The House of Dr. Edwardes

by Francis Beeding

  “What are you doing?” she repeated.

  He moved towards her.

  “You are Stimson,” he said. “You’re not going to get away in that damn female masquerade.”

  “I am not Stimson,” said Constance, “and you know it very well. I am Miss Sedgwick, and I insist that you should go to your room.”

  The man took another step. She could almost feel his breath on her face. She threw back her head and gazed into his eyes.

  He thrust out his empty fist and touched her.

  She shrank from his fingers, and on that something broke loose in him. He flung himself forward at her.

  As he did so, however, a hand, white, sinewy and strong gripped him by the shoulder and twisted him half round. Another figure stood in the moonlight, and she saw that it was Doctor Murchison.

  Her relief was so intense that her faculties were suddenly relaxed. She leaned for support against the wall, and watched the scene as through a clouded glass. The figures wavered and grew small and large, and the whole castle appeared to be rocking. She did not hear what Doctor Murchison was saying, but she knew that she was safe, and, sure enough, there at last was Mr. Curtis crawling away, blubbering like a whipped dog.

  Then she swayed, and the doctor caught her in his arms. The contact braced her failing spirit. She closed her eyes, but her hands were clinging, and at that moment she felt his mouth upon her own.

  “What has he done to you?” she heard him murmur. She opened her eyes again. Her arms were across his shoulder. He was looking down on her, that calm face with the deep eyes that were smiling so tenderly.

  “It was nothing,” she whispered. “I was only frightened. Thank God, you came.”

  He bent and kissed her again. Her arms tightened naturally about his neck.

  “It’s all right now,” he said, comforting her.

  She began to realize what was happening. She was in his arms. The blood mounted to her face. She struggled to free herself, and he let her go at once.

  “What does it mean?” she asked. “I saw someone outside in the meadow. Mr. Curtis’ door was open, and the bells on the staircase did not ring.”

  He laid a hand gently on her shoulder.

  “Are you sure that you are all right?” he asked anxiously.

  “You’ve had a bad shock. You had better go back to bed. I will give you a sleeping draught.”

  But she was now determined to show that her weakness had been only momentary. She, too, was a doctor. She would not be treated like a child.

  “No,” she said. “I’m quite all right now. We must look into this business at once.”

  “You would do better to go straight to bed,” insisted Doctor Murchison.

  “We must find out at once what has happened,” she urged.

  Doctor Murchison smiled.

  “‘Very well,” he said. “First we will close the door.”

  He turned abruptly. Slowly the great door swung forward and the bolts shot home into their sockets.

  Light was streaming from a torch in his hand.

  “Now,” said the doctor, “I will take you upstairs. You are sure you wouldn’t rather go to bed?”

  “Not till this business is settled,” she replied.

  “Then go and dress,” he answered, taking her instantly at her word, “while I look round at the patients. Meet me at the top of the stairs as soon as you are ready.”

  She followed him up the broad staircase, and, moving down the corridor, ran into her room and threw on the frock she had been wearing at dinner. Her mind was active again. Something terrible had happened? There had been a breakdown somewhere in the organization. There would be a hideous scandal, and the life work of Doctor Edwardes might be ruined. She thrust her feet into a pair of shoes and went out again into the corridor.

  As she was leaving the room, her eyes fell on the dressing gown which she had just discarded. On the sleeve, where Mr. Curtis had touched her, was a red smudge.

  Doctor Murchison was awaiting her, and his first words were reassuring.

  “The patients are all in their rooms,” he said, “and I have given Curtis an injection. He will not trouble us again tonight.”

  “But how was he able to leave his room—” began Constance.

  “I think I have found the explanation,” said Doctor Murchison grimly. “Come with me.”

  They walked along in silence, and, turning, moved into the corridor where the patients’ rooms were situated. At the end of it, as Constance knew, was the room in which Warder Jones was sleeping. Opposite the warder’s door the doctor paused, and threw it open. Then he switched on the electric light.

