The House of Dr. Edwardes

by Francis Beeding

  One thing, however, was gratifying. Doctor Sedgwick needed his help. Well, that was not altogether surprising. He was only a chemist, but he was at least a man, and a man of experience.

  They turned the corner of the castle, and Constance led the way, still at a rapid pace, into the library.

  “Shut the door, please, Mr. Deeling,” she said, and then, pointing to a chair, sat down herself at her desk. He could see now that she was thoroughly upset. Well, he would he calm, and thus give her a very necessary lesson in deportment.

  Constance, now that she needed, perhaps, the help of this man, felt with something of a shock that he was hostile. She did not like Mr. Deeling, but she had never realized until that instant that he did not like her—which means, she told herself accusingly, that I am hopelessly self-centered and unobservant.

  She leant across the desk and smiled. She must win him over now. He was her only hope, her only possible ally.

  “Mr. Deeling,” she said, “I very badly need your advice.”

  “It is my duty,” he said, “to place it entirely at your disposal.”

  He bowed from the waist, so that Constance had an excellent view of the hair so carefully arranged on the top of his head. Yes, he was undoubtedly absurd, but it was equally clear that she had never given him a chance to be anything else. And now she needed him.

  “You see, I have not been here very long,” she continued desperately, “while you have been here in Châtau Landry for eleven years.”

  “Eleven years, six months and one day,” said Mr. Deeling.

  “Then I am sure,” she urged, “that you can tell me what I want to know. Did Doctor Edwardes ever keep a patient isolated in his room for any length of time?”

  Mr. Deeling responded with the exasperating air of a man doing exactly what was required of him and no more.

  “If my memory does not fail me,” he said, “a Mr. Boardmore was confined to his room for twenty-two days in 1913, and in the month of April, 1917, Miss Archer was isolated for seventeen days. Apart from the various attacks of ordinary illness to which sane and insane are alike susceptible, I can recall no other instance during my period of residence.”

  “Then normally Doctor Edwardes allowed his patients full liberty?”

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Deeling.

  “And the confinement to his room of Mr. Godstone is unusual?”

  “Unusual, but not unprecedented,” he replied, “and I should say, speaking, of course, as a layman, that the circumstances of his arrival fully justified his isolation!”

  He looked suspiciously at Constance. What was the purpose of these questions? The next one increased his bewilderment.

  “Has Mr. Godstone been treated with hyoscin at all frequently since his arrival?”

  Mr. Deeling raised his eyebrows. “I do not think that I can answer that question,” he said, with the air of one who was being asked to betray a professional secret.

  “But surely, you must know,” she urged. “You make up all the prescriptions.”

  “I suggest, Dr. Sedgwick,” he returned, “that you ask Doctor Murchison himself on his recovery.”

  “But that is just what I cannot do,” she said in a low voice.

  She leaned forward and to Mr. Deeling’s immense confusion placed a hand on his arm.

  “Mr. Deeling,” she said, “this is a very serious matter.

  Believe me, you will best be serving Doctor Edwardes and Château Landry by telling me everything you know.”

  Mr. Deeling looked helplessly at the hand which still lay upon his arm. That simple gesture sounded within him an alarm against the wiles of woman. Women were like that. They took a medical degree and assumed equality with men. Then when it came to the point they put a hand upon your arm and expected you to be overcome. There was something here that needed investigation. Probably she was thinking of that hyoscin. She had taken it herself and was now trying to get him to admit that Doctor Murchison was using hyoscin in his treatment of the Honorable Geoffrey Godstone.

  “Are you trying to find an explanation, Doctor Sedgwick,” he said, looking at her steadily, “for the disappearance of several drams of hyoscin from my dispensary sometime within the last twenty-four hours?”

  She looked at him, a new alarm in her eyes.

  “Good heavens,” she said, “this is worse than I thought. Do you mean to say that hyoscin has disappeared?”

  Guilt could not assume a more stricken look. Mr. Deeling began to feel almost sorry for the culprit.

