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THE MYSTERY OF 31 NEW INN
BY R. AUSTIN FREEMAN
Author of "The Red Thumb Mark,""The Eye of Osiris," etc.
TO MY FRIEND
BERNARD E. BISHOP
Preface
Commenting upon one of my earlier novels, in respect of which I hadclaimed to have been careful to adhere to common probabilities and tohave made use only of really practicable methods of investigation, acritic remarked that this was of no consequence whatever, so long as thestory was amusing.
Few people, I imagine, will agree with him. To most readers, andcertainly to the kind of reader for whom an author is willing to taketrouble, complete realism in respect of incidents and methods is anessential factor in maintaining the interest of a detective story. Henceit may be worth while to mention that Thorndyke's method of producingthe track chart, described in Chapters II and III, has been actuallyused in practice. It is a modification of one devised by me many yearsago when I was crossing Ashanti to the city of Bontuku, the whereaboutsof which in the far interior was then only vaguely known. Myinstructions were to fix the positions of all towns, villages, riversand mountains as accurately as possible; but finding ordinary methods ofsurveying impracticable in the dense forest which covers the wholeregion, I adopted this simple and apparently rude method, checking thedistances whenever possible by astronomical observation.
The resulting route-map was surprisingly accurate, as shown by theagreement of the outward and homeward tracks, It was published by theRoyal Geographical Society, and incorporated in the map of this regioncompiled by the Intelligence Branch of the War Office, and it formed thebasis of the map which accompanied my volume of Travels in Ashanti andJaman. So that Thorndyke's plan must be taken as quite a practicableone.
New Inn, the background of this story, and one of the last survivinginns of Chancery, has recently passed away after upwards of fourcenturies of newness. Even now, however, a few of the old, dismantledhouses (including perhaps, the mysterious 31) may be seen from theStrand peeping over the iron roof of the skating rink which hasdisplaced the picturesque hall, the pension-room and the garden. Thepostern gate, too, in Houghton Street still remains, though the arch isbricked up inside. Passing it lately, I made the rough sketch whichappears on next page, and which shows all that is left of this pleasantold London backwater.
R. A. F.
GRAVESEND
New Inn]
Contents
CHAPTER.
I THE MYSTERIOUS PATIENT II THORNDYKE DEVISES A SCHEME III "A CHIEL'S AMANG YE TAKIN' NOTES" IV THE OFFICIAL VIEW V JEFFREY BLACKMORE'S WILL VI JEFFREY BLACKMORE, DECEASED VII THE CUNEIFORM INSCRIPTIONVIII THE TRACK CHART IX THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY X THE HUNTER HUNTED XI THE BLACKMORE CASE REVIEWED XII THE PORTRAITXIII THE STATEMENT OF SAMUEL WILKINS XIV THORNDYKE LAYS THE MINE XV THORNDYKE EXPLODES THE MINE XVI AN EXPOSITION AND A TRAGEDY
Chapter I
The Mysterious Patient
As I look back through the years of my association with John Thorndyke,I am able to recall a wealth of adventures and strange experiences suchas falls to the lot of very few men who pass their lives within hearingof Big Ben. Many of these experiences I have already placed on record;but it now occurs to me that I have hitherto left unrecorded one thatis, perhaps, the most astonishing and incredible of the whole series; anadventure, too, that has for me the added interest that it inauguratedmy permanent association with my learned and talented friend, and markedthe close of a rather unhappy and unprosperous period of my life.
Memory, retracing the journey through the passing years to thestarting-point of those strange events, lands me in a shabby littleground-floor room in a house near the Walworth end of Lower KenningtonLane. A couple of framed diplomas on the wall, a card of Snellen'stest-types and a stethoscope lying on the writing-table, proclaim it adoctor's consulting-room; and my own position in the round-backed chairat the said table, proclaims me the practitioner in charge.
It was nearly nine o'clock. The noisy little clock on the mantelpieceannounced the fact, and, by its frantic ticking, seemed as anxious as Ito get the consultation hours over. I glanced wistfully at mymud-splashed boots and wondered if I might yet venture to assume theslippers that peeped coyly from under the shabby sofa. I even allowed mythoughts to wander to the pipe that reposed in my coat pocket. Anotherminute and I could turn down the surgery gas and shut the outer door.The fussy little clock gave a sort of preliminary cough or hiccup, as ifit should say: "Ahem! ladies and gentlemen, I am about to strike." Andat that moment, the bottle-boy opened the door and, thrusting in hishead, uttered the one word: "Gentleman."
