by David Pirie
The cab did its best and indeed as we reached Granton pier there was some evidence of life but little enough of any vessel. At last we found an ancient clerk in one of the offices, who was unwrapping some sweetmeats to eat before he left for home, and looked at us quizzically, brightening when we mentioned the May Day.
‘Oh yes, sir, I saw them off myself about thirty minutes ago.’
This was bad news and our hopes were dashed further when Bell offered him the name of Neill Cream. ‘Yes, of course, sir, an American gentleman. He was last on. Cut it very fine, he did, but he had cabled us to wait if we could and he was fortunate. She sailed on the tide, sir. For Dartmouth.’
‘Dartmouth?’ I said eagerly with visions of greeting the boat in Devon. ‘When do they dock?’
‘About three weeks, sir. The May Day is bound for Canada, sir. Dartmouth, Nova Scotia.’ And he took a small bite of his pastry.
THE WRITING ON THE SAND
There was only one place I wanted to be now. That was in Dunbar, and the Doctor agreed to help me travel there as fast as possible. Apart from being frustrated, both of us were also a little unnerved by the way our actions had been anticipated. It is true we had come close. But in the end he had eluded us and it was obvious that the recklessness of the man masked an ingenious talent. He would take risks, yes, but they were calculated ones. Bell’s trap had both enticed and alerted Neill. He had obviously calculated that it was now too risky for him to remain in the town, and his escape route had been carefully prepared.
But at least, I said to the Doctor as we retraced our steps to the cab, we now knew exactly where he was. It seems he had not allowed for that and could we not arrange to have him arrested when he docked in Nova Scotia?
Bell turned to me and there was a despondency in his eyes. ‘Of course we will try what we can, but I very much fear, Doyle, that we do not have the police forces of the world at our disposal. It is, as you can see, hard enough to arouse our own constabulary.’
The bleak truth of his words came home to me then. But at least, I told myself, there was one good, for I no longer had any reason to fear for Elsbeth.
The trains had all departed and it took some ingenuity to arrange road transport that would take us up to Dunbar, but we found it in the end. The fact that Bell had agreed to undertake the considerable cost involved in the interests of speed at first cheered me. But then it aroused the faintest spectre of anxiety.
As we rode through the night, Bell began to talk about the case and its stranger aspects, explaining some of his deductions. Evidently he had added a little tracing dye which told him the pills were mixed in the hospital laboratory. Once he had nearly caught his suspect there, but his man had been scared off by a porter before Bell could reach him. ‘However,’ he told me, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as if he could increase our reckless pace by sheer concentration, ‘I became sure the criminal was a student of high self-regard who would not enjoy failure, and therefore his unsuccessful attempt to kill Kate would prey on him. Surely, then, I reasoned, he would wish to retrieve the evidence. Yet I admit, Doyle, that Sir Henry’s role in the matter was highly perplexing. I did not truly believe he was more than a callous husband, but there was the strange twist of the pills. I even began to wonder if he was acting in concert with our man. Thanks largely to your work, we resolved that difficulty and meanwhile I had word from Kate he would be there. I was more than two hours ahead of the time he stated but it was not enough. I should have allowed more. He is clever. He anticipated me and I should have gone one further and anticipated him. It was, I very much fear, a crucial error.’
The Doctor was unusually voluble and I wondered if he was trying to calm the slight apprehension I was beginning to feel. In the end I voiced it directly. ‘He knew of my regard for Elsbeth, so his persecution of her may have been aimed at me. Could he have guessed where she was? Some of the women knew of the place. Perhaps we should have come here directly we found him at Kate’s.’
Bell turned to me, his face oddly impassive. ‘We know he went directly to the ship. He may be devious, but even he could not suddenly arrange another passenger to impersonate him.’ I agreed with that and it brought me comfort, but I noticed he had not directly answered my question. Of course I had never revealed my close association with Bell to Neill, but it seemed to come as no surprise to him. Had he been spying on us?
Dunbar was barely waking up as we trotted through its streets at dawn. Bell wondered if Mrs Henderson would be out at the cottage, for sometimes she arrived there early, but I told him she was still on holiday.
The cottage looked resplendent in the morning light and my heart could not help leaping at the sight. The place certainly looked like a haven of peace and tranquillity compared to the foul stews of the city we had left and that desperate room where I had found him.
As we stepped up to the front door, the cab disappeared back along that little road, for we had no intention of returning with Elsbeth in so uncomfortable a fashion. There was, as yet, no sign of anyone, but as usual the door was not locked and I opened it.
The snug little room inside was much as I had last seen it. Neat and tidy, the book she had thought ‘dull’ on the table, a bowl of flowers. Perfectly welcoming, as were the other rooms. But nobody was in them.
