The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

He wheeled his revolving chair away from the germs and fixed me with his keen eyes. “Recovering?” he echoed. “Impossible! Rallying, you mean. A mere flicker. I know my trade. She must die this evening.”

  “Forgive my persistence,” I replied; “but—her temperature has gone down to ninety-nine and a trifle.”

  He pushed away the bacilli in the nearest watch-glass quite angrily. “To ninety-nine!” he exclaimed, knitting his brows. “Cumberledge, this is disgraceful! A most disappointing case! A most provoking patient!”

  “But surely, sir—” I cried.

  “Don’t talk to me, boy! Don’t attempt to apologise for her. Such conduct is unpardonable. She ought to have died. It was her clear duty. I said she would die, and she should have known better than to fly in the face of the faculty. Her recovery is an insult to medical science. What is the staff about? Nurse Wade should have prevented it.”

  “Still, sir,” I exclaimed, trying to touch him on a tender spot, “the anaesthetic, you know! Such a triumph for lethodyne! This case shows clearly that on certain constitutions it may be used with advantage under certain conditions.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Lethodyne! pooh! I have lost interest in it. Impracticable! It is not fitted for the human species.”

  “Why so? Number Fourteen proves—”

  He interrupted me with an impatient wave of his hand; then he rose and paced up and down the room testily. After a pause, he spoke again. “The weak point of lethodyne is this: nobody can be trusted to say when it may be used—except Nurse Wade,—which is not science.”

  For the first time in my life, I had a glimmering idea that I distrusted Sebastian. Hilda Wade was right—the man was cruel. But I had never observed his cruelty before—because his devotion to science had blinded me to it.

  CHAPTER II

  THE EPISODE OF THE GENTLEMAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING

  One day, about those times, I went round to call on my aunt, Lady Tepping. And lest you accuse me of the vulgar desire to flaunt my fine relations in your face, I hasten to add that my poor dear old aunt is a very ordinary specimen of the common Army widow. Her husband, Sir Malcolm, a crusty old gentleman of the ancient school, was knighted in Burma, or thereabouts, for a successful raid upon naked natives, on something that is called the Shan frontier. When he had grown grey in the service of his Queen and country, besides earning himself incidentally a very decent pension, he acquired gout and went to his long rest in Kensal Green Cemetery. He left his wife with one daughter, and the only pretence to a title in our otherwise blameless family.

  My cousin Daphne is a very pretty girl, with those quiet, sedate manners which often develop later in life into genuine self-respect and real depth of character. Fools do not admire her; they accuse her of being “heavy.” But she can do without fools; she has a fine, strongly built figure, an upright carriage, a large and broad forehead, a firm chin, and features which, though well-marked and well-moulded, are yet delicate in outline and sensitive in expression. Very young men seldom take to Daphne: she lacks the desired inanity. But she has mind, repose, and womanly tenderness. Indeed, if she had not been my cousin, I almost think I might once have been tempted to fall in love with her.

  When I reached Gloucester Terrace, on this particular afternoon, I found Hilda Wade there before me. She had lunched at my aunt’s, in fact. It was her “day out” at St. Nathaniel’s, and she had come round to spend it with Daphne Tepping. I had introduced her to the house some time before, and she and my cousin had struck up a close acquaintance immediately. Their temperaments were sympathetic; Daphne admired Hilda’s depth and reserve, while Hilda admired Daphne’s grave grace and self-control, her perfect freedom from current affectations. She neither giggled nor aped Ibsenism.

  A third person stood back in the room when I entered—a tall and somewhat jerry-built young man, with a rather long and solemn face, like an early stage in the evolution of a Don Quixote. I took a good look at him. There was something about his air that impressed me as both lugubrious and humorous; and in this I was right, for I learned later that he was one of those rare people who can sing a comic song with immense success while preserving a sour countenance, like a Puritan preacher’s. His eyes were a little sunken, his fingers long and nervous; but I fancied he looked a good fellow at heart, for all that, though foolishly impulsive. He was a punctilious gentleman, I felt sure; his face and manner grew upon one rapidly.