Extreme economy of words is apt to result in ambiguity. But Iunderstood. In Kennington Lane, the race of mere men and women appearedto be extinct. They were all gentlemen--unless they were ladies orchildren--even as the Liberian army was said to consist entirely ofgenerals. Sweeps, labourers, milkmen, costermongers--all wereimpartially invested by the democratic bottle-boy with the rank andtitle of armigeri. The present nobleman appeared to favour thearistocratic recreation of driving a cab or job-master's carriage, and,as he entered the room, he touched his hat, closed the door somewhatcarefully, and then, without remark, handed me a note which bore thesuperscription "Dr. Stillbury."
"You understand," I said, as I prepared to open the envelope, "that Iam not Dr. Stillbury. He is away at present and I am looking after hispatients."
"It doesn't signify," the man replied. "You'll do as well."
On this, I opened the envelope and read the note, which was quite brief,and, at first sight, in no way remarkable.
"DEAR SIR," it ran, "Would you kindly come and see a friend of mine whois staying with me? The bearer of this will give you further particularsand convey you to the house. Yours truly, H. WEISS."
There was no address on the paper and no date, and the writer wasunknown to me.
"This note," I said, "refers to some further particulars. What arethey?"
The messenger passed his hand over his hair with a gesture ofembarrassment. "It's a ridicklus affair," he said, with a contemptuouslaugh. "If I had been Mr. Weiss, I wouldn't have had nothing to do withit. The sick gentleman, Mr. Graves, is one of them people what can'tabear doctors. He's been ailing now for a week or two, but nothing wouldinduce him to see a doctor. Mr. Weiss did everything he could topersuade him, but it was no go. He wouldn't. However, it seems Mr. Weissthreatened to send for a medical man on his own account, because, yousee, he was getting a bit nervous; and then Mr. Graves gave way. Butonly on one condition. He said the doctor was to come from a distanceand was not to be told who he was or where he lived or anything abouthim; and he made Mr. Weiss promise to keep to that condition before he'dlet him send. So Mr. Weiss promised, and, of course, he's got to keephis word."
"But," I said, with a smile, "you've just told me his name--if his namereally is Graves."
"You can form your own opinion on that," said the coachman.
"And," I added, "as to not being told where he lives, I can see that formyself. I'm not blind, you know."
"We'll take the risk of what you see," the man replied. "The questionis, will you take the job on?"
Yes; that was the question, and I considered it for some time beforereplying. We medical men are pretty familiar with the kind of person who"can't abear doctors," and we like to have as little to do with him aspossible. He is a thankless and unsatisfactory patient. Intercourse withhim is unpleasant, he gives a great deal of trouble and responds badlyto treatment. If this had been my own practice, I should have declinedthe case off-hand. But it was not my practice. I was only a deputy. Icould not lightly refuse work which would yiel
d a profit to myprincipal, unpleasant though it might be.
As I turned the matter over in my mind, I half unconsciously scrutinizedmy visitor--somewhat to his embarrassment--and I liked his appearanceas little as I liked his mission. He kept his station near the door,where the light was dim--for the illumination was concentrated on thetable and the patient's chair--but I could see that he had a somewhatsly, unprepossessing face and a greasy, red moustache that seemed out ofcharacter with his rather perfunctory livery; though this was mereprejudice. He wore a wig, too--not that there was anything discreditablein that--and the thumb-nail of the hand that held his hat boredisfiguring traces of some injury--which, again, though unsightly, in nowise reflected on his moral character. Lastly, he watched me keenly witha mixture of anxiety and sly complacency that I found distinctlyunpleasant. In a general way, he impressed me disagreeably. I did notlike the look of him at all; but nevertheless I decided to undertake thecase.
"I suppose," I answered, at length, "it is no affair of mine who thepatient is or where he lives. But how do you propose to manage thebusiness? Am I to be led to the house blindfolded, like the visitor tothe bandit's cave?"
The man grinned slightly and looked very decidedly relieved.
"No, sir," he answered; "we ain't going to blindfold you. I've got acarriage outside. I don't think you'll see much out of that."
"Very well," I rejoined, opening the door to let him out, "I'll be withyou in a minute. I suppose you can't give me any idea as to what is thematter with the patient?"
"No, sir, I can't," he replied; and he went out to see to the carriage.
I slipped into a bag an assortment of emergency drugs and a fewdiagnostic instruments, turned down the gas and passed out through thesurgery. The carriage was standing at the kerb, guarded by the coachmanand watched with deep interest by the bottle-boy. I viewed it withmingled curiosity and disfavour. It was a kind of large brougham, suchas is used by some commercial travellers, the usual glass windows beingreplaced by wooden shutters intended to conceal the piles ofsample-boxes, and the doors capable of being locked from outside with arailway key.
As I emerged from the house, the coachman unlocked the door and held itopen.
"How long will the journey take?" I asked, pausing with my foot on thestep.
