“I am now,” he said, “going to quote to you a passage from a novel which I read quite recently. It is entitled ‘The Madonna of the Barricades.’”
He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, as he spoke, and produced a pair of steel pince-nez. He clamped them on his nose, and, opening a red bound novel at his side, began to read:
After we had been groping our way for about three quarters of an hour in the Catacombs we heard the sound of chanting such as one hears in a church. I asked my companion what it was. He replied with a terrific volley of invective that this noise was being made by some of the canaille who haunted the Catacombs and were votaries of the Black Mass….
There were three priests, apparently in vestments, and there were perhaps a hundred worshippers, at least half of them women.
I am not going to describe all I saw, or all I thought I saw, for the whole effect was dim, and one’s observation was distracted by the Gregorian chanting of the Mass—rather good from a musical point of view. Also there was a peculiar strong and stupefying smell of incense….
I soon signed to my guide to leave, and we crept back from our spy hole. The man was trembling with the emotion of rage. “Would you believe it, monsieur,” he said in a voice of utmost horror, “that these men, these priests of the devil, have the Cross tattooed upon their feet? I have seen it, and so I know. Therefore, not only do they defile the Body of Christ, but they cannot take a step without trampling upon Him.”
He finished reading, put down the book and looked at Constance. He found that she was gazing at him with an expression of real concern.
“Now do you begin to understand?” he asked.
He looked at her eagerly, anxious that she should share his sense of the extremity of their position. But she did not seem to realize even yet what had happened.
Really, these modern girls were most extraordinary.
“The French diabolists of 1848,” he carefully explained, “were accustomed to tattoo a cross on the soles of their feet as an insult to the God they had deliberately rejected. The Honorable Geoffrey Godstone is, as you are aware, a diabolist. You have perhaps examined the papers in his file.”
“I have seen the papers,” she admitted, “and there is a reference in them to the fact that the patient has these marks on his feet.”
She was still looking at him with that odd expression of concern.
“But don’t you see what it means?” he continued desperately. “The Honorable Geoffrey Godstone, or, let us say, the patient who goes by that name, complained to Warder Jones a few days ago that someone had tattooed on his feet the mark of the cross. Warder Jones examined his feet and observed the crosses. The warder told me of the incident because he was ready to swear that, when the patient was first brought to Château Landry, there were no such marks to be seen. Do I make myself clear?”
“You say that Warder Jones was sure that the patient had no marks on his feet when he arrived?”
“He is ready to swear to it.”
“It is unfortunate,” she said, “that Warder Jones is no longer here.”
“What!” Mr. Deeling exclaimed.
“Warder Jones was dismissed this morning,” she informed him. “Last night he was drunk on duty, and he made a very serious mistake. In fact, he neglected to lock up Mr. Curtis, and he locked you up instead.”
“Nurse Webster will confirm what I say,” began Mr. Deeling.
“Nurse Webster, as you know, is on leave,” she pointed out.
She was looking at him kindly, almost it seemed, with compassion.
“Is there anything else you would like to tell me, Mr. Deeling?”
“There is one other thing,” he replied. “I have just seen Godstone, the patient, I mean. While you were at luncheon I abstracted the keys of his room from the pocket of Doctor Murchison’s white overall, which was hanging in the study. This is the first act of that nature which I have ever performed in the course of my life, and I hope and trust that it will be the last. On entering the room of the Honorable Geoffrey Godstone I found him lying in a stupor. I am not a qualified medical man, but I am prepared to swear that he was under the influence of a drug, almost certainly of hyoscin. And I may mention in passing that considerable quantities of that drug have disappeared from my dispensary during the last few weeks and without my knowledge. There are only two people besides myself who have access to this room—yourself and Doctor Murchison. I, of course, made a point of examining the feet of the patient as he lay there quite insensible. The marks, Miss Sedgwick, were there.”
There was a short silence. It was Constance who spoke.
“Tell me, Mr. Deeling,” she said, “what conclusion do you draw from all this?”
“There is only one possible conclusion,” said Mr. Deeling.
“Your original conjecture was correct. Doctor Murchison is the Honorable Geoffrey Godstone; that is to say the man we know as the doctor is the patient, and the man we know as the patient is the doctor. Château Landry at the present moment is in charge of a homicidal maniac. You’ve got to realize that, apart from the servants, you and I are the only sane persons in this place.”
He leaned forward, stretching out a hand that trembled.
“Miss Sedgwick,” he pleaded. “I know that our relations have up to now been far from cordial. But we must put all that aside. We—we must cooperate. We are in great danger. For God’s sake let us work together.”
“Why, of course, Mr. Deeling,” said Constance rising and walking towards him.
He looked up at her bewildered.
“Then let us decide at once what we are to do,” he said urgently.
“Let us talk of this some other time,” she suggested. “You are tired, Mr. Deeling. We have all been working too hard in this terrible heat. What I advise you to do now is to go and lie down.”
“Lie down!” exclaimed Mr. Deeling.
Was the woman off her head! Had she no sense of their common peril? And why in the name of heaven was she smiling at him in that idiotic fashion?