  Warder Jones was lying, half-dressed, across his bed. His face was congested, and he was breathing stertorously.

  “Take a good look at him,” said the doctor.

  She bent above the prostrate man, and was assailed with a reek of whisky. She looked at the doctor.

  “Yes,” he said, “dead drunk. And his keys are missing.”

  Even as he spoke, there came the sound of a furious knocking from the other end of the corridor. The doctor pushed her aside and left the room.

  Again there came a furious burst of knocking, and a muffled voice cried, “Let me out, I say, let me out at once.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I

  Mr. Deeling had reached a crisis. The events of the previous night had been the last straw. He had woken up early in the night, though now he doubted whether he had ever been asleep. At any rate, he remembered hearing a queer throbbing noise away in the woods. For a long while he had thought that it was his imagination, but, after a time, he had got up to look out of the window, and he had been just in time to see two figures standing by the front door, two figures outside the castle at that hour. It had required an immediate investigation.

  He had slipped on a coat and trousers and made straight for the door, even forgetting the false teeth which stood in the glass by his bedside. He had tried the handle, and then, to his stupefaction, he had found that his door was locked. He, Mr. Deeling, had been locked into his own room, like one of the patients. Just as though he was mad like the Reverend Mark Hickett or Mr. Curtis, or any one of the others. It had taken him some time to realize it, which had shown in itself that he could not have been quite well. The fact was that he had undoubtedly had a bad shock in the wood that afternoon, and that it had perhaps impaired the activity of his mind.

  But then, as he had stood there bewildered, he had heard someone go past his room, someone who was breathing heavily and who had given a kind of groan or whimper as he passed. This had brought him to his senses, and he had started to beat upon the door with his fists and to shout.

  Almost at once the key turned in the lock, and the door had been thrown violently open. There had stood Doctor Murchison, and, behind him, Miss Sedgwick, still in that ridiculous evening dress of hers—the one with no sleeves which she wore to display her arms. He had, of course, at once stopped shouting, and had gazed at the doctor, trying vainly to find words to express his sense of outrage. But the doctor had not allowed him to speak.

  “Oh, it’s you, Deeling,” he had said in a voice that had stung like a whip. “Go back to bed and stop making that silly noise. We’ve got quite enough on our hands as it is.”

  On that Doctor Murchison had shut the door and left Mr. Deeling to his devices.

  For a moment he had been moved to follow Doctor Murchison into the corridor, but somehow he had shrunk from that cutting voice, and after a time he had got into bed again. The last thing he had remembered was his sudden realization that the detestable Miss Sedgwick had seen him without his teeth.

  Curiously enough he had fallen into a deep sleep almost at once. Exhaustion, he supposed, that was what it was. He was thoroughly exhausted by all these occurrences. He had even overslept himself, for it was now eleven o’clock, and he had only just finished dressing. That in itself was unprecedented.

  His mind, at last, was made up. He had taken a dec
ision, and he felt that no other course was open to him. He looked at himself in the glass. Yes, his tie was straight, his black clothes were neatly brushed, and his hair was in order. He would go straight down to Doctor Murchison, and inform him clearly and quietly that his manner on the previous evening had been intolerable, and that he proposed to complain to Doctor Edwardes without delay. Doctor Murchison, of course, would ask for his resignation, but he would refuse to give it. Nothing would induce him to go. By the terms of his engagement six months’ notice was required on either side, and, if Doctor Murchison offered him six months’ salary instead, he would refuse to accept it. He intended to stay at Château Landry till Doctor Edwardes returned, and Doctor Edwardes would have to choose between them.

  But first he must visit the patients. He had already broken more rules since 7.30 a.m. (the hour at which he ought normally to have arisen) than he had ever broken before during the whole eleven years of his existence at Château Landry. He could not continue to do so indefinitely. He must, of course, see Doctor Murchison, but, before doing so, he must carry out his morning inspection of the patients’ rooms.