The coachman considered a moment or two and replied:
"It took me, I should say, nigh upon half an hour to get here."
This was pleasant hearing. A half an hour each way and a half an hour atthe patient's house. At that rate it would be half-past ten before I washome again, and then it was quite probable that I should find some otheruntimely messenger waiting on the doorstep. With a muttered anathema onthe unknown Mr. Graves and the unrestful life of a locum tenens, Istepped into the uninviting vehicle. Instantly the coachman slammed thedoor and turned the key, leaving me in total darkness.
One comfort was left to me; my pipe was in my pocket. I made shift toload it in the dark, and, having lit it with a wax match, took theopportunity to inspect the interior of my prison. It was a shabbyaffair. The moth-eaten state of the blue cloth cushions seemed tosuggest that it had been long out of regular use; the oil-clothfloor-covering was worn into holes; ordinary internal fittings therewere none. But the appearances suggested that the crazy vehicle had beenprepared with considerable forethought for its present use. The insidehandles of the doors had apparently been removed; the wooden shutterswere permanently fixed in their places; and a paper label, stuck on thetransom below each window, had a suspicious appearance of having beenput there to cover the painted name and address of the job-master orlivery-stable keeper who had originally owned the carriage.
These observations gave me abundant food for reflection. This Mr. Weissmust be an excessively conscientious man if he had considered that hispromise to Mr. Graves committed him to such extraordinary precautions.Evidently no mere following of the letter of the law was enough tosatisfy his sensitive conscience. Unless he had reasons for sharing Mr.Graves's unreasonable desire for secrecy--for one could not suppose thatthese measures of concealment had been taken by the patient himself.
The further suggestions that evolved themselves from this considerationwere a little disquieting. Whither was I being carried and for whatpurpose? The idea that I was bound for some den of thieves where Imight be robbed and possibly murdered, I dismissed with a smile. Thievesdo not make elaborately concerted plans to rob poor devils like me.Poverty has its compensations in that respect. But there were otherpossibilities. Imagination backed by experience had no difficulty inconjuring up a number of situations in which a medical man might becalled upon, with or without coercion, either to witness or actively toparticipate in the commission of some unlawful act.
Reflections of this kind occupied me pretty actively if not veryagreeably during this strange journey. And the monotony was relieved,too, by other distractions. I was, for example, greatly interested tonotice how, when one sense is in abeyance, the other senses rouse into acompensating intensity of perception. I sat smoking my pipe in darknesswhich was absolute save for the dim glow from the smouldering tobacco inthe bowl, and seemed to be cut off from all knowledge of the worldwithout. But yet I was not. The vibrations of the carriage, with itshard springs and iron-tired wheels, registered accurately and plainlythe character of the roadway. The harsh rattle of granite setts, thesoft bumpiness of macadam, the smooth rumble of wood-pavement, thejarring and swerving of crossed tram-lines; all were easily recognizableand together sketched the general features of the neighbourhood throughwhich I was passing. And the sense of hearing filled in the details. Nowthe hoot of a tug's whistle told of proximity to the river. A suddenand brief hollow reverberation announced the passage under a railwayarch (which, by the way, happened several times during the journey);and, when I heard the familiar whistle of a railway-guard followed bythe quick snorts of a skidding locomotive, I had as clear a picture of aheavy passenger-train moving out of a station as if I had seen it inbroad daylight.
I had just finished my pipe and knocked out the ashes on the heel of myboot, when the carriage slowed down and entered a covered way--as Icould tell by the hollow echoes. Then I distinguished the clang of heavywooden gates closed behind me, and a moment or two later the carriagedoor was unlocked and opened. I stepped out blinking into a coveredpassage paved with cobbles and apparently leading down to a mews; but itwas all in darkness, and I had no time to make any detailedobservations, as the carriage had drawn up opposite a side door whichwas open and in which stood a woman holding a lighted candle.
"Is that the doctor?" she asked, speaking with a rather pronouncedGerman accent and shading the candle with her hand as she peered at me.
I answered in the affirmative, and she then exclaimed:
"I am glad you have come. Mr. Weiss will be so relieved. Come in,please."
I followed her across a dark passage into a dark room, where she set thecandle down on a chest of drawers and turned to depart. At the door,however, she paused and looked back.
"It is not a very nice room to ask you into," she said. "We are veryuntidy just now, but you must excuse us. We have had so much anxietyabout poor Mr. Graves."
"He has been ill some time, then?"
"Yes. Some little time. At intervals, you know. Sometimes better,sometimes not so well."
As she spoke, she gradually backed out into the passage but did not goaway at once. I accordingly pursued my inquiries.
"He has not been seen by any doctor, has he?"
