by David Pirie
Bell made his examination and talked to her without asking very much. Her replies, when they came, were a little rambling and unclear. She did, however, say she was having trouble eating and, though he was his usual cheerful self, I could tell perfectly well how perplexing he found this. At last he told her he would return the following day but, since she and I might like to converse, he would leave us for a minute or two.
I moved over beside her as he left us. ‘Lady Sarah,’ I said as positively as I could. ‘I am glad to see you.’
She looked at me with emotion. ‘Oh, I am not much to see.’ There was a pause, and then for a time we talked of Elsbeth and she repeated what she had said on my first visit, namely how her sister thought so highly of me. She understood our acquaintance had been renewed and grown deeper before she left for London, which I was readily able to agree, then suddenly a thought seemed to trouble her. ‘Perhaps … it is … better she is not here for a time. The truth is my husband does not take kindly to her. Once in my hearing he threatened her. Of course she had probably provoked him. I am sorry, my mind is not clear …’
I reassured her as well I could, for what she had said was perfectly clear; in fact it startled me and confirmed an old suspicion.
‘Mr Doyle,’ she said. ‘Will you come closer?’
I bent down so she could whisper. How frail she seemed, with none of the life and vigour I had just seen in her sister.
‘Elsbeth has said you can be trusted …’ she went on. And now from her sleeve she produced a little red pill box of distinctive character. Its top was embroidered in scarlet and its sides were smooth. There was something about the design of the thing that unnerved me. Indeed I wanted to see more, but almost as quickly as she had taken it out, she shook her head and put it away again. ‘So,’ she continued ‘I want you to tell me something. Is it true what Dr Bell says? That this is merely an imbalance, a general infection. Or is there more? Please tell me, for you are the only one I can ask and I know you will speak the truth.’
This was horrible. Was I to tell her what I knew perfectly well? That she was carrying a sexually transmitted disease passed to her by her husband? The more recent symptoms were, it is true, a little puzzling but the original ones made the diagnosis almost certain. All my human and moral instincts told me speaking out would be right. Yet to do so would be a flagrant breach of medical and ethical confidence, and would also betray a man who trusted me. In the end the decision was taken out of my hands but in the worst way imaginable. For the door of the bedroom opened and Sir Henry Carlisle walked in.
Heaven knows what he would have done if he had found us as we were when the door opened, my face so close to hers. But I was quick enough to move away and put a hand on her wrist, pretending to be listening to her pulse.
Even so he stopped dead. ‘Mr Doyle? I thought I had made it quite clear that you were not to have any part in my wife’s medical supervision.’
His face had reddened, his hands were clenched. All the boyish good humour he paraded before the students was utterly vanished, and I reflected yet again just how very shallow it was. Moreover, there was a slight feverishness in his eyes which I had not seen before and I wondered, not for the first time, what exactly lay at the heart of this man. It was dreadful to think of his dominance over the woman on the bed and I longed with all my heart to oppose him. But I had to keep reminding myself of his power. He needed only denounce me as the mad son of a mad father and I would leave the university in ignominy, breaking my mother’s heart in the process.
‘Sir, I must take my instructions from Dr Bell,’ I said quietly.
He looked scornful. ‘Yes, well she may not be Dr Bell’s patient for very much longer. Now I will bid you good day.’
I recall the misery in Lady Sarah’s face when he said that and I nodded to her, whispering Dr Bell would return. Fortunately Carlisle did not hear it and I left the room as he closed the door behind me.
Bell was standing in the hall downstairs and he indicated that I should leave the house at once and wait for him outside in the cab. It was almost an hour before he emerged and entered the vehicle, instructing the driver to take us back to the university. There had obviously been an argument. He looked tired and preoccupied and for a time, neither of us spoke until at last he turned to me. ‘For the moment Carlisle will not force another opinion on his wife. But matters will come to a head very soon, unless we can make more progress.’
‘And if he does so?’
