by David Pirie
I was already feeling ashamed for having almost believed a story so crudely yet effectively designed by my enemy. No doubt he thought it would appeal to my romantic credulity, and what would have been the sequel? Would she have mocked me afterwards? I did not want to know and was glad when Peggy returned, carrying a letter.
The wind and rain was still beating on my window but Bell had turned up the lamps and now, as the girl stood before us with a frightened expression, he took the letter from her, eagerly scanning the return address. ‘A different post-office box, Doyle, near Charing Cross,’ he whispered, ‘and I suspect a truer one.’
After a time he handed me the letter. In fact, it lies on my desk before me, a little faded, the writing being cramped and slanted like the writing in the inn’s book.
Dear Peggy,
I hope you have been a good girl. I may not be back for a long time but have a fondness for you in my heart. As I told you, I have a commission I wish you to perform and it will repay me for the sum I left you. I want you to tell me if a man called Doyle should ever come and stay in your inn. It is a possibility only, most likely a few weeks from now, but an opportunity for me to pay him tack for several unkindnesses.
I wish you to play the kind of trick on him you and I once discussed. Make yourself pretty and go into his room late at night while he sleeps, pretending you are startled to have had a dream of a woman called Elsbeth, a lovely woman with reddish curly hair who came to you and told you how Doyle once loved her as she still loves him. Say she has asked that you will take her place and show him her love. He will protately believe you, for he is very gullible on such things and you can seduce him, a task I know you need not find difficult.
In the morning you may admit he has been deceived by his old friend Neill. And be sure to mock the memory of the woman. He will be too ashamed and compromised to do anything to punish you but I want you to report on all he says and does and whether he has a travelling companion.
Once you have written to me on this I will written again and I may even send more money when your task is completed if the opportunity comes.
Your loving friend,
Neill
There was something horrible in the candour of that signature, no pretence of a Dr Mere here. And I found it particularly hateful to hear Elsbeth’s memory defiled in this way. I would probably have burst out with something but the Doctor made it quite clear he wanted to speak first.
‘What you were going to do, Peggy, was extremely wicked,’ said the Doctor, though his words were harsher than his tone, which held a hint of kindness. Even so the tears sprang into her eyes again. ‘But, because you were led by this man, we will say nothing of this to anyone provided you do exactly what I say. You will write to him, saying you have seen nothing of Mr Doyle, I wish you to do that now at this desk. Your letter can be perfectly polite and affectionate and I will post it myself tomorrow. I think it is highly unlikely Dr Mere, or Neill as he writes, will return and you must try to forget him and say nothing about any of this to a soul. You have asked me if this man has done wrong. I am sorry to tell you he has done more wrong than any man I have ever known and I have known plenty of murderers.’
The girl flinched at this. ‘Oh yes he has killed,’ added Bell, ‘and he would certainly have killed you. In that way you are very lucky. Now, do you think you can do as I say and go back to the way you were?’
She nodded. ‘I have never done anything like this before, sir, I swear it.’ And as I looked at the flash of hope alongside the fear in her eyes I realised this girl was not some kind of harlot at all. She had simply been corrupted. Once his influence was removed, she could probably go back to what she had been.
Bell made her write and address the letter on the inn’s stationery. Then, before dismissing her, he asked if she would go through every meeting she had had with Neill. She did so and it was all much as we now assumed. He had seduced her on his first visit, beguiling her with his lies. On the second there had been even more time for them to spend together. Most of what he told her of himself held little interest, it was more of the same lies and boasting she had repeated to me earlier. But it seemed obvious to me he had intended to kill her on the second visit and her life had been saved only when he saw a further use for her.
After she had gone back to her room, Bell moved quickly to pick up the letter. ‘I apologise if I did not spare your feelings, Doyle. What he planned was very cruel but his cruelty is a weakness and it has offered us the best opportunity we have had in all the years since our quest began. For once, we are ahead of him. You must sleep now, for we leave early. He is clearly in London and will not be returning here.’
The landlord was up early and perfectly willing to co-operate with our plans. A cab was summoned to take us to Salisbury station where the train to London could be easily secured. We ate a hasty breakfast in the parlour as the sun’s early rays beautifully illuminated the fields beyond the inn. But I could not help noticing that Bell was uncharacteristically gloomy for a man who had, to quote his words, ‘the best opportunity’ since our quest began. I could only assume he must be reflecting on the difficulties of tracking our quarry down in London. He said nothing as we saw our luggage aboard the cab, only whispering a few words to the cabman.
Once we had started, he remained silent for a while and then he turned to me. ‘I have news I do not wish to impart but I must,’ he said. ‘The servant girl, who I feel sure now has a genuine regret, came to me this morning, for last night in her excitement she had forgotten something. And it is not good news. Before we arrived it seems she had written Cream a brief note by way of reply to his. As we have seen, she is a bright girl, who knows her letters, which is presumably why he thought she might be useful. In one way she had little to say for thank heaven she had never set eyes on you. But it seems, Doyle, she had heard your name.’
I felt a sudden stab of dread. ‘How could she have?’