Then suddenly it dawned on him. He was being humored. He had put the case clearly and unanswerably, and the woman merely thought that he was overwrought, that his brain was turning, in a word that he was mad.
He sprang to his feet, flushing helplessly.
“Good God,” he shouted, “why are you smiling at me like that? Do you think I’m mad like all the rest of them? Answer me, Miss Sedgwick. Don’t stand there like a doctor leering at a patient. I won’t have it. Do you hear me? You think I am mad, don’t you? You think I am mad, damn you.”
He took another step towards her.
“You’ll be the death of us both,” he went on, his voice rising almost to a scream. “We shall all die, I tell you. We shall all of us perish miserably like birds upon a tree. The man is a devil-worshipper. He has done the most terrible things. He—”
A sudden knock on the door brought him to an abrupt stop. Constance stepped to the door at once and opened it.
Doctor Murchison stood on the threshold.
“Excuse me,” he said, “if I am interrupting. But I thought I heard somebody shouting. Can I be of any help? What is it, Mr. Deeling?”
Mr. Deeling looked speechlessly at the doctor.
“Mr. Deeling is not very well,” began Constance, but she was not allowed to finish her sentence.
Mr. Deeling, utterly distraught, pointed full at the doctor.
“You are not Doctor Murchison,” he said. “You have deceived us all. You are the Honorable Geoffrey Godstone. I have seen the marks on your feet. I can prove what I say.
I saw them this morning in the bathroom.”
Constance moved swiftly to the doctor, who put his arm across her shoulders.
“Mr. Deeling,” said the doctor, “I believe we had some conversation on this subject before. On that occasion it was Miss Sedgwick who doubted me.”
He paused and looked down at Constance beside him.
“You do not believe him now?” he sai
d softly.
“Of course not.”
“You believe in me utterly?”
“Of course,” she said again.
“And yet Mr. Deeling is right,” said the doctor gently. “I am, as he says, Geoffrey Godstone.”
For a moment the silence closed over them like water over a stone.
“Well,” said the doctor, looking from one to the other, “what are we going to do about it?”
III
Mr. Deeling’s face turned from red to white.
“You confess it,” he muttered.
The doctor turned upon him abruptly.
“Go to your room, Deeling, and stay there till I come to you.”
“But I—I—began Mr. Deeling, looking at Constance.
“You had better leave us, Mr. Deeling,” said Constance.
The doctor moved aside to let him pass. Mr. Deeling shuffled along the wall like a crab, and scrabbled at the handle of the door.
“This is terrible, this is disastrous, this is the end,” he muttered.
The door closed gently behind him. Constance and the doctor were alone.
“And now, Constance,” he said, glancing towards her.
She looked at him steadily.
“Doctor,” she said professionally, “do you think that was really the best thing to do?”
Doctor Murchison made no sign that he had heard. He was staring straight in front of him, as though lost in reflection.
“I think you behaved very cruelly just now,” Constance went on, “pretending to be Mr. Godstone. You frightened poor Mr. Deeling out of his wits. I am sure it’s bad for him after that shock he had the other day.”
He turned to her suddenly.
“There was no pretense,” he said, “I was speaking the truth.”
She looked at him a moment with wide eyes.
“I don’t understand,” she faltered.
“It’s quite simple,” he returned, “I am Geoffrey Godstone, the man who was sent to this place in the charge of Doctor Murchison six weeks ago.”
“But that is impossible. You are making fun of me. It—it isn’t sensible.”
“Not so long ago you were ready to believe it.”
Constance flushed.
“I hoped you had forgotten that silly business. I suppose this is your revenge. Very well. It’s one up to you. And now we’ll go and put things right with poor Mr. Deeling. He really did believe—”
“Come here, Constance,” the doctor interrupted.
After a moment’s hesitation she moved towards him. He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Look me in the face,” he said.
Obediently she raised her eyes.
“I solemnly assure you that what I said is truth. My name is Geoffrey Godstone. I am the second son of Lord Bramber.”
“But—but you are as sane as I am,” she returned.
“Sane?” he echoed. “What do you mean by that? I am sane to myself. I have been sane to you. Or do you prefer the sanity of that poor fool who was with us a moment ago?”
A look came into his eyes which she had not seen before.
“But if you are Godstone,” she said, “you—you—”
She broke off.
“Yes?” he encouraged her, still in the same gentle voice.
“Oh, let me go,” she said with a sudden jerk of her shoulders backwards. But his grip only tightened.
“You are beginning to realize it now,” he said. “I am Godstone, and I am not like other men. But I am still the man who walked with you in the garden, who came to you when you were frightened by a shadow on the wall, and carried you to your room like a child. I am sane, sane, I tell you. But I am different. I have a mission to fulfill. I have been chosen out of all the world. And you have been sent to help me. You, too, have been chosen.”
He pulled her slowly towards him. His hands slipped from her shoulders and crept about her, pressing her closer. And suddenly she began to fight him desperately, striking at his chest and broad shoulders, struggling to get free.
“Let me go. Let me go,” she panted.
He released her, and she staggered back into Mr. Deeling’s vacant chair.
