The House of Dr. Edwardes

by Francis Beeding

  He stopped abruptly, and clenching his right hand beat softly on his forehead, and his face suddenly brightened.

  “No, of course not,” he said. “It was Jullundur. How could I have forgotten it!”

  “The fact is, Pills,” he said, turning and laying a hand on Mr.

  Deeling’s shoulder, “my memory is not as good as it was. I keep forgetting things, you know, but I am glad I didn’t at any rate forget the day after tomorrow. The happiest day of my life. Poor Agnes.”

  “I understand,” said Mr. Deeling. “You would like to have the usual ceremony.”

  “Just as usual,” said the Colonel, “a few hymns, you know, and a suitable chapter: fade away suddenly like the grass; in the morning it is green and growth up, but in the evening is cut down, dried up and withered.”

  Mr. Deeling well remembered the yearly practice. On the seventh of August each year the Colonel was accustomed to hold a small ceremony in the chapel to commemorate the anniversary of his wedding day, or was it the day on which his wife had died? Mr. Deeling had never been able to decide, for the two occasions were somehow hopelessly entangled. Mr. Deeling had secretly rather deprecated giving way to this recurrent fancy, but he had never ventured to express his views to Doctor Edwardes, and now, of course, that Doctor Edwardes was absent, the ceremony should certainly be performed. To be a party to any change in this respect would be an act of disloyalty to his absent chief.

  “Beyond the fact that you have not yet sent out any invitations,” continued Mr. Deeling, “I see no reason why the ceremony should not take place the day after tomorrow as usual.”

  The Colonel paused in his walk and directed an anxious look at his companion.

  “You don’t think that he,” and he jerked his head in the direction of the Château, “would object.”

  “I see no reason,” replied Mr. Deeling.

  “But haven’t you noticed?” continued the Colonel. “The chapel is never open now. He keeps it locked,” and again he jerked his head in the direction of the castle.

  “You mean Doctor Murchison?”

  “He keeps it locked. That’s why I don’t know whether to have the ceremony or not. I’ve got the invitations ready, but I’d like to know more about it before sending them out. He might not like it, and, of course, if he doesn’t like it, he has his reasons.”

  They had now reached the fourth green, and were beginning to walk back to where the castle loomed ahead of them in the gathering darkness.

  “I feel sure,” said Mr. Deeling slowly after a pause, carefully weighing each word, “that Doctor Murchison would not wish to depart in this respect from the practice of Doctor Edwardes.”

  “But he keeps it locked,” said the Colonel.

  “His motives for such an action,” returned Mr. Deeling, “are unknown to me, but I feel sure they are not connected in any way with what you propose. I suggest that you approach him on the subject immediately on your return.”

  A troubled look came into the eyes of the Colonel.

  “No,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t like to do that.”

  He added as though excusing himself:

  “Awful bore, you know. Fine man, great man, full of responsibility. Never met anybody like him. Couldn’t possibly bother him with a thing like that.”

  “If you feel any diffidence in approaching Doctor Murchison yourself,” said Mr. Deeling, “I shall be happy to act for you. Perhaps, indeed, it would be as well. I can inform him that Doctor Edwardes has always given his consent.”

  “By George, Pills, that’s confoundedly decent of you,” said the Colonel. “I call it most friendly and obliging,” and he laid a hand heavily on Mr. Deeling’s shoulder.

  Mr. Deeling’s offer certainly had a most gratifying effect. The Colonel was himself again.

  “Upon my soul,” he said, when they had moved on a few paces, “you’ve taken quite a weight off my shoulders. Fine fellow, Doctor Murchison, but he’s not a man to be bothered. Reminds me of General Carruthers who commanded against the Wazi Wazi in ’91, or was it ’93? Greatest man I ever met. Brave Carruthers we called him because he was so courageous. Bite your head off as soon as look at you.”

  “There’s only one other thing,” went on the Colonel a moment later, “I suppose we can rely on that padre fellow to come up to scratch. He’s been rather queer of late.”

  “I am quite sure that the Reverend Mark Hickett will do all that is necessary,” said Mr. Deeling.

