The Night Calls

by David Pirie

  I never quite understood who, besides Bell, looked after this chamber, but it was well tended and soon we were glad enough to be seated in two comfortable old armchairs before its fireplace on that bitter night. Behind us those towering shelves, containing so much history of infamy, were illuminated by the flickering firelight. The Doctor offered me some brandy, which I declined. He was an abstemious man himself, for his family were members of the Scottish dissenting Free Church, so I was quite surprised when he poured out a small amount and added water from a carafe. Then he took a sip of it and stared into the fire.

  ‘I do not like it,’ he said at last. ‘Nor do I feel any nearer to understanding it.’

  I knew he was referring to the attack on Miss Morrison. ‘But surely,’ I said, ‘it is only a form of sexual attack. Odd, I agree, but that crime has always existed. And we are fortunate he did not take it further.’

  Bell turned to me and the firelight, flickering in his face, made his sharp features look almost sinister. ‘If I were convinced that the attack merely had a sexual motive, I would be a good deal more confident about our friend. Clearly passion is there in part. He is drawn to attack women, but even so his crimes are among the odder I have known. Edinburgh has a long history of vice, but I have never in my life heard of anything quite like this. Today’s attack was foul, but it was also daring. If his timing had been wrong by even a few seconds he would have been seen and perhaps caught. It is as if … as if he is telling us something.’

  ‘But what?’ For I truly thought the Doctor was guilty of romancing a little in his description.

  ‘I have an idea and I hope it is wrong. That is all I will say.’ He was staring at the fire as he spoke, but now he turned back to me. ‘I believe my own anxiety caused me to be a little churlish with you earlier, Doyle. Of course I would like to have been there sooner, but if somehow your drunken waiter had got away, no doubt Beecher would have been all the more insistent that he had perpetrated both crimes. So in that sense you performed a very useful purpose and were ill thanked for it. Now it is time to lock up and go to bed, for tomorrow I have to make a journey.’

  I was pleased he had said as much, and slept well, but next morning, when I returned to the university, I reflected that I was still no nearer to finding Miss Scott. There was quite a crowd of students around the square and I heard laughter and cheers. Then I recalled with a sinking heart this was the day one of the school of medicine’s most important patrons, Sir Henry Carlisle, was being given a ‘royal’ tour.

  I had seen Carlisle often enough and had no high opinion of him. A large, bewhiskered, self-important man with raffish good looks and a swagger, he had made a packet in the colonies and now seemed to like nothing better than to parade himself before the students. I had no doubt his money did some good, nor did I care if he wished to flaunt it, but what always irritated me about Carlisle was the way he sought to ingratiate himself. He would endlessly wink and joke and snigger for our amusement, and had consequently built up a sizable band of followers, some of whom I knew from the rugby field. Indeed there was a story that on one hot day he had declared after his usual tour of the university that the ‘men’ looked a little parched and he would buy them all some beer. At which there was a great cheer and he was carried shoulder-high to Bennett’s Bar, where no doubt they laughed at his jokes for as long as he wished.

  As I drew closer, I saw that on this occasion Carlisle was being escorted by one of the most pompous and unctuous medical teachers in the university, a physiologist called Gillespie. ‘If you come this way, Sir Henry,’ he was saying, ‘I would like to show you how our newest operating theatre is progressing, thanks to your generous help.’

  Sir Henry grinned at the crowd, and I noticed for the first time that there were women among it. ‘Delighted,’ he said, looking round him. ‘Though I have to admit I am almost expecting to find lace tablecloths draped over the instruments of surgery. After all, much as we may abhor it, it seems you have the tender sensibilities of women to consider now.’

  Here was the kind of humour he favoured, even though today, unusually, his wife Lady Sarah Carlisle was beside him. She was small and fair and looked rather ill at ease.