“You believe me now,” he said at last. “Answer me, Constance.”
“I believe you,” she replied with a sob.
“Will you believe me too,” he went on, “when I say that I love you?”
She made no answer.
“I love you,” he repeated.
He moved towards her and put a hand again upon her shoulder. She sprang from the chair with a cry and rushed blindly to the door. She fumbled with the handle. Before she could get it open he was upon her again. He drew her away, not roughly, but with a strength against which she was powerless.
“Sit down,” he said. “I shall not molest you.”
She moved as far away from him as possible and sat down by the window. She was trembling from head to foot, sobs rose in her throat every now and again which she could not control. She must think. She must keep her head. What, oh, what did one do?
“Now,” he went on, “there is a question of love between us, isn’t there? You will not deny that if, as Doctor Murchison, I had asked you to marry me, you would have done so. Wouldn’t you?
“Wouldn’t you?” he repeated.
“You must be mad,” said Constance suddenly, “to think that I could ever—”
She stopped.
He smiled.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s not much use telling a madman that he must be mad, is it? This, my dear, is a situation to which the usual phrases cannot apply. As I have told you already I am not an ordinary man.”
But she was not listening to him now. There was a bell somewhere, if she could only remember where, which rang in the servants’ quarters. She had merely to press it and help would come.
“I did not try at first to win your love,” he continued. “Our relationship has been a sort of accident. But it fitted in with my purpose. I thought it might make matters easier for you. We have a mission to fulfill. Perhaps you have begun to guess what it is.”
She had risen to her feet and was walking as naturally as she could to the desk. The bell was in the under part of the kneehole. She had only to sit in the chair and she could reach it easily.
“I gave you my case to read,” he went on. “I did that deliberately. You must know me for what I am.
“No,” he broke off suddenly, “I should not ring that bell if I were you. No one will hear it. Warder Jones, as you know, was dismissed this morning, and the other warder has been called away by telegram to the bedside of a sick mother. We are quite alone in Château Landry. Here I am, king in this little kingdom, lord of this little pasture set high in the hills.”
His eyes were kindling as he spoke, and he began to walk restlessly about the room.
“They are all devoted to me here except the poor fool who was with us a moment ago. I am free now to do the work for which I was chosen. The valley is shut. There is no escape and this time I shall not fail.”
He came abruptly to a standstill in the middle of the room. His excitement had mounted rapidly. His words came faster. He became, under her eyes, a man possessed.
“All is now ready for the Master, who has chosen me out of all the world, the black bread and the unsalted spices, the place unhallowed with a bloody sacrifice, the crowns of vervein, the ambergris and the storax, the blood of the mole and the mouse with wings and the goat. For many nights the ancient rites have been performed. The white stone is made ready. The circle shall be drawn and the pentacle within the circle. The fire of alderwood shall be lighted, and I shall call upon him by the key of Solomon and the great name. He will enter me. And in the time appointed he will take my flesh. He has chosen me for his great purpose. After the sacrifice, fulfillment. But first the sacrifice.—You have seen the record of what I have done. Do you understand? Yes, I see the horror in your eyes. Everything is ready. All that is fair shall be foul. The blood of the inno
cent shall cry in vain.”
He paused suddenly and, moving swiftly to Constance, seized her hands and looked into her eyes.
“All these things—you shall see them yourself. For yours is the glory and the shame. You are a partner in the mystery.”
He went rigid as she gazed at him wide-eyed with horror, and there was foam on his lips.
“But not yet—not yet,” he muttered thickly, and suddenly dropping her hands he turned and ran blindly from the room.
Chapter Twelve
I
She stood a moment facing the door which had closed behind him. Then impulsively she started forward and put her hand on the doorknob. But at once she drew back. Where was she going? She could not act without a plan, and she had no plan.
She must not lose her head. She must force herself to think calmly and collectedly.
She turned and went to the window.
There was the familiar terrace, the meadow beyond, drowsy with heat, the menacing circle of firs and the final barrier of rock. The scene was clear, but somehow colorless. All those things continued to exist, but they were flat, like a Japanese picture. Her mind was stunned, and the things about her seemed empty of life or reality.
Then, stabbing its way through the confusion of her brain, shot a memory of what she had read in the file of Godstone, the man who now had charge of Château Landry. Godstone was the lunatic who believed in the devil, the man who had committed, according to the sworn testimony of his distracted friends, at least two assaults so horrible, so devoid of any mere human passion, that in panic they had sought any means to isolate him from the world. One sentence in one of the letters sprang to her mind, spinning round like the written prayer on a wheel: “It was only after three hours unceasing work that we saved the child’s life; when we found him we thought he had gone.”
And that was the man who was loose in Château Landry. Not only loose, but in power; who had been in power for weeks. During all that time he had behaved as sanely and as conscientiously as the most exacting critic of the medical profession could require. His indeed had been a terrible sanity, for he had been at once menacingly efficient and filled with dark pity for the unhappy patients. And yet—yet he was worse than all of them, incredibly worse, worse even than Mr. Curtis.
The House of Dr. Edwardes Page 19