by David Pirie
‘But when?’ I said, close to crying myself.
She shook her head. ‘You know …’ she said, taking my hand. ‘You know how nearly we came to the end.’
Eventually we embraced, for I loved her and what else could I do? But I still feel the bitterness of the transformation of that room to this day. And, despite my mother’s reassurance, it never was restored, indeed my father’s illness worsened. But sometimes in my mind I still return to his study just as it was with all its profusion of drawings and papers. The fire is lit, the door stands open and I feel a miraculous little tug of certainty that its owner is about to return, as he was, not as he became.
THE EXHUMATION
Next morning was a hot, humid day and I was hurrying to Bell’s room when I encountered Stark crossing the square. I smiled at him but he looked concerned.
‘What is going on, Doyle?’ he said.
My heart sank at this. ‘Why?’
‘We were told you were leaving us. Gillespie said so. Is it true?’
‘Possibly,’ I said, seeing that events were moving ahead as fast as I feared. ‘And have you heard about Carlisle’s wife?’ Stark added.
‘What of her?’ I said with some dread. Around us the square was filling up with students who had emerged from one of Latimer’s lectures.
‘Evidently Gillespie has diagnosed moral insanity. They are trying to find two doctors to have her committed. What has the woman been doing?’
So Bell’s worst fears were proved right. And if anyone was responsible for the dreadful speed of events it was me. I did not answer him but turned away and pushed past two students, who stood in my way, for I had to see Bell.
I found him in his room, bent over a huge bath of rectifying fluid and he turned, looking surprisingly cheerful. ‘Good morning! Your career is at an end. And mine hangs by a thread.’
I did not know whether to laugh or cry – there was something so admirable about his stoical amusement at such a dreadful time. But though there was little hope for me, I could not believe they would unseat him, and said so.
‘Oh,’ he replied. ‘They must placate Sir Henry at all costs. He has accused me of a vicious slander. However, as long as you go, I am probably safe.’
I wondered if he was serious. ‘But we cannot abandon it now. Lady Sarah is to be committed.’
‘That is so.’ He turned back to the bath. ‘And just as I predicted. Gillespie was there early this morning.’
For an awful moment, I wondered if I had misjudged Bell. I knew he would never stop searching for his prey but perhaps, now that he was faced with a potential scandal which risked his status and his occupation, he was prepared to make a temporary retreat into his little world of scientific exploration.
‘So we have failed?’ I said bitterly as he finished his measurements.
He straightened up with daunting speed and strode back towards me. ‘Failed?’ he said contemptuously. ‘Your emotions lead you again, despite all my attempts at instruction. I failed once a long time ago, Doyle. The rest is shooting in the dark. There are other paths to this case and you may be surprised where they lead us. In the meantime I am making preparations here, for there is one other small piece of news and we will have to make good use of it.’
He handed me an official paper that had been lying on his desk. ‘Our exhumation order.’
The Doctor pointed out that, although we both knew time was short, we must now proceed with the utmost care, which was why he was making such elaborate preparations. He intended to conduct the autopsy himself, but it was vital that the official pathologist, Summers, who was a far more broad-minded man than Beecher, worked alongside him. We would need Summers’s support to persuade Beecher to take up the case.
Summers was not available until the evening, so the Doctor and I spent some time preparing a room not far from his own where the autopsy might take place. On those rare occasions, when the Doctor undertook such work himself, he always preferred this somewhat unorthodox procedure for he liked to have all his laboratory equipment close by.
Next I was given the task of recruiting diggers for the exhumation. This was not difficult, but the Doctor remained insistent that not one spade of earth should be turned until Summers arrived so that he could be a witness to every stage. Fortunately the weather was warm, but lamps were procured, for it was almost dark by the time we started.
Our first problem was that, in such a place as this, there was no reason to suppose the grave had been marked with any great accuracy. But here its miserable position helped us, for there were no others near that dismal spot. The diggers therefore marked out a broad band of territory where she might lie, cleared away the rubbish, and then proceeded to dig in a line right down the middle of it.
