More Rivals of Sherlock Holmes

by Nick Rennison

  ‘I will try, but I am afraid my efforts will be useless; he would resent my interference, and very naturally.’

  ‘His wife is ill; I have told her that you will call on her. She knows that I hope much by your influence over her husband.’

  ‘I will certainly visit Mrs Farrell, but only as an ordinary doctor goes to see a patient.’

  ‘I believe you will do the rest when the time comes,’ she answered.

  I made no reply. She took out her watch.

  ‘The Farrells live not ten doors from here,’ she said. ‘Will you visit Mrs Farrell now? Walter will in all probability be at home as it is Sunday afternoon. Ask to see Mrs Farrell; I will write my name on your card, and you will be admitted immediately.’

  ‘And am I to come back and tell you the result?’ I asked.

  ‘As you please. I shall be very glad to see you. Much depends on what you do.’

  I saw by the expression on Miss Cusack’s face how intensely in earnest she was. Her enthusiasm fired mine.

  ‘I will go at once,’ I said, ‘and hope that luck may be with me.’

  I left the house, and a few moments later was ringing the bell of No 15 in the same road. A butler in livery opened the door, and on inquiring for Mrs Farrell I was admitted immediately. I sent up my card, and a moment later a quiet-looking woman tripped downstairs, came to my side, and said in a gentle, suppressed sort of voice, ‘My mistress is in bed, doctor, but she will be pleased to see you. Will you follow me? Come this way, please.’

  I followed the maid upstairs; we passed the drawing-room floor, and went up to the next storey. Here I was ushered into a large and luxuriously furnished bedroom. In a bed drawn near one of the windows where she could see the setting sun and some of the trees in Kensington Gardens, lay the pretty girl whom I was asked to visit. She could not have been more than nineteen years of age. Her brown hair lay tossed about the pillow, and her small, smooth, unlined face made her look more child than woman. A hectic spot burned on each of her cheeks, and when I touched her hand I knew at once that she was in a feverish and almost dangerous condition.

  ‘So Florence Cusack has sent you, Dr Lonsdale,’ was her remark to me.

  ‘I am Dr Lonsdale. What can I do for you, Mrs Farrell?’

  ‘Give me back my strength.’

  The maid withdrew to a distant part of the room. I made the ordinary examination of the patient. I asked her what her symptoms were. She described them in a few words.

  ‘I have no pain,’ she said, ‘but this intolerable weakness increases day by day. It has come on most gradually, and no medicines give me the least relief. A month ago I was well enough to go out, and even walk; then I found myself too tired even to drive in a carriage, then I was too weary to come downstairs, then too prostrate to sit up. Now I stay in bed, and it tires me even to speak. Oh! I am tired of everything,’ she added, ‘tired of life, tired of –’ her eyes filled with tears – ‘tired of misery, of misery.’

  To my dismay she burst into weak, hysterical crying.

  ‘This will never do,’ I said, ‘you must tell me all, Mrs Farrell. As far as I can see, you have no active disease of any sort. What is the matter with you? What is consuming your life?’

  ‘Trouble,’ she said, ‘and it is hopeless.’

  ‘You must try to tell me more.’

  She looked at me, dashed away her tears, and said, with a sudden spurt of spirit which I had scarcely given her credit for, ‘But has not Florence Cusack told you?’

  ‘She has certainly said something.’

  ‘Ah, then you do know all; she said she would speak to you. My husband is downstairs in the smoking-room: go and see him – do what you can for him. Oh! He will be ruined, ruined body and soul. Save him! Do save him if you can.’

  ‘Do not excite yourself,’ I said. I rose as I spoke, and laid my hand with a slight pressure on hers. ‘You need not say any more. Between Miss Cusack and me your husband shall be saved. Now rest in that thought. I would not tell you a thing of this kind lightly.’

  ‘Oh! God bless you,’ murmured the poor girl.

  I turned to the maid, who now came forward.

  ‘I will write a prescription for your mistress,’ I said, ‘something to strengthen and calm her at the same time. You must sit up with her tonight, she is very weak.’