"No," she answered, "he has always refused to see a doctor. That hasbeen a great trouble to us. Mr. Weiss has been very anxious about him.He will be so glad to hear that you have come. I had better go and tellhim. Perhaps you will kindly sit down until he is able to come to you,"and with this she departed on her mission.
It struck me as a little odd that, considering his anxiety and theapparent urgency of the case, Mr. Weiss should not have been waiting toreceive me. And when several minutes elapsed without his appearing, theoddness of the
circumstance impressed me still more. Having no desire,after the journey in the carriage, to sit down, I whiled away the timeby an inspection of the room. And a very curious room it was; bare,dirty, neglected and, apparently, unused. A faded carpet had been flunguntidily on the floor. A small, shabby table stood in the middle of theroom; and beyond this, three horsehair-covered chairs and a chest ofdrawers formed the entire set of furniture. No pictures hung on themouldy walls, no curtains covered the shuttered windows, and the darkdrapery of cobwebs that hung from the ceiling to commemorate a long andillustrious dynasty of spiders hinted at months of neglect and disuse.
The chest of drawers--an incongruous article of furniture for whatseemed to be a dining-room--as being the nearest and best lighted objectreceived most of my attention. It was a fine old chest of nearly blackmahogany, very battered and in the last stage of decay, but originally apiece of some pretensions. Regretful of its fallen estate, I looked itover with some interest and had just observed on its lower corner alittle label bearing the printed inscription "Lot 201" when I heardfootsteps descending the stairs. A moment later the door opened and ashadowy figure appeared standing close by the threshold.
"Good evening, doctor," said the stranger, in a deep, quiet voice andwith a distinct, though not strong, German accent. "I must apologize forkeeping you waiting."
I acknowledged the apology somewhat stiffly and asked: "You are Mr.Weiss, I presume?"
"Yes, I am Mr. Weiss. It is very good of you to come so far and so lateat night and to make no objection to the absurd conditions that my poorfriend has imposed."
"Not at all," I replied. "It is my business to go when and where I amwanted, and it is not my business to inquire into the private affairs ofmy patients."
"That is very true, sir," he agreed cordially, "and I am much obligedto you for taking that very proper view of the case. I pointed that outto my friend, but he is not a very reasonable man. He is very secretiveand rather suspicious by nature."
"So I inferred. And as to his condition; is he seriously ill?"
"Ah," said Mr. Weiss, "that is what I want you to tell me. I am verymuch puzzled about him."
"But what is the nature of his illness? What does he complain of?"
"He makes very few complaints of any kind although he is obviously ill.But the fact is that he is hardly ever more than half awake. He lies ina kind of dreamy stupor from morning to night."
This struck me as excessively strange and by no means in agreement withthe patient's energetic refusal to see a doctor.
"But," I asked, "does he never rouse completely?"
"Oh, yes," Mr. Weiss answered quickly; "he rouses from time to time andis then quite rational, and, as you may have gathered, rather obstinate.That is the peculiar and puzzling feature in the case; this alternationbetween a state of stupor and an almost normal and healthy condition.But perhaps you had better see him and judge for yourself. He had arather severe attack just now. Follow me, please. The stairs are ratherdark."
The stairs were very dark, and I noticed that they were without anycovering of carpet, or even oil-cloth, so that our footsteps resoundeddismally as if we were in an empty house. I stumbled up after my guide,feeling my way by the hand-rail, and on the first floor followed himinto a room similar in size to the one below and very barely furnished,though less squalid than the other. A single candle at the farther endthrew its feeble light on a figure in the bed, leaving the rest of theroom in a dim twilight.
As Mr. Weiss tiptoed into the chamber, a woman--the one who had spokento me below--rose from a chair by the bedside and quietly left the roomby a second door. My conductor halted, and looking fixedly at the figurein the bed, called out:
"Philip! Philip! Here is the doctor come to see you."
He paused for a moment or two, and, receiving no answer, said: "He seemsto be dozing as usual. Will you go and see what you can make of him?"
I stepped forward to the bedside, leaving Mr. Weiss at the end of theroom near the door by which we had entered, where he remained, slowlyand noiselessly pacing backwards and forwards in the semi-obscurity. Bythe light of the candle I saw an elderly man with good features and arefined, intelligent and even attractive face, but dreadfully emaciated,bloodless and sallow. He lay quite motionless except for the scarcelyperceptible rise and fall of his chest; his eyes were nearly closed, hisfeatures relaxed, and, though he was not actually asleep, he seemed tobe in a dreamy, somnolent, lethargic state, as if under the influence ofsome narcotic.
