Shadows & Lies

by Marjorie Eccles

  “That’s true. They can’t leave their farms for long – but I wouldn’t be too sure about it being over soon,” Lyall said, “Don’t ever underestimate the stubbornness of a Boer.”

  The arguments didn’t impress Dr Fox. He’d come prepared for a lengthy stay and wasn’t going to be frightened off by any Dutch burgher. Things would turn out for the best, just wait and see. I admired the spirit with which it was said, but it seemed a somewhat Micawberish attitude to take, especially in view of the child who was with him. He was like one of the ostriches, burying its head in the sand when being chased, believing it couldn’t be seen because it could not see.

  The feverish air of expectation in Mafeking grew. Most people made a pretence of carrying on as though nothing unusual was happening, rather like dancing before Waterloo, though in reality, everyone was taking precautions for what must now come. Hugh was readying himself and his men, while Lyall spent much of his time serving on a committee to bring together as much as possible of the necessities of life to the town, in case supplies should be cut off for any length of time.

  The probability of war approached certainty with the return of Baden-Powell as commander of the North West Frontier Forces, who made his headquarters in Mafeking and immediately set about erecting fortifications to enclose the town and as much commonage around it as was feasible. We, and especially the Baralong, were dependent on this for grazing cattle and growing crops. Within weeks the town proper and the native stadt had been surrounded by a ten-mile zigzag of earthworks and trenches, each connected by telephone, hedged by mines and ramparts made of sandbags and felled trees whose branches pointed outwards. By the end of September, the redoubtable colonel had also raised two regiments, horsed, equipped and trained, culled from crack cavalry regiments as well as from the border police. As one of the more experienced officers in border tactics, Hugh was by his side most of the time, advising on strategy, altogether quite in his element.

  1909

  Chapter Seventeen

  The detective sergeant from Scotland Yard who had been sent by Crockett to Dr Lester Harvill in search of any information he might have about Mrs Hannah Smith chose an inopportune moment, just as the doctor was about to start a consulting session with a patient. He was rather curtly sent away, with the promise that Dr Harvill would do what he could about the matter when he had finished with his patients.

  The request had, in fact, disturbed the doctor, who did not relish being questioned in any shape or form, being a person who stood on his dignity, and not one inclined to brook interference at the best of times. It was therefore not until the following day that he found himself willing to devote any time to the request – or what might indeed be an official demand. Perhaps he had no choice. Reluctantly, he telephoned Scotland Yard and agreed to a Chief Inspector Crockett coming to see him that evening for half an hour at his private nursing home in North London where he also lived and had his consulting rooms.

  Well before Crockett was due to arrive, he armed himself with a cup of coffee and took himself off to his study. He drew the thick, dark green serge curtains against the autumn evening and refreshed the fire with more coal from the brass scuttle, switched on the electric desk lamp and then settled back and drew a bulky file containing a thick wad of notes towards him. By one of those strange coincidences which do exist in spite of all claims to the contrary, he was at that very time engaged in preparing a paper which he was to deliver to the Royal College of Physicians next month on the subject of post-traumatic retrograde amnesia.

  He was a small, neatly made man of nondescript appearance, who would have passed unnoticed in any crowd. In his consulting rooms, however, or on the rostrum when delivering a paper, or especially when he lectured to his students, he seemed to gain stature because he always appeared so sure of what he said. If there were dissenters among his listeners who doubted whether he always knew what he was talking about, there were many more who hung on his words. He never raised his voice, yet managed to convey such authority that his pompous delivery carried conviction.

