The House of Dr. Edwardes

by Francis Beeding

  For a moment Constance knew despair. Fear came at her like a great wave. Her only thought was to escape, to rush blindly from the castle, out of that valley with its dreadful air of false security, into the busy world of sane men and women moving on its accustomed round only a few miles away.

  Over the rocks. Over the rocks. For Mr. Clearwater that was a phrase of terror. Might it not for her be a way of escape. The ascent of the steep mountain must be terribly dangerous—and yet, what was that peril compared with that in which she stood? Surely there was a path, a path that wound through those yellow rocks, lost here and there in patches of snow that not even the August sun could melt, leading down, when the summit and the danger were past, to the plains, to the great lake, to the homes of happy men.

  But in that moment of abject fear she came to herself. This was sheer panic. She must put such thoughts as those out of her mind. They were craven, a final defeat of the spirit. She had not yet even considered her responsibilities. She was now in charge. Could she, it she ran away, or tried to run away, ever lift up her head again? Her responsibilities were frightful. But she must face them somehow. She must think. She must have a plan.

  The first thing, obviously, was to communicate with Doctor Edwardes. He must be warned immediately of what had happened, and urged to return at once. But how was this to be done? Godstone was sure to restrict her liberty now that he had revealed himself; even if he did not—even if he left her, as before, free to move about the castle and among the patients—she could not leave the valley or hope to reach even the village below the gates. In her mind’s eye she could see the great fence gleaming in the sun, its meshes of fine steel, close-woven, impenetrable, and the white ribbon of road that ran up to it, and the lodge that guarded the single gate, the single gate that could only be opened by working the locked lever in Doctor Edwardes’ room, the room that now was Godstone’s.

  But it had to be done somehow. For the moment, at any rate, she was free.

  She sat down at Mr. Deeling’s desk, found pen and paper and began to write. Once the pen was in her hands her faculties returned. She found herself thinking clearly, lucidly, almost calmly. She stated the facts, concisely, and asked for immediate help. In ten minutes she had finished.

  The letter was written, but how was she to send it? She began to turn over possible plans.

  Her mind turned suddenly to the real Doctor Murchison, the man who had been confined as Godstone all these weeks, who had never left his room. She remembered with a pang the desperate appeal he had made to her. For a moment she had believed him. Why had she gone back to Godstone, to be so easily deceived? In five minutes she had been apologizing to the madman for ever having doubted his sanity. She must have been infatuated with the man. He had fooled her to the top of her bent. Not only that. He had made love to her. That was the bitterest thought of all. This madman, whom she had admired from the very first for the splendor of his mind, the tenacity of his purpose, for the beauty of his soul, had made love to her. He had kissed her lips. She had been ready to pledge herself to a madman, to one who, when the fit was on him, did the deeds and uttered the blasphemies which had appalled her merely to read of in the cold, exact language of his medical file. Horrors of horrors! But now again her head went up. This would never do. She was giving way again. She was plunging once more into the abyss into which she had sunk a few moments ago. She thrust the letter to Doctor Edwardes into the pocket of the silk coat she was wearing, and began to think again.

  The man in the cell was Murchison, Murchison who ought to have been her chief during these last weeks, the young doctor sent out from England to take charge of Château Landry. He must be set free at all costs. He would be her only real ally, for Mr. Deeling was useless. Presumably, he was now locked up in his room in a state of drivelling panic. Murchison and Deeling were, besides herself, the only sane inmates of Château Landry, except, of course for the servants who were peasants from the village. She felt instinctively she could place no reliance on them. All the people from the village hated and feared Château Landry. She felt sure that at the first hint of anything unusual they would leave it in a body, and that nothing would induce them to meddle in any matter concerning it. She might have to appeal to them, but she was almost sure in advance that there could be no possible help from that quarter.

  If only Warder Jones had remained. There, again, she had been hopelessly fooled. He had been dismissed for being drunk on duty, and she had not even inquired into the matter. She had simply accepted the decision of Godstone—for she must not call him Murchison any more. Yet she was familiar with the warder’s record, an unblemished record for fifteen years, and he had sturdily denied having touched a drop of whisky, and had been quite unable to account for the fact that he had been found drunk. He had not been drunk at all; he had been drugged; and she, a doctor, had not suspected it. Godstone had drugged him, and then poured whisky over him so as to have an excuse for getting him out of the way. Nurse Webster, too, had gone. He was getting rid of all the sane persons, one by one. He was working up to the great climax of which he had spoken, the climax in which she was to play a part. But, again, she must not think of that.

  She forced her mind back to the question of the drugs. Warder Jones had been drugged, and of course, Murchison, the real Murchison, had been kept under drugs on and off for days together. There at last was the explanation of the large quantities of hyoscin that were being used.

  She went to the drug cupboard, and taking the key from her pocket, unlocked it. There was the bottle. She picked it out and held it up to the light. It was rather more than half full. One thing, at any rate, she could do. She moved to the zinc table where Mr. Deeling made up his prescriptions, and carefully poured the hyoscin down the sink. Then she washed out the bottle and filled it with distilled water, taking care that the amount she put in should exactly equal the amount of the drug she had poured out. Then she replaced the bottle.