‘I believe I can guess who will be consulted. If I am right it will be very bad.’
Later, in the privacy of the upstairs room, we discussed the matter in detail. I told him the new information I had discovered, namely the strange box of pills and the fact that Carlisle had threatened Miss Scott.
The Doctor was intrigued. ‘Did she say why?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘She said her sister had probably provoked him. But do you not see the significance of this? We can establish that he threatened Miss Scott directly. He is a regular customer at Madame Rose’s, he was even a visitor to the Crawfords. This makes him a clear suspect, therefore surely we should speak out against him now.’
Bell got up from his chair at once, greatly exercised by my words. ‘I have told you the consequences of announcing her condition. They are potentially devastating for the patient. And though I accept Carlisle is a candidate, we can hardly put it more strongly than that.’ He went over to his drawer and took out a map. It was a map of Edinburgh on which Bell had marked out the places where we could say for certain our man had been active and drawn a circle around them.
‘As you know, Doyle,’ Bell said as he pored over it, ‘I do not believe in revealing my thoughts before I am ready, but I will make an exception on this occasion. I think there is a pattern to the places he frequents. It is, for example, inconceivable that anyone could have created the room of blood without getting blood on his clothes and person, and yet nobody appears to have noticed. I suggest it is very likely our man lives within this circle, which incidentally would exclude Sir Henry Carlisle.’
I suppose I should have felt privileged. But I kept thinking of the frail and frightened features of Lady Sarah and of Carlisle’s cruel manner. ‘He could have washed away the traces – Madame Rose’s provides every facility – and Carlisle could easily disguise himself in a cape and hood.’
‘It is possible. All I am saying is that the evidence cannot yet be considered decisive. We must rely on the principles of deduction and be patient.’
‘Even if your method works, Doctor,’ I said, ‘it is too slow. We cannot simply wait and see this woman suffer. Besides, I have promised her sister otherwise.’
Bell had returned to his chair, but this made him look up. ‘I should be very careful of engaging yourself too personally in this business.’ He spoke quickly, his eyes bright and fixed on me. ‘From everything I have seen, the man we are seeking has a singular quality. The resolution may not be happy.’
Having issued this warning he returned to his papers, and shortly afterwards I left him. He knew quite well that it was a good deal easier for me to protest than to think of anything practical to do. Of course I could have stormed into the Carlisle household and denounced the man to his wife, but how could I be sure this would have a positive result? And, try as I might, I could think of no way to further my investigation into his activities. Until one night I acted on a reckless impulse.
It was about eight in the evening. I had walked down that familiar street where Samuel used to play and, as so often, I stood before the lighted windows and red curtains of Madame Rose’s, desperately wishing there was some way I could share its secrets.
As I stood there, two gaudily dressed, yet not unattractive, women pushed past me, laughing and whispering. They were making for its doorway, and something made me follow.
‘Excuse me, madam,’ I blurted out at the nearest, who turned round, somewhat surprised and half amused. She had rich dark curls and a pretty mouth.
But I had their attention. ‘I was wondering,’ I said falteringly, ‘if you knew a gentleman who sometimes pays a visit to this house. A gentleman of means. His name is Henry.’
They had lost interest now. ‘Oh, we have many visitors here,’ the woman with the curls said haughtily. I realised now she was French. ‘It’s a matter for us.’ And they turned away.
For a second I was left standing there feeling completely foolish. But I would not let it go and went up the steps after them. ‘Of course,’ I said quickly, ‘it is merely that …’ They were half inside now and the French woman looked back at me scornfully, preparing to close the door in my face. ‘ … that he recommended you.’
The change was spectacular. She smiled broadly, showing a fine set of teeth, and put out an arm to usher me, now a welcome customer, into Madame Rose’s.