  ‘Yes,’ Gillespie answered with a smile. ‘It has been left to each teacher to decide whether to admit women.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Carlisle replied, climbing the steps to the theatre, and winking at one of his acolytes, a sly man who played fullback in the university team. ‘And I hear Latimer for one stands out agin it.’ Here he raised his voice for the benefit of the men by the door. ‘He says the only women in his anatomy class will continue to enter feet first!’

  There was a great guffaw of approval and a whoop of delight from Crawford’s gang, who were standing not far away. Moreover, as soon as he was in the theatre and the door had closed, a great jeer went up against the women standing by the entrance. I walked away to my class, but my blood was boiling and Latimer’s dissection did nothing to improve my mood. How could Carlisle abuse his position in this way to stir up feeling against the women? He was not a doctor or a teacher. He had no jurisdiction over any of us. He was merely meant to be involved in charity and good works. And now he was using his money to further his own prejudices. By the end of the class, after an hour of watching the red-faced Latimer pulling amphibians apart, I had made up my mind to do something. It would be no use to approach Carlisle directly, but the unctuous Gillespie would surely hear my complaint. I knew quite well that the man hated trouble of any kind, and I fully intended to cause as much of it as I could.

  Not wishing to be distracted, I crossed the square and walked straight down the corridor to Gillespie’s office. The door was half open, and I could hear voices. A woman’s voice sounded angry. I made out the phrase ‘compromise yourself. Perhaps some of the women were already making their feelings known to Gillespie. I knocked on the door and entered.

  To my astonishment, Miss Scott stood there, a little flushed in the face, staring at me. I was equally startled. It was the first time I had seen her since the incident with Crawford and I was struck, as before, by her physical beauty. The reddish fair hair was combed out and fell round her face. The eyes were less defiant now, sadder, though surprised enough at the sight of me.

  I tried to compose myself. ‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I was looking for Dr Gillespie.’

  I turned, expecting to see him, but the other person in the room was the small, somewhat fragile yet elegant figure of Carlisle’s wife. Miss Scott saw my confusion.

  ‘He is not here, Mr Doyle,’ she said. ‘May I introduce my older sister? Lady Sarah Carlisle.’

  Of course I went forward and shook her hand, marvelling at this. Now that I thought about it, there was a faint resemblance between the two sisters, though Lady Carlisle was some years older.

  ‘Mr Doyle,’ she said. ‘Dr Gillespie has been approving the new wing with my husband. I am sure you can interrupt them.’

  I was emboldened now to say what I had come for, and I wanted Miss Scott to hear it. ‘Well, to be honest, ma’am. I only wished to point out to him it is hard enough here for your sister and her colleagues without our own patron airing his feelings against them.’

  If I had expected Miss Scott to look pleased with me, I was disappointed. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Carlisle. The latter did not seem put out, but her reply had dignity. ‘Mr Doyle, if certain of my husband’s views incline to the traditional, it is his affair and not particularly unusual.’ And then she smiled over at her sister. ‘But Elsbeth here will make a very good doctor. I am proud of her.’

  It was a touching moment, and Miss Scott was about to answer when suddenly the door swung wide open and Gillespie and Carlisle swept in, laughing together.

  ‘Lady Carlisle!’ Gillespie wrung his hands with typical unctuousness. ‘We have returned from our ministrations to offer you and your husband some refreshment.’

  I noticed Carlisle answered for his wife at once. ‘I can certainly bid them welcome,’
he said, smiling at Lady Carlisle and moving to the fireplace. He ignored both myself and Miss Scott entirely. It was as if we were not even there.

  A look from Gillespie, however, made it clear I should leave, and I needed no second invitation. Perhaps it might seem like cowardice, but I did not wish to embarrass Miss Scott in any way and reasoned I had no place interrupting a family gathering. After negotiating Carlisle, who gave me a quizzical look, I nodded at the women and withdrew.

  Outside, however, I did glance back and saw Sir Henry, Lady Carlisle and Gillespie were talking. It seemed to me that Miss Scott was totally ignored, but then the door was shut.