  He set about his task with precision and despatch. But his mind kept wandering, running on the eternal subject. Doctor Murchison was intolerable.

  So, too, was his female assistant. He must protest, and the words must be firm and appropriate.

  Then, suddenly, he came to himself. He was standing, absent of mind, in the doorway of a room which was not familiar to him, for he never spied upon the female patients.

  Mechanically he put a hand to his head and smoothed the carefully disposed wisps of hair on his cranium.

  The room was very bare—a low bed, one wooden chair, a wooden prie-Dieu and crucifix in one corner, a washstand with some enamelled tin washing utensils in another, and under the window a long piece of carpet rolled up.

  He realized suddenly where he was. This was Miss Archer’s room, but where was Miss Archer? The room was empty. There was no possible place where anyone could be concealed. And yet Miss Archer was ill, confined, as he knew, to her bed.

  He looked again at the bed. It was rumpled slightly, as though someone had lain upon it. He was turning away when his eye caught something on the wall just above the head of the bed. He turned to examine it. It appeared to be some sort of drawing in reddish brown paint—a five-pointed star. But it was not that which filled him with horror. Next to the star was the print of a hand, the four fingers and the thumb, all spread out. And the print was in red.

  That was blood, not the slightest doubt of it—blood, a bloody hand on the wall. Only it was dry, not sticky like the blood on the white stone that he had seen in the forest. Frightened? No, he was not frightened. But, on the other hand, this was serious. Miss Archer was not in her room, and there was blood above her pillow.

  He turned abruptly and made off quickly down the corridor. Yes, it was serious, very serious indeed. He would have to report this new discovery to Doctor Murchison, who was, after all, the head of the establishment, and must, of course, be informed of this important fact.

  He went down the stairs and arrived in the study panting. But the room was empty. He stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. Then a girl’s voice floated up through the window.

  “No, it’s your point, forty-thirty.”

  He walked to the window and looked out. From where he stood he could see a corner of the castle tennis court, and, as he watched, the slim figure of Constance moved into view, her racquet flashing as she returned a strong backhand. On the other side of the net Mr. Deeling could just see Doctor Murchison.

  Mr. Deeling turned and made his way hurriedly from the room. So they were playing tennis, were they—fiddling while Rome was on fire, keeping to their daily programme as though everything was quite as usual.

  The doctor, he remembered, preferred to play in the morning.

  “You got hotter,” he had heard him say, “and you sweated more.”

  How coarse these doctors were!

  He walked across the terrace, taking no notice of Colonel Rickaby, who called to him as he passed, and, descending the steps, turned the corner of the castle and presently found himself by the side of the court. The castle clock was striking midday somewhere above him.

  “Doctor Murchison,” he called.

  But there was no reply. The two on the court were hard at it, hammering away at each other from the back line to the accompaniment of a running comment from the doctor.

  “Oh, well played. By George, that was a good one.”

  Mr. Deeling watched in rising anger.

  “Doctor Murchison,” he called again. But the doctor had at that moment been lured up to the net, and had failed ignominiously to reach a lob on the back line.

  “Game and,” shouted Doctor Murchison, taking no notice of Mr. Deeling. “I’ll beat you one of these days, Constance. Upon my word, I will. Wish we had time for another, but that was twelve striking, wasn’t it, and I have got the dickens of a lot to do.”

  He picked up a coat lying on the bench beside the court.

  “Doctor Murchison,” said Mr. Deeling fortissimo, moving to the other end of the bench, “I insist upon seeing you at once. The matter is most—”

  The doctor turned and silenced him with a gesture.

  “It must wait till I have had my bath,” he said shortly, and, without another word he turned his back and ran lightly to the little wooden hut (pavilion was too lofty a term for it) which had been built next to the tennis court, and where the golf clubs and tennis racquets were kept. It had a shower bath, as Mr. Deeling knew, built in a little shed of corrugated iron.

