The House of Dr. Edwardes

by Francis Beeding

  He turned obediently and followed her out of the room. She locked the door and touched him on the shoulder.

  “Down the corridor,” she said, her lips to his ear. “Keep your hand on the wall. The staircase is at the end. Wait at the foot of it.”

  “I am in your hands,” he whispered, moving off as she directed. She noticed with concern that he could hardly stand.

  Her next move was to find Mr. Deeling. As she went back along the corridor and up the stairs, she wondered what she would do if she found him incapable. Would she leave him behind? In that case he might be torn to pieces. Was it worth while trying to save him? The man was worthless, a machine thrown out of gear. And then suddenly she felt a rush of pity. Poor fellow, it was not altogether his fault. When one lived as he did, it was so easy to be thrown out of gear. But still—drunk, the final resort of a feeble mind.

  She reached his door and tried the handle. It was, as she expected, locked. She tapped on the door, but there was no answer. She tapped again louder, and all the time there was a lump like ice on her chest and her mouth was dry with fear. Supposing she roused others than Mr. Deeling by her knocking. Where was Godstone?

  At the fifth or sixth tap there was a movement in the room. Footsteps approached the door, and she heard a quavering voice:

  “Go away,” it said, “go away. I will kill the first man that enters. I am armed, I tell you, heavily armed.”

  “Mr. Deeling,” said Constance as loudly as she dared, “Mr.

  Deeling, open the door at once, it is I, Constance Sedgwick.”

  “How do I know that,” replied Mr. Deeling from the other side of the door.

  Constance fought down her irritation.

  “Very well,” she said sharply, “stay where you are.”

  She took a step or two to the left, loud enough to be heard by Mr. Deeling. Instantly the door began to shake.

  “No, no,” said the voice. “Don’t go away. Don’t leave me.”

  She heard the key turn in the lock. The door was thrust a few inches open, and Mr. Deeling’s face appeared behind it. His mouth was fallen in like that of an old man. His scanty locks, of which he took such care, lay disordered on his big forehead. He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown, and his right hand was brandishing a hair brush.

  “Quick, Mr. Deeling,” said Constance. “We are going to get away. I have got the keys. Don’t make a sound, as you love your life. Get on your clothes. You must be ready in three minutes.”

  His mouth worked, his eyes seemed to be starting out of his head. But he nodded and turned away.

  “Wait outside, you can’t wait for me here,” he said over his shoulder. “That would be most unseemly.”

  “I shall be back in a minute,” said Constance, “and when I return you must be ready, Mr. Deeling.”

  She left him and moved on again, till presently she reached the corridor, in which most of the patients had their rooms.

  She must now find Mr. Clearwater. She approached his door, and moved back the shutter of the spy hole. It was dark inside, save for a triangular patch of moonlight by the window.

  She opened the door with her pass key, and stepped in softly. Mr. Clearwater was lying on his side, asleep. She flashed her electric torch on him. He was smiling in his sleep, but the smile turned to an expression of fear as she touched him on the shoulder. He sprang up, his mouth open to cry out. She laid her hand upon it.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Clearwater, it is Miss Sedgwick,” she said.

  For the moment he looked at her bewildered, then he sprang from the bed and knelt down in front of her.

  “Lady,” he murmured, “that you should come, that you should find me worthy.”

  She stretched out her hand to him.

  “Now, Mr. Clearwater,” she said, “I want you to put on your dressing gown and come down with me to the study. You know what I want you to do. I will show you the desk and the drawer where the lever is kept. You will hold it down, won’t you, as we arranged in the garden?”

  He was looking up at her with a devoted, hopeless expression in his eyes.

  “I remember,” he said. “But this, dear lady, is the end. I know it. He will never allow me to do this thing. But I have promised to serve you even to death.”

  “Nonsense,” said Constance, rebuking her own uneasy fear. “He will never know. You will just have to stay there only for a little while. You need not even turn on the light. Then, when you have counted up to five thousand, you can go straight back to bed.”