  The maid promised. I left the room. The bright eyes of the almost dying girl followed me to the door. As I stood on the landing I no longer wondered at Miss Cusack’s attitude in the matter. Surely such a case must stir the depths of the most callous heart.

  I went downstairs, and unannounced entered the smoking-room. A man was lying back in a deep leather chair, near one of the windows. He was a dark, thin man, with features which in themselves were refined and handsome; but now, with the haggard lines round the mouth, in the deeply set, watchful, and somewhat narrow eyes, and in a sort of recklessness which was characterised by his untidy dress, by the very set of his tie, I guessed too surely that Miss Cusack had not exaggerated the mental condition of Mr Walter Farrell in the very least. With a few words I introduced myself.

  ‘You must pardon this intrusion, Mr Farrell. I am Dr Lonsdale. Miss Cusack has asked me to call and see your wife. I have just seen her; I want to say a few words to you about her.’

  He looked anxious just for a moment when I mentioned his wife’s name, but then a sleepy indifference crept into his eyes. He was sufficiently a gentleman, however, to show me the ordinary politeness, and motioned me to a chair. I sat down and looked full at him.

  ‘How old is Mrs Farrell?’ I said, abruptly.

  He stared as if he rather resented the question; then said, in a nonchalant tone, ‘My wife is very young, she is not twenty yet.’

  ‘Quite a child,’ I said.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes, little more than a child – just on the verge of life. It seems very sad when the young must die.’

  I would not have made use of this expression to an ordinary man, but I wanted to rouse and startle Farrell. I did so effectually. A veil seemed to drop from his eyes; they grew wideawake, restless, and agonised. He drew his chair close to mine, and bent forward.

  ‘What do you mean? Surely there is not much the matter with Laura?’

  ‘No active disease, and yet she is dying. I am sorry to tell you that, unless a complete change takes place immediately, she can scarcely live another week.’

  Farrell sprang to his feet.

  ‘You don’t mean that!’ he cried, ‘my wife in danger! Dr Lonsdale, you are talking nonsense; she has no cough, she complains of nothing. She is just a bit lazy – that is what I tell her.’

  ‘She has no strength, Mr Farrell, and without strength we cannot live. Something is eating into her life and draining it away. I will be perfectly frank with you, for in a case of life and death there is no time, nor is it right, to stand on ceremony. Your wife is dying because her heart is broken. It remains with you to save her; the case is in your hands.’

  ‘Now what do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean. She is unhappy about you. You must understand me.’

  He turned very white.

  ‘And yet I am doing all that man can for her,’ he said. ‘She expects me to smile always and live as a butterfly. Men have troubles and anxieties, and mine are –’

  ‘Pretty considerable, I should say,’ I continued.

  ‘They are. Has Florence Cusack been talking to you about me?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to answer your question.’

  ‘You have answered it by not denying it. Florence and Laura are a pair of fools, the greatest fools that ever walked the earth.’

  ‘You do not really think that.’

  ‘I do think it. They want a man to do the impossible – they want a man to withdraw when – there, Dr Lonsdale, you are a man and I c
an talk to you. I cannot do what they want.’

  ‘Then your wife will die.’

  He began to pace up and down the room.

  ‘I suppose you know all about my connection with Rashleigh?’ he said, after a moment.

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, then you see how I am placed. Rashleigh is hard up just now; I cannot desert him in a moment like the present. We hope to recoup ourselves this very week, and as soon as such is the case I will withdraw from the business. Will that content you?’

  ‘Why not withdraw at once?’

  ‘I cannot; nothing will induce me to do so. It is useless our prolonging this discussion.’

  I saw that I should do harm instead of good if I said anything further, and, asking for a sheet of paper, I wrote a prescription for his wife. I then left the house to return to Miss Cusack.