  They spoke no more on the subject, and the Colonel, by the time they had reached the steps and were climbing the terrace, had begun to bore Mr. Deeling with some interminable history of one of his old campaigns.

  A moment later Mr. Deeling stood alone on the terrace. It was very still and oppressive. Night was coming slowly, much too slowly, Mr. Deeling thought, as he moved to the parapet. A breath of air fanned his temples, but it was hot, as though it came from the mouth of a giant. There was to be no relief, then, from the heat that night, and tomorrow would be another burning day.

  There was a footfall, and, turning, he found Mr. Clearwater at his elbow.

  “Sleep is upon the world,” said Mr. Clearwater, looking out over the darkening meadow beneath them. “The mountains are drowsy; the monsters of the sea seek rest; and on the tribe of broad-winged birds sleep has fallen.”

  II

  The night was almost as oppressive as the day, and Constance was unable to sleep. Such weather was really most unusual. And the worst of it was there seemed to be no sign that it would break.

  Every one, she thought, with the exception of Doctor Murchison, was becoming nervously affected by it. There had been that curious fit of Mr. Deeling four days previously. He had apparently recovered, but he looked very white, and Constance felt that a holiday would certainly do him no harm. She intended to say as much to the doctor. Then there was Nurse Webster, obviously in need of a change. Nurse Webster, in fact, had told her only that morning that she had hoped soon to be taking her annual leave, but she had not liked to approach Doctor Murchison on the subject. Constance, there and then, had gone to Doctor Murchison, who had at once agreed that Nurse Webster should go away in two days’ time for at least three weeks.

  Constance had cheerfully undertaken the extra work. After all, she had only been in the Château a few weeks, and so far she had not been overburdened. If only it were not so hot.

  The weather must surely break sometime. Even the weight of the single sheet which covered her was oppressive. She threw it off, and, turning on her back, lay with her hands clasped behind her head, gazing at the ceiling.

  Nerves! There must be no nerves in a place like Château Landry. Doctor Murchison had no nerves. He threw himself, heart and soul, without misgivings into everything he did. He was cool and at the same time enthusiastic. She had played tennis with him that afternoon on the red en-tout-cas court, under the shadow of the castle wall. He was not a very good player, not as good as Constance, in fact, but what he lacked in skill he made up for in eagerness and agility. She had beaten him in three straight sets, and he had taken his defeat with a smile. She remembered the touch of his hand as he had helped her on with her coat after the game—cool, in spite of the heat. Then he had darted off to have a cold shower bath, and afterwards to pay his evening visit to Mr. Godstone. She imagined him standing there with the water streaming from his broad shoulders and white skin, dashing away to put on the dark suit of flannels, which he always wore, and entering, a few minutes later, the forbidden door to grapple with the hideous mind of the lunatic within. And to think that for one moment she had believed him to be Godstone! It was incredible, unbelievable, that she should have done so. She would remember it with a pang all her life. The blood came rushing to her cheeks in the darkness.

  What was it he had said in the garden? “I have seen beauty tonight,” and he had talked of roses that were trying to be red under the moon.

  But this would never do. To lie thus, thinking of Doctor Murchison. Well, then,
shut up the box, put it away and go to sleep.

  But sleep was impossible, and a little later she rose, thrust her feet into a pair of heelless slippers, pulled on a dressing gown and made for the door. She would go downstairs to the library and find a book.

  Outside the passage was filled with a faint glow coming from the shaded bulbs which hung at rare intervals from the ceiling. The corridor was thickly carpeted, and her feet made no sound as she walked down its length to the head of the stairs leading to the central hall below. At the stairhead she paused, unlocked a little cupboard built in the wall and pressed a switch. This disconnected the system of electric bells which rang in the bedrooms of the warders and of Doctor Edwardes, and gave instant warning if anyone should leave a room after dark and walk downstairs. It was a precaution in use in many mental homes, and one with which Constance was now familiar.

  She moved down the great stairway of walnut and olive wood, and a moment later entered the library. She was carrying a lighted candle, as the stairs and the ground floor of Château Landry were always left in darkness.