  Mr. Clearwater did not answer. He had risen and was now wrapping about himself a long dressing gown of quilted silk, fantastically embroidered in green and orange. He was very proud of this dressing gown.

  When he was ready, she took him by the hand.

  “Not a sound,” she whispered. “We must not wake up any of the others.”

  He nodded, and together they moved down the corridor till they stood once more outside the door of Mr. Deeling.

  Constance tapped once and the door was instantly opened. Mr. Deeling stood there. He was dressed now in a morning coat and striped trousers. He had a silk hat in his hand and a pair of gray gloves.

  Constance gazed at him in astonishment.

  “Saved from the wreck,” he muttered. “I can carry nothing away with me, but this is my best suit.”

  Constance did not answer. The clothes might be incongruous, but at least they were black and would in the darkness be invisible.

  They moved, all three of them, down the corridor, Mr. Deeling walking in front, closely followed by Constance, who held Mr. Clearwater firmly by the hand like a child.

  All went well till they reached the foot of the stairs when suddenly there came the sound of a scuffle in front, then a sharp cry from Mr. Deeling.

  “Help,” he called. “There is somebody here.”

  “Silence, you fool,” said Constance sharply. “That is Doctor Murchison.”

  “Doctor Murchison,” said Mr. Deeling, his voice rising almost to a scream. “This is a trap. He is going to kill us all.”

  “Silence, Mr. Deeling,” Constance said savagely. “That is the real Doctor Murchison. You had better be silent, for if there is any killing to be done I will see that you are the first victim.”

  She could now just see Doctor Murchison. He was on his hands and knees, but already scrambling to his feet.

  “This is Mr. Deeling,” she said hurriedly. “He is rather overwrought.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” said Doctor Murchison dryly.

  Mr. Deeling had collapsed beside the wall and was sobbing quietly to himself.

  “Listen, Mr. Deeling,” said Constance. “If you make another sound we shall leave you here to perish miserably.”

  “No,” he said, “no, I will pull myself together. Let us get away from this dreadful place.”

  “I am sorry,” said Doctor Murchison’s voice. “He tripped over me. I found I could not get to the stairs walking. I am rather weak still, and I had to crawl. You’d better leave me behind.”

  “Nonsense,” she protested. “We’ll get you out all right.”

  They listened a moment, but heard nothing. All, it seemed, was well.

  The four of them groped their way slowly forward, Mr. Clearwater still holding her hand. He, at any rate, could be trusted, for he had not uttered a sound since he had left his room.

  He and Constance were now in front. She could hear the heavy breathing of Mr. Deeling behind her. He was apparently supporting the doctor.

  They reached the library door without accident, and Constance, asking the two men to wait, pushed open the great door, for it was not locked, and led Mr. Clearwater straight to the desk, flashing her torch upon it for a moment.

  “Now,” Mr. Clearwater,” she said, “you must remain here.”

  She pushed him into the doctor’s chair. He was trembling, she noticed, but still he said nothing. Constance fumbled with her keys and unlocked the drawers.

  Yes, there it was, the
little black ebony lever.

  “Give me your hand, Mr. Clearwater,” she said.

  He obeyed, and she put it on the lever and pressed it forward.

  “Hold it down, and don’t take your thumb from the button for an instant,” she said. “Now you can begin to count, up to five thousand, remember, and then you may go back to bed. You won’t let go the lever or stop pressing the button till then, will you? Promise me.”

  “I promise,” he said.

  She turned to leave him, a seated shadow in the darkness, wrapped in his fantastic dressing-gown. Her hand was caught as she moved away, and she felt the warm pressure of his lips upon the back of it. Then she moved swiftly from the room.

  “Up to five thousand,” muttered Mr. Deeling. “Will it be enough?”

  Two minutes later they were all three of them outside on the terrace. Constance had opened a side door near the dispensary and locked it again behind them. So far they were safe. The Colonel was marching up and down on the further side of the castle.

  “We must keep in the shadow,” she said, speaking for the first time above a whisper, “and we must make haste, for we have only just enough time to reach the gate.”