  For a while he sat looking at the file, then pushed it aside and extracted from a drawer a now creased and yellowed report from an edition of the Daily Bugle, published the previous autumn, details from which he had incorporated in his notes and which he already knew by heart. Nonetheless, he read it carefully yet again, as if it might throw some hitherto unexpected light on the problem:

  ‘Yesterday, 6th October, there occurred on Ludgate Hill an horrific accident, when a brewer’s dray collided with a motor omnibus, with disastrous results. The omnibus was turned over on to its side and several passengers were injured, among them a young woman who now lies unconscious in a hospital bed with severe head injuries which might yet prove fatal, and a child who has as yet not been identified. In addition to this, four people have died, three of whom were riding on the open upper deck. The first of these was an unknown woman, who was thrown right out into the street and died immediately; the second a Mr Ernest Robson, a shipping clerk who was returning to his office with bills of lading he had been sent out to collect, and who suffered a severe heart attack and died within the hour. The third person to die was an innocent pedestrian, Mr Septimus French, a retired clergyman who was knocked off his feet by a rolling barrel and died under the thrashing feet of the unfortunate horses. Readers of this newspaper will also be greatly shocked to learn of the loss of a fine young man, later identified as Mr Harry Chetwynd, the son of Sir Henry Chetwynd, of Shropshire, who was thrown against the upper deck omnibus railing and broke his neck. Mr Chetwynd will be remembered by our readers chiefly for the vivid and well-informed despatches he sent to the Bugle from the various war fronts in South Africa during the late struggle with the Boers, and for the occasional articles he contributed since. He was, several times during the conflict, commended for acts of valour, quite outside his journalistic duties, and for his daring in getting his despatches through enemy lines. His death will be sadly mourned by all who knew him.

  This needless loss of life was confined not only to human beings, for two of the magnificent Clydesdale horses drawing the dray also had to be destroyed. The whole affair was indeed altogether disgraceful, entirely occasioned by the drayman concerned being thoroughly inebriated while driving his heavy and potentially dangerous wagon without due care and attention, thus leading to losing control of his brakes on the downward slope.

  When, demands this newspaper, will brewery companies learn to control the consumption of liquor by their employees during their working hours? It is not the first time such an accident has been recorded, though not, by the grace of God, with such an appalling loss of life. Thomas Watmough, the driver, admitted that it is the usual custom of draymen to partake of a free pint of the company’s ale, offered at each public house when making their deliveries. Yesterday was warm and sunny, and no doubt the exertion of unloading beer kegs, coupled with the necessity of controlling the huge horses who pulled the heavy dray, made for thirsty work. Watmough, however, stated that he had only drunk his usual pint at each stop (though this was disputed by Miss Bessie Taffler, a barmaid interviewed by this newspaper, who is employed at The Three Blackbirds where he was due to make a delivery, and who stated that his ‘usual pint’ was more often than not two, or even three).’

  Dr Harvill carefully refolded the newspaper, put it back in the drawer, took up his pen and reopened his file. For a little while longer he sat marshalling his thoughts before beginning to write:

  Although I was not personally involved at the time, the case of the woman who was later identified as Mrs Smith was drawn to my attention shortly after she had regained consciousness, but not her memory. In the absence of any identification on her person (apart from a silver cross on a chain around her neck, with the words ‘For Hannah, on her confirmation’, engraved on the back) it was not possible to contact her relatives. Questions had apparently been raised as to whether she had been sitting next to Harry Chetwynd and might therefore have known him; Sir
Henry Chetwynd, however, after having agreed to see her in the hospital when he went to identify the body of his son, denied any acquaintance with her. The lady had remained in a profound coma for nearly three weeks before regaining consciousness, and this was where I was called in, the head injuries she had suffered being related to my special field. Familiar as I am with cases of retrograde amnesia, I had never come across one exactly like hers before. She had no memory either of the accident, save for one fleeting recollection at the moment of impact between the omnibus and the brewers’ dray, or of the time preceding it (which circumstance in itself is not, of course, an unusual occurrence). A more curious fact was that her memory lapse extended back for several years prior to the accident – and yet, she could remember her early life perfectly, in minute and exact detail. I suggested that the child on the omnibus might be brought to her, whom she would undoubtedly recognise if he were hers, and who would surely recognise his mother. But she refused, insisting that it would only further upset the little boy. She wore a wedding ring, but swore she had no child, and repeatedly said that they must look elsewhere for his mother. Despite this, the child, who was only two or three years old and could not, or would not, speak, was in fact taken to see her while she was sleeping, but when it was suggested to him that she might be his mother, the infant went into a paroxysm of screaming.

