The Lunatic at Large
Page 1
THE LUNATIC AT LARGE
_A NOVEL_
BY J. STORER CLOUSTON
AUTHORIZED EDITION
BRENTANO'SNEW YORK1915
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY.PART I. CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII.PART II. CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX.PART III. CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII.PART IV. CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V.ERRATA.
THE LUNATIC AT LARGE.
INTRODUCTORY.
Into the history of Mr Francis Beveridge, as supplied by the obligingcandour of the Baron von Blitzenberg and the notes of Dr Escott, DrTwiddel and his friend Robert Welsh make a kind of explanatory entry. Theymost effectually set the ball a-rolling, and so the story starts in asmall room looking out on a very uninteresting London street.
It was about three o'clock on a November afternoon, that season of fogsand rains and mud, when towns-people long for fresh air and hillsides, andcountry-folk think wistfully of the warmth and lights of a city, whennobody is satisfied, and everybody has a cold. Outside the window of theroom there were a few feet of earth adorned with a low bush or two, a lineof railings, a stone-paved street, and on the other side a long row ofuniform yellow brick houses. The apartment itself was a modest chamber,containing a minimum of rented furniture and a flickering gas-stove. By asmall caseful of medical treatises and a conspicuous stethoscope, theleast experienced could see that it was labelled consulting-room.
Dr Twiddel was enjoying one of those moments of repose that occur even inthe youngest practitioner's existence. For the purposes of this narrativehe may briefly be described as an amiable-looking young man, with a littlebit of fair moustache and still less chin, no practice to speak of, and aconsiderable quantity of unpaid bills. A man of such features and in suchcircumstances invites temptation. At the present moment, though hiswaistcoat was unbuttoned and his feet rested on the mantelpiece, his mindseemed not quite at ease. He looked back upon a number of fortunate eventsthat had not occurred, and forward to various unpleasant things that mightoccur, and then he took a letter from his pocket and read it abstractedly.
"I can't afford to refuse," he reflected, lugubriously; "and yet, hang it!I must say I don't fancy the job."
When metal is molten it can be poured into any vessel; and at that momenta certain deep receptacle stood on the very doorstep.
The doctor heard the bell, sat up briskly, stuffed the letter back intohis pocket, and buttoned his waistcoat.
"A patient at last!" and instantly there arose a vision of a simpleoperation, a fabulous fee, and twelve sickly millionaires an hour everafter. The door opened, and a loud voice hailed him familiarly.
"Only Welsh," he sighed, and the vision went the way of all the others.
The gentleman who swaggered in and clapped the doctor on the back, whonext threw himself into the easiest chair and his hat and coat over thetable, was in fact Mr Robert Welsh. From the moment he entered he pervadedthe room; the stethoscope seemed to grow less conspicuous, Dr Twiddel'schin more diminutive, the apartment itself a mere background to thisguest. Why? It would be hard to say precisely. He was a black-moustached,full-faced man, with an air of the most consummate assurance, and a personby some deemed handsome. Yet somehow or other he inevitably recalled theuncles of history. Perhaps this assurance alone gave him his atmosphere.You could have felt his egotism in the dark.
He talked in a loud voice and with a great air of mastery over all thecontingencies of a life about town. You felt that here sat one who hadseen the world and gave things their proper proportions, who had learnedhow meretricious was orthodoxy, and which bars could really berecommended. He chaffed, patronised, and cheered the doctor. Patients hadbeen scarce, had they? Well, after all, there were many consolations. DidTwiddle say he was hard up? Welsh himself in an even more evil case. Henarrated various unfortunate transactions connected with the turf andother pursuits, with regret, no doubt, and yet with a fine rakish defianceof destiny. Twiddel's face cleared, and he began to show something of thesame gallant spirit. He brought out a tall bottle with a Celticsuperscription; Welsh half filled his glass, poured in some water from adusty decanter, and proposed the toast of "Luck to the two most deservingsinners in London!"
The doctor was fired, he drew the same letter from his pocket, and cried,"By Jove, Welsh, I'd almost forgotten to tell you of a lucky offer thatcame this morning."
This was not strictly true, for as a matter of fact the doctor had onlyhesitated to tell of this offer lest he should be shamed to a decision.But Welsh was infectious.
"Congratulations, old man!" said his friend. "What's it all about?"
"Here's a letter from an old friend of my people's--Dr Watson, by name. Hehas a very good country practice, and he offers me this job."
He handed the letter to Welsh, and then added, with a flutter of caution,"I haven't made up my mind yet. There are drawbacks, as you'll see."
