The Double Eye

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by William Fryer Harvey


  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you. Judith, for one, would prevent it.’

  ‘Judith? What on earth has she got to do with it?’

  ‘More than you think. Judith is a very clever woman and her chief cleverness is in hiding her cleverness. You made a big mistake, Isobel, in keeping her on so long. There was really no need.’

  ‘I’ve certainly been much better the last month, but I’m not well.’

  ‘She sees to that.’

  ‘Now what exactly do you mean, George?’

  ‘I’m suggesting that Judith, who after all has ample opportunities, takes care, to put it mildly, that your progress should not be too rapid. Do you like her?’

  ‘She is a competent nurse.’

  ‘And as a competent nurse she knows the value of drugs. Of course you don’t like her, Isobel. You know she gets on your nerves, you know you hate the way she orders the servants about and treats the place as if it belonged to her. She thinks it will some day. I suppose you haven’t noticed that she’s been setting her cap at me?’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s true none the less. At first I rather liked the girl, but when I found that she had been tampering with my letters and was proposing to use blackmail, if necessary, for a lever, I revised my opinion. I can’t afford to be blackmailed, Isobel. We can’t afford it.’

  ‘But George, she has nothing to go on.’

  ‘I wish I could think that. You remember that keeper, Carver, whose daughter worked in the dairy? He bought a pub down in Wilton. That’s settled all right, I fancy. She won’t get much change out of him. But there are other things too. And it seems that my father . . . Well, anyhow, for the sake of the family’s good name I’ve decided that we shan’t be troubled with Judith much longer.’

  ‘I engaged her, George, and it is I who shall dismiss her.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of dismissing her, not in your way.’ He cast a glance behind his shoulder and drew his chair nearer to his sister’s. ‘What I really was thinking of was—’

  ‘And why, George,’ said his sister at last, ‘do you tell me this?’

  ‘Partly because your help is necessary; much more because I have no wish to go through life with an unshared secret. Yours is a stronger character than mine. We shall need each other’s support in the future even more than we have done in the past.’

  ‘But Judith; won’t she suspect?’

  ‘No. That will be the last thing she will dream of doing.’ He told her why.

  ‘And, George,’ said Miss Cranstoun faintly, ‘it’s a thing I ought to know, it’s an awful thing to ask, but . . . when?’ George told her when.

  ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I’ll say goodnight. There are one or two things I want to do.’

  George Cranstoun locked the door of his room, and taking a key from his pocket unlocked a cupboard. He took down a bottle of whisky from the shelf, poured himself out a stiff peg, and drew a pack of patience cards from a drawer in the writing desk. Things on the whole had gone very well. He had been right in his surmise. Judith and Isobel were capable of entertaining the idea of murder. Altogether an intriguing situation.

  Very carefully he put out the cards and began his game of Double Demon. It would be a good omen if luck were with him tonight. Eleven o’clock struck, twelve o’clock. The cards would not come out. Half an hour after midnight he went to bed, and when the clock struck one he was sound asleep.

  But when the clock struck one Isobel Cranstoun was wide awake. She had locked her bedroom door. Judith Fuller was wide awake. She, too, had locked her bedroom door, but the communicating door between Isobel’s room and Judith’s was unlocked, unbolted.

  George Cranstoun smiled in his sleep.

  ***

  In the garage at Cranstoun Hall there were three cars, the Daimler, an Austin Seven, and a capacious bus-like vehicle built to old Mr Cranstoun’s orders, which, despite the fact that it was supposed to serve a number of useful purposes, was seldom used. George told the chauffeur that it would be wanted early in the afternoon to go into Totbury. Miss Cranstoun had arranged for the indoor and outdoor staff to visit the County Show. They were not perhaps as appreciative as they might have been had the notice been longer. McFarlane would have liked more time to overhaul the engine, the upper housemaid might have arranged for her new dress to have been delivered earlier; the cook, had she known, would have arranged to meet her cousin; Mr Brown, the head gardener, had some job or other that wanted doing while the fine weather held.