  That afternoon was not so cold as it had been and, rather than go directly home, I wanted to walk and think about this encounter. I was in such a daydream that I hardly noticed where I was heading, and then ahead of me I saw a little cluster of people, mainly traders, with a policeman among them.

  Even then I was not alert enough to wonder about this or register who I was. Until my eye was caught by something lying in the gutter. It was a smashed violin.

  At once I thought of Samuel and moved quickly through the crowd, for they were gathered around something. I had to push past several people until I came to the front. Samuel’s body lay on the cobbled stones before me, utterly stiff and lifeless. The beggar’s hand was stretched out as if clawing the pavement and his poor face stared up at the sky just as it had when he played. But now it bore an expression of intense pain, all the features contorted.

  I turned away in shock. A policeman stood talking to a grey-suited man, who was evidently a doctor, and I moved quickly to them with my questions.

  ‘See for yourself,’ answered the policeman rather impatiently, as if he were discussing a broken horse-trough. ‘Old Samuel has had some sort of seizure. Drank far too much than was good for him. They say he was in agony.’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded the doctor. ‘Alcoholic poisoning is what I surmise. Somebody gave him a bottle.’

  ‘Where is the bottle?’ I said abruptly, for I could make no sense of this. My tone evidently irritated the doctor for he spoke quite sharply.

  ‘I don’t know. Ask them. They’ll know right enough.’

  He indicated a group of street-urchins, some quite filthy, who stood laughing across the way. ‘But I smell no alcohol,’ I said. ‘And he was no great drinker. You’re sure the death is as you say?’

  The policeman stared at me. ‘Aye, and what do you ken about it?’ he said with an officious air. Behind him the body was at last being decently covered.

  I tried to keep calm. ‘I do not think it is likely he died from alcohol poisoning and I am a medical student,’ I said with as much dignity as I could. But it was a mistake, for both of them smiled.

  ‘Well awa’ and pester someone else,’ the policeman said. ‘He hasnae been attacked and why would a soul hurt him? They didna even take his pennies.’

  He was quite right, for now I saw the beggar’s pathetic pile of coins lying on the edge of the pavement. For some reason Samuel had stacked them neatly in a gleaming little pyramid and the urchins were already eyeing them greedily.

  The doctor was not to be outdone. ‘I advise you to get back to your studies, young man. This is a common enough occurrence. He was just a drunken beggar.’

  And they turned away without offering me the chance of another word. I tried appealing to the people around me, especially the nearby stallholder who had served us, who knew quite well Samuel was no drinker. But even he slunk away and I could not blame him. For in those days the minor officials of medicine and justice were frequently peremptory, insular and vindictive. Once Opinion had been issued they would never allow an inferior to challenge it on any grounds. No doubt the stallholder had reasons to avoid the police, and certainly he would not risk his livelihood by opposing them.

  Finally, knowing Bell was away examining, I presented myself at the nearest police station and made as much noise as I could about the matter. The old detective with a long moustache and whiskers, who came out to talk to me was not unsympathetic, writing down my views solemnly in an ancient red notebook. But he was honest enough to admit that he doubted anyone would investigate further.

  I returned home, still feeling angry and upset. And in due course, after talking to my mother, a feeling of intense apprehension drew me to my father’s study. The kind of death I had witnessed in the street was, after all, the death we all feared most for him: that he would be found in a gutter somewhere with a bottle.

  At first I was pleasantly surprised to find my father seated in his chair, a little sleepy it was true, but calm. And he seemed to recognise me. His cup of tea was getting cold before him so I took it to his lips. He drank and, for a wonder, thanked me. But then, as ever, the door opened and Waller was there.

  I looked up at him. My father was dozing again. ‘He seems better,’ I said eagerly. Perhaps I should have known better than to comment, but I had been excited by my father’s relative improvement.

  ‘Oh no,’ Waller replied with a shake of his fine head. ‘I sedated him. That is all.’