  All enquiries failed to find anyone who might have connections with either the woman or the boy, who was eventually taken care of by some responsible woman the police found. The case interested me and I was about to arrange for ‘Hannah’ to be taken into my establishment, when suddenly she was claimed by a woman who said she was Hannah’s maid, and from whom we learned that the patient’s name was Mrs Hannah Smith. Since Mrs Smith’s physical health had improved to an extent, there was no reason why she should not go home. We agreed that I should see her from time to time, and for a short while, this happened, but despite my counselling, her memory of what had happened in those lost years did not return, chiefly, I regret to say, through lack of co-operation on her part. Perhaps I did not gain her confidence enough. I think I may say with all due modesty that I am usually successful in obtaining the trust of my patients, and their willingness to accept my advice, but in this case, from the start, I was aware of a certain antipathy between us which I was not able to overcome.

  Mrs Smith, as I now knew her, simply reiterated that she felt dead inside, and at first showed little or no curiosity as to what had brought her to that pass. For an intelligent woman such as she is, this seemed to me exceedingly strange. I felt sure that there was a husband and child somewhere, that there had been some great trauma or pain which had caused her subconscious to bury, but that somewhere locked inside her was the answer. I therefore endeavoured to persuade her to write the story of her life, or at any rate all that early part which she had no trouble in remembering, in an endeavour to stimulate a flow of further memories. I was particularly anxious for her to do this, as it would provide me with an opportunity to observe at first hand whether Dr Sigmund Freud’s theories on the free association of ideas actually do hold water. Although she reluctantly agreed to my suggestions, she refused to let me see what she had written (a subconscious denial, of course) but it was not entirely unexpected that she eventually ceased her visits to me.

  The doctor carefully blotted what he had written, read it through and capped his fountain pen, then sat with his hands steepled, thinking. Not long afterwards, Detective Inspector Crockett rang the doorbell.

  When Crockett was shown in on the dot of eight and met the bland, expressionless features of the doctor, he knew at once that his mission was going to fail. He was invited to sit down, but almost immediately Harvill said, “The police already have all the records of this case. You must be aware that I am in no position to give you any more facts than you undoubtedly already possess.”

  “We have the details of the accident, of course. It’s what happened to Mrs Smith afterwards that interests me.”

  “Ah …Well, here we come to the question of professional ethics. You must realise I cannot give details of Mrs Smith’s medical history.”

  “I don’t want the clinical details, doctor, I only want her address so that I can speak to her.” Harvill did not reply. They stared at one another until Crockett asked, with disconcerting suddenness, “What was the name of Mrs Smith’s maid – the one who took her home?”

  Harvill, who was not often taken aback, blinked. “I’m afraid I have no idea. I did not see her personally and never heard her name mentioned.”

  Crockett’s brows rose. “Her appearance didn’t jog Mrs Smith’s memory, then? Surely seeing her maid would have brought back the recent past?”

  “Unfortunately, no, but that’s hardly surprising – unless this woman had been her maid before the point at which Mrs Smith’s memory stopped. But I wasn’t there when the woman came to my nursing home, and on the few occasions I saw Mrs Smith here at my consulting rooms after she was discharged, she came alone.”

  Crockett felt the luxurious warmth of the quiet room, electrically lit, the thick carpet under his feet and the deeply cushioned chair in which he sat. He was aware of richly polished furniture, tall vases of out-of-season roses, a table in the corner where the flames from the fire winked on a cut glass jug of water, tumblers and a decanter with glowing amber contents. He didn’t think Dr Harvill’s fees would be cheap.