  “I will do my best,” said Doctor Murchison, “but I am afraid I am not very strong.”

  He swayed as he spoke. She caught him by the arm. He leaned heavily on her, and they stumbled off, preceded by the grotesque figure of Mr. Deeling in his silk hat and his napping coat.

  They passed down the stone stairs leading to the meadow, and paused again in the shadow of the castle. Where, she wondered, was Godstone.

  “Come on, come on,” said Mr. Deeling in a frenzy of excitement. “Don’t stand waiting there.”

  Constance explained rapidly as they moved forward what Mr.

  Clearwater was doing.

  “Let’s hope he is counting slowly,” said Doctor Murchison.

  “Couldn’t you have tied the lever down? Then Clearwater would not have been necessary.”

  “No,” replied Constance. “That was impossible. There’s a button on it which has to be pressed right in the thumb. Otherwise contact isn’t established. It’s a patent idea of Doctor Edwardes. The gate can only remain open as long as the thumb presses the spring. And you’ve got to press pretty hard.”

  “I see,” said Murchison shortly.

  They stumbled on again, keeping to the edge of the wood. They had to pause twice on the way, owing to the weakness of the doctor.

  “2,777, 2,778, 2,779,” muttered Mr. Deeling. “How fast do you think he is counting?”

  They had barely a half a mile to go in all, but it was impossible to move at more than a slow walk. The doctor’s breath came in gasps, he seemed on the edge of fainting.

  “Fool,” thought Constance, “fool, why didn’t I bring some brandy?”

  “Mr. Deeling,” she called, “have you any brandy with you?”

  “3,267, 3,268, 3,269,” said Mr. Deeling.

  “Quick,” he added, “but not through the wood, I won’t go near the wood. It’s hell in there.”

  “You must have had a pleasant time with that fellow,” gasped Doctor Murchison, as they stumbled on again.

  The going became more difficult, for they were now in the part of the meadow which had not been cut. The hay was tall, coming above their waists. The doctor fell three times. At the third fall, he lay still, making no effort to rise.

  “3,725, 3,726, 3,727,” mumbled Mr. Deeling.

  “Go on,” said the doctor, “go on and leave me.”

  Constance shook her head. Bending down she put her hand on his shoulders and dragged him to his feet.

  “No,” she said, “come, Mr. Deeling, give me a hand. The gate is in sight. Give me a hand, Mr. Deeling.”

  But Mr. Deeling at the prospect of freedom lost all control.

  “The gate is open,” he screamed, “it is open. We are saved… saved.”

  He broke into a shambling run, Constance and the doctor following as best they could, but he rapidly out-distanced them. There was the gate white and tall, shining in the moonlight. It was like the fence, a steel frame covered with a fine wrought mesh.

  It was, as Mr. Deeling had shouted, wide open and the white road ran through it down the valley to freedom.

  They stumbled on to the road. Constance was by this time half carrying her almost unconscious companion. Mr. Deeling had outstripped them by thirty yards.

  “Saved,” he shouted again, as he ran towards the gate.

  He was within five yards of it when it began to move. Inexorably it swung forward, as they gazed towards it.

  There was a click. The gate shut fast just as Mr. Deeling, running fast, flung himself frantically against it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I

  The doctor sank to the ground, while Constance stared over his head at the gate, which only a moment before had opened the way to freedom. She scarcely yet realized what had happened.

  Mr. Deeling did not cry out. He was fingering the gate, as a sick man fingers the counterpane, touching it here and there along one of the sides where it fitted closely into the steel post.

  “We have made a mistake,” he muttered. “It was to open at 5,000, and not to close—4,927, 4,928, 4,929—”

  His silk hat sat well on the back of his head, and a large amount of white cuff showed upon his wrists.

  “Stop that counting, for God’s sake,” said Constance.

  The sound of the dry husky voice was maddening.

  He took no notice.

  “Help me with Doctor Murchison,” she begged.

  “4,998, 4,999, 5,000,” he concluded with a shout.