  Daphne rose as I entered, and waved the stranger forward with an imperious little wave. I imagined, indeed, that I detected in the gesture a faint touch of half-unconscious proprietorship. “Good-morning, Hubert,” she said, taking my hand, but turning towards the tall young man. “I don’t think you know Mr. Cecil Holsworthy.”

  “I have heard you speak of him,” I answered, drinking him in with my glance. I added internally, “Not half good enough for you.”

  Hilda’s eyes met mine and read my thought. They flashed back word, in the language of eyes, “I do not agree with you.”

  Daphne, meanwhile, was watching me closely. I could see she was anxious to discover what impression her friend Mr. Holsworthy was making on me. Till then, I had no idea she was fond of anyone in particular; but the way her glance wandered from him to me and from me to Hilda showed clearly that she thought much of this gawky visitor.

  We sat and talked together, we four, for some time. I found the young man with the lugubrious countenance improved immensely on closer acquaintance. His talk was clever. He turned out to be the son of a politician high in office in the Canadian Government, and he had been educated at Oxford. The father, I gathered, was rich, but he himself was making an income of nothing a year just then as a briefless barrister, and he was hesitating whether to accept a post of secretary that had been offered him in the colony, or to continue his negative career at the Inner Temple, for the honour and glory of it.

  “Now, which would you advise me, Miss Tepping?” he inquired, after we had discussed the matter some minutes.

  Daphne’s face flushed up. “It is so hard to decide,” she answered. “To decide to your best advantage, I mean, of course. For naturally all your English friends would wish to keep you as long as possible in England.”

  “No, do you think so?” the gawky young man jerked out with evident pleasure. “Now, that’s awfully kind of you. Do you know, if you tell me I ought to stay in England, I’ve half a mind… I’ll cable over this very day and refuse the appointment.”

  Daphne flushed once more. “Oh, please don’t!” she exclaimed, looking frightened. “I shall be quite distressed if a stray word of mine should debar you from accepting a good offer of a secretaryship.”

  “Why, your least wish—” the young man began—then checked himself hastily—“must be always important,” he went on, in a different voice, “to everyone of your acquaintance.”

  Daphne rose hurriedly. “Look here, Hilda,” she said, a little tremulously, biting her lip, “I have to go out into Westbourne Grove to get those gloves for to-night, and a spray for my hair; will you excuse me for half an hour?”

  Holsworthy rose too. “Mayn’t I go with you?” he asked, eagerly.

  “Oh, if you like. How very kind of you!” Daphne answered, her cheek a blush rose. “Hubert, will you come too? and you, Hilda?”

  It was one of those invitations which are given to be refused. I did not need Hilda’s warning glance to tell me that my company would be quite superfluous. I felt those two were best left together.

  “It’s no use, though, Dr. Cumberledge!” Hilda put in, as soon as they were gone. “He won’t propose, though he has had every encouragement. I don’t know what’s the matter; but I’ve been watching them both for weeks, and somehow things seem never to get any forwarder.”

  “You think he’s in love with her?” I asked.

  “In love with her! Well, you have eyes i
n your head, I know; where could they have been looking? He’s madly in love—a very good kind of love, too. He genuinely admires and respects and appreciates all Daphne’s sweet and charming qualities.”

  “Then what do you suppose is the matter?”

  “I have an inkling of the truth: I imagine Mr. Cecil must have let himself in for a prior attachment.”

  “If so, why does he hang about Daphne?”

  “Because—he can’t help himself. He’s a good fellow and a chivalrous fellow. He admires your cousin; but he must have got himself into some foolish entanglement elsewhere which he is too honourable to break off; while at the same time he’s far too much impressed by Daphne’s fine qualities to be able to keep away from her. It’s the ordinary case of love versus duty.”

  “Is he well off? Could he afford to marry Daphne?”