  ***

  It was, however, characteristic of Miss Cranstoun to make a sudden decision to arrange for other people’s pleasure, and Totbury Show had many attractions. Only Woodford the butler, and Mrs Carlin the housekeeper, chose to remain behind. Mr George, said Miss Cranstoun, had planned a picnic tea on the island in the lake. They would want only a cold supper.

  George spent the morning down by the boathouse, while his sister and Judith took advantage of his absence to hurry over the packing that was necessary for his journey. Each was conscious of a certain restraint, and they worked in silence.

  George removed the padlock from the bar that locked the boat-house and got out the punt. It was a good punt, though it badly needed a coat of varnish. The punt was provided with two poles. One was all that would be required, and one paddle. The second pole and paddle he placed in the corner of the boat-house. He brought out cushions from the locker and placed them in the sun to air; then getting into the punt he kept along the reed-fringed side of the lake until he was opposite the island. The island with its solitary poplar and grey stone temple almost hid the hall. Almost but not quite. He could still see the upper rooms of the east wing and the end of the terrace walk. The risk was negligible. From the bank to the island, from the island to the bank, four times he made the double journey, on each occasion varying his approach. Finally, he fixed on his course; the lake was deep enough there and the bottom muddy. It would all happen in the most natural way. Judith, seated at the far end of the punt, would like to try her hand with the pole. Isabel would say that it wasn’t really safe to change places out in the lake. They had better wait until they reached the island. But, of course, it would be quite safe if they didn’t hurry over it. And then he would lose hold of the pole just as Judith was creeping along, there would be a sudden lurch, and . . . George Cranstoun remembered the pictures he had seen of methods of rescuing the drowning. The method that appealed to him most was that in which the rescuer, swimming on his back supported the head of the drowning person with his hands and held it just above the level of the water. In this case it would be just below.

  A gallant attempt at a double rescue.

  George Cranstoun smiled.

  An early lunch. Then the departure of the bus for Totbury. At half-past two the unexpected arrival of Dr Croft and another doctor to see Isobel. Judith, of course, has to be present at the interview.

  ‘But why are they so long about it?’ thinks George, as he paces the terrace. ‘There’s nothing much the matter with Isobel.’ He had heard nothing about getting a second opinion. The absurd secretiveness of women. Anyhow, he might as well fill in time by carrying down a few extra cushions to the boat-house.

  What was Woodford doing hurrying after him like that, poor old Woodford with that hang-dog face of his?

  Dr Croft would like a word with him in the library? To blazes with Dr Croft, but, he supposed he would have to see the man.

  In the library with his back to the empty fireplace, stood Dr Croft. He did not appear to be at ease, and glanced up at his companion as if he expected him to take the lead. ‘Dr Hoylake,’ he said stiffly. ‘I don’t think you have met him before.’

  George Cranstoun nodded. He was not interested in Dr Hoylake.

  ‘It’s like this, Mr Cranstoun,’ Dr Croft went on. ‘We’ve been having a long talk with Miss Cranstoun, and we have come to the conclusion, and Dr Hoylake agrees, that for the good of everybody, and not least for your own good, we shall ha
ve to make a rather serious break in your life’s routine. I don’t think it need be for long. Dr Hoylake, perhaps you would like to explain?’

  Dr Hoylake spoke with slowness and deliberation. George Cranstoun realised what he was saying. He found the idea curiously interesting. It explained much.

  As he listened he looked out of the window, across the gardens, across the park, to the lake and the boat-house. Somebody, probably Jackson the head keeper, was quietly putting the punt away.

  ‘Safe for the time being under lock and key,’ said George Cranstoun. ‘Well, gentlemen, shall we go?’

  THE ARM OF MRS EGAN

  FEW PEOPLE nowadays believe in spells and curses and witches. I wish that I, too, was an unbeliever, for I like comfort, physical comfort, and what the parsons would call spiritual comfort, too. I like my world to be orderly, to know that there is a definite relation between cause and effect, and to be assured that the power of malevolence is limited.

