“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.
The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.
“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes, gently. “You had my note?”
“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal.”
“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”
“And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question were already answered.
“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. “It is so. I know all about McCarthy.”
The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried. “But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes, gravely.
“I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart—it will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested.”
“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.
“What!”
“I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however.”
“I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a gaol.”
Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. “Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.”
“It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.
“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I’ll tell you first how I came to be in his power.
“It was in the early sixties at the diggings. I was a young chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand to anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and, in a word, became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the waggons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.
“One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the waggon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals, and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and though my wife died young, she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf, and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.
“I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.
“‘Here we are, Jack,’ says he, touching me on the arm; ‘we’ll be as good as a family to you. There’s two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don’t—it’s a fine, law-abiding country is England, and there’s always a policeman within hail.’
“Well, down they came to the West country, there was no shaking them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.
“His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the Pool midway between our houses to talk it over.
“When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a cigar, and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved, if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred.”
“Well, it is not for me to judge you,” said Holmes, as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out. “I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation.”
“I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?”
“In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher Court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession, and, if McCarthy is condemned, I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us.”
“Farewell! then,” said the old man, solemnly. “Your own death-beds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine.” Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.
“God help us!” said Holmes, after a long silence. “Why do
es fate play such tricks with poor helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter’s words, and say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.’”
James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes, on the strength of a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes, and submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together, in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past.
The Horror of Studley Grange
L. T. Meade and Clifford Halifax
L. T. Meade was the pseudonym adopted by Elizabeth Thomasina Meade Smith (1844–1914) after she took up writing at the age of seventeen. The daughter of an Irish clergyman, and a fluent story-teller, Meade became an extraordinarily prolific writer of stories for girls as well as mysteries and tales of adventure. In addition, she founded and edited Atalanta, a magazine aimed primarily at young women and which featured such authors as R. L. Stevenson, H. Rider Haggard, and Frances Hodgson Burnett. A feminist, Meade was a member of the progressive and egalitarian Pioneer Club for women.
She co-wrote a number of books with male collaborators. Dr Clifford Halifax, was also a pen-name, concealing the identity of a Yorkshire-born medical man, Edgar Beaumont (1860–1921). Their first joint effort was This Troublesome World (1893), featuring a doctor who uses psychotropic drugs for his own purposes. The following year saw the publication of Stories from the Diary of a Doctor, narrated by Halifax, from which this tale is taken; it dates from 1894, and originally appeared in the Strand Magazine. “The Horror of Studley Grange” is a pleasingly atmospheric mystery which culminates in an experiment with a laryngoscope.
* * *
I WAS in my consulting-room one morning, and had just said good-bye to the last of my patients, when my servant came in and told me that a lady had called who pressed very earnestly for an interview with me.
“I told her that you were just going out, sir,” said the man, “and she saw the carriage at the door; but she begged to see you, if only for two minutes. This is her card.”
I read the words, “Lady Studley.”
“Show her in,” I said, hastily, and the next moment a tall, slightly made, fair-haired girl entered the room.
She looked very young, scarcely more than twenty, and I could hardly believe that she was, what her card indicated, a married woman.
The colour rushed into her cheeks as she held out her hand to me. I motioned her to a chair, and then asked her what I could do for her.
“Oh, you can help me,” she said, clasping her hands and speaking in a slightly theatrical manner. “My husband, Sir Henry Studley, is very unwell, and I want you to come to see him—can you?—will you?”
“With pleasure,” I replied. “Where do you live?”
“At Studley Grange, in Wiltshire. Don’t you know our place?”
“I daresay I ought to know it,” I replied, “although at the present moment I can’t recall the name. You want me to come to see your husband. I presume you wish me to have a consultation with his medical attendant?”
“No, no, not at all. The fact is, Sir Henry has not got a medical attendant. He dislikes doctors, and won’t see one. I want you to come and stay with us for a week or so. I have heard of you through mutual friends—the Onslows. I know you can effect remarkable cures, and you have a great deal of tact. But you can’t possibly do anything for my husband unless you are willing to stay in the house and to notice his symptoms.”
Lady Studley spoke with great emphasis and earnestness. Her long, slender hands were clasped tightly together. She had drawn off her gloves and was bending forward in her chair. Her big, childish, and somewhat restless blue eyes were fixed imploringly on my face.
“I love my husband,” she said, tears suddenly filling them—“and it is dreadful, dreadful, to see him suffer as he does. He will die unless someone comes to his aid. Oh, I know I am asking an immense thing, when I beg of you to leave all your patients and come to the country. But we can pay. Money is no object whatever to us. We can, we will, gladly pay you for your services.”
“I must think the matter over,” I said. “You flatter me by wishing for me, and by believing that I can render you assistance, but I cannot take a step of this kind in a hurry. I will write to you by tonight’s post if you will give me your address. In the meantime, kindly tell me some of the symptoms of Sir Henry’s malady.”