  As ever the man must have everything under his control. Waller had taken over the supervision of my father’s case at the instigation of my mother, but I was quite sure he had no wish whatsoever for his ‘patient’s’ health to improve. How I longed for a day when my father became whole again and sent him packing from the house! Alas I must have known, even then, such a day would probably never come.

  Waller was continuing in his clipped nasal tones, ‘ … your mother says you were concerning yourself about Samuel. That beggar with the fiddle?’

  I was surprised to hear Waller say his name. When describing the incident to my mother, I had never called him Samuel. ‘You knew him?’ I asked.

  ‘I heard the infernal racket he made. Sad, I suppose, in a way, but are we not better off for the streets being clear of such people? A weak strain will produce weakness.’

  His eyes fell on my father, and of course I knew quite well what he was saying to me. But, as ever, his insinuation was veiled so that he could avoid any overt opposition.

  ‘You want me to hear your pathology tonight?’

  This last, more civil, remark came, I suppose, because he had noticed my fist clench and thought he might have risked provoking me too far. As it was, I did not dignify him with a reply and left the room.

  Later that night I resorted to my friends and several glasses of ale as we lounged on the red leather upholstery of Rutherford’s bar. I cannot say I drank excessively as a student for I was poor, and at home each night I faced the living proof of what damage drink could do. But I was by no means totally abstinent. For his part, Neill had independent means from his people in Canada and sometimes, when his money came through, he insisted on buying our beer. On nights like this I was glad of it too for I wanted a diversion. And I also wished to talk to them of Samuel’s death.

  ‘But why would anyone wish to harm him?’ said Stark after I had explained that the death seemed to me suspicious.

  Obviously I had turned this over more than once. ‘I do not know enough about the man, but there may have been some quarrel or a debt. I doubt they will make any investigation whatsoever; the bottle he drained has disappeared. It could have contained any kind of poison. But if his body could be exhumed?’

  Both of them guffawed at this. ‘Doyle!’ Stark said. ‘Even if you found his grave, how could you persuade them to do that? May I remind you we are not exactly men of influence in our profession!’

  Finally I was forced to admit defeat. Even if we could establish a case, I doubted anyone would listen to us. And so, as will happen late in the evening when undergraduates are drinking, the talk became more abstract. We talked of innocence and goodness (for Samuel was my idea of innocence) and then of evil. And I suddenly remembered with indignation how at my boarding school I was told I would go to hell for playing with a ball in a corridor. ‘If that,’ I said putting down my glass with finality, ‘is what the Jesuits can
class as evil, perhaps evil does not truly exist at all?’

  ‘But it does,’ said Stark.

  ‘Possibly,’ I said gloomily. For I was thinking of Samuel’s lifeless body and his staring pain.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Neill emphatically. ‘Just stand on a high cliff looking down. No death could be worse: you would be crushed on the rocks below; yet something, some imp, still whispers to you to jump. Or let us say you have an important task, something you have to do, you must do and time is desperately short. Action is essential.’ He was almost on his feet himself now, waving his hands, a peculiarity of Neill’s when he became excited with some flight of fancy. ‘But then something, a lassitude, descends. That same imp is there in your mind, gently, insidiously, whispering delay. You see? Humans somehow desire to do things merely because they know they should not.’

  Of course I recognised the source of his idea at once, for we had often discussed it: ‘The Imp of the Perverse’ by Poe, a wonderful story which examines the idea of the human temptation to act against the prevailing good even at our own cost.

  ‘Yet,’ I went on, ‘that is only one view. And others have an idea of evil that I could never accept. Look at that madman Crawford. He seems to believe the women who come to our class are evil.’

  ‘It is nonsense,’ said Stark.

  ‘But,’ said Neill, ‘we have to understand that Crawford and his kind call it evil because they are frightened of it, and you know what they are frightened of? I will tell you. It is freedom. That is what the women seek. And it is this message of freedom that terrifies our professors. Yes, it is the message from the New World, from the future! Why, there we had women doctors even before the Civil War!’