He sat up weakly, pressing his hands to his head. For the hundredth time he was tortured by the same thought: that madman was in control. And he himself was helpless.
How cunning Godstone had been, to all appearance sane and always charming! During that journey from London, he had revealed a breadth of view, scholarship and high courage that had won his esteem. He had talked quite openly about his madness, saying that he knew he was like that, and prayed daily to be cured. Would he, Murchison, help him? And all the time the madman had been waiting his chance.
Then, just before Château Landry had come into sight, there had been that awful disaster.
Murchison groaned. He sank back again on the bed, and, as he did so, the door was opened and then was quietly closed.
He looked round. Yes, there he was again, his torment, in the white overall, and in his right hand the hypodermic needle with the plunger drawn back. Murchison could not repress a shudder. It swept over him like wind over a cornfield.
“So you are awake,” came the hated voice. “Are you hungry?”
“No, damn you, no,” said Doctor Murchison, propping himself up on one elbow.
He tried to rise, but he felt his strength beginning to ebb. The room was swaying like a ship’s cabin. He sank back a second time on the pillow. It was useless trying to resist. There was Godstone in the white overall, cool and collected, with his smile. And there was himself, lying on a tousled bed in his suit of drab pyjamas, with disordered hair, a beard on his chin and lips, for they had not shaved him since his arrival. To look at them, who would doubt which was the madman, and which the doctor. Was he really the sane man of the two? But, of course, he was. He knew quite well that he was Murchison, Murchison, M.D., who had done so well at Bart’s, and had been offered this excellent job, a thousand a year and all found, a thousand a year and free of income tax.
There was the madman bending over him, rolling up his pyjama sleeve, and the needle was poised.
Murchison drew in his breath sharply as he felt the point enter beneath his skin. His eyes, which had been closed, opened and met those of Godstone, in which there lurked a trace of mockery as he pressed home the plunger.
“I have given you a stronger dose this evening,” said.
Godstone, as he withdrew the needle. “I shall want you to keep very quiet for the next two days.”
Murchison did not answer, but without another word, watched Godstone leave the room. The key turned in the lock, and the footsteps died away almost immediately in the corridor.
He lay quite still, waiting. He knew what was going to happen only too well. Just at first there would be no change. Then he would begin to feel lighter, as though his head had been pumped full of gas, and, at the same time, the walls of the room would expand and contract as though they were made of elastic. And then would come a soft murmuring, and he would begin to rise and float, and everything would disappear. And he would go on floating through darkness, streaked now and then with colored lights—until the dreams began.
He continued to wait, with closed eyes. But nothing happened. After an appreciable time he opened them. Everything seemed normal, the patch above his head was just the same, the gray walls as solid as in his waking moments. He could even hear a bird singing somewhere outside. This was astonishing. It must be quite ten minutes since Godstone had left the room. And yet he was feeling stronger. He took his right wrist in his left hand and felt his pulse, counting the beats with great intentness. It was weak, but, as far as he could tell, it was normal. Had the drug not acted, or was he immune from the quantity he had taken? His medical training told him that was absurd. What had happened?
Then, suddenly, he heard a tapping from the direction of the window. At first, he took no notice, but continued to count his pulse beats—seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven—they corresponded with the taps on the window-pane. He looked up. Something white was touching it; and, even as he watched, there was the tapping again.
What on earth was it? He sat up and dropped his feet to the ground. Then, with a great effort, he stood upright and walked slowly, with hands out-stretched, like a child learning to walk for the first time, towards the window. Tap, tap, tap. He could now see what it was, a bit of paper folded.
But how could a piece of paper make a noise like that?
With a great effort, his hands touched the sill and remained there. The sill was above his head, and he had to reach up to it. He leaned his head back as far as it would go and looked up. Yes, he was right. It was a piece of folded paper, stuck in the end of a stick. A wild hope seized him. He put up a trembling hand, and, pushing it between the bars, snatched at the paper. The stick was instantly withdrawn.
With shaking fingers he opened the note and read:
Courage. I know who you are. I am going to try to release you tonight. Pretend that you are under the influence of hyoscin. Destroy this.
CONSTANCE SEDGWICK.
II
The white stone, set in the little clearing guarded by the dark firs, shone in the moonlight. There were four figures about it, busy upon its sides and surface. They held in their hands bunches of a dark green plant.
They rubbed and beat the stone till the air was heavy with the smell of bruised herbs. And then one of them began to bind a garland about the stone.
None of them spoke a word. The remaining three stood by, and watched.
Then one of the watchers drew back a little, and the other two knelt down beside the stone. There came the sound of flint on steel. A little pale blue name fluttered for a moment.
“The spot by morning must be bare and clean. Nothing green or living must remain upon it,” said one of the three who watched.
“It shall be as you say, Master,” said a voice.
The blue flame fluttered along the grass above the stone. The grass crackled sharply, for it was very dry. The flame ran along the ground and began to eat it up, purring like a cat.
The thin blue smoke which rose from the burning grass obscured the stone and the figure weaving a green chaplet round its white sides.