Welsh opened the letter and read:--
"DEAR TWIDDEL,--I am happy to tell you that I am at last able to putsomething in your way. A gentleman in this neighbourhood, one of my mostesteemed patients, has lately suffered from a severe mental and physicalshock, followed by brain fever, and is still, I regret to say, in anextremely unstable mental condition. I have strongly recommended quiet andchange of scene, and at my suggestion he is to be sent abroad under thecare of a medical attendant. I have now much pleasure in offering you thepost, if you would care to accept it. You will find your patient, MrMandell-Essington, an extremely agreeable young man when in possession ofhis proper faculties. He has large means and no near relatives; he comesof one of the best families in the county; and though he has, I surmise,sown his wild oats pretty freely, he was considered of unusual promiseprevious to this unfortunate illness. He is of an amiable and pleasantdisposition, though at present, we fear, inclined to suicidal tendencies.I have no particular reason to think he is at all homicidal; still, youwill see that he naturally requires most careful watching. It is possiblethat you may hesitate to leave your practice (which I trust prospers); butas the responsibility is considerable, the fee will be proportionatelygenerous--L500, and all expenses paid."
("Five hundred quid!" exclaimed Welsh.)
"I would suggest a trip on the Continent. The duration and the places tobe visited will be entirely at your discretion. It is of course hardlynecessary to say that you will seek quiet localities. Trusting to hearfrom you at your very earliest convenience, believe me, yours sincerely,
TIMOTHY WATSON."
Welsh looked at his friend with the respect that prosperity naturallyexcites. He smiled on him as an equal, and cried, heartily,"Congratulations again! When do you start?"
Twiddel fidgeted uncomfortably, "I--er--well, you see--ah--I haven't _quite_made up my mind yet."
"What's the matter?"
"Hang it, Welsh--er--the fact is I don't altogether like the job."
Scruples of any kind always surprised Welsh.
"Can't afford to leave the practice?" he asked with a laugh.
"That's--ah--partly the reason," replied Twiddel, uncomfortably.
"Rot, old man! There's a girl in the case. Out with it!"
"No, it isn't that. You see it's the very devil of a responsibility."
At this confession of weakne
ss he looked guiltily at his heroic friend.From the bottom of his heart he wished he had screwed up his courage inprivate. Welsh had so little imagination.
"By Gad," exclaimed Welsh, "I'd manage a nunnery for L500!"
"I daresay you would, but a suicidal, and possibly homicidal, lunaticisn't a nunnery."
Welsh looked at his friend with diminished respect.
"Then you are going to chuck up L500 and a free trip on the Continent?" hesaid.
"Dr Watson himself admits the responsibility."
"With a--what is it?--agreeable young man?"
"Only when in possession of his proper faculties," said the doctor,dismally.
"And an amiable disposition?"
"With suicidal tendencies, hang it!"
"I should have thought," said Welsh, with a laugh, "that they would onlymatter to himself."
"But he is homicidal too--or at least it's doubtful. I want to know alittle more about that, thank you!"
"What is the man's name?"
"Mandell-Essington."
"Sounds aristocratic. He might come in useful afterwards, when he'scured."
Welsh spoke with an air of reflection, which might have been entirelydisinterested.
"He'd probably commit suicide first," said Twiddel, "and of course I'd getall the blame."
"Or homicide," replied Welsh, "When _he_ would."
"No, he wouldn't--that's the worst of it; I'd be blamed for having my ownthroat cut."
"Twiddel," said his friend, deliberately, "it seems to me you're a fool."
"I'm at least alive," cried Twiddel, warming with sympathy for himself,"which I probably wouldn't be for long in Mr Essington's company."
"I don't blame your nerves, dear boy," said Welsh, with a smile thatshowed all his teeth, "only your head. Here are L500 going a-begging.There must be some way----" He paused, deep in reflection. "How would itdo," he remarked in a minute, "if _I_ were to go in your place?"
Twiddel laughed and shook his head.
"Couldn't be managed?"
"Couldn't possibly, I'm afraid."
"No," said Welsh. "I foresee difficulties."
He fished a pipe out of his pocket, filled and lit it, and leaned back inhis chair gazing at the ceiling.
"Twiddel, my boy," he said at length, "will you give me a percentage ofthe fee if I think of a safe dodge for getting the money and preservingyour throat?"
Twiddel laughed.
"Rather!" he said.
"I am perfectly serious," replied Welsh, keenly. "I'm certain the thing isquite possible."
He half closed his eyes and ruminated in silence. The doctor watchedhim--fascinated, afraid. Somehow or other he felt that he was already akind of Guy Fawkes. There was something so unlawful in Welsh's expression.
They sat there without speaking for about ten minutes, and then all of asudden Welsh sprang up with a shout of laughter, slapping first his ownleg and then the doctor's back.
"By Gad, I've got it!" he cried. "I have it!"
And he had; hence this tale.
PART I.