I watched him for a minute or so, timing his slow breathing by mywatch, and then suddenly and sharply addressed him by name; but the onlyresponse was a slight lifting of the eyelids, which, after a brief,drowsy glance at me, slowly subsided to their former position.
I now proceeded to make a physical examination. First, I felt his pulse,grasping his wrist with intentional brusqueness in the hope of rousinghim from his stupor. The beats were slow, feeble and slightly irregular,giving clear evidence, if any were needed, of his generally loweredvitality. I listened carefully to his heart, the sounds of which werevery distinct through the thin walls of his emaciated chest, but foundnothing abnormal beyond the feebleness and uncertainty of its action.Then I turned my attention to his eyes, which I examined closely withthe aid of the candle and my ophthalmoscope lens, raising the lidssomewhat roughly so as to expose the whole of the irises. He submittedwithout resistance to my rather ungentle handling of these sensitivestructures, and showed no signs of discomfort even when I brought thecandle-flame to within a couple of inches of his eyes.
But this extraordinary tolerance of light was easily explained by closerexamination; for the pupils were contracted to such an extreme degreethat only the very minutest point of black was visible at the centre ofthe grey iris. Nor was this the only abnormal peculiarity of the sickman's eyes. As he lay on his back, the right iris sagged down slightlytowards its centre, showing a distinctly concave surface; and, when Icontrived to produce a slight but quick movement of the eyeball, aperceptible undulatory movement could be detected. The patient had, infact, what is known as a tremulous iris, a condition that is seen incases where the crystalline lens has been extracted for the cure ofcataract, or where it has become accidentally displaced, leaving theiris unsupported. In the present case, the complete condition of theiris made it clear that the ordinary extraction operation had not beenperformed, nor was I able, on the closest inspection with the aid of mylens, to find any trace of the less common "needle operation." Theinference was that the patient had suffered from the accident known as"dislocation of the lens"; and this led to the further inference that hewas almost or completely blind in the right eye.
This conclusion was, indeed, to some extent negatived by a deepindentation on the bridge of the nose, evidently produced by spectacles,and by marks which I looked for and found behind the ears, correspondingto the hooks or "curl sides" of the glasses. For those spectacles whichare fitted with curl sides to hook over the ears are usually intended tobe worn habitually, and this agreed with the indentation on the nose;which was deeper than would have been accounted for by the merelyoccasional use of spectacles for reading. But if only one eye wasuseful, a single eye-glass would have answered the purpose; not thatthere was any weight in this objection, for a single eye-glass wornconstantly would be much less convenient than a pair of hook-sidedspectacles.
As to the nature of the patient's illness, only one opinion seemedpossible. It was a clear and typical case of opium or morphinepoisoning. To this conclusion all his symptoms seemed to point withabsolute certainty. The coated tongue, which he protruded slowly andtremulously in response to a command bawled in his ear; his yellow skinand ghastly expression; his contracted pupils and the stupor from whichhe could hardly be roused by the roughest handling and which yet did notamount to actual insensibility; all these formed a distinct and coherentgroup of symptoms, not only pointing plainly to the nature of the drug,but also suggesting a very formidable dose.
But this conclusion in its turn ra
ised a very awkward and difficultquestion. If a large--a poisonous--dose of the drug had been taken, how,and by whom had that dose been administered? The closest scrutiny ofthe patient's arms and legs failed to reveal a single mark such as wouldbe made by a hypodermic needle. This man was clearly no commonmorphinomaniac; and in the absence of the usual sprinkling ofneedlemarks, there was nothing to show or suggest whether the drug hadbeen taken voluntarily by the patient himself or administered by someoneelse.
And then there remained the possibility that I might, after all, bemistaken in my diagnosis. I felt pretty confident. But the wise manalways holds a doubt in reserve. And, in the present case, having regardto the obviously serious condition of the patient, such a doubt waseminently disturbing. Indeed, as I pocketed my stethoscope and took alast look at the motionless, silent figure, I realized that my positionwas one of extraordinary difficulty and perplexity. On the one hand mysuspicions--aroused, naturally enough, by the very unusual circumstancesthat surrounded my visit--inclined me to extreme reticence; while, onthe other, it was evidently my duty to give any information that mightprove serviceable to the patient.
As I turned away from the bed Mr. Weiss stopped his slow pacing to andfro and faced me. The feeble light of the candle now fell on him, and Isaw him distinctly for the first time. He did not impress me favourably.He was a thick-set, round-shouldered man, a typical fair German withtow-coloured hair, greased and brushed down smoothly, a large, ragged,sandy beard and coarse, sketchy features. His nose was large and thickwith a bulbous end, and inclined to a reddish purple, a tint whichextended to the adjacent parts of his face as if the colour had run. Hiseyebrows were large and beetling, overhanging deep-set eyes, and he worea pair of spectacles which gave him a somewhat owlish expression. Hisexterior was unprepossessing, and I was in a state of mind that renderedme easily receptive of an unfavourable impression.