‘Because she asked her fellow staff. The stable boy told her he had heard it.’
This was the last thing we had wanted. ‘So have the police made any connection?’ I asked.
‘It is not the police I am worried about,’ Bell replied. ‘They would make nothing of it at all unless we pointed it out to them, but the stable boy told her he had heard it from a Mr John Herne who knew you had been staying with a local naturalist called Middleton. Of course, once given this information, Cream would see at once how you escaped the police and the arrest he hoped for. Middleton had harboured you, which is why we are going to visit the address you gave me for him before we catch our train.’
At once I shared all the Doctor’s apprehension. In other circumstances I would have delighted in visiting Middleton with Bell, but I felt a heavy heart as we took the same roads I had travelled with Herne some days earlier. Within half an hour we were at the little house on the lane that had proved my salvation. We got down and walked to the door. How I longed to see that small figure peer out at us but there was no answer to our knock. After a time, we moved back in the direction of the cab, but before we could get in, a local farmer’s cart came past and stopped.
The driver was small and cherubic, though a little wary. I asked if he knew where we could find Mr Middleton and he seemed surprised. ‘Did you not hear of the accident, sir? A terrible thing indeed, for a man as careful and skilled as he, but that river is dangerous, I always said so.’
It turned out Middleton had gone out early one morning only three days ago for his shooting, as the whole neighbourhood knew he did, and his body was found the next day, floating in the deepest part of the river. It was thought he had fallen, for there was a gash on his head and he was still in his heavy boots, which would have weighed him down. The community, including the police, inevitably concluded there was no foul play. ‘For who would want to hurt him?’ said the farmer. ‘He had not a penny on him and he was as gentle as a lamb.’
THE MYSTERIOUS CONVALESCENCE
I was silent for a long time, as the cab
continued on our journey to Salisbury, and Bell was tactful. There was no denying I had experienced a premonition of such an event and naturally I felt a direct responsibility. It was as if when I arrived at Middleton’s home, seeking comfort, I had been little more than an angel of death. How I cursed fate that my name should have been repeated at all! Had John Herne merely said there was a gentleman in the cab, the naturalist would have been spared, his wife’s life unblighted.
‘It is not your fault, Doyle, whatever you may think.’ The Doctor’s voice interrupted my thoughts. ‘He must have returned here without visiting the Quarter Moon to establish Middleton’s identity and habits, which were well known. You cannot be held responsible for his actions.’
Despite his words, the death of Middleton had a profound effect on me. I had not yet even attempted to return the money he had given me. Obviously I must ensure the debt was repaid to his wife, but this thought hardly helped my mood. Were she to discover the truth, she would surely throw the money back in my face, for in its way the transaction had ensured the destruction of all her happiness.
After some discussion, the Doctor agreed we would send her a slightly larger sum of money, taken from the funds he had set aside for our mission, explaining that it was to repay her late husband for a great act of kindness. Later, once Cream was gone, we would visit her to try to honour Middleton’s memory. However, he was quite adamant that we could not, at this juncture, allow the news to distract us from our quest.
Even so, I was distracted. We reached London quite uneventfully, and were soon ensconced in the Doctor’s usual railway hotel, but increasingly I found myself apprehensive about the coming reunion with the Morlands. I still felt enormous relief that the family, who had given me such comfort, were unharmed and I longed to see Sally again. But these feelings were entirely overwhelmed by the knowledge of the risks she would face, quite unknowingly, if she had any further dealings with me. In view of what had happened in Wiltshire, it was already a small miracle that Cream, who had befriended the family more than a year earlier and whom they knew as Tim, had not harmed them.
To my surprise, when I raised the matter, Bell entirely agreed with me. ‘I have been giving consideration to these latest developments,’ he said ruminatively as we stood in his old room that night before going down to dinner. ‘They have led me to conclude we cannot in all conscience involve the Morlands any further in a public way. Already he certainly knows they are hospitable and that they enjoyed your company. In itself, given the extra risk, that was not enough to interest him when he had you, and they never got in the way of his plans as Middleton did. But I am sure now that, if he had observed the affection you felt for them, their fate would have been sealed. I conclude, therefore, he never did. It is fortunate there was such a long lull in his dealings with them. And on that last night, from what you tell me, he was in the drawing room while Sally greeted you so warmly in the hall. It is a mercy and we must do nothing to alter it in any way.’
‘But surely we should warn them?’ I said. ‘That is the least I owe.’
‘Yet it might be to seal their fate,’ said Bell. ‘Listen to me,’ he continued, for I was about to interrupt in protest. ‘You may terrify them with your story but you cannot arrange police protection for them. There is not even a sufficient case against Cream to make his arrest certain, Meanwhile, the very fear you induce in them would alert Cream at once if he returned and make it certain they would die. Without it they stand more chance, for as long as he does not suspect you are intimate with them, why should he bother?’
His logic was brutal but of course I saw the reasoning even as I hated it.
‘But my God,’ I said, ‘it is cynical to allow them to know nothing.’