  But I’ve lived long enough to know that we don’t get what we like. Reluctantly I have to confess that I do believe in curses. I believe that Mrs Egan was to all intents and purposes a witch. She didn’t ride on broomsticks, she was incapable of disappearing up the chimney, but had she lived four hundred years ago the chances of her dying in bed would have been remote.

  The story of Gilbert Lennox proves that a curse today can be as horrible a thing as ever it was, more horrible indeed since for its efficacy it depends on its victim possessing certain qualities, such as conscientiousness, which are good rather than bad.

  Gilbert Lennox and I were brought up together in the same country town. He was an orphan and lived with a wealthy old aunt who was exceedingly anxious to do the right thing by her nephew. My doctor uncle was one of his guardians.

  I didn’t particularly like Gilbert. He was far too much the model child, very serious, very intense, and without a particle of humour. He collected butterflies and moths and postage stamps and subscriptions for the Guild of Young Helpers. Before he went to his prep school his ambition was to become a missionary. When he left his prep school he had determined to be a medical missionary. Then he went to what was considered to be a good public school where he was put on his honour not to smoke or swear or to let down in any way the high moral standard of his house. By the time he had become a prefect and won a leaving scholarship he had made up his mind about his future career: he would become a doctor.

  My uncle thought that the boy had made a wise decision. His aunt had died, leaving him well provided for. Gilbert was young for his years, and a good deal of a prig. If he took up medicine, he would get an insight into life that would be of permanent value, and once qualified he would be in a position to choose what branch of the profession he wished to follow. Most people would have said that he had in him the makings of a good doctor. He had an orderly mind, he was an accurate observer, he hated everything that was slipshod, and he was most conscientious.

  Gilbert Lennox got through his medical exams without any difficulty. He even won a prize in anatomy. But somehow he never seemed to acquire a knowledge of people, and his professional manner, worn like a badly fitting jacket, only accentuated his boyishness. He was a poor mixer, he didn’t play games, and his only interest outside his books seemed to be in moths and butterflies. By the time he had taken his house appointments he was still in the chrysalis stage. I doubt whether he had ever even emerged to flirt with a nurse.

  If Gilbert had listened to my uncle’s advice he would have gone in for some branch of research. He had means of his own and if at first he only got a minor post he could afford to wait. But for some reason or other he chose what he was least fitted for and set up in general practice without even a period of probation as an assistant. I can only think that it was a new manifestation of the old medical missionary idea, and that he hadn’t outgrown the pernicious teaching of his former housemaster that the job which least attracted you was the one that it was your duty to do.

  So Gilbert settled down in his country practice twenty miles away from the town where my uncle lived, and all the women with marriageable daughters said what a nice open face he had and what an improvement he was on old Dr Brown. For a year or so he seemed to be doing well and then he met Mrs Egan.

  It was from my uncle that I learnt later what had happened. Gilbert had motored over one Sunday evening, his nerve gone all to pieces, to tell him the dreadful story. Mrs Egan was a wealthy widow with an only child on whom she doted. Ten days before she had rung Gilbert up about an eruption she had noticed on the nurse’s hands. When he came over to see her he found a strapping wench who complained of nothing. She said she had a sensitive skin and had been using a new brand of soap. Two days later the little boy was violently sick. He had eaten several slices of a rich cake, and Gilbert, who was rushed off his feet with an influenza epidemic, assured the anxious Mrs Egan that it was nothing more than a slight digestive upset. The sickness, however, continued. Mrs Egan, unable to get in touch with Gilbert, called in another doctor who found that the boy had scarlet fever contracted from his nurse, an ambulant case, and that she had most likely picked up the infection at the home of the young man with whom she was walking out.

  The boy died. Gilbert never saw him again, for the case was taken out of his hands, but on the day after the funeral Mrs Egan sent for him. It was then that she cursed him. She called him a licensed murderer, and said that as long as she lived Gilbert could count on one enemy who would not rest until she had got even with him.