It was hard work as I can testify for I assisted them. The ground was hard for there had been little rain, and almost at once we thought we had struck something which turned out to be a stone. The Doctor and Summers followed our progress closely and, looking round, I could see what an odd sight we made for our lanterns gave us long flickering shadows which reached almost the length of the place.
For a time we could find nothing at all and, though the Doctor stood there immovably in his black coat and hat, I knew he was becoming impatient.
Then the man beside me gave a shout and I saw he had hit something. At once Bell sprang forward, signalling that we should stop. He crouched down and put his hand on what looked less like a coffin than a box.
‘Yes, it is barely more than paper, but it is dry, thank God. We will have to be very careful. We must work around and under it.’ From here he meticulously directed the digging. Eventually, with some care, we managed to reveal a long and horribly slender container which, as he said, looked hardly thicker than cardboard.
Now we were told to dig carefully around it. Until, at last, under the Doctor’s direction, came the moment when the six of us were able to get underneath. Slowly and with great caution we hoisted it to the surface, though at every moment I could see Bell was worried it would fracture, especially since a little night rain had started to fall.
Once we laid it down, the Doctor took up a lantern and then, with Summers, he lifted a flap of the thing. I could see almost nothing, but the two of them seemed satisfied even as they replaced the flap. Now orders were issued for it to be transported, with extreme diligence, to the police cab Summers had at his disposal.
The three diggers seemed to have developed a great respect for Bell in the course of these operations, and proceeded with the utmost delicacy under his close direction, as Summers and I followed. We were, I suppose, a very strange spectacle, as we strode behind this respectful procession in the gleaming rain, our lanterns held aloft. All that was needed to complete the scene was a regimental piper, for our pace and solemnity must have made it look as if we were honouring a dead hero. Agnes Walsh, I reflected, had found some respect at the last.
The autopsy that night was as thorough and meticulous as any I have ever known. I was not present when they placed Agnes Walsh’s body on the table of the room we had prepared. But I entered shortly after and, despite all my curiosity, I had to force myself to look. Rotted decaying blotches covered what remained of her face, and in some places bone was clearly visible through the skin. There was something hideous about the ungainly way that bag of bones and skin lay on the table, but the two doctors were beaming with delight. ‘It is much better than I feared,’ said Bell.
‘Yes, the state of preservation is remarkable,’ said Summers. ‘We are very fortunate there has been no rain.’
‘Now,’ said Bell, ‘it will take us well into tomorrow and it is not by any means easy. My ultimate intention will be to remove the internal organs, dissolve them in methylated spirits and to boil, cool and filter the residue. I will start with the viscera.’
It was, as he said, a long and arduous task, and I saw little of it for I was involved largely as a dogsbody and messenger, not to mention cleaner, fetcher and carrier. Soon I was ha
ving to transport much of Bell’s chemistry equipment to the other room for he preferred to keep all his tasks in one place. As a result I had little idea of what was taking place, and noted only the grim concentration on their faces when I re-entered. Indeed, as the night wore on, I became somewhat concerned, for their faces were long and by no means as happy as when they had begun. I decided this might only be exhaustion, but I was tired too and it preyed on my mind.
By the time dawn had come both men’s attention had transferred from the corpse itself to the chemistry experiments they were conducting, but their faces were even grimmer and they said little.
My mood was hardly improved an hour or so later when I was taking a bucket of waste to the disposal area across the corridor and encountered a group of students, Neill among them.
‘Doyle,’ he said eagerly. ‘Did you hear? It is all around the place. Carlisle’s wife is to be committed tonight. They have found a second doctor to sign the papers.’
I merely nodded miserably and went on with my tasks.
When I came back to the autopsy, I was determined to ask how they had fared, and I had my opportunity for Bell was there alone, heating a solution which was turning purple. He looked round at me, his face pale with exhaustion.
‘It seems certain,’ he said, ‘that she was suffering from the advanced stages of syphilis.’
