The House of Dr. Edwardes

by Francis Beeding

  I need not say that I am very sensible of the loss, temporary though it will be, of your services, for I have formed a very high opinion of your capabilities in the short time I have been at Château Landry. Doctor Sedgwick (who has some knowledge of pharmacy) has, however, very kindly offered to take over that part of your duties which is absolutely essential, and in these circumstances I feel that I am justified in giving you this opportunity to take a rest, of which, as a doctor, I am convinced you stand in need.

  You will, perhaps, allow me to assure you that your full salary will, of course, be paid during your absence, together with a first-class return railway fare to any destination in Europe you may select.

  Believe me, dear Mr. Deeling,

  Very sincerely yours,

  EDWARD MURCHISON.

  Mr. Deeling felt behind him for the arm of his chair and sat down. Then, adjusting the pince-nez which he used for reading, he picked up the letter again and read it through carefully from beginning to end once more. By the time he had finished, and laid the letter down, he was boiling with indignation. This was the last straw. He was, it seemed, to be packed off on leave, whether he liked it or not. He was not even to be consulted. He had received a letter in formal terms, and the letter was intended to be final. That in itself had the appearance of a deliberate insult. What right, moreover, had Doctor Murchison to rummage in his personal file and note that he had taken no leave for four years? That was his own affair. Then there was that final paragraph. Did Doctor Murchison think he was a pauper, that he had refrained from taking a holiday because he had been unable to afford it?

  This started another train of thought, and, with hands that trembled slightly, Mr. Deeling unlocked a small drawer in his desk, and, taking out a little black book, consulted the list of his investments. It was an extremely satisfactory list, so much so that, when he put it down, he wondered, perhaps, whether he had not allowed himself to be too easily disturbed. Doctor Murchison was genuinely concerned about him, and his letter might be kindly intended.

  He looked at the letter again, and again his indignation was aroused.

  Miss Sedgwick (or Doctor Sedgwick as she preferred to call herself) was to do his work for him while he was away. He had hardly noticed that before. That was the limit.

  “Do my work,” said Mr. Deeling, springing up from his chair and moving about his dispensary with a quickness of stride which he had not attained for years. “The patients would be poisoned. ‘Some knowledge of pharmacy,’ indeed.”

  He came to a stand by the window and gazed with unseeing eyes upon the terrace. Miss Collett was outside, playing with a large bright rubber ball.

  They wanted, for some reason, to get rid of him. He felt it in his bones. There was something curiously wrong at Château Landry. Was it, perhaps, the hyoscin? Possibly, but it did not seem to be a very adequate motive.

  He turned back again from the window to his desk. What was he to do? If he replied to that letter with a blunt refusal. Doctor Murchison might insist on his going. That would place him in a very awkward position. He would have to refuse point-blank again, in which case he stood a very good chance of losing his post altogether for insubordination, or else he would be forced to yield to force majeure and be sent away to some ridiculous continental spa—Aix, or Dax or Baden Baden. He must think of some better plan. He did not wish to leave Château Landry for two reasons. First it was his home, the only home he knew. He would be lost in the world outside. Secondly, he had a suspicion that, once out of the way, Doctor Murchison would not hesitate to replace him by somebody else, somebody more pliable than he, less likely to oppose, even silently, the innovations which, as the representative of Doctor Edwardes, he so deeply resented.

  As he sat scratching the clean white blotting paper before him with a dry pen (ink would have sullied the virgin whiteness of the pad), there came a knock at his door. Hastily he folded up Doctor Murchison’s letter and thrust it into a drawer.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The door opened to admit Nurse Webster, who was closely followed by Warder Jones.

  Mr. Deeling slightly raised his geometrical eyebrows.

  “Good morning, Mr. Deeling,” said Nurse Webster.

  “Mornin’, sir,” said Warder Jones, serious and respectful.

  Mr. Deeling looked at them for a moment. Then he made a slight gesture towards two white-painted chairs. He had not thought it necessary to rise at the entry of Nurse Webster. She was only a subordinate.

  Obediently they seated themselves. Warder Jones, Mr. Deeling noted, was flushed, like a simple soul confronted with a difficult problem. Nurse Webster, on the other hand, sat bolt upright on her wooden chair, her hands folded professionally in front of her, her honest red face expressionless as a doll’s. But it was she who began to speak.