  “Oh, his father’s very rich: he has plenty of money; a Canadian millionaire, they say. That makes it all the likelier that some undesirable young woman somewhere may have managed to get hold of him. Just the sort of romantic, impressionable hobbledehoy such women angle for.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table. Presently Hilda spoke again. “Why don’t you try to get to know him, and find out precisely what’s the matter?”

  “I know what’s the matter—now you’ve told me,” I answered. “It’s as clear as day. Daphne is very much smitten with him, too. I’m sorry for Daphne! Well, I’ll take your advice; I’ll try to have some talk with him.”

  “Do, please; I feel sure I have hit upon it. He has got himself engaged in a hurry to some girl he doesn’t really care about, and he is far too much of a gentleman to break it off, though he’s in love quite another way with Daphne.”

  Just at that moment the door opened and my aunt entered.

  “Why, where’s Daphne?” she cried, looking about her and arranging her black lace shawl.

  “She has just run out into Westbourne Grove to get some gloves and a flower for the fete this evening,” Hilda answered. Then she added, significantly, “Mr. Holsworthy has gone with her.”

  “What? That boy’s been here again?”

  “Yes, Lady Tepping. He called to see Daphne.”

  My aunt turned to me with an aggrieved tone. It is a peculiarity of my aunt’s—I have met it elsewhere—that if she is angry with Jones, and Jones is not present, she assumes a tone of injured asperity on his account towards Brown or Smith, or any other innocent person whom she happens to be addressing. “Now, this is really too bad, Hubert,” she burst out, as if I were the culprit. “Disgraceful! Abominable! I’m sure I can’t make out what the young fellow means by it. Here he comes dangling after Daphne every day and all day long—and never once says whether he means anything by it or not. In my young days, such conduct as that would not have been considered respectable.”

  I nodded and beamed benignly.

  “Well, why don’t you answer me?” my aunt went on, warming up. “Do you mean to tell me you think his behaviour respectful to a nice girl in Daphne’s position?”

  “My dear aunt,” I answered, “you confound the persons. I am not Mr. Holsworthy. I decline responsibility for him. I meet him here, in your house, for the first time this morning.”

  “Then that shows how often you come to see your relations, Hubert!” my aunt burst out, obliquely. “The man’s been here, to my certain knowledge, every day this six weeks.”

  “Really, Aunt Fanny,” I said; “you must recollect that a professional man—”

  “Oh, yes, that’s the way! Lay it all down to your profession, do, Hubert! Though I know you were at the Thorntons’ on Saturday—saw it in the papers—the Morning Post—‘among the guests were Sir Edward and Lady Burnes, Professor Sebastian, Dr. Hubert Cumberledge,’ and so forth, and so forth. You think you can conceal these things; but you can’t. I get to know them!”

  “Conceal them! My dearest aunt! Why, I danced twice with Daphne.”

  “Daphne! Yes, Daphne. They all run after Daphne,” my aunt exclaimed, altering the venue once more. “But there’s no respect for age left. I expect to be neglected. However, that’s neither here nor there. The point is this: you’re the one man now living in the family. You ought to behave like a brother to Daphne. Why don’t you board this Holsworthy person and ask him his intentions?”

  “Goodness gracious!” I cried; “most excellent of aunts, that epoch has gone past. The late lamented Queen Anne is now dead. It’s no use asking the young man of to-day to explain his intentions. He will refer you to the works of the Scandinavian dramatists.”

  My aunt was speechless. She could only gurgle out the words: “Well, I can safely say that of all the monstrous behaviour—” then language failed her and she relapsed into silence.

  However, when Daphne and young Holsworthy returned, I had as much talk with him as I could, and when he left the house I left also.

  “Which way are you walking?” I asked, as we turned out into the street.

  “Towards my rooms in the Temple.”

  “Oh! I’m going back to St. Nathaniel’s,” I continued. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll walk part way with you.”

  “How very kind of you!”

  We strode side by side a little distance in silence. Then a thought seemed to strike the lugubrious young man. “What a charming girl your cousin is!” he exclaimed, abruptly.