  As little by little the whole miserable story came out, my uncle found that the two things which were troubling him the most were the realisation of his own incompetence and this curse of Mrs Egan. There was no getting away from the fact that he had blundered badly. His examination of the nurse had been perfunctory, he had accepted her own diagnosis, and in the case of the boy he had jumped to the first obvious conclusion. My uncle, seeing that his self-confidence had been badly shaken, tried to talk him into a more reasonable state of mind.

  He told him that the result would probably have been the same whatever he had done, that these things were part of the price the public paid for the education of a doctor. Gilbert reminded him that the boy was dead and that it was no consolation to Mrs Egan to know that he was living and learning. Then he tried to tackle the problem from another angle. He told Gilbert that a good doctor treats his patients as individuals and not as cases, but that when he thinks of his work he is wise if he thinks of it in terms of cases. He must in retrospect depersonalise it if he is to maintain his mental balance and keep a scientific point of view.

  ‘As to Mrs Egan,’ he said, ‘there is no reason why you should have anything more to do with her. She’ll talk, of course, but people will soon get tired of listening to her. Your practice may suffer for a bit; then someone else will make a mistake in judgment and the gossip will move on.’

  Gilbert refused to be comforted. He said that my uncle did not know Mrs Egan, that her curse wasn’t just the despairing cry of an overwrought woman, but that it was the deliberate expression of a malevolence which killed all pity.

  My uncle had done what he could. It was little enough. He couldn’t give Gilbert a lion’s heart in the hide of a rhinoceros, but at all events he made him realise that he had a friend before whom he could unload his troubles.

  During the next six months my uncle made a point of seeing as much of Gilbert as possible. He got him to give anaesthetics for him. His work was thoroughly competent, he made no reference to Mrs Egan, and my uncle gathered that his practice still kept him busy. Then one evening when he was dining out my uncle met Mrs Egan herself, and, as luck would have it, sat next to her at dinner.

  She was a woman of about forty-five, dark and handsome, a witty and vivacious talker, and obviously a good judge of character. He found that they had several interests in common, and had to revise completely the impression of her that he had received from Gilbert. She struck him as thoroughly sane, with a sense of humour that seemed entire
ly out of keeping with the malevolence that Gilbert had described.

  In the late autumn of that year the wife of the bank manager in Cornbury died in childbirth. My uncle heard about it from the vicar’s wife. Mrs Egan had told her only that morning—a tragic case, the third baby, everything apparently normal, but a new doctor whom the poor woman had insisted on having, though Mrs Egan had begged her not to, the same man—she had forgotten his name—who had made such an awful mess of things when Mrs Egan’s boy had died.

  Poor Gilbert! It looked as if he would have a hard enough time of it to live things down. My uncle made an excuse for running over to see him. At first he didn’t seem anxious to talk, but little by little his reserve broke down. Mrs Egan’s curse, he said, had begun to work. He had always known that she was in earnest when she said she would not leave him alone. Things would have gone all right had it not been for her, but contrary to his orders about visitors she had insisted on seeing his patient. She had excited her, told her that she was behaving like an invalid when there was nothing the matter with her, and then when things had gone wrong had fussed round and put the woman in a panic.

  Gilbert’s nerve was badly shaken, and to make matters worse, in the months that followed he had a run of more than ordinary bad luck. In each case it was an error of judgment that might have happened to anyone, but people began to talk. The mothers of the marriageable daughters who had found him so attractively boyish now declared that it was a pity he was so lacking in experience. Someone told my uncle that Lennox was a well-meaning old woman who should have been a parson, and seemed quite astounded when my uncle said that in his opinion Gilbert was far better qualified than most country practitioners. I wasn’t surprised when I heard that Gilbert had left Cornbury; after all, when he had a certain amount of means of his own, why should not he leave a neighbourhood that was, to say the least of it, becoming less and less congenial? My uncle advised him to take a long holiday, and after spending a fortnight with a friend on a walking tour in Scotland, he set out on a Mediterranean cruise.

 

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