"Well," he said, "what do you make of him?" I hesitated, still perplexedby the conflicting necessities of caution and frankness, but at lengthreplied:
"I think rather badly of him, Mr. Weiss. He is in a very low state."
"Yes, I can see that. But have you come to any decision as to the natureof his illness?"
There was a tone of anxiety and suppressed eagerness in the questionwhich, while it was natural enough in the circumstances, by no meansallayed my suspicions, but rather influenced me on the side of caution.
"I cannot give a very definite opinion at present," I replied guardedly."The symptoms are rather obscure and might very well indicate severaldifferent conditions. They might be due to congestion of the brain, and,if no other explanation were possible, I should incline to that view.The alternative is some narcotic poison, such as opium or morphia."
"But that is quite impossible. There is no such drug in the house, andas he never leaves his room now, he could not get any from outside."
"What about the servants?" I asked.
"There are no servants excepting my housekeeper, and she is absolutelytrustworthy."
"He might have some store of the drug that you are not aware of. Is heleft alone much?"
"Very seldom indeed. I spend as much time with him as I can, and when Iam not able to be in the room, Mrs Schallibaum, my housekeeper, sitswith him."
"Is he often as drowsy as he is now?"
"Oh, very often; in fact, I should say that is his usual condition. Herouses up now and again, and then he is quite lucid and natural for,perhaps, an hour or so; but presently he becomes drowsy again and dosesoff, and remains asleep, or half asleep, for hours on end. Do you knowof any disease that takes people in that way?"
"No," I answered. "The symptoms are not exactly like those of anydisease that is known to me. But they are much very like those of opiumpoisoning."
"But, my dear sir," Mr. Weiss retorted impatiently, "since it is clearlyimpossible that it can be opium poisoning, it must be something else.Now, what else can it be? You were speaking of congestion of the brain."
"Yes. But the objection to that is the very complete recovery that seemsto take place in the intervals."
"I would not say very complete," said Mr. Weiss. "The recovery is rathercomparative. He is lucid and fairly natural in his manner, but he isstill dull and lethargic. He does not, for instance, show any desire togo out, or even to leave his room."
I pondered uncomfortably on these rather contradictory statements.Clearly Mr. Weiss did not mean to entertain the theory of opiumpoisoning; which was natural enough if he had no knowledge of the drughaving been used. But still--
"I suppose," said Mr. Weiss, "you have experience of sleeping sickness?"
The suggestion startled me. I had not. Very few people had. At that timepractically nothing was known about the disease. It was a merepathological curiosity, almost unheard of excepting by a fewpractitioners in remote parts of Africa, and hardly referred to in thetext-books. Its connection with the trypanosome-bearing insects was asyet unsuspected, and, to me, its symptoms were absolutely unknown.
"No, I have not," I replied. "The disease is nothing more than a name tome. But why do you ask? Has Mr. Graves been abroad?"
"Yes. He has been travelling for the last three or four years, and Iknow that he spent some time recently in West Africa, where this diseaseoccurs. In fact, it was from him that I first heard about it."
This was a new fact. It shook my confidence in my diagnosis veryconsiderably, and inclined me to reconsider my suspicions. If Mr. Weisswas lying to me, he now had me at a decided disadvantage.
"What do you think?" he asked. "Is it possible that this can be sleepingsickness?"
"I should not like to say that it is impossible," I replied. "Thedisease is practically unknown to me. I have never practised out ofEngland and have had no occasion to study it. Until I have looked thesubject up, I should not be in a position to give an opinion. Of course,if I could see Mr. Graves in one of what we may call his 'lucidintervals' I should be able to form a better idea. Do you think thatcould be managed?"
"It might. I see the importance of it and will certainly do my best; buthe is a difficult man; a very difficult man. I sincerely hope it is notsleeping sickness."
"Why?"
"Because--as I understood from him--that disease is invariably fatal,sooner or later. There seem to be no cure. Do you think you will be ableto decide when you see him again?"
"I hope so," I replied. "I shall look up the authorities and see exactlywhat the symptoms are--that is, so far as they are known; but myimpression is that there is very little information available."
"And in the meantime?"
"We will give him some medicine and attend to his general condition, andyou had better let me see him again as soon as possible." I was about tosay that the effect of the medicine itself might throw some light on thepatient's condition, but, as I proposed to treat him for morphinepoisoning, I thought it wiser to keep this item of information tomyself. Accordingly, I confined myself to a few general directions as tothe care of the patient, to which Mr. Weiss listened attentively. "And,"I concluded, "we must not lose sight of the opium question. You hadbetter search the room carefully and keep a close watch on the patient,especially during his intervals of wakefulness."