  The doctor was saying, “All I can tell you is that the maid had been very anxious at the disappearance of her mistress – but for some reason made no enquiries until about three weeks later.”

  “I wonder why that was, doctor?”

  Harvill shrugged.

  “Was it perhaps because she was a foreigner, and didn’t take the newspapers? If she had, she would surely have read about the accident before and known the woman was likely to be her mistress. It made all the headlines.”

  “Foreign?”

  “We believe her name was Rosa Tartaryan. She was an Armenian.”

  “Armenian? Was?” Harvill seemed to have lost the ability to do anything but echo Crockett’s words.

  “Rosa Tartaryan is dead, doctor. She was murdered. I believe your Mrs Hannah Smith was her mistress. We need to speak to her and that’s why I’ve come to see you.”

  Dr Harvill said nothing. His face was as bland as a rice pudding, and as pale. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said at last, “but I am unable to give you the information you want. Indeed, I cannot. As I said, Mrs Smith has not been to see me for some time. She may have moved away, for all I know. She is no longer my patient.” A black marble mantel clock chimed the second quarter, with a thin, silvery sound. Harvill glanced pointedly at it. Crockett had reached his allotted time. “And now, if that’s all …”

  “A moment longer, if you please, Dr Harvill. This child on the ’bus. Mrs Smith denied he was hers — in fact I understand she swore she’d never had a child. But she must have been physically examined when she was taken into the hospital after the accident and you, as a medical man, must know whether what she said was true or not.”

  “Inspector Crockett!” An indignant flush rose to the doctor’s hairline. “You must know I cannot possibly answer that. I was not her medical adviser in that sense. I never examined her physically. And even had I done so, under no circumstances would I divulge what I know.” He stretched out his arm and with a white, manicured hand, rang a brass bell on his desk.

  Crockett had no alternative but to leave.

  Since Dr Harvill had not been disposed to give Mrs Smith’s address, perhaps the hospital might be persuaded, thought Crockett as he walked back along the discreet avenue where the nursing home was situated, cursing himself for having played the interview badly, and for letting Harvill get the better of him. One thing he could now do, however, was to send again to the Yorkshire Crowthers and ask if they knew anyone by the name of Hannah Smith, which might conceivably be the reason for Rosa Tartaryan having their address. It was another instance of c
lutching at straws, but if the dead woman had been of a blackmailing turn of mind, it was possible they might have been next on the list.

  “Well, well! Sebastian, my dear – it isn’t often we have the honour of seeing see you chez nous,” said Sylvia.

  As a welcome, it was scarcely warm, despite the fact that she was smiling and patting his hand. Two minutes, and he was already irritated with his sister and wishing he hadn’t come – this after debating the wisdom of such a visit for so long, despite his instructions to himself as he’d made his way to the pretty but rather small house off Sloane Street, where she and Algy lived. But he had resolved that he would not quarrel with her, no matter how she provoked him. It didn’t really matter a jot what she thought, or said.

  When he didn’t respond to her little barb, she made a moue, then looked expectant, but he was not to be drawn, not just yet. He had brought messages from his grandmother which he must first deliver. He put a box of Sylvia’s favourite rose creams on the white lacquered table and took a deep breath, bearing in mind what he and Louisa had agreed, that he must not ruin his chances. “I came as soon as I heard you were back from Biarritz.”

  Dusk was beginning to fall. He had found her leafing through the social gossip in the London Mail. The all-white room, relieved only by curtains patterned in a rather pallid pink and a curious shade of green, was strictly without knick-knacks, or even a family photograph or two. The sole ornamentation was afforded only by a few languid paintings of iris or lilies, and a high-shouldered pewter vase on the mantelpiece, with a knob of turquoise stuck to its middle, containing three peacock feathers. Neutrality was ‘in’ at the moment; nevertheless Sebastian thought this was going a bit too far.