  “Do you not think,” he said slowly, “that you had better be quite frank with me?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Deeling,” she replied. “I will, of course, tell you exactly what I think. The fact is, I don’t believe Mr. Godstone is being properly treated.”

  Mr. Deeling sat back in his chair. The woman was hopeless; she persisted in her deception.

  “I cannot,” he said stiffly, “presume to have any views on a difference of opinion between two doctors. Have you, in any case, discussed the matter with Doctor Murchison himself?”

  “I haven’t had any opportunity,” said Constance. “I have only just seen Mr. Godstone. Colonel Rickaby broke his window with a golf ball. And Mr. Godstone, speaking to me through the broken pane, told me at once who I was.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Deeling.

  “He told me that I was Doctor Sedgwick, who had come here as the assistant of Doctor Edwardes. How on earth did he know that?”

  “From the servants, from the warders, from Doctor Murchison himself,” said Mr. Deeling. “I do not see that there is any difficulty.”

  “That is quite possible,” admitted Constance. “But he told me something else. He told me that he was Doctor Murchison.”

  “What!” said Mr. Deeling, getting to his feet.

  “That he was Doctor Murchison,” repeated Constance.

  Mr. Deeling looked at her in amazement.

  “But surely,” he protested, “you do not believe this ridiculous story.”

  “I—I don’t know what to believe,” said Constance.

  “Then I can set your mind at rest,” returned Mr. Deeling.

  “The Honorable Geoffrey Godstone arrived at Château Landry unconscious. He was brought here by Doctor Murchison himself, having attacked and killed the chauffeur who drove them from Thonon. He was put to bed immediately on his arrival.”

  “Oh yes, I know all that,” said Constance. “But suppose it was the other way round?”

  Mr. Deeling stared at her stupidly.

  “I do not quite follow,” he said.

  “Don’t you realize,” said Constance, “that we have no evidence at all, either way. Two men arrived here at Château Landry in a motor car. There were no witnesses of the—the accident to poor Jules. Suppose it was Mr.

  Godstone who had knocked down the doctor and brought him here unconscious. Suppose Mr. Godstone is now impersonating Doctor Murchison?”

  Mr. Deeling passed a hand over his forehead.

  “Impossible,” he protested. “Quite impossible.”

  For a moment they stood staring at one another. Mr. Deeling made to speak again, but at that instant there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” said Constance.

  The door opened to admit one of the warders, a dark, wooden-faced man, English and entirely reliable.

  “What is it, Jones?” Constance asked.

  “It’s the patient in Number 17, Doctor. He is making a great deal of noise,” returned the man. “If you would come and look at him. It ’as occurred to me ’as how he might do himself an injury.”

  “Number 17?” said Constance, looking inquiringly at Mr.

  Deeling.

  “That is Mr. Godstone’s room,” said Mr. Deeling.

  Constance turned at once to the door. “Come with me, Jones,” she said, “and you too, Mr. Deeling.”

  Mr. Deeling followed in silence, and they passed into the corridor in the wake of Jones. Number 17 was at the end of it. Alr
eady they could hear the noise made by the patient.

  “He is as mad as a hatter,” muttered Mr. Deeling, as they went along.

  A moment later they were in front of the door, behind which Geoffrey Godstone was confined. A violent fusillade of blows sounded on the other side of the panel. Constance pulled back the shutter of the spy-hole.

  “Stop making that noise at once, Mr. Godstone,” she said sternly.

  The noise ceased abruptly.

  “Is that Doctor Sedgwick?” said a hoarse voice.

  “Yes,” she returned.

  “Then for God’s sake come—come at once,” said the voice.

  “Only if you promise to keep quiet,” she returned.

  “Of course, I’ll keep quiet, anything—anything. I only want you to hear what I have to say,” he answered.

  Constance signed to the warder to open the door.

  “If he shows any violence,” she said in a low voice to the two men, “I shall ask you to restrain him. Do not move, however, until I give the word.”

  They nodded, and Jones threw open the door. The three passed in, Constance and Mr. Deeling together and Jones slightly behind.