  “Mr. Deeling,” she said, “Warder Jones has just told me a rather curious story. He seemed a bit doubtful as to what he should do, and I suggested that he should come to you. You may possibly think nothing of it, but, on the other hand, perhaps you will.”

  Mr. Deeling was surprised. Why had they come to him instead of going at once to Doctor Murchison? He did not, however, think fit to ask them the question. If they had thought him a person of sufficient importance to be consulted, he would be the last to suggest that their conduct was in any degree unusual.

  “Well, Jones,” he said, “what is it?”

  “It’s like this, sir,” replied the warder. “You know as ’ow, by Doctor Murchison’s orders, I looks after the patient Godstone. ‘Don’t you let no one else go near that there patient,’ says the doctor to me, and I’ve carried out ’is instructions literal. I’m sure he’s had the best of treatment from me, and I’m bound to say, mind you, as ’ow I ’ave ’ad no trouble with ’im whatsoever, barring that time when you and the female doctor, begging her pardon. Miss Sedgwick, came to interview ’im a fortnight ago, when the Colonel broke ’is winder with a golf ball.”

  He paused for breath, while Mr. Deeling wondered what would follow this lengthy preamble.

  “Now, I’m bound to tell you,” continued the warder, “that the doctor’s very particular about that there patient. ’E gave me the most minute instructions regarding as to ’ow he was to be treated. He was not to be allowed to do anything for hisself, and if he wanted to wash, well then I was to wash ’im, or at any rate stand by and see ’im do it. I was always to walk with ’im if he took any exercise, though ’e ’asn’t took none yet. ’Alf the time ’e lies more or less stoopefied.”

  “Stupefied,” said Mr. Deeling. “You mean he has been drugged?”

  “Well, sir, that’s what I ’ave said to myself. Time and again when I sees him lying there as if ’e was drugged, I says to myself, ’Why, ’e’s drugged,’ though I never seen any drugs in his room. In fact, I’m certain sure he couldn’t ’ave none, for I looks after the room myself, and there ain’t a ’ole nor a corner what I ’ave not dusted a ’undred times, and nowhere to hide ’em, nowhere at all.”

  “Are you present when Doctor Murchison attends to him?” said Mr. Deeling.

  “Sometimes,” replied Warder Jones, “but mostly ’e sends me out of the room.”

  “Go on,” said Mr. Deeling.

  The warder cleared his throat.

  “Well, as I was saying,” he continued, “I’ve always looked after that patient like a child from the very start. There’s only one thing that’s been what you might call pecooliar. Doctor Murchison, from the very first day, he says to me, he says, ‘Don’t you ever let that there patient wash ’is feet. It’s bad for ‘im,’ he says. ’I’ve give ’im a pair of bed socks and ’e’s to keep ’em on, whether ’e’s in pyjamas or not. “E ain’t ever to take ‘em off,’ he says. ’I ’ave told ’im as ’ow it would be bad for ’im if he did, and I think he understands. “E’s got marks on ‘is feet,’ says the doctor, ’that I don’t want ‘im to see.’”

  “Marks on his feet!” said Mr. Deeling.

  “Yus,�
�� replied Warder Jones, “that’s what the doctor said, and I thought it was most pecooliar, because when that patient first came in, unconscious, you know, from that knock on the ’ead that the doctor ’ad to give ’im, I undressed ’im and washed him before putting ’im to bed, and I saw ’is feet, and there weren’t no marks on ’em then that I could see. But it was not for me to say anything, so I just said as ’ow I would carry out ’is instructions, and so I done. I ‘ave kep’ my eye on ’im, and it ain’t been very difficult, for, barring that time as the Colonel broke his winder, ’e ’asn’t shown much inclination to look at his feet or walk or do anything.

  “This morning, ’owever, when I goes to ’im as usual I finds ’im sitting on ’is bed looking sort of wild, so I thought for a moment ’e was going to be violent. Then I seed it was not violence that ’e ’ad in mind. ’E was more like crying.

  “‘Warder,’ ’e says to me, ’Warder, ’ow long ’ave I bin a-lying ‘ere?’ he says.

  “‘A matter of four weeks,’ I replied.