THE QUEST FOR AGNES WALSH
I felt as if I were in some kind of dream. Fortunately the madame I had met was nowhere in evidence; indeed the hall was relatively empty apart from a discreet servant who guarded the door. My friend, who I gathered was called Marie, suggested we take some refreshment, but this was the last thing I wanted for I dreaded meeting anyone. So I shook my head mutely and she smiled, evidently quite happy to move on to the main agenda.
I was led to the first floor and into one of those utterly mundane rooms I had already seen with a bed, a sofa and a dressing table. I sat on the sofa and gave her all the money I had, ruefully reflecting that I would scarcely be able to eat for the next few days. It was, it seemed, much less than she required but, after a few protests, she seemed happy enough. ‘Well, if here is all you have, chérie,’ she said, ‘and you are young. Now do you wish that I prepare?’
I nodded. ‘Does he come and see you much?’ I said casually, feeling that now we were friends I was entitled to this easy conversation.
She laughed. ‘Henri. He is a lord, is he not? A tall man, whiskers, yes?’ I nodded, trying to look amused and disguise my reaction, for I was sure now it was him.
‘I know him, yes,’ she said, her accent quite pronounced. ‘You are sweet when you say he recommends me but the girl he likes was Agnes. Agnes Walsh. She would give him what he wanted. I think sometimes he hurt her. But she is gone.’
I had to look away, trying to contain my excitement. At last we had a serious link. And the name was familiar. For Agnes Walsh’s clothes had been found in that room of blood. ‘Agnes Walsh,’ I said. ‘She was his mistress? Where is she?’
‘Ah,’ she said, taking a little bottle of scent from her bag and putting it on as she looked in the mirror. ‘Nobody knows.’
‘And he has not been back?’
‘Oh, yes, he is back. He says she may give him something bad. He is angry. I do not know. But he does not choose another girl yet. Maybe he will, or maybe he goes somewhere else.’
This was too much for me and I could no longer hold back my amazement. ‘He did accuse her then? Of infecting him?’
Of course she turned to me at once and all the hardness was back in her eyes. ‘You did not come here for yourself, did you?’
It was pointless to deny it. ‘Is there no way I can find her? If I pay you …’
She got up at once, evidently aware that she had said more than she should have. There was a look of spiteful anger on her face now. She was clearly annoyed to have given such secrets of the place away. ‘I told you, nobody knows where she went. And nobody will say your friend was here, either, certainly not me. Now please … Go! Or I will see you thrown out.’
And she went to the door and flung it open.
I plunged down those stairs and into the street, feeling quite a sense of triumph for I was certain in my own mind that I had discovered the truth. Carlisle was a bully, who enjoyed tormenting women. I could see that even from the way he treated his wife. Eventually he had been infected by a prostitute, Agnes Walsh, and his activities had become even more criminal and bizarre, shown not least in the room of blood with Agnes’s own clothes in the middle of it. As a diversion, he had set us on the trail of Crawford, who he knew very well from the university. Indeed Crawford had laughed more heartily at Carlisle’s smoking-room anecdotes than anyone.
I was desperate to tell the Doctor, and the following day I went to his rooms, only to find he was out on a visit to the Royal Hospital for Sick Children. At last he returned in good spirits, for it turned out that one of his young patients was making a far better recovery from pleurisy than he had dared to hope. Before I could open my mouth he took one look at me and said, ‘You have found something out, I see.’
I explained all that I had heard. He was impressed, and also, thank heavens, tactful. I told him I had gathered the information on the street, and I am sure he disbelieved me, but he did not ask for details.
‘Carlisle is, I fear, like many men of our age, a gross hypocrite,’ he said. ‘As yet I cannot finally accept you have proved he is a murderer, but …’ and he raised his hand, anticipating my objection, ‘but the facts you have uncovered are very suggestive indeed. At last we have a serious link to the room of blood. There is a web here, and I am quite sure Carlisle is part of that web.’