“I fear it is a malady of the mind,” she answered immediately, “but it is of so vivid and so startling a character, that unless relief is soon obtained, the body must give way under the strain. You see that I am very young, Dr. Halifax. Perhaps I look younger than I am—my age is twenty-two. My husband is twenty years my senior. He would, however, be considered by most people still a young man. He is a great scholar, and has always had more or less the habits of a recluse. He is fond of living in his library, and likes nothing better than to be surrounded by books of all sorts. Every modern book worth reading is forwarded to him by its publisher. He is a very interesting man and a brilliant conversationalist. Perhaps I ought to put all this in the past tense, for now he scarcely ever speaks—he reads next to nothing—it is difficult to persuade him to eat—he will not leave the house—he used to have a rather ruddy complexion—he is now deadly pale and terribly emaciated. He sighs in the most heartrending manner, and seems to be in a state of extreme nervous tension. In short, he is very ill, and yet he seems to have no bodily disease. His eyes have a terribly startled expression in them—his hand trembles so that he can scarcely raise a cup of tea to his lips. In short, he looks like a man who has seen a ghost.”
“When did these symptoms begin to appear?” I asked.
“It is mid-winter now,” said Lady Studley. “The queer symptoms began to show themselves in my husband in October. They have been growing worse and worse. In short, I can stand them no longer,” she continued, giving way to a short, hysterical sob. “I felt I must come to someone—I have heard of you. Do, do come and save us. Do come and find out what is the matter with my wretched husband.”
“I will write to you tonight,” I said, in as kind a voice as I could muster, for the pretty, anxious wife interested me already. “It may not be possible for me to stay at Studley Grange for a week, but in any case I can promise to come and see the patient. One visit will probably be sufficient—what your husband wants is, no doubt, complete change.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” she replied, standing up now. “I have said so scores of times, but Sir Henry won’t stir from Studley—nothing will induce him to go away. He won’t even leave his own special bedroom, although I expect he has dreadful nights.” Two hectic spots burnt in her cheeks as she spoke. I looked at her attentively.
“You will forgive me for speaking,” I said, “but you do not look at all well yourself. I should like to prescribe for you as well as your husband.”
“Thank you,” she answered, “I am not very strong. I never have been, but that is nothing—I mean that my health is not a thing of consequence at present. Well, I must not take up any more of your time. I shall expect to get a letter from you tomorrow morning. Please address it to Lady Studley, Grosvenor Hotel, Victoria.”
She touched my hand with fingers that burnt like a living coal and left the room.
I thought her very ill, and was sure that if I could see my way to spending a week at Studley Grange, I should have two patients instead of one. It is always difficult for a busy doctor to leave home, but after carefully thinking matters over, I resolved to comply with Lady Studley’s request.
Accordingly, two days later saw me on my way to Wiltshire, and to Studley Grange. A brougham with two smart horses was waiting at the station. To my surprise I saw that Lady Studley had come herself to fetch me.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, givi
ng me a feverish clasp of her hand. “Your visit fills me with hope—I believe that you will discover what is really wrong. Home!” she said, giving a quick, imperious direction to the footman who appeared at the window of the carriage.
We bowled forward at a rapid pace, and she continued:—
“I came to meet you today to tell you that I have used a little guile with regard to your visit. I have not told Sir Henry that you are coming here in the capacity of a doctor.”
Here she paused and gave me one of her restless glances.
“Do you mind?” she asked.
“What have you said about me to Sir Henry?” I inquired.
“That you are a great friend of the Onslows, and that I have asked you here for a week’s change,” she answered immediately. “As a guest, my husband will be polite and delightful to you—as a doctor, he would treat you with scant civility, and would probably give you little or none of his confidence.”
I was quite silent for a moment after Lady Studley had told me this. Then I said:—
“Had I known that I was not to come to your house in the capacity of a medical man, I might have reconsidered my earnest desire to help you.”
She turned very pale when I said this, and tears filled her eyes.
“Never mind,” I said now, for I could not but be touched by her extremely pathetic and suffering face, by the look of great illness which was manifested in every glance. “Never mind now; I am glad you have told me exactly the terms on which you wish me to approach your husband; but I think that I can so put matters to Sir Henry that he will be glad to consult me in my medical capacity.”
“Oh, but he does not even know that I suspect his illness. It would never do for him to know. I suspect! I see! I fear! but I say nothing. Sir Henry would be much more miserable than he is now, if he thought that I guessed that there is anything wrong with him.”
“It is impossible for me to come to the Grange except as a medical man,” I answered, firmly. “I will tell Sir Henry that you have seen some changes in him, and have asked me to visit him as a doctor. Please trust me. Nothing will be said to your husband that can make matters at all uncomfortable for you.”
The Measure of Malice Page 4