  He stepped back and threw his arms wide. The gate was still shut.

  “It is jammed,” he muttered, and he began to finger it again.

  “It’s no good, Mr. Deeling,” said Constance, who had by this time succeeded in helping the doctor to the side of the road and was propping him against a tussock of rough grass.

  “We must have counted wrong,” said Mr. Deeling. “We have only to count up to five thousand and the gate will open. We must start again. One—two—three—four—five—six—”

  “His brain has gone,” said Constance to herself.

  She said it mechanically, for she was past emotion now. She had made her effort, and she had failed. It was all to do again. She felt suddenly a great weariness, and she hardly noticed at first the shadowy figure which leaped suddenly from a thicket near by the fence, or that other which followed a few paces behind. The first figure, carrying something in its hand, a stick or a club, rushed forward, uttering a bestial cry. It flung up its arm, and, as it did so, Constance saw that it was Mr. Curtis. His face was white, the lips drawn back exposing the teeth in a snarl.

  He paused a moment, gazing with indecision first at Mr. Deeling, who stood beside the gate still counting monotonously, then at Murchison, who had risen to his knees and was swaying slightly.

  The next moment, before Constance could move or realize what was happening, Mr. Curtis was rushing towards her. He pushed her roughly aside, so that she almost fell, and brought his club down on the head of the doctor. Murchison dropped without a sound, and Mr. Curtis raised the club again.

  But the second figure by now had drawn level with him. It seized him by the throat.

  “You fool,” said the voice of the Reverend Mark Hickett, “you triple fool. Have you forgotten what he said to us? There is to be no more killing. You will have to answer for this.”

  Mr. Curtis lowered his club and gazed bewildered, first at his companion, who had thrown back the dark cloak that covered him and was looking him full in the face, and then at Constance, who was kneeling beside the doctor, trying to stay the flow of blood from his head.

  “307, 308, 309, said Mr. Deeling.

  “What shall I do?” moaned Mr. Curtis. “He will never forgive me. He will drive me away. I shall be shut out. What shall I do? What shall I do?”

  Mr. Hickett gazed a
t him compassionately.

  “I will help you,” he said.

  “They’ll find the body if it lies there,” said Mr. Curtis, “and he will want to know who did it.”

  “Come,” said the Reverend Mark Hickett. “Do exactly as I tell you.”

  Mr. Curtis rose from his knees, and together they approached Constance, who was still bending over the doctor. The Reverend Mark Hickett laid a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back roughly, so that she staggered and fell.

  “Take his legs,” he said to Mr. Curtis, and, bending down, he seized the doctor by the shoulders. Together they lifted him.

  “Into the bushes,” said the Reverend Mark Hickett.

  They stumbled over the grass for a few yards, and, swinging the helpless form between them, let it go. Turning in the air, it fell head downwards in the rough scrub.

  “No one will see him there,” said the Reverend Mark Hickett.

  “No one will see him there,” echoed Mr. Curtis.

  They turned and came back to Constance. She had risen, and now stood facing them. This was the end of the tether, but she would make one more effort.

  “What do you mean by wandering about the grounds at this time of night?” she said sternly. “You know perfectly well you ought to be in your rooms, both of you. Go back to the castle at once.”

  Mr. Curtis gazed at her sheepishly. The Reverend Mark Hickett, however, taking no notice of her words, produced a dark blue silk handkerchief, which he handed to Mr. Curtis.

  “Tie her hands,” he said, “and see that she doesn’t get away. I will be back in a moment.”

  Mr. Curtis approached her, seized her wrists with sudden violence, so that she bit her lips to prevent herself from crying out, twisted them behind her back and tied them together with the handkerchief. She fell against him as he completed his task; the world began to spin; she realized that she was on the edge of fainting.

  There was a creak of wheels. Was it, by some miracle, a trap or cart coming up to the gate? But the hand of Mr. Curtis was on her shoulder, and there on the road beside her was a light handcart, a mere flat board on two wheels. The Reverend Mark Hickett had taken it from a little shed that stood by the lodge.