by David Miller
“Cawn’t say exactly. Five ’undred yards, dessay.”
“Will you toime me while I run it there and back?”
The man laughed and made a joke, but in the end he consented to time her. Hester poised herself for a moment on her right foot, then sprang forward. She flew through the darkness and flew back again.
“Four minutes, two second,” said the policeman. “Not bad, Miss!”
“Not bad? So that’s all! Find me the girl as can do it better.”
And she ran off in high spirits.
A few days after, as she came out of the pickle factory, Mrs Heffron met her with an item of news. John Rayner had left the gasworks, and, what was more, had resolved to leave England. He was going to the Cape; might be off in a week’s time.
“What’s that to me?” said Hester, snappishly.
“If I was you I wouldn’t let a man like that go abroad. Mrs Crow’s ’usband went to the Cape, and they’ve never heard of him again to this day.”
“He may go to the devil for all I care,” rejoined Hester, with unusual violence of phrase. And she walked away without heeding her friend.
They met again before long. Mrs Heffron’s child was very ill; the mother had nursed it two days and two nights; she was worn out, and sent for Hester. The girl made herself useful, and promised to sit up half the night whilst Mrs Heffron slept in a room which her landlady put at her disposal.
“I’ve ’ed a letter from Mr Rayner to-day,” said the widow, in an exhausted voice, as they sat by the child’s bed.
“Oh!”
“He’s goin’ to-morrow. From Waterloo, first train in the morning.”
“Best thing he can do, dessay.”
Mrs Heffron took the crumpled letter out of her pocket and gazed at it.
“My God!” she exclaimed mournfully. “If it was me, Hetty, he wouldn’t go.”
Hester flashed a look at the thin face, pallid with fatigue. She said nothing; her eyes fell in abashment.
It was seven o’clock. Hester said she would go home for an hour, then return and watch over the child while the mother slept. But instead of going home, she walked to the nearest railway-station, which was Hackney Downs, and there, at the booking office, she put a question to the clerk.
“What’s the first train from Waterloo in the mornin’, please?”
“Main line?”
“To go to the Cape.”
The clerk laughed.
“Southampton, I suppose you mean, then, or Plymouth. Five-fifty; ten minutes to six.”
With this information, she presently returned to Mrs Heffron’s lodging. It was arranged between them that Hester should sit up until two o’clock; the mother would then take her place. Mrs Heffron placed a watch on the mantelpiece, that her friend might call her, if necessary, when the time came. And at eight Hester seated herself, understanding perfectly what she had to do from time to time for the little sufferer.
Till midnight the child kept moaning and tossing on its bed. A dose of medicine given at that hour seemed to be of soothing effect. By half-past twelve all was quiet. Hester found the time go very slowly, for her mind was as feverish as the body of her little patient. One o’clock was striking; another hour –
How had it happened? From complete wakefulness she had sunk into profound sleep, without warning. It was the child’s voice that wakened her, reproaching her conscience. She ran to the watch, and saw with great relief that it was only half-past two. Mrs Heffron must still be sleeping, poor thing. At any other time Hester would have let her sleep on, but now she was eager to get away. Half-past two – ten minutes to six; abundant time, but she must get away.
She called the mother, and told her what hour it was. They talked for a few minutes, then, with a promise to look in again that evening, Hester left the house.
Dark, and a cold morning; happily, no rain. Hester ran home, admitted herself with a latch-key, went silently up into her bedroom, and hurriedly made a change of dress. She put on her best things; a nice black straw hat, just purchased for the winter; a warm jacket, which showed the grace of her figure; a serge skirt; round her neck a boa of feathers, cheap imitation of a fashionable adornment. Then she stole forth again. It must be about three.
Deeply absorbed in her tumultuous thoughts, she walked at a quick pace as far as the crossing of City Road and Old Street. Here she spoke to a policeman, and asked him which direction she had better take for Waterloo Station. The reply was that she couldn’t do better than go straight on to the Bank, then turn westward, and so to the Strand.
Very well; would he tell her what time it was? Just upon twenty-five minutes past five.
She staggered as though he had struck her. Twenty-five minutes past five? Then Mrs Heffron’s watch had stopped. She saw in a flash of miserable enlightenment the misfortune that had befallen her.
“But,” she panted, “I must be at Waterloo by ten minutes to six.”
“You can’t,” replied the policement stolidly – “unless you take a cab.”
She felt in her pockets. Not a penny. In changing her dress she had left her purse behind; and she remembered that it contained only a few coppers.
“How far is it ?”
“A matter of three miles,” was the leisurely answer. Five-and-twenty minutes: three miles. Without a word, without a look, Hester set off at her utmost speed.
Before reaching Finsbury Square, she pulled the boa from her neck, unbuttoned her jacket, loosely knotted the boa round her waist. As she came out into the open space between the Bank and the Mansion House, a clock pointed to one minute past the half-hour. She knew that it was now a straight run to the street which led out of the Strand towards Waterloo Bridge. But she must be prudent; agitation had made her heart beat violently; her breath came in painful pants; a “stitch” in the side, and it would be all over with her.
So along the Poultry, along Cheapside, she ran with self-restraint, yet quickly, her hands clutched at her sides. Clanging hoofs upon the asphalt suggested to her that she might get a lift, but it was only a parcels-post van, the driver perched high above his flaring lanterns; it soon outstripped her. On she sped between the tall, silent houses, the closed shops. Only one or two pedestrians saw her, and they turned in curiosity as she bounded by.
At the crossing from Cheapside into St. Paul’s Churchyard a policeman, caped and with bull’s-eye at his belt, put himself sharply in her way.
“What’s up? Where are you going?”