  She glanced along the shelves and her eyes fell on a small blue phial containing a concentrated solution of laudanum.

  She took it down from the cupboard and slipped it into her pocket. She stood a moment thinking. That way of escape was always open. Then, appalled by her thoughts, she made to return the bottle to the shelf.

  But no—she would keep it, after all. She locked the cupboard.

  Now she must go and find Mr. Deeling. They must act together now. She must secure his help, whatever that was worth.

  She decided to go through the glass window and by way of the terrace. She moved to it, and was about to pass through when she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel of the terrace to the right, behind the corner of the castle. A moment later, there was the screech of a klaxon, and the Citroen—the car which had brought her to Château Landry—came suddenly into view. It was being driven at great speed and was full of people, whom Constance did not immediately recognize. It shot past her, swaying slightly as it bucketed over the gravel, and skidded round the sharp bend where the road went down the castle mound to the village.

  It was gone in a flash, its klaxon shrieking continuously, so that it seemed like a panic-stricken monster fleeing from an unknown doom.

  Abruptly she realized what had happened. Those people in the Citroen, they were the servants. They had heard or seen something, and they were escaping while there was yet time.

  She stepped from the window on to the terrace, and, as she did so, a figure, dusty, red in the face, gasping for breath, ran almost into her. It was Mr. Deeling. He gave no sign of recognition, but pushed her roughly aside, and stumbled on desperately down the road crying in a hoarse voice:

  “Stop. For God’s sake, stop. Take me with you. You can’t leave me behind.”

  II

  “Mr. Deeling,” said Constance sharply.

  He turned a face working with fear and flushed with running.

  “Mr. Deeling,” she said again. “Pull yourself together, for goodness’ sake. It is no use running after them like that.”r />
  He stood before her, panting, his hands fluttering by his side like two broken birds, as unlike the precise Mr. Deeling of daily life as could well be imagined.

  “You are right,” he said at last, passing a handkerchief across his forehead. “I cannot catch them now.”

  He was silent a moment, looking down the drive. Then, losing all control again, he raised his clenched fist.

  “The cowards,” he shouted, “the cowards, to leave behind them an old man like me.”

  Constance took him by the arm and led him towards the window of the dispensary. As she laid her hand on the edge of the glass door, to push it wide open, he shied violently to one side.

  “No, no,” he said, “not in there. I don’t go into that room again.”

  He spoke in little jerks, but already he was recovering himself. His eyes rested for a moment on his patent leather shoes.

  “Dear me, what a state they are in,” he muttered.

  Constance laid her hand again on his arm.

  “Let us go to the rose garden, Mr. Deeling,” she suggested.

  He moved a little to one side.

  “I am quite capable of walking without assistance,” he answered, with a faint return to his formal manner, and without another word he moved past her and led the way across the terrace to where the garden showed crimson and white and green in the afternoon sun.

  He sat down on the stone seat at the farther end where Mr. Clearwater had a few days previously recited his poem. Constance did not immediately follow Mr. Deeling’s example, but stood looking down at him. She felt as yet no pity, nothing but an angry contempt.

  “Now, Mr. Deeling,” she said. “Kindly tell me exactly what you have been doing. Why have the servants suddenly decamped like this in a body? I suppose you have been talking to them and frightened them away.”

  He did not answer for a moment, but sat silent, his thin elbows propped on his long thighs, looking steadily in front of him. His face was again that geometrical mask which, until a few days before, she had thought impenetrable.

  “Of course, I told the servants,” he said at last. “It was my duty to warn them. It was not right to leave them in ignorance.”

  “And, of course, they have run away.”

  “I am not responsible for that,” he answered doggedly.

  “And you, it seemed, were doing your best to follow them.”

  There was a pause. He opened his mouth once or twice but no words came.

  He looks like an underfed carp just out of the water, she thought.

  “How can I possibly remain?” he said at last. “You don’t seem to realize what it means.”

  He fumbled for his handkerchief and passed it across his mouth. Then suddenly he broke out.

  “The lying, selfish cowards,” he said. “They have left me in the lurch. Sneaking off like that—I was not gone for more than five minutes—just time to put a few things together. Then I heard the car, and I knew they were going to leave me. So I ran down the stairs. I shouted at them, but they would not stop.”

  “But there is the gate,” said Constance. “It is sure to be closed, and can only be opened from the lever on Doctor Edwardes’ desk.”

  “We thought of that,” said Mr. Deeling. “The gate is controlled from the castle, but it can also be opened from the lodge, if it isn’t disconnected. He hasn’t disconnected it yet, but he can do so if he likes at any moment. The gate will be opened all right. We sent a boy down to the lodge on a bicycle.”

  He did not seem to be aware that he was confessing his complicity with the deserters, and, before Constance could comment on his admission, he started to his feet and moved a few steps to the parapet. Suddenly he pointed, and Constance looked in the direction of his hand.