  “‘Good God,’ he says, ‘is it as long as that! Look ’ere, Warder, I’ve been insensible most of the time, ‘aven’t I?’

  “‘You ’ave bin quiet like,’ I says cautious.

  “‘Well,’ ’e says, ’I can’t remember much about what ’appened, but I know my feet was all right when I come ’ere. Now look at ’em,’ and with that, before I could stop ’im, he whips off his bed socks, and rolling back on the bed, waves ’is two feet in front of my face.” Warder Jones paused, and added solemnly:

  “Would you believe it, sir, ’is feet had marks on the soles of ’em.”

  “What do you mean by marks?” said Mr. Deeling.

  “Crosses, they was, like the crosses on a ’ot cross bun. ‘I see’d ’em in the mirror this morning,’ the patient says to me, sitting up again, ’and I don’t like the look of ’em,’ he says. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I’ll go and get the doctor to you and I’m sure he’ll fix ’em up for you all right.”

  “One moment,” said Mr. Deeling, “I suppose you are quite sure that the marks were not on his feet when he first arrived?”

  “They were not,” said Warder Jones with emphasis. “I could swear to that in a court o’ law, and that’s what struck me as pecooliar. But that’s not my business, and, after all, I’m not a doctor. They may ’ave come there since; they may be symptoms of a pecooliar disease.”

  “Go on,” said Mr. Deeling.

  “Well,” continued the warder, “when I mentioned the doctor to ’im I thought for a moment as ’ow he was going to become violent again. But when ’e saw the look in my eye he mastered ’isself. ‘No, Warder,’ he says, ‘I’m not going to ’it yer. I’m perfectly sane, as sane as you are, and I seem to remember as ’ow I ’ave told you that more than once. You’ve never believed me yet, and I don’t blame you,’ he says, ‘for things is pretty black against me,’ he says. ‘But we’ve got to get this right,’ ’e says, ‘or else—’ and then he shuddered all over as though he were seeing things, ’orrible things, as lunaticks sometimes does.

  “Then he put ’is ’ead in his ’ands, while I kept my eye pretty close on him. Then he lifts ’is ’ead. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he says. ‘You just give me that there coat.’

  “So I went across, and ’anded ’im his coat without a word. It was quite empty, but ’e felt in all the pockets like a terrier after a rat.

  “‘I thought so,’ he said, ‘it ’as slipped down between the lining.’

  “He put ’is ’and in one of the breast pockets and felt right down, and I saw as ’ow the pocket ’ad got tore and as ’ow ’is ’and was in the lining of the coat itself. After a bit of fishing ’e pulled out a check book, one of them little ones that banks gives to their customers to carry about with ’em. It was all crumpled up and only one check left.

  “‘Now look ’ere, Warder,’ says the patient to me, when he had opened the book, ‘have you got a founting pen, by any chance?’ Well, funnily enough, I ’ad. So, acting on the general instructions of this institootion as to ’ow the patients are to be ’umored if they offers no violence, I ’anded it to ’im. Then ’e sat back on the bed and ’eld the check book open on ’is knee.

  “‘Now, Warder,’ he says, ‘I’m not a rich man, but I’ve got a bit of money saved up, and I’ll fill in this check for £100, with your name on it, if you’ll do me a service.’

  “Well on that, I looked at ’im and ’e looked at me, and I looked back at ’im, wooden as an image. ‘Yus,’ he says, ‘£100 or may be guineas.’

  “‘It’s nothin’ serious,’ he says, ‘and nothin’ against your conscience,’ he says. ‘I only want you to help me get a letter to Doctor Edwardes.’

  “‘Doctor Edwardes is away,’ I says.

  “‘I know that,’ ’e replied. ‘And I know that this ’ere Doctor Murchison (and ’is mouth twisted a bit as ’e said the name) is taking ’is place, and I don’t like ’im,’ he says, ’and you know I don’t like ’im, and I want to write to Doctor Edwardes about my case. If you’ll get me a bit of paper and an envelope, and let me write my letter and post it for me, I’ll write you out this check for £100.’

  “Well of course, sir, I was took aback. I ’ave seen some queer things ’appen in this chatoo, but no patient ’as tried to bribe me before, and ’e could see as how I was most indignant.