  Mr. Godstone was seated on the edge of his bed, looking eagerly towards them. It was a pleasant room, adequately furnished, though curtainless and without pictures. The walls were covered with thick gray felt, the corners rounded. Mr. Godstone did not present a very creditable appearance. He was dressed in pyjamas. There was a short untidy growth of beard on chin and lips. His hair was disordered, and there was a wild look in his eyes. He sprang up as his visitors moved towards him.

  “Thank God, you’ve come,” he said jerkily. “Thank God, it is not too late. Who are you?” and he pointed abruptly to Mr.

  Deeling, but did not give him time to answer. “You are a warder, I suppose,” he said to Jones, who stood impassively beside Constance.

  “Quietly, please, Mr. Godstone,” she said. “What is it that you want us to do?”

  “But I am not Mr. Godstone,” he interrupted wildly. “I’ve told you that already. I am Doctor Murchison. I implore you to believe me. No, I will not ask you to believe me, for I can prove it. I can prove it in ten minutes. But you must give me the chance. I—I tremble for the consequences, if you don’t.”

  He took a step forward, his hands outstretched and shaking.

  Mr. Deeling, who was nearest him, recoiled.

  “Look out,” he said, “the man may be dangerous. Hold him, Jones.”

  The burly warder, forgetting Constance’s instructions, moved forward and laid a hand on Mr. Godstone’s shoulder, who spun round, his elbow, as he did so, striking Mr. Deeling a sharp blow on the chin.

  “Better ’ave the weskit on him Miss,” whispered Jones hoarsely.

  “No, no, I didn’t mean to hit that man. It was an accident,” cried Mr. Godstone, springing back towards an open window. “I am perfectly sane, I tell you, as sane as any of you.”

  Constance motioned Jones to fall back.

  “Sit down, Mr. Godstone,” she said quietly.

  He looked at her a moment, then crossed to the bed reluctantly and did as he was bid.

  “Now, for God’s sake,” he said, “listen to my story.”

  “What story?” said a voice behind them.

  The three of them turned round.

  Doctor Murchison, in a dark blue dressing gown, was standing in the doorway.

  IV

  The first to speak was the man on the bed. He rose and pointed at the figure in the doorway.

  “That is my patient,” he said. “That is Mr. Godstone.”

  Constance, in the pause that followed, looked from one man to the other as they stood confronted. The man in the doorway had not yet moved. His face was calm, though it was a little haggard, as though he had passed a sleepless night.

  The other, who had risen from the bed, was quivering from head to foot, his eyes shining with excitement, his outstretched hand shaking miserably, and the sweat standing cold upon his forehead. He turned suddenly to Constance.

  “For God’s sake,” he said, “give me a chance to prove my identity. Confront me for five minutes with that man, or look only at our papers. I can prove at once what I say. I am Doctor Murchison.”

  The warder turned to the door.

  “Best be careful of ’im, sir,” he said. “Patient’s inclined to be violent. Shouldn’t cross ’im if I was you, Doctor. He’s like one we ’ad here in ’23. Thought he was running the establishment. Used to give me my orders, sir, every day, cool as you please.”

  “Thank you, Jones,” said Doctor Murchison. “But I will deal with this case in my own way.”

  He turned abruptly to Constance.

  “Miss Sedgwick,” he said curtly, “I don’t think you can be of any further use to us here. Would you please go with Mr. Deeling to the library and wait for me there.”

  Constance made as if to speak, but suddenly turned to leave the room.

  On seeing this, the man standing by the bed seemed to lose all control over himself. He took a step forward which brought him near to Constance. Instantly Jones slipped behind him and had him by the arms. The man, feeling himself caught, struggled a moment and then went deadly quiet.

  “Release him, Jones,” said Doctor Murchison.

  Jones doubtfully loosened his hold, and the patient stood, white and trembling, in the center of the room. Doctor Murchison stood aside to allow room for Constance and Mr. Deeling to pass into the corridor.

  She slipped quickly by the patient, but, as she did so, he suddenly seized her by the arm and in a tense whisper, almost into her ear, he said.

  “You don’t believe me, Miss Sedgwick. But look at his feet.”