  She could just see the end of the white road where the little lodge was situated. Something winked and flashed at rare intervals along the end of the valley. That must be the sun striking the steel fence. Even as she looked, she saw something moving far away. That could only be the motor car. It ran past the lodge, and there was a flash of white. The gate had opened; the car had passed through.

  “What did I tell you,” said Mr. Deeling.

  She looked him up and down.

  “Why don’t you follow them?” she asked. “Presumably the gate is still open.”

  “It will never be opened again,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That madman is in the library now. I saw him as I ran past the windows. There was a smile on his face. He, too, had heard the motor car. He knew what was happening.”

  “Then he could have disconnected the lodge and prevented them from getting away.”

  Mr. Deeling looked at her with a dull contempt.

  “Why should he do that?” he asked. “Do you think he wants a lot of servants here now? He wants to be quite free. He is only too thankful that they have cleared out.”

  “Do they know exactly what has happened?”

  “They know enough.”

  “Then, in that case,” said Constance quietly, “I see no cause for alarm. They will tell the people in the village. We have only to keep our heads and play for a little time.”

  Mr. Deeling laughed shortly.

  “The village will not raise a finger,” he said.

  “But that, surely, is absurd,” she protested.

  “I’ve been here now for eleven years,” said Mr. Deeling, “eleven years and six months to be exact, and I can tell you at once that it is useless to look for help in that quarter.

  They’ll be crossing themselves tonight and waiting for the castle to go up in smoke. They think we are all of us in league with the devil. Those who come here are the bravest of them, and even they only came for the big wages they get. They believe in all sorts of queer things. They hate us. The village priest preaches against us at least once a month. Once he offered to help Doctor Edwardes by performing some sort of ceremony over the patients—to drive out the evil spirits, he said. They will do nothing to help us, nothing at all.”

  Mr. Deeling was recovering his self-control. He was almost, except in appearance, his normal self. Even the little didactic inflections had come back into his voice.

  “Very well,” said Constance. “That means that you and I are now the only sane persons in this valley. We have got to do something, and you have got to help me, Mr. Deeling.”

  She paused and waited for him to speak. He had dropped his head on his hands again. Now he raised it and looked at her.

  “It is now too late,” he said, and she saw that his lips were trembling. “You should have believed me at once, this afternoon. Then we might have got away. Now it is impossible. God only knows what frightful thing is going to happen.”

  “Nothing is going to happen,” she said bravely. “We have got somehow to control this man.”

  “Are you armed?” she added.

  Mr. Deeling shook his head.

  “I often carry a pistol. It was in my room yesterday, but when I looked for it just now it was not there. He has taken it away, and I suppose you haven’t got one yourself.”

  “No,” she answered.

  “And your keys,” he went on. “We might be able to lock him into his room. But I expect he’s taken them away by now.

  She looked at him for a moment.

  “I will go and see,” she said. “Wait here for me, Mr. Deeling.”

  For a moment he seemed about to stop her going, as though he feared to be alone.

  Her footsteps died away on the gravel, as she moved quickly to the castle. Then there was silence.

  He was so tired that his brain just would not work. He did not know what was coming next. He could not even imagine what it would be. He had no imagination. He was proud of having none. And yet—something had happened in the wood that dreadful day. What was that infernal buzzing? It was a wasp.

  “Go away,” said Mr. Deeling irritably, waving his hands.

  But it would not go away; it kept on buzzing round
his head. He got violently to his feet and waved his hands again about his ears.

  “You were right, Mr. Deeling,” said the voice of Constance, “the keys are no longer in my room.”

  “These wasps are really intolerable,” said Mr. Deeling.

  “There must be a nest of them somewhere. I must speak to Mr. Curtis. He once smoked out a wasps’ nest.”

  “The keys are not in my room,” repeated Constance.

  Mr. Deeling turned and looked at her.

  “Then how are you going to shut him up?” he said. “What are you going to do?

  “You must do something,” he went on accusingly. “You are in charge of Château Landry. It’s you that have got us into this awful mess. I am not going to have my throat cut because of you, like Miss Archer. You are responsible, do you hear?”

  “Miss Archer,” said Constance,” what do you mean by that?”

  “I tell you. Miss Archer has been murdered,” he said. “I saw the bloodstains on the wall above her bed. That’s what I was going to tell the doctor about before I found out who he really was.

  “She’s dead, I tell you,” he repeated with rising excitement.

  “They’ve put some horrible mark above her bed—a star in blood—blood do you hear? They will be doing the same to me soon.”

  He shook violently from head to foot.

  “Keep calm, Mr. Deeling,” said Constance, but she said it mechanically. Her mind had returned to Mr. Godstone’s file—something about smearing charms with the blood of the victim on the walls of the place he had last occupied.

  She felt suddenly sick. There was silence between them.

  “You are quite right,” said Mr. Deeling at last, swallowing in his throat. “I will be calm. I—I’m a little overwrought, but I’m better now. Yes, I will do anything you say. Only don’t abandon me. Don’t leave me alone.”

  He made a weak gesture.

  “I refuse to be left alone,” he concluded.

  “I’m not going to leave you alone,” said Constance, as if she were talking to a frightened child.