  “You seem to think so,” I answered, smiling.

  He flushed a little; the lantern jaw grew longer. “I admire her, of course,” he answered. “Who doesn’t? She is so extraordinarily handsome.”

  “Well, not exactly handsome,” I replied, with more critical and kinsman-like deliberation. “Pretty, if you will; and decidedly pleasing and attractive in manner.”

  He looked me up and down, as if he found me a person singularly deficient in taste and appreciation. “Ah, but then, you are her cousin,” he said at last, with a compassionate tone. “That makes a difference.”

  “I quite see all Daphne’s strong points,” I answered, still smiling, for I could perceive he was very far gone. “She is good-looking, and she is clever.”

  “Clever!” he echoed. “Profound! She has a most unusual intellect. She stands alone.”

  “Like her mother’s silk dresses,” I murmured, half under my breath.

  He took no notice of my flippant remark, but went on with his rhapsody. “Such depth; such penetration! And then, how sympathetic! Why, even to a mere casual acquaintance like myself, she is so kind, so discerning!”

  “Are you such a casual acquaintance?” I inquired, with a smile. (It might have shocked Aunt Fanny to hear me; but that is the way we ask a young man his intentions nowadays.)

  He stopped short and hesitated. “Oh, quite casual,” he replied, almost stammering. “Most casual, I assure you.… I have never ventured to do myself the honour of supposing that…that Miss Tepping could possibly care for me.”

  “There is such a thing as being too modest and unassuming,” I answered. “It sometimes leads to unintentional cruelty.”

  “No, do you think so?” he cried, his face falling all at once. “I should blame myself bitterly if that were so. Dr. Cumberledge, you are her cousin. Do you gather that I have acted in such a way as to—to lead Miss Tepping to suppose I felt any affection for her?”

  I laughed in his face. “My dear boy,” I answered, laying one hand on his shoulder, “may I say the plain truth? A blind bat could see you are madly in love with her.”

  His mouth twitched. “That’s very serious!” he answered, gravely; “very serious.”

  “It is,” I responded, with my best paternal manner, gazing blankly in front of me.

  He stopped short again. “Look here,” he said, facing me. “Are you busy? No? Then come back with me to my rooms; and—I’ll make a clean breast of it.”


  “By all means,” I assented. “When one is young—and foolish—I have often noticed, as a medical man, that a drachm of clean breast is a magnificent prescription.”

  He walked back by my side, talking all the way of Daphne’s many adorable qualities. He exhausted the dictionary for laudatory adjectives. By the time I reached his door it was not his fault if I had not learned that the angelic hierarchy were not in the running with my pretty cousin for graces and virtues. I felt that Faith, Hope, and Charity ought to resign at once in favour of Miss Daphne Tepping, promoted.

  He took me into his comfortably furnished rooms—the luxurious rooms of a rich young bachelor, with taste as well as money—and offered me a partaga. Now, I have long observed, in the course of my practice, that a choice cigar assists a man in taking a philosophic outlook on the question under discussion; so I accepted the partaga. He sat down opposite me and pointed to a photograph in the centre of his mantlepiece. “I am engaged to that lady,” he put in, shortly.

  “So I anticipated,” I answered, lighting up.

  He started and looked surprised. “Why, what made you guess it?” he inquired.

  I smiled the calm smile of superior age—I was some eight years or so his senior. “My dear fellow,” I murmured, “what else could prevent you from proposing to Daphne—when you are so undeniably in love with her?”

  “A great deal,” he answered. “For example, the sense of my own utter unworthiness.”

  “One’s own unworthiness,” I replied, “though doubtless real—p’f, p’f—is a barrier that most of us can readily get over when our admiration for a particular lady waxes strong enough. So this is the prior attachment!” I took the portrait down and scanned it.

  “Unfortunately, yes. What do you think of her?”

  I scrutinised the features. “Seems a nice enough little thing,” I answered. It was an innocent face, I admit; very frank and girlish.