III
Constance stood at the door of her room listening. It was a little past midnight and her preparations were complete.
Following the drunken appearance of Mr. Deeling in the rose garden, she had fled blindly to her room, and there, realizing the full implication of his words, she had for one terrible half-hour given way altogether.
But she had soon recovered, and, from sheer panic and a world crawling with horrors, she had suddenly passed into a period of utter calm. It was as though she had arrived at the very center of a typhoon where all was deathly still and where a false peace and security reigned. About her on every side whirled the destroying elements, lust and cruelty and madness. But for the moment she was safe.
Presently she had risen, bathed her face and hands in cold water, and had begun to pace her room, thinking desperately, working out her plan. She did not wait to sum up coldly the pros and cons of it. If she did that her resolution might fail, and she would fall back again into despair.
She had begun at once to act.
First she had written a short note to the real Doctor Murchison. She had then left the castle, keeping an eye alternately on the windows and the meadow, for at all costs she must not be seen. She had gone straight to the shed at the foot of the castle mound in which were kept spades and other garden implements, including, she remembered, several long poles. She had reached the shed, apparently unobserved, and she had chosen one suited to her purpose. She had split the thin end, stuck the note into the cleft, and moved off again round the castle in the direction of the last green of the golf course. Just opposite it, twelve feet or so up in the wall of the oldest tower, was the room in which Doctor Murchison was confined, the room whose solitary window had been smashed by Colonel Rickaby’s ball.
She had crept along in the shadow of the wall, trailing her pole like some child, as she said to herself, playing at knight errantry. Presently she had reached the
window and lifting the pole tapped on it, for how long she had not known. It had seemed an eternity, and, as she tapped, holding the pole to the full extent of her arms, for it was only just long enough, she had prayed wildly that her trick with the hyoscin had passed unnoticed. Otherwise there was nothing to be done.
And then, just as she had given up hope, she had felt the end of the stick quiver, and, looking up, had seen a hand clutch it for a moment, pull the note out of the cleft and disappear. With a sigh of relief she had thrown the pole down in the long grass beneath the wall and returned to the castle.
There she had passed a curious evening. Neither Doctor Murchison nor Mr. Deeling had given any signs of life, but at the usual hour the gong had sounded for dinner and she had gone to the dining room to find a single place laid for her, with Miss Truelow in attendance.
At any other time Constance would have felt inclined to laugh at her appearance. In addition to the severe black which she affected, Miss Truelow had put on a white apron trimmed with lace and a white cap, her resemblance to the ordinary, respectable parlormaid grotesquely impaired by the large diamond rings which never left her fingers.
She had greeted Constance with effusion.
“Miss Collett has cooked your dinner,” she had said, “and I am to have the privilege of waiting.”
Constance had protested without success, and finally she had obediently sat down and made a pretense of eating, though the roof of her mouth had been dry and her pulses throbbing.
The meal had been excellent, especially the mushroom omelette, but Constance had felt she would never be able to eat such a dish again. Her wine had been poured out for her by Mr. Curtis, who had assumed evening dress for the occasion, and looked the kind of butler to be seen in amateur theatricals.
After dinner she had gone straight to her room, had made her few preparations, set her alarm clock for half-past eleven, and then deliberately taken off her frock, lain down on the bed and tried to sleep, though, of course, in vain.
It had been utterly quiet in the castle, though once or twice she had heard footsteps and whispers in the corridor outside. At half-past eleven had come the relief of action. She had stopped the alarm clock before it bad begun to ring, and had then risen from her bed and put on a short skirt, with a black silk jumper. Over this she had put on her dressing gown, into the pockets of which she had thrust a pair of low heeled brogues, which she used for golf, and an electric torch.
And now she was standing by her door in her stockinged feet, listening. There was no sound from outside. She glanced again at her wrist watch where the moonlight struck it, for the moon was nearly at the full. Then, advancing resolutely, she turned the key and softly opened her door. She stepped through into the passage, pulling the door to behind her, but, even as she did so, there came a hoarse voice from the darkness:
“Halt, who goes there?”
She gave a little gasp of surprise.
“Is that you. Colonel?” she said. “What are you doing outside my door at this time of night?”
There was a chink of spurs in the shadows, and into the thin patch of moonlight, filtering through between the door and the jamb, stepped Colonel Rickaby. On his feet were top boots with spurs and khaki riding breeches, into which was tucked a wide nightshirt, with open throat. He wore a woollen cap on his head and carried a drawn sword in his hand.
He drew himself up with another chink of spurs, and gave her a smart salute, his sword whistling down within a few inches of her face.
“Sorry, Madam,” he said, “but orders are orders. No one is to leave the castle tonight.”
“But who ordered you to stand here?” said Constance in the same tone. She was thankful to be wearing her dressing gown over her clothes, so that he could not see she was fully dressed.
“The—the officer commanding,” said the Colonel with slight hesitation. “Sentry go, by George. I’m to march up and down here until I am relieved by that fool Hickett, who knows nothing about the job, of course; can’t even remember the countersign.”