  The moment I entered her library she came eagerly to meet me. ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘You are right,’ I answered, speaking now with great impulse and earnestness. ‘I am altogether with you in this matter. I have seen Mrs Farrell and I have had an interview with Farrell. The wife is dying. Nay, do not interrupt me. She is dying unless relief comes soon. I had a long talk with Farrell and put the case plainly to him. He promises to withdraw from Rashleigh’s firm, but not until after this week. He sticks to this resolve, thinking that he is bound in honour to support Rashleigh, whose affairs he believes are in a critical condition. In all probability before the week is up Mrs Farrell will die. What is to be done?’

  ‘There is only one thing to be done, Dr Lonsdale – we must open Walter Farrell’s eyes. We must show him plainly that he is Mr Rashleigh’s dupe.’

  ‘How can we do that?’

  ‘Ah! There comes the crux of the whole situation. The further I go, the more mysterious the whole thing appears. The ordinary methods which have served me before have failed. Look here.’

  She pointed to a page in the book of newspaper cuttings which lay by her side.

  ‘Through channels I need not detail, I have learned that this is a communication of one of the gang to another.’

  I took the book from her hands, and read the following words: ‘No mistake. Sea Foam. Jockey Club’.

  ‘Gibberish!’ I said, laying the paper on the table.

  ‘Apparently,’ she answered, ‘but Sea Foam is Captain Halliday’s horse entered for the City and Suburban race to be run on the 21st – that is next Wednesday – at Epsom. For five continuous hours I have worked at those few words, applying to them what I already know of this matter. It has been of no good.’

  ‘I am scarcely surprised to hear you say so. One would want second sight to put meaning into words like those.’

  ‘Something must be done, and soon,’ she said. ‘We must expose this matter on Wednesday. I know that Walter Farrell has lost heavily this month. There is not an hour to be lost in trying to save Laura. We must keep up her courage until Wednesday. On Wednesday the whole fraud must be discovered, and her husband liberated. You will help me?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Then on Wednesday we will go together to Mr Rashleigh’s office. You must bet a little to allay suspicion – a few sovereigns only. You will then see him for yourself, and – who knows? – you may be able to solve the mystery.’

  I agreed to this, and soon afterwards took my leave.

  I received a note from Miss Cusack on Tuesday evening, asking me to lunch with her on the following day. I went. The moment I entered her presence I was struck, and almost startled, by her manner. An extraordinary exaltation seemed to possess her. The pupils of her eyes were largely dilated and glowed as if some light were behind them. Her face was slightly flushed, and her conversation was marked by an unusual vivacity and sparkle.

  ‘I have been very busy since I saw you last,’ she said, ‘and I have now every hope that I shall succeed. I fully believe that I shall save Walter Farrell today from the hands of one of the cleverest scoundrels in London,’ she said, as we crossed the hall, ‘and consign the latter to penal servitude.’

  I could not help being much impressed by the matter-of-fact sangfroid with which Miss Cusack spoke the last words. How was she going to obtain such big results?

  ‘Have you no fear of personal rudeness or violence?’ I asked.

  ‘None whatever – I have made all arrangements beforehand. You will soon see for yourself.’

  We partook of lunch almost in silence. As I was returning to Miss Cusack’s library afterwards I saw, seated in the hall, a short squarely built, but well-dressed man.

  ‘I shall be ready in a few moments, Mr Marling,’ she said to him. ‘Is everything prepared?’

  ‘Everything, miss,’ he replied.

  Very soon afterwards we took our seats in Miss Cusack’s brougham, and she explained to me that our companion was Inspector Marling, of Scotland Yard, that he was coming with us in the rôle of a new client for Messrs Rashleigh and Farrell, and that he had made all necessary preparations.

  We drove rapidly along Knightsbridge, and, going into Piccadilly, turned down St James’s Street. We stopped at last opposite a house in Pall Mall, which was to all appearance a private one. On either side of the door were brass plates bearing names, with the floor of the occupant engraved beneath. On one of the plates were the words, ‘Rashleigh and Farrell, Third Floor’. Miss Cusack pressed the bell corresponding to this plate, and in a few moments a quietly dressed man opened the door. He bowed to Miss Cusack as if he knew her, looked at Marling and me with a penetrating glance, and then admitted us. We went upstairs to the third landing, though before we reached it the deep voices of men in the commission agent’s suite of rooms fell on our ears. Here we rang again, and after what seemed a long delay the door, which was hung with a heavy velvet curtain on the inner side, was slowly opened. Farrell stood before us.