Hester would have flown past, but a heavy hand arrested her. The constable insisted on explanations, and she sobbed them out all the time trying to tear herself away.
“Waterloo – the first train – ten minutes to six – someone goin’ away –”
The bull’s eye searched her face – bloodless, perspiring – and pried about her body.
“Let me go, Sir! Oh, let me go!”
She had lost two or three minutes, but was free again. Like a spirit of the wind, the wind itself blowing fiercely along with her from the north-east – she swept round the great Cathedral, and saw before her the descending lights of Ludgate Hill. How grateful she was for the downward slope! Her breath, much easier just when the policeman stopped her, had again become troubled with the heart-throbs of fear. At Ludgate Circus there came out from Blackfriars a market-cart, which turned westward, going to Covent Garden.
“Will you give me a lift?” she called out to the man who drove it.
Imprudent, perhaps; she might run quicker; but Fleet Street looked like a mountain before her. The man pulled up in a dawdling way, and began to gossip. Hester leapt to a seat beside him, and urged him on.
There was sudden revelation of busy life. She knew nothing of the newspaper trade; it astonished her to see buildings aflare with electric light; carts drawn up in a long row, side by side, along the pavement; trucks laden with huge bales; men labouring as if minutes meant life or death, as they did to her; for she felt that if she missed the train, if John Rayner were whirled awa
y from her into the unknown, there would be nothing left to live for.
“Can’t you go quicker?” she said feverishly.
The man asked questions; he was a chatterbox. Presently a big clock before her, that of the Law Courts, pointed, like the hand of fate, to twenty minutes before the hour. Oh! She could run quicker now that she had her breath again. Without a word she sprang down, fell violently on her hands and knees, was up and off. Moisture upon her hands – blood, the street-lamp showed. But the injury gave no pain.
The cart kept up with her; she would have burst the sinews of her heart rather than let it pass.
St. Clement Danes – the Strand. Here men were washing the road, drenching it with floods of water from a hose. Another great place of business, with bales flung about, men furiously at work, carts waiting or clattering away. She passed it like an arrow, and on, and on.
Somerset House – Wellington Street – the lights of Waterloo Bridge.
Again a policeman looked keenly at her, stepped forward. She shrieked at him, “The train! The train!” and he did not pursue. From the river a fierce wind smote upon her, caught her breath. Had she looked eastward she would have seen the dome of St. Paul’s black against a red rift in the sky. To-day the sun rose at a few minutes past six; dawn was breaking.
Many workmen were crossing the bridge, and carts rattled in both directions. Her breast seemed bound with iron; her throat was parched; her temples throbbed and anguished. Quicker but she could not, she could not! Men were staring after her, and some shouted. She saw the station now; she was under the bridge. A railway servant, hurrying on before her, turned as she overtook him.
“The train – which way?” she gasped;
“Five-fifty? All right; you’ll do it, my girl.”
He showed the approach to the main line and Hester sped on. Up the sharp incline she raced with a mail-van. She saw the sparks struck out by the horses’ hoofs. Behind came a newspaper cart, with deafening uproar.
The clock – the clock right before her! It was at a minute past the train time. Five minutes fast had she known it. On, in terror and agony! The outer platform was heaped with packages of newspapers, piles of them thrown back to await the slow train. A crowd of porters unloaded the vehicles, and rushed about with trucks. There was the sound of a jangling bell.
A long train, so long that she could not see the engine, waited with doors agape. No hurrying passengers; no confusion; trucks being briskly emptied into the vans, that was all. She was in time, but her eyes dazzled, and her limbs failed.
Then someone touched her. She turned. It was John Rayner. He had a rough new overcoat, a travelling cap, in his hand only a stout stick, and he looked at her with wide eyes of astonishment.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come – I’ve run all the way –”
Her gasped words were barely intelligible.
“You came to see me off?”
Hester caught him by the hand in which he held his stick.
“Don’t go! – I want you! – I’ll marry you! –”
“Ho, ho! Then you must go with me. I’ve done with this country.”
He drew his hand away, but kept his eyes fixed on hers.
“Go? To the Cape?”
“There’s about one minute to get your ticket. I’ve got little enough money, but enough to pay your passage and leave us a pound or two when we get out there. Make your choice; a minute – less than a minute.”
She tried to speak, but had no voice. John darted away from her to the booking-office, and returned with her ticket.
“Come along; my traps are in here.”
He seized her by the arm and drew her along. She could not mount the step of the carriage. He lifted her in; placed her on the seat.
“But I haven’t got no clothes – nothing!”
“I’ll buy you some. We shall have two or three hours at Southampton before the ship sails. I say, how bad you look! Hetty!”
An official came to examine the tickets; he glanced with curiosity at the couple, then locked them in together. Again a bell rang.
“Hetty!”
She was all but fainting. John put his arms about her, kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.
“I’ve run all the way –”
Insensibly, the train began to move. Hester did not know that she had started until they were rushing past Vauxhall.
And behind them the red rift of the eastern sky broadened into day.
A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930) is best known as the creator of Sherlock Holmes. Born in Edinburgh, he died in East Sussex having written dozens of books, plays, romances, poetry and non-fiction. If that were not enough, he played in goal for Portsmouth Association Football Club, played cricket for the MCC, taking one wicket (that of W.G. Grace) and twice stood for Parliament, but was not elected. He also found time to father five children. He is probably the only writer included in this book to have been buried twice.
I
To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer – excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained teasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clews, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.
One night – it was on the twentieth of March, 1888 – I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work aga
in. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.
“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”
“Seven!” I answered.
“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.”
“Then, how do you know?”
“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?”
“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out.”
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.
“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.”