"Very well, doctor," Mr. Weiss replied, "I will do all that you tell meand I will send for you again as soon as possible, if you do not objectto poor Graves's ridiculous conditions. And now, if you will allow me topay your fee, I will go and order the carriage while you are writing theprescription."
"There is no need for a prescription," I said. "I will make up somemedicine and give it to the coachman."
Mr. Weiss seemed inclined to demur to this arrangement, but I had my ownreasons for insisting on it. Modern prescriptions are not difficult toread, and I did not wish Mr. Weiss to know what treatment the patientwas having.
As soon as I was left alone, I returned to the bedside and once morelooked down at the impassive figure. And as I looked, my suspicionsrevived. It was very like morphine poisoning; and, if it was morph
ine,it was no common, medicinal dose that had been given. I opened my bagand took out my hypodermic case from which I extracted a little tube ofatropine tabloids. Shaking out into my hand a couple of the tiny discs,I drew down the patient's under-lip and slipped the little tablets underhis tongue. Then I quickly replaced the tube and dropped the case intomy bag; and I had hardly done so when the door opened softly and thehousekeeper entered the room.
"How do you find Mr. Graves?" she asked in what I thought a veryunnecessarily low tone, considering the patient's lethargic state.
"He seems to be very ill," I answered.
"So!" she rejoined, and added: "I am sorry to hear that. We have beenanxious about him."
She seated herself on the chair by the bedside, and, shading the candlefrom the patient's face--and her own, too--produced from a bag that hungfrom her waist a half-finished stocking and began to knit silently andwith the skill characteristic of the German housewife. I looked at herattentively (though she was so much in the shadow that I could see herbut indistinctly) and somehow her appearance prepossessed me as littleas did that of the other members of the household. Yet she was not anill-looking woman. She had an excellent figure, and the air of a personof good social position; her features were good enough and hercolouring, although a little unusual, was not unpleasant. Like Mr.Weiss, she had very fair hair, greased, parted in the middle and brusheddown as smoothly as the painted hair of a Dutch doll. She appeared tohave no eyebrows at all--owing, no doubt, to the light colour of thehair--and the doll-like character was emphasized by her eyes, which wereeither brown or dark grey, I could not see which. A further peculiarityconsisted in a "habit spasm," such as one often sees in nervouschildren; a periodical quick jerk of the head, as if a cap-string ordangling lock were being shaken off the cheek. Her age I judged to beabout thirty-five.
The carriage, which one might have expected to be waiting, seemed totake some time in getting ready. I sat, with growing impatience,listening to the sick man's soft breathing and the click of thehousekeeper's knitting-needles. I wanted to get home, not only for myown sake; the patient's condition made it highly desirable that theremedies should be given as quickly as possible. But the minutes draggedon, and I was on the point of expostulating when a bell rang on thelanding.
"The carriage is ready," said Mrs. Schallibaum. "Let me light you downthe stairs."
She rose, and, taking the candle, preceded me to the head of the stairs,where she stood holding the light over the baluster-rail as I descendedand crossed the passage to the open side door. The carriage was drawn upin the covered way as I could see by the faint glimmer of the distantcandle; which also enabled me dimly to discern the coachman standingclose by in the shadow. I looked round, rather expecting to see Mr.Weiss, but, as he made no appearance, I entered the carriage. The doorwas immediately banged to and locked, and I then heard the heavy boltsof the gates withdrawn and the loud creaking of hinges. The carriagemoved out slowly and stopped; the gates slammed to behind me; I felt thelurch as the coachman climbed to his seat and we started forward.
My reflections during the return journey were the reverse of agreeable.I could not rid myself of the conviction that I was being involved insome very suspicious proceedings. It was possible, of course, that thisfeeling was due to the strange secrecy that surrounded my connectionwith this case; that, had I made my visit under ordinary conditions, Imight have found in the patient's symptoms nothing to excite suspicionor alarm. It might be so, but that consideration did not comfort me.
Then, my diagnosis might be wrong. It might be that this was, inreality, a case of some brain affection accompanied by compression, suchas slow haemorrhage, abscess, tumour or simple congestion. These caseswere very difficult at times. But the appearances in this one did notconsistently agree with the symptoms accompanying any of theseconditions. As to sleeping sickness, it was, perhaps a more hopefulsuggestion, but I could not decide for or against it until I had moreknowledge; and against this view was the weighty fact that the symptomsdid exactly agree with the theory of morphine poisoning.