‘It may be, but I scarcely care if it offers tham a better chance.’ With that he made his way to the door and we came out of the room into a corridor that was long and, as the Doctor made sure, empty. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘I believe a very short meeting in their house is perfectly safe. I suggest we telegraph Sally Morland in the most plain and ordinary way, informing her you will be there to collect your things tomorrow. You must stay no longer than a few minutes.’
In normal circumstances a meeting with Sally Morland would have lightened my heart, but now I did not look forward to it with any pleasure. Was it not possible that Cream was waiting for just such an eventuality? It would not be hard for him to have the house watched. After what had happened with Middleton, nothing at all was certain.
The Doctor thought this unlikely. ‘There are limits to even his resources. He cannot know our decisions before we make them ourselves, nor can he be there indefinitely.’ With that he closed the subject. But his words did not offer much comfort and the following afternoon I found myself looking around rather warily as I knocked on the door of that little house in Esher Street.
It was one of those grey cloudy London days which constantly threaten rain and I could see no one at all in the street. I suppose this should have been reassuring but it only added to my own sense of foreboding.
The maid opened the door and smiled to see me and then Sally Morland herself came out of the small sitting room where we had so often talked as she sat with her children. She wore a plain blue dress and her hair was a little longer but her smile was as wide and childlike as ever and she would have run to embrace me. This was something she had never done before, but it was the last thing I wanted before an open door and, rather to their surprise, I only nodded with a smile and turned to make myself busy, closing the door before I was ushered into the drawing room.
Sally’s manner changed now. She detected at once something had altered in me, yet her passionate nature was not easily deterred.
‘Are you well, Arthur?’ she said. ‘We were so worried.’
It was strange to be back in that room. I eyed the armchair where I had endured those last moments of consciousness and also the rocking chair, where Cream had sat, which was now placed innocently by the window. I was very conscious of that large window on to the street, knowing that anyone could be observing us, and I kept my distance from Sally, something that she noticed.
‘I have recovered, I am glad to say.’ I adopted as cheerful a tone as I could, though it was still guarded.
She watched me a little uncertainly but still warmly. ‘We were so relieved when we heard from Dr Bell but he said he would explain it all. What was it?’
‘Ah, the Doctor could not be here unfortunately,’ I replied. ‘It seems I had a severe nervous infection, which caused a temporary inflammation of the blood vessels but it is utterly gone now.’
This was the best I could do, and to be truthful my heart was not in it. No doubt the Doctor would have produced something less ridiculous but Sally never doubted me for a moment, only now a new anxiety came into her eyes.
‘Is there any concern you are still infectious? Is that why you stand so far away?’
The question was so artless and natural it almost broke my heart. I longed to go close to her as a friend would, and pour out my feeling but I was still so conscious of that window. The whole length of it lay between us. Indeed we faced each other as if it were an invisible barrier.
‘No there is no danger of that at all, I assure you. But I suppose I am still not quite my old self. I will not trouble you long.’
I could see a little relief in her eyes but it was quickly buried as she took in the fact that I would not be staying any longer. ‘I gather the practice were able to manage?’ I added.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Dr Baird understood the position and they managed. Fortunately things were quiet and now Dr Small has returned from Egypt. They all ask kindly of you and would be happy to see you. But,’ I could see she was returning to another of the many questions that had no doubt haunted her, ‘what of Tim?’ We have had only one telegram from him since he left here that night.’
‘Well,’ I said, having prepared for this, ‘I myself only saw him briefly at the beginning of my convalesce
nce so I know no more than you. And now I must collect my things. I am sure you are busy too.’
Even in the midst of my anxiety, this was needlessly harsh. I have written that there was never any impropriety in my friendship with Sally, something that is perfectly true. But we were close and good friends and I for one had often wondered if, in another life, we would have been more. But now I was no longer behaving as a friend and, of course, she could not understand why.
‘Well I am not so busy,’ she said with dignity, ‘for as you see the children are with my sister but come and I will take you to your things.’
We mounted the stairs and I entered my old bedroom which was clean and anonymous with my packed case standing by the door. Here, for some reason, the curtains were slightly drawn, enough to ensure our invisibility.
I moved to my case. Sally was at the door, looking at me a little strangely, for she was no doubt thoroughly confused. I knew in that moment I could not maintain this charade, which, thanks probably to my own inability to play it correctly, was having a worse effect than anything I had intended. What if ‘Tim’ appeared and she told him I was utterly changed and my feelings towards her and her family had inexplicably cooled. In such a case he would guess the truth at once.
Checking again that the window offered no view from the street, I moved towards her and gave her one of my old smiles. She smiled back but I could see she was still at a loss.
‘Sally,’ I said, ‘I cannot stay long, that is true, but I have to trust someone and you of all people have earnt that trust. What I tell you now is going to be very hard to understand but I swear to you I am not mad, and it is vital you follow it to the letter.’
Because we had once been close, she accepted this immediately. ‘I do not for one moment think you are mad now,’ she said, ‘though downstairs I was troubled, for you were so unlike yourself. Arthur, please tell me the truth.’