  Jones, who had again moved forward to restrain him, if necessary, caught the words, and looking at Constance, tapped his forehead significantly. With a little shiver, which she could not control, Constance slipped to the door and so out into the passage.

  V

  She was waiting now in the library. To Mr. Deeling, who stood by the window looking out upon the meadow, she could find nothing to say. She was alone, very much alone, with her thoughts. How could she for one moment have attached any significance to the allegations of the madman in Number 17? Half a dozen incoherent sentences flung at her through a broken window pane, and she had at once allowed herself to be shaken. She could only infer that she had utterly mistaken her vocation. The whole place had got on her nerves to such an extent that she had lost all sense of reality. She had got into the frame of mind when anything, however impossible, might happen.

  What was taking place in the room which she had left? She did not know, but of one thing she was sure. Doctor Murchison was dealing quickly and firmly with the situation. Probably he was administering to his patient another dose of hyoscin. It was not for her to protest against such a remedy. He would say at once that she herself was responsible for the crisis which had rendered it necessary.

  The door opened abruptly, and Doctor Murchison entered, closing it behind him. He was still in his blue dressing gown and wearing on his bare feet a pair of leopard-skin slippers, rather crushed at the heels. He crossed the room without speaking, and sat down at his desk.

  “Now, Miss Sedgwick,” he said abruptly, “what does this mean?”

  Then, as she did not immediately reply, he went on rapidly:

  “Let me tell you, at once, Miss Sedgwick, and you, too, Mr.

  Deeling, that in the space of half an hour you have completely undone the work of several weeks. The condition of my patient was rapidly improving. I come down from my room to discover him in a state of high excitement, and to find you, Miss Sedgwick, apparently encouraging him in the most dangerous of his delusions—this, in spite of the fact that I had made it quite clear to both of you that he was under my own personal care, and that neither of you were in any circumstances to interfere with my treatment of the case. I must ask you both for an immediate explanation.”

  His tone was th
at of a man deeply moved by a legitimate, professional anger. To Constance it was like a whiplash. But though she felt that the censure was deserved, a spark of anger was kindled in her, and began steadily to burn. Though she was a hundred times to blame, he should not speak to her like that.

  She was about to make a sharp retort, but found herself forestalled by Mr. Deeling.

  “My own part in this affair,” he was saying, “is easily explained. Doctor Sedgwick came to me (he glanced a moment at his watch) some thirty-seven minutes ago. She told me that Mr. Godstone had spoken to her and that he had declared to her that he was not Mr. Godstone at all, but that he was Doctor Murchison. She appeared to be much upset by this occurrence.”

  “Upset?”interrupted Doctor Murchison, impatiently tapping the desk with a pencil. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  Mr. Deeling glanced inquiringly at Constance.

  “I will tell you exactly what happened,” began Constance.

  “Please allow Mr. Deeling to finish what he is saying,” said Doctor Murchison.

  He turned back to Mr. Deeling.

  “You were saying that Miss Sedgwick was upset.”

  “Doctor Sedgwick had undoubtedly been very considerably impressed by the statement which the patient had made to her.”

  “You mean that she was inclined to believe it?” said Doctor Murchison.

  “I should be very sorry,” began Mr. Deeling. But Doctor Murchison cut him short.

  “Did Miss Sedgwick believe the statement or not?” he asked.

  “If you insist, Doctor Murchison, I can do neither more nor less than repeat her exact words. She said that she did not know what to believe.”

  “And you, Mr. Deeling,” he said in a tone of dry indifference.

  “How exactly did you receive this declaration?”

  “I regarded it as merely a painful symptom of the disease from which your patient is suffering,” said Mr. Deeling.

  “Very well,” said Doctor Murchison. “As it doesn’t appear to be necessary for me to convince you of my identity, I will not detain you further. But please be under no misapprehension as to what I think of your conduct. You have disregarded your instructions, which seems to show that you are very little the wiser for your eleven years’ experience at Château Landry. I hope that in future you will realize the importance of carrying out quite literally the orders which you receive.”