  This was too much. This was not to be borne. He was to wait till Doctor Murchison had taken his bath. Well, he would do nothing of the kind.

  Throwing a chest, Mr. Deeling walked purposefully to the wooden hut, threw the door open and went inside. The bathhouse was at the far end of the room beyond, and as he entered he could hear sounds of splashing. Mr. Deeling crossed the room and dragged aside the mackintosh curtain. Doctor Murchison was stretched at full length in the shallow stone bath which formed the entire floor of the little tin shed. Cold water from a shower was sluicing down on him, and he was rolling under it and running his hands up and down his body with the utmost satisfaction. He did not notice Mr. Deeling, for his head was turned away from him. Nor did he hear Mr. Deeling’s apologetic cough.

  The doctor ceased rubbing himself, and, lying flat on his back, began to do a series of physical exercises while the water streamed down upon him. Mr. Deeling coughed a second time, but the noise of the water drowned his voice. He watched Doctor Murchison stretch himself out to his full length and bring his legs slowly over his head, over his shoulders, till they touched the ground behind.

  Mr. Deeling opened his mouth to call again, but no sound came from his lips. He gave a single start, and then stood rigid, his mouth extended in a silent cry like some grotesque Laocoön. For, as the doctor’s legs had come over his head, Mr. Deeling had seen his feet. He waited, still as a stone, till the legs came up again once more. Yes, there they were again—two crosses, one upon each of the soles.

  Mr. Deeling stood a moment, as though unable to move but thinking rapidly. Then, as the full implication of his discovery dawned on him, he turned and ran blindly out of the hut.

  II

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Deeling, but I really must ask you to come to the point.”

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Constance was sitting in the dispensary on one of the three white painted chairs which, with the desk, were all the furniture it contained. Mr. Deeling sat on another chair, his thin dry hands spreading along his striped trousers, and his face very sallow, crossed unexpectedly here and there with lines which had not been there before.

  He had left the bathhouse just after midday. He had found himself some minutes later, he did not remember how, sitting in front of his desk with the door of the dispensary locked behind him. There he had sat, thinking things out,
till his brain seemed to be turning like the wheels of an eccentric watch deprived of its hair spring.

  Monotonously the thought recurred: Doctor Murchison, the man in charge of Château Landry was the Honorable Geoffrey Godstone, the homicidal maniac. There could not be the least doubt about it. Habit still argued that what he had seen meant nothing much; but his reason assured him that it was proof irresistible. He had seen crosses tattooed on the feet of the man who was masquerading as Doctor Murchison. There were similar crosses on the feet of the patient Godstone. But the crosses on the patient Godstone had been put there some days or perhaps weeks after his arrival at the castle. The evidence of Warder Jones on that subject was conclusive. The real Godstone, with the cunning of a madman, had put them there in order to cover his identity.

  His reflections, interrupted by the bell for luncheon, were afterwards resumed; and he was now trying to explain the position to Miss Sedgwick. But Miss Sedgwick apparently either could not, or would not, understand. He must begin again.

  “As I have already told you,” he repeated, “the Honorable Geoffrey Godstone showed those marks on his feet to Warder Jones, and Warder Jones was positive that the marks were not there when the patient came. Remember that, for it is a most important point. This morning Doctor Murchison refused to speak to me on the tennis court, and I followed him into the bathroom. He was having his bath, and he did not notice that I was there. His feet, Miss Sedgwick, had the same marks on them as those which Warder Jones had observed upon the feet of the Honorable Geoffrey Godstone. Now, do you understand?”

  “I cannot say that I do, Mr. Deeling.”

  Really, she thought, the man was passing all bounds. It looked as though they would have to get rid of him.

  “The marks on his feet,” Mr. Deeling explained, “were in the form of crosses, and they were tattooed.”

  “Tattooed crosses,” said Constance, with a puzzled frown.

  “Tattooed crosses,” repeated Mr. Deeling.

  He paused and picked up a book which he had brought with him into the dispensary.