All our attention was now centred on the missing Agnes Walsh. ‘Since,’ the Doctor continued, with a mercifully small hint of irony, ‘you have been so successful gathering information on the street, I suggest you gather some more for me. You must find out from your sources if there is any news of this Agnes Walsh. Some of these women will have seen her. And I really believe, Doyle, it is possible that if we find her, and help her, we will be within sight of the solution to this whole business.’
I was greatly heartened by his response but, after I left him, my excitement diminished a little. For I had to face the bald truth that my source would provide nothing more, indeed she would not even speak to me. In the end I decided the best course was to enlist my own friends. Together we could cover more ground, and I could still keep the real reason for the enquiry a secret.
Stark and Neill were loafing around Surgeon’s Square in the sunshine, lamenting the absence of the women. We agreed to meet in Rutherford’s that night and, after we had sat down together in that bustling panelled bar, I waited to let the conversation take its course. All of us were amused by the fact that a first-year man had fainted away outright at an operation the previous day and, after the topic of operations had fizzled out, I launched into my story.
I told them that a relative had got in touch with our family, anxious to make contact with an Agnes Walsh, an old acquaintance who it seemed had fallen on hard times in Edinburgh, possibly even working on the streets. My relative wanted to help her and was very anxious to make contact discreetly for that purpose.
Neither Stark nor Neill had ever visited my home, so they had no way of disproving the lie. They were well aware that I had little money, but Neill always put this down to the strictness of my parents, comparing it to the penury of our hero Poe who constantly quarrelled with his wealthy stepfather. So with only a little embroidery, my tale excited the imagination of both of them. Stark concluded that my relative was wealthy and the poor waif would be transformed at a stroke into a princess, while Neill loved the idea of a charitable mission into the stews of the old city. The division between rich and poor, he often said, was the nearest thing our country had to a frontier.
And so we set out into the streets, full of enthusiasm for the quest to redeem Agnes Walsh. I suppose I should have felt some guilt about the subterfuge. But I reasoned that, if we found Agnes, she would indeed be helped, for the Doctor had already indicated he would offer medical care. I had, of course, no intention of revealing Bell’s role in the business, and if my friends discovered it I would merely say I had consulted him on the matter.
In the event, none of these precautions proved remotely necessary. We started the proceedings optimistically enough, with Neill whistling merrily as we turned into the street where most women wer
e to be seen, hanging out of their windows and sometimes standing in doorways. Our first encounter was with a small fair-haired woman who stood in an alley and smiled warmly at us as we passed. When we told her we were searching for Agnes Walsh she looked blank.
But the next experience was very different. We had arrived at one of the smaller houses of assignation which flourished in the town at that time. It was run by a matronly dame in middle age, who greeted us warmly and invited us in.
Neill smiled at her as he stepped forward. ‘We are hopeful of finding a Miss Agnes Walsh or anyone who has news of her.’
The effect on the woman was dramatic. The smile left her face and she moved back at once, slamming the door in all our faces. Stark and Neill were as aghast as I was.
‘What has she done, this Agnes Walsh?’ said Stark. ‘Did she strangle one of these girls?’
‘I do not understand,’ I said, pretending innocence but thinking fast. The woman had looked angry but also frightened. Were they aware of the trouble Agnes had brought on them? We went on down that street passing two young women who stood arm in arm smiling at us in front of a window. This time I took the lead and asked politely if they had any knowledge of the whereabouts of Agnes Walsh, but at this they merely shook their heads curtly and tried to interest us in coming inside.
That reaction was the most typical, a sullen denial. But none of us could forget the slamming door and, an hour or so later, after we had received further rebuffs, my companions were becoming bemused, if not irritated.
Neill still had the greatest spirit and decided to prevail on a woman standing beside a lamp-post. He did a twirl around it and kissed her delicately on the cheek, making her laugh. But once again, when he asked his question, we could see her head shaking, and he came back to us mournfully.
‘She has never heard of your mystery woman,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your relative will be disappointed.’