  ‘I thought it must be you,’ he said, the colour mounting into his thin face. ‘Come inside; we are rather a large party, as it is an important race day.’

  As I entered I looked round curiously. The room was thronged with a smartly dressed crowd of men and women who were lounging about in easy-chairs and on couches. The carpet was a rich Turkey pile, and the decorations were extravagantly gorgeous. At one side of the room near the wall stood a table upon which was a small gas-lamp, several slips of paper, and a ‘Ruff’s Racing Guide’. At the further end of the room, set back in a recess, stood the tape machine, which intermittently clicked and whirred while a long strip of paper, recording news automatically, unrolled from the little wheel and fell in serpentine coils into a wastepaper basket beneath.

  At one glance I saw that, when the curtain that hung from a semi-circular rod above it was drawn, no one in the room could possibly read what the wheel was printing on the tape.

  ‘Let me introduce you to Captain Vandaleur, Dr Lonsdale,’ said Miss Cusack’s voice behind me.

  I turned and bowed to a tall, clean-shaven man, who returned my salutation with a pleasant smile.

  ‘You are, I presume, interested in racing?’ he said.

  ‘I am in this particular race,’ I answered, ‘the City and Suburban. I am anxious to make a small investment, and Miss Cusack has kindly introduced me to Mr Rashleigh for the purpose.’

  ‘What particular horse do you fancy?’ he asked.

  ‘Lime-Light,’ I replied, at a venture.

  ‘Ha! An outsider; well, you’ll get twenties,’ and he turned away, for at that moment the runners for the first race began to come through. Farrell stood by the tape and called them out. Several of the men present now went to the table and wrote their fancies on the slips of paper and handed them to Farrell. Vandaleur did not bet.

  I watched the whole proceeding carefully, and certainly fraud of any kind seemed out of the question.

  Miss Cusack was evidently to all appearance evincing the keenest interest in th
e proceedings, and betted pretty heavily herself, although the horse she selected did not turn out the winner. Another race followed, and then at 3.30 the runners and jockeys for the great race came through. Heavy bets were made on all sides, and at 3.40 came the magic word ‘Off’, to signify that the race had started.

  Farrell now instantly drew the curtain round the glass case of the instrument, while the bets continued to be made. Some were very heavy, running to hundreds of pounds. In a few moments the machine began clicking and whirring again, probably announcing the name of the winning horse.

  ‘Have you all made your bets, gentlemen?’ said Farrell.

  ‘One moment,’ cried Vandaleur, going to the table and writing out a slip. ‘It’s a poor chance, I know; but nothing venture, nothing win. Here goes for a monkey each way Sea Foam – and chance it.’

  He crossed the room and handed Farrell the slip.

  ‘All right, Vandaleur,’ he replied, ‘plunging heavily as usual. Now then, anyone else want to bet? I am going to draw back the curtain.’

  No one answered. Farrell’s face was pale, and an unmistakable air of nervousness pervaded him. Everyone pressed eagerly forward in order to be as close as possible to the instrument. Each man craned and peered over the other’s shoulder. Farrell snatched back the curtain, and a shout of ‘Sea Foam first!’ rang through the room.

  I looked at Miss Cusack. She was still standing by the table, and bending over the chimney of the gas-lamp. At this instant she turned and whispered a few words to Inspector Marling. He left the room quietly and unnoticed in the buzz of conversation that ensued.

  Sea Foam’s price was twenty to one, and Vandaleur had therefore scored £12,500.

  I went up to Farrell, who was standing near the tape machine. I saw drops of perspiration on his forehead, and his face was like death.

  ‘I am afraid this is a heavy blow to you,’ I said.