But even so, there was no conclusive evidence of any criminal act. Thepatient might be a confirmed opium-eater, and the symptoms heightened bydeliberate deception. The cunning of these unfortunates is proverbialand is only equalled by their secretiveness and mendacity. It would bequite possible for this man to feign profound stupor so long as he waswatched, and then, when left alone for a few minutes, to nip out of bedand help himself from some secret store of the drug. This would be quitein character with his objection to seeing a doctor and his desire forsecrecy. But still, I did not believe it to be the true explanation. Inspite of all the various alternative possibilities, my suspicions cameback to Mr. Weiss and the strange, taciturn woman, and refused to budge.
For all the circumstances of the case were suspicious. The elaboratepreparations implied by the state of the carriage in which I wastravelling; the make-shift appearance of the house; the absence ofordinary domestic servants, although a coachman was kept; the evidentdesire of Mr. Weiss and the woman to avoid thorough inspection of theirpersons; and, above all, the fact that the former had told me adeliberate lie. For he had lied, beyond all doubt. His statement as tothe almost continuous stupor was absolutely irreconcilable with hisother statement as to the patient's wilfulness and obstinacy and evenmore irreconcilable with the deep and comparatively fresh marks of thespectacles on the patient's nose. That man had certainly worn spectacleswithin twenty-four hours, which he would hardly have done if he had beenin a state bordering on coma.
My reflections were interrupted by the stopping of the carriage. Thedoor was unlocked and thrown open, and I emerged from my dark and stuffyprison opposite my own house.
"I will let you have the medicine in a minute or two," I said to thecoachman; and, as I let myself in with my latch-key, my mind came backswiftly from the general circumstances of the case to the very criticalcondition of the patient. Already I was regretting that I had not takenmore energetic measures to rouse him and restore his flagging vitality;for it would be a terrible thing if he should take a turn for the worseand die before the coachman returned with the remedies. Spurred on bythis alarming thought, I made up the medicines quickly and carried thehastily wrapped bottles out to the man, whom I found standing by thehorse's head.
"Get back as quickly as you can," I said, "and tell Mr. Weiss to lose notime in giving the patient the draught in the small bottle. Thedirections are on the labels."
The coachman took the packages from me without reply, climbed to hisseat, touched the horse with his whip and drove off at a rapid pacetowards Newington Butts.
The little clock in the consulting-room showed that it was close oneleven; time for a tired G.P. to be thinking of bed. But I was notsleepy. Over my frugal supper I found myself taking up anew the threadof my meditations, and afterwards, as I smoked my last pipe by theexpiring surgery fire, the strange and sinister features of the casecontinued to obtrude themselves on my notice. I looked up Stillbury'slittle reference library for information on the subject of sleepingsickness, but learned no more than that it was "a rare and obscuredisease of which very little was known at present." I read up morphinepoisoning and was only further confirmed in the belief that my diagnosiswas correct; which would have been more satisfactory if thecircumstances had been different.
For the interest of the case was not merely academic. I was in aposition of great difficulty and responsibility and had to decide on acourse of action. What ought I to do? Should I maintain the professionalsecrecy to which I was tacitly committed, or ought I to convey a hint tothe police?
Suddenly, and with a singular feeling of relief, I bethought myself ofmy old friend and fellow-student, John Thorndyke, now an eminentauthority on Medical Jurisprudence. I had been associated with himtemporarily in one case as his assistant, and had then been deeplyimpressed by his versatile learning, his acuteness and his marvellousresourcefulness. Thorndyke was a barrister in extensive practice, and sowould be able to tell me at
once what was my duty from a legal point ofview; and, as he was also a doctor of medicine, he would understand theexigencies of medical practice. If I could find time to call at theTemple and lay the case before him, all my doubts and difficulties wouldbe resolved.
Anxiously, I opened my visiting-list to see what kind of day's work wasin store for me on the morrow. It was not a heavy day, even allowing forone or two extra calls in the morning, but yet I was doubtful whether itwould allow of my going so far from my district, until my eye caught,near the foot of the page, the name of Burton. Now Mr. Burton lived inone of the old houses on the east side of Bouverie Street, less thanfive minutes' walk from Thorndyke's chambers in King's Bench Walk; andhe was, moreover, a "chronic" who could safely be left for the last.When I had done with Mr. Burton I could look in on my friend with a verygood chance of catching him on his return from the hospital. I couldallow myself time for quite a long chat with him, and, by taking ahansom, still get back in good time for the evening's work.
This was a great comfort. At the prospect of sharing my responsibilitieswith a friend on whose judgment I could so entirely rely, myembarrassments seemed to drop from me in a moment. Having entered theengagement in my visiting-list, I rose, in greatly improved spirits, andknocked out my pipe just as the little clock banged out impatiently thehour of midnight.
The Mystery of 31 New Inn Page 1