This was hardly major news. ‘And?’ I asked, for I was really anxious now.
‘There is no arsenic. Not a trace of it anywhere.’
Here was the news I dreaded. We had exerted every effort, and we had failed.
‘No,’ said the Doctor, ‘it was strychnine.’
At first I could hardly take this in.
‘In quantity,’ he added, pointing at a frog which had been a living sample an hour earlier and was now dead. ‘A few drops were enough to kill it. Moreover, I matched the poison to traces in the pills Kate was given. He is obviously fond of both compounds. But the strychnine is faster.’
A door opened and Summers re-entered, looking more refreshed as he beamed at me.
‘There is no question!’ he said. ‘The woman was brutally poisoned.’
The Doctor rolled up his sleeves, and moved to the basin to wash, but I could not contain my excitement. ‘Thank God! We have been lucky.’
‘Luck had absolutely nothing to do with it, Doyle,’ said Bell as he scrubbed. ‘The doctor who wrote Agnes Walsh’s death report was a fool, but the symptoms he described were as clear as day. Tetanic convulsions of the arms and legs. Unmistakable. And your beggar was probably the same. Now I am delighted to say that, given the circumstances, Summers here has agreed to persuade Beecher to accompany us on a visit to the house from which we were summarily ejected thirty-six hours ago. Let us see how Carlisle enjoys being the centre of attention when the reason is a murder enquiry.’
THE CARLISLE FAMILY SECRET
I will never forget the face of the repellent butler, Drummond, as he opened Sir Henry’s front door that afternoon and found myself and Bell on the threshold. I have no doubt he would have stood in our way, but then he saw the figures behind us – including Summers, Inspector Beecher and a uniformed policeman – and his face dropped. Meanwhile Bell pushed past him and came face to face with the unctuous Dr Gillespie, who was putting on his greatcoat. Gillespie stared somewhat offensively.
‘What on earth are you doing here, Bell?’ he asked. ‘I await another doctor. Surely you must know I have taken over this case.’
Bell smiled back at him. ‘Ah, but I am afraid it is a murder case now.’ He scarcely needed to say more, for we had all followed him into the house.
‘He is perfectly correct, Dr Gillespie,’ said Beecher, ‘and we need to speak to Sir Henry.’
Gillespie was obviously staggered but he recovered smartly. ‘Well, naturally I have no wish to stand in the way of your business, Inspector. Nonetheless I have a patient in this house who is suffering from a deplorable malady, one she has brought on herself. We have decided on a course of action. I will return to conclude it a little later. Good afternoon.’
And so with an odious little smile he turned to leave us. Of course we all knew what he meant. He was serving notice that he would stay on the side of the more powerful man until he judged it likely we would bring him down. And whenever I hear the expression about rats and a sinking ship, it is Gillespie’s whiskered face I see.
We were shown into the sitting room at once, and soon Carlisle entered, smiling pleasantly. I have no doubt he had been watching us from the stairs and prepared his most polished performance. Somewhat labouriously, Inspector Beecher pointed out that he had heard allegations of an association between Carlisle and an Agnes Walsh.
‘Yes, Inspector Beecher,’ said Carlisle assuming a grave expression and ignoring myself and Bell completely. ‘I am aware of these men’s allegations. And you should know that I deny any associations of the kind they suggest.’
It was a cool enough performance, but Beecher continued doggedly. ‘Perhaps, but I fear it is beyond that now, sir. There is clear evidence that a woman has been killed.’
I found myself marvelling now at the way Bell had succeeded against all odds in drawing Beecher into this case. By enlisting Summers, he had placed the Inspector in a position where he could not deny a murder had occurred. His hand was forced, and so he had to face Sir Henry, a task he manifestly loathed.
‘That may be so, Inspector,’ Carlisle agreed. ‘But it has nothing to do with me.’
‘So,’ said Beecher, ‘you absolutely deny contact of any kind with this Agnes Walsh?’
