly a handsome woman. Now, however, she looked ten years older. Her skin was wan and yellow. There were great rings under her eyes and, what was worse, she seemed altogether less alert than before while she was also considerably thinner. My one consolation was that she seemed visibly pleased to see me and managed a little smile.