  In the library she did not turn on the electric lights, but made use of the candle to give what light she needed. It made but little impression on the darkness as she moved forward; fantastic shadows skipped and ran up the walls of the great room, losing themselves in the upper gloom. But she knew her way. Behind her desk and that of Doctor Murchison there were some low bookshelves filled for the most part with medical books and works of reference; but there was one shelf set aside for novels, and there was also a table by the hearth at the other end of the room on which was spread a quantity of magazines and reviews.

  Constance wanted something light, a novel of adventure. There were quite a number of them, for they were Mr. Deeling’s favorite reading. She moved towards the shelves behind the desks, and stooping, held her candle so as to read the titles. There were half a dozen books by John Buchan, Valentine Williams, Oppenheim, and a new one which she did not remember to have seen before, but which Mr. Deeling had been reading, “The Brethren of the Axe,” by John Somers. She chose the last, and straightening herself up, turned to depart.

  Her eyes, as she did so, fell on the open pages of a book lying on the table of Doctor Murchison.

  It was a large quarto volume, apparently of some age. She looked at it a moment with curiosity. The text was in French, in sixteenth-century lettering, printed from wood blocks. One page was entirely taken up with a curious illustration. It represented a wizened man dressed in a torn doublet and wearing a hat adorned with cock’s feathers. His face was lined and twisted. He wore a straggling beard and one of his legs was of wood. He was seated on a chair made of gnarled boughs, playing on a clavichord, but the notes were composed of the feet of cats held in diminutive stocks, their heads peeping out from where the wires of the instrument would normally be kept. Behind the player of this strange instrument a woman was crouching by a hearth. She had a doleful face and a strange black mark upon her forearm.

  Behind the musical instrument stood another man, dressed in a more elaborate doublet and doing something with a sword to an animal of which only a leg was to be seen. On the extreme right of the picture was a bed in which lay a screaming hag, her mouth wide open; her withered arms were crossed, and a crow was perched upon her head. In the foreground was a black sow, and round the musical instrument were grouped half a dozen curious monsters with the heads of dogs or bulls. They held books, displaying notes of music, and they appeared to be singing to the accompaniment of the one-legged man. Above the picture was written: “Le lecon de Grimoire.”

  Constance, interested by the picture, set her candle down on the edge of the desk, and began turning the pages of the book in search of further illustrations. Doctor Murchison appeared to be reading a most curious work. She turned three or four of the thick pages, then something fluttered out from between them and fell to the floor. She stooped to pick it up. It was a typewritten slip and appeared to be part of a catalogue of books. She read some of the titles:

  DRAGON ROUGE (Le) ou I’art de commander des Esprits Célestes, Aériens, Terrestres, Infernaux, avec le vrai secret de gagner toutes les fois qu’on met aux loteries, de découvrir les trésors caches, etc., S.L.1522—(Imprimé au commencement du XIXe siècle sur l’édition très rare de 1520).

  BINSFELDI (Petri)—Tractatus de confessionibus maleficorum et Sagarum—Augustæ Treuirorum, 1589.

  CAYET (Palma)—Histoire prodigieuse et lamentable de Jean Fauste, grand magicien, avec son testament et sa vie épouvastable—A Cologne, chez les héritiers de Pierre Marteau, 1721, très curieux (rare).

  FONTAINE (Jacques). Of the marks of the sorcerers and of the real possession which the Devil takes of the body of man; of the trial of the abominable and detestable sorcerer Louys Gaufridy, etc., dedicated to Her Majesty, the Queen, London, at the sign of the Archer, St. Paul’s Churchyard, 1611 (very rare).

  HONORIUS—Grimoire du pape Honorius, avec un recueil des plus rares secrets. Rome, 1670, in-16 fig. (rarissime).

  SPRENGER (Jacques) Malleus maleficarum de Lamiis et Strygibus et Sagis, aliisque Magis et Dasmoniacis mulieribus, eorumque arte, potestate et poena. Tractatus tarn veterum quam recentiorum actorum—Francof. 1598.