‘I have never heard of her,’ Carlisle said bluntly. He must have been aware nobody could say otherwise.
‘Then can you tell us, sir, why such stories arose in the first place?’ Beecher asked. It was, I reflected, a good question, for Carlisle must have been furiously thinking whether it was still possible we might find a witness. He would have known the chances were slight, yet he needed to open up another front. And so he made a move that was as unexpected as it was cowardly.
‘I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I can. My wife is to be committed to an asylum. I am told she has strayed into bad company and might have spread any story, possibly even arranged a blackmail. I cannot now be answerable for anything she says or does.’
He looked every inch the suffering victim and, much to my dread, Beecher seemed impressed. But I also noticed the door was ajar, and yet I was sure Carlisle had closed it behind him.
‘So therefore I would ask you to leave this sad house,’ he said. ‘I am having to try and get through this. And, as you can see, there is nothing else for you to find here.’
While he was speaking, the door of the room slowly started to move. At first the effect was a little uncanny, for we could see nothing beyond it. And then Lady Sarah came into view. She was dreadfully pale and thin, wearing a nightdress, but I recall that, even so, she appeared stronger than when we had last seen her. Her eyes were clear, and she was not trembling.
‘They will find this,’ she whispered, as she turned to me and now I saw the red box in her hand. ‘You were right, Mr Doyle. My husband asked me to take these. They kept making me sick, but he persisted and I had to pretend, taking only tiny doses, hiding what was left. But I stopped yesterday, and feel stronger.’
Carlisle now looked truly worried and moved towards her. ‘Sarah, you have no business … These are a harmless herbal remedy that—’
Quick as a flash the Doctor stepped forward and intercepted him, taking the box of pills and smelling them. ‘Yes, I see, Sir Henry. Perfectly harmless.’ His voice was gossamer soft.
‘Certainly,’ said Carlisle.
The Doctor shook out two pills and held them out.
‘Then will you be so kind as to swallow two for us now?’
You would have thought from the gentleness of his tone that he was offering Carlisle a glass of brandy. We all stared. Sir Henry looked round, then back at the pills.
‘And I will at on
ce withdraw all accusations,’ Bell continued in his soothing manner.
I could see Carlisle’s mind working but he could find no easy way out. Nobody in the room moved, all our eyes were on him. Lady Sarah was watching him too, yet I am sure I saw a flash of sadness in her.
‘I do not think,’ began Carlisle rather feebly.
‘Consider it,’ interrupted Bell, ‘as merely a quick and easy way to resolve the matter.’ And now he held the pills to Sir Henry’s mouth. ‘Continue. We are waiting.’
Carlisle was actually perspiring a little now. His eyes were locked with Bell’s and he was trembling. ‘Take them,’ said Bell firmly.
Carlisle put his hand up. But only to push them away. ‘I will not,’ he said with angry defiance.
‘You are very wise,’ said Bell. ‘From the smell, I would say these are strychnine, similar to what was found in Agnes Walsh’s body. And also administered to another woman who could identify her supplier. I have long been baffled by your wife’s case, for though it seemed at first to be venereal I soon began to suspect the infection had not been serious and was something else. Then, just as matters appeared to be improving, she started to become sicker and weaker. Now of course I see why.’
We all turned to Carlisle, and I will admit I was shocked by the transformation of the man. He had almost crumpled into a chair. As he sat there, all his arrogance and authority seemed to melt away before our eyes. He was trembling uncontrollably and, as I watched him, I suddenly felt that I knew what lay beneath that bluff exterior and also what had caused the strange feverishness I once saw in his eyes. In his heart the man was a coward with not the slightest true belief in himself or his abilities. Little wonder he had curried favour with the students to boost his fragile ego, little wonder he bullied his wife and put her away from him when she presented any kind of problem or challenge. Beneath the surface manner, there was only weakness and self-doubt.
‘But I was given them!’ he was murmuring. ‘A man gave them to me. I met him at Rose’s, but I swear I never gave them to Agnes.’