Constance thought rapidly. She must at all costs get rid of this tiresome old man.
“It’s very good of you. Colonel,” she said. “But I am tired, and it is difficult to sleep, you know, with somebody walking up and down just outside the room.”
“’Pon my word, Madam, I never thought of that. It’s these dashed confounded spurs. I’ll take them off.”
“It’s not only the spurs,” objected Constance.
“I’ll take off my boots as well,” said Colonel. “I am used to hardships, Madam. When I was campaigning against the Wazi Wazi in ’89 or was it ’91—”
And he started off on one of his interminable reminiscences.
She laid a hand on his arm.
“Colonel,” she said, “I much appreciate what you are doing for me. In fact, I am most intensely grateful for your kind care.”
“By George, Madam, it’s most good of you to say so. It does me very great honor, I assure you, Madam. Biggest compliment I have ever had paid to me in my life.”
“Listen to me. Colonel,” she said persuasively. “Orders are orders, and you are an old soldier and could not dream of neglecting them. But wouldn’t it be possible for you to transfer your beat—’”
“Guard, Madam. Not beat. I’m not a dashed awful confounded policeman.”
“Wouldn’t it be possible for you to transfer it, say, to the ground outside my window? I should not hear you from there, and you could keep guard below just as easily. Nothing can possibly happen to me in this corridor, especially if I lock my door.”
The Colonel reflected for a moment.
“Will you give me your word, Madam,” he said at last, “that you will lock your door?”
Constance hesitated.
“You will pardon my insisting,” went on the Colonel, “but orders are orders, you know. I would ask you, Madam, with all respect, to be good enough to lock your door and throw the key of it through the window. I am sorry to make this request, but I am sure you will understand.”
“Very well. Colonel, I’ll lock my door and the moment I see you down below I will throw you the key.”
“In that case, Madam,” said the Colonel, “I shall be most happy to meet your wishes. And I have the honor to bid you good night.”
He stepped back two paces, and turning from her chinked away down the corridor.
Constance went quickly back to her room, closed the door, locked it and went to an old chest of drawers that stood near her bed. There was a key in the bottom drawer. She pulled it out and compared it with the one which she held in her hand. Then she stood by the window waiting. A door closed somewhere and presently the Colonel appeared below in the moonlight. He had put on a short thick coat, a kind of peajacket and his drawn sword glittered in his hand.
He approached the wall beneath her window and looked up. She threw down the key of the chest of drawers into his outstretched hand.
“Goodnight, Colonel,” she said, and heard his gruff answer as she drew back from the window.
She wasted no more time, but unlocked her bedroom door, slipped into the corridor, relocked it again, and thrust the key into the pocket of her dressing gown.
And now the hardest part of her task was before her. Silently, for her stockinged feet made no sound on the carpet, she moved down the corridor until she was opposite Godstone’s room. Was the door locked? With infinite caution she gripped the handle. It turned slowly. Thank God, it was open.
Her mouth was tight shut, and her pulses beating as she pushed the door slowly open inch by inch until she could slip inside.
Then, bending down, she pulled one of her shoes from her pocket, and put it beside the door to prevent it closing again. She moved two paces forward and stood listening. She had only been in that room once before for a moment to get some tennis balls. But she remembered the position of the bed. It was along the wall to her left. She turned her head and looked at it. She could discern the tumbled bedclothes, whi
te in the darkness. Everything else was in shadow. Foot by foot she crept nearer the bed. At last she could see a chair at its foot on which clothes were lying. There was a coat, hung across the back of it. She moved to it and, holding her breath, began to feel rapidly in the pockets, gazing steadily at the bed as she did so. Suddenly she gave a sigh of relief. The bed was empty.
Speed was essential now. Godstone was not there. But where then could he be?
There was nothing in the coat, and she turned to the trousers. There in the hip pocket she found what she sought, a bundle of keys which jingled slightly as she took them. She held them up in the moonlight. Yes, there were the keys she wanted. She moved swiftly to the door, picked up her shoe, closed the door, and moved away down the corridor, her heart beating fast.
She went down the staircase, pausing at the top to disconnect the electric bells, and so reached the ground floor corridor where Doctor Murchison was shut up apart from the rest.
She paused, this time outside the room of Doctor Murchison. She inserted one of the keys and turned the lock, pushing the door wide open.
“Who’s that?” said a voice.
“Constance Sedgwick,” she replied.
“Thank God,” said the voice again.
She could see him now, lying on the bed fully dressed.
“Quick,” she said. “We have no time to lose. Godstone is not in his room, and I don’t know where he is. He may be here at any moment.”
He rose slowly from the bed.
“I am ready,” he said. “What are we going to do?”
“We are going to get away,” she said. “It is the only thing.
Except for you and me, there is only one other sane person in this place, and when I saw him last he was drunk.”
“Drunk,” he repeated mechanically.
“Yes,” she said. “Mr. Deeling is drunk.”
“Who is Mr. Deeling?”
“I will tell you that later,” she said urgently. “Follow me now, and don’t make any noise.”
The House of Dr. Edwardes Page 22