  “‘Don’t you take on, Warder,’ he says, ‘I’m not offering you this money as a bribe. It’s because of the risk,’ he says. ‘The circumstances are pecooliar, and I’ll be perfectly frank with you. If Doctor Murchison found you was trying to send a letter from me to Doctor Edwardes, he would sack you on the spot. That’s why I’m trying to make it worth your while. If you do this for me, you won’t ever regret it. After all,’ ’e says, ’who’s ’ead of this establishment—Doctor Murchison or Doctor Edwardes?’

  “‘Doctor Edwardes,’ I says promptly, ’and ’e’ll be back soon. Can’t you wait till then?’

  “‘Not, I can’t,’ he says, ‘that’s just what I can’t do. We don’t know when ’e’s going to be back. It may not be for months. Not until it’s too late.’

  “And again he shuddered and looked past me into the corner till I felt like turning round to see if anything was there.

  “Then he turned to me.

  “‘Now, Warder,’ he says, ‘are you going to help me, or are you not?’

  “Very friendly and honest ’e looked, an’ ’e smiled, man to man, not like a lunatick at all.

  “So I stood and thought a bit, and at last I said, ‘All right. I’ll do it for you, but I ’aven’t any use for the check.’

  “On that he gets up from the bed and comes across the room and holds ’is ’and out. ‘You’re a straight man, Warder,’ he says, ‘Doctor Edwardes is fortunate to have a man like you to ’elp him.’ Of course, I’m only telling you what ’e said.”

  Warder Jones paused, giving his modesty a moment in which to recover.

  “Naturally,” he went on, “I shook ’is ’and. I often ’ave to shake ’ands with the patients. They don’t mean anything by it. So I went out, locking the door, of course, and got some notepaper and an envelope and came back to ’im. He was still sitting on ’is bed, and at once ’e begins to write without another word. In five minutes or so ’e ’ad finished, and he folds ’is letter up. Then ’e ’ands me back my founting pen.

  “‘You just write the doctor’s address on that envelope,’ he says, and I did it then and there, under his eyes. Then he looks at me most earnestly.

  “‘And now, Warder,’ he says, ‘will you swear by all you ’old most solemn to send that letter off without delay?’

  “‘Yus,’ I says, and, with that, he shook me once more by the ’and, and then I left ’im.

  “Well, of course, I only done it to ’umor ’im, as it is my duty to do, and, of course, I went straight off to Doctor Murchison, but I couldn’t find him. Leastways, when I knocked on his door there was no answer. I tried the ’and
le, but it was locked. Then Nurse Webster come along and I told ’er what ’ad ’appened, and she suggested as ’ow we should come to you.”

  “But why,” said Mr. Deeling, “why didn’t you wait for Doctor Murchison?”

  Nurse Webster had sat motionless during the narrative of Warder Jones. She spoke now with a slight compression of the lips.

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Deeling,” she said, “we preferred to come to somebody we knew.”

  Mr. Deeling had a flash of inspiration.

  “You don’t like Doctor Murchison?” he said.

  There was a moment’s pause. Nurse Webster and Warder Jones, with faces carefully emptied of expression, were looking straight in front of them. It was Nurse Webster who spoke.

  “I’ve nothing against Doctor Murchison,” she said. “He treats us most considerately. I don’t know what it is, but perhaps I am old-fashioned. I’m used to Doctor Edwardes, and I don’t like working with anybody new—man or woman for that matter, and that’s a fact.”

  Mr. Deeling was glowing with satisfaction. Doctor Murchison certainly had a way with the patients, with some of them at least. And that Miss Sedgwick was perfectly crazy about him. But he had apparently failed with the staff.

  “I think you have both behaved with great propriety,” he said, after a pause. “In coming to see me as the senior member of the staff and as, in a sense, the representative of Doctor Edwardes, you have acted wisely and with discretion. If you will leave the letter with me, I will consider the matter and let you know later what I think should be done about it.”

  He stopped and added:

  “I suggest that our conversation and, in fact the whole incident, should remain entirely between ourselves.”

  Nurse Webster nodded.

  “I quite agree,” she said.

  Warder Jones, who was obviously prepared to accept her judgment, fumbled for a moment in his breast pocket. He then produced a crumpled envelope and handed it to Mr. Deeling without a word.