  She looked at the curious picture, and back again at the list of books. They were all to do with magic, the black art, a subject of which she knew nothing. But why should Doctor Murchison be reading them? She did not know, but it suddenly came over her that she had no business to be prying into his affairs. What he chose to read was no concern of hers. Hastily she pushed the typewritten paper between the leaves of the great book, and bent it back slightly so that it might remain open at the page with the picture. But even as she did so, her curiosity proved too strong for her, and she glanced, almost in spite of herself, at the text.

  It was a description in old French of the witch’s or magician’s Sabbath, and appeared to be taken from the deposition of some sorcerer on trial. It was at once grotesque and horrible, a blend of disordered ritual, impious ejaculation and a description of acts so obscene that her hand trembled as she turned the page. But she read steadily to the end.

  Then she let fall the pages and closed her eyes. But she could not shut them upon her inward vision. Almost she could hear the cry of the sorcerers, the terrible, “Aye Saraye!” as they rushed through the foul air, with their toads and bats, to the trysting place. One sentence kept repeating itself in her mind: “A few minutes later and I saw death vomit forth all the spectres of his empire upon the earth.” Master Leonard was there, in his goat form, and there was too the altar with its throne, and all about it the moving shadows of demons and their earthly lovers. Into the rout came shrieking, in white beauty, the miserable queen of the Sabbath, to be seized by the phantoms and greeted with nameless blasphemies as they laid her upon the altar, and the Black Mass began. There they writhed and postured up to the supreme moment of horror when the naked victim herself rose on the altar and added her supreme blasphemy to the rest.

  Constance opened her eyes, for a sound had come to her ears. For a moment she listened. Was it Doctor Murchison? That was annoying. She did not wish to be caught reading these books of his surreptitiously. She turned and snatched up the candle and moved rapidly towards the door. Before she was halfway across the room, however, she tripped on the edge of her dressing gown, and was brought to her knees. The candle, loose in its socket, fell to the ground. She was in darkness.

  She rose and stood for a moment. This was even more annoying. She would look a perfect fool, standing there in the dark. She pulled her dressing gown tightly about her.

  But now there was a glimmer on the wall. She could see vaguely the gray stone with its pointed arch and far up a little lancet window which had caught a single star. And what was that form? The shadow of a huge head with double horns. Beneath it were humped black shoulders. For a moment it was motionless and then it flickered with a vast gesture across the wall.

  With a low cry, Constance turne
d, and in sudden terror shambled blindly forward. There was a sudden swish of draperies, the sound of a voice, and then, in an instant, the great room was flooded with light.

  With a sob of relief, she saw Doctor Murchison, fully dressed, a candle in one hand and the other on the switch of the electric light, standing by the door.

  III

  The Reverend Mark Hickett was preparing himself for bed. He took off and hung up the long black cassock which he wore in the evening, and removed his high Roman collar and black stock with fingers that trembled slightly.

  The revelation for which he waited could not surely be much longer delayed. He had waited for years. Ever since he could remember, almost.

  Perhaps it would come to him that night. He had a passionate conviction that at any moment now his long period of preparation would be rewarded.

  He did not know why he felt that conviction. He knew only that during the last months there had been a change. It was as though the whole thing had been taken out of his hands. Even his praying took often an unexpected turn. There was a power that twisted his thoughts so that they could no longer run in the old direction. At first he had resisted this possession, as he had formerly resisted the intrusion into his mind of carnal reflections. But he was quite sure now that only by way of surrender to this new influence would the revelation come. He must yield himself body and soul to the power invisible which was at work by day and by night—a power older than the grace he had hitherto sought in fasting and prayer.

  He must overcome his terror of the strange impulses that gave to old thoughts and phrases a new, often a contrary, significance, as white suggested black. Was it for such as he to understand the mystery of good and evil? Always they were hand in hand, and one was an aspect or disguise of the other. He had sought the light. Where was it more likely to be found than where the Darkness awaited its companion? It was not for him to question a dispensation in which all contraries were reconciled.