Moving back to the main room I noticed a page of writing propped on a side table and picked it up. I knew the hand, of course, for I treasured every letter she had sent me.
‘“I am sorry but I cannot maintain the deception.”’ I read aloud. ‘“I wish to put an end to it …” So she has gone back.’ It was the only way I could interpret this note, left, perhaps, in case I arrived unexpectedly.
The Doctor looked far from happy. ‘But this is only a fragment of a letter. And all her things are here.’
I turned now to see if anything else had been left. Through the window the beach house gleamed in the morning sunshine. But almost instinctively, a part of me registered that there was something different in the view. It did not take long to see what it was. In front of the beach house there was a mound of sand.
The Doctor must have observed this at much the same time I did, for both of us moved to the door and we started towards it. I am now sure I had stopped thinking rationally. But I reached it before Bell and found only a large rectangular bank of damp sand which had been packed hard. On it was writing. Judging by the erosion, it had been there about a day. Some of the letters had crumbled while others were readable.
The Doctor was beside me now and tried to make them out as I did, reciting them quickly. Here, the writing began, is the message from the future.
The words froze my blood. My legs swayed but I forced myself on.
What followed was a D, but the rest of the letters had crumbled. Doyle? Beside me the Doctor was also studying it with a ferocious intensity.
The freedom is a freedom to commit any act. All your methods useless against … Again missing words, but it resumed, Pure and shining without motive from New World to which I return …
There was a little more, but I had had enough.
‘What in the name of the devil is this?’ I fell on my knees and moved to claw the sand away, to obliterate that obscenity and uncover whatever was buried beneath it.
‘No, Doyle,’ the Doctor shouted as I have never heard him shout. ‘If we destroy this, it is what he—’
But he was too late, for that foul writing was gone and I was tearing away at the sand, dreading what I would find. And then I saw the arm of Elsbeth’s red coat, one she had worn when we first came here, and I pulled at it.
The coat came out with some sand but there was nothing else I could see. Desperately I dug on, clawing at the ground. At last both of us had dug below and around where it lay until the Doctor restrained me. There was nothing else at all in that hellish pit.
And we raced on to the beach house itself. I do not even know who opened the door. It may have been me. All I know is what I saw there.
She lay in f
ront of that beautiful window. So peaceful that for one tiny moment I thought she was asleep. The tide before it was again high and the waves almost seemed to be lapping around her head.
I went to her and her expression was serene. I have often wondered how that could be, but it was the only miracle God granted me that day, though I prayed for so many more. There was a pallor in her cheek and I put out my hand to her face and it was cold.
And then I held her in my arms and wept. I felt her presence and yet her absence. Her skin was like marble as I kissed her face and the waves seemed to lap around us.
After that there is much I cannot remember clearly. I know Dr Bell must have come beside me for I was aware of a hand on my shoulder, and also, I suppose because of its import, I have a vague memory of seeing Bell through my tears, examining a cup and saucer on a table in the corner and a small bottle lying beside them, but the image is a blur.
I know too that I must have held her tightly and long. I have no memory at all of leaving her. I think I must have refused for some time and I am sure Bell did not coerce me. We have never talked about it and never will, but I always suspected that at the last he might have pulled me away, and I was by then so numb inside I doubt I would have resisted.
In my next clear memory I am outside on the sand and by then the sea had receded a little and I imagine it was early afternoon. I was simply staring into the waves lapping around my feet. I could write, I suppose, that I was thinking of drowning myself, but it was far less rational and deliberate than that. In fact I just wanted the ceaseless activity of that churning sea to take me over so that I would not have to think. And then (an hour later, three hours?) Bell was beside me. He said something about ‘moving’ or ‘movement’ but I hardly took it in. And then afterwards I was alone again.
At last I remember I did look back at the beach house and I was surprised to find how far away it was. So I had followed the tide out. But there was activity of some kind there. Figures entering. As I have said, the Doctor and I never discuss the events of that day but, shortly after we found her, I suppose he must have walked into Dunbar and alerted the authorities, sending word to Beecher. I had been trying to drown my pain in blank refusal but it was still there, only now it had more concrete form. And the sight of other people at the beach house made me think I must go back, for I felt it was wrong for them to be there.
On the walk back up the sand I began to think more coherently again. I knew that Neill had murdered Elsbeth, poisoned her I suppose. That he had discovered where she was hardly surprised me. Some of the women knew she had a house and he must have guessed she had been sent away to frustrate his harassment. The motive for this insane act and the harassment was altogether more difficult to fathom. But then the motives for all his acts were in that category. It was part of his madness, though I could not in my heart think ‘madness’ the right term. Would I have to return to his own one: ‘evil’? These were only the tiniest beginnings of the endless and agonised thoughts I would have on this subject, and here was something Bell and I did discuss, for he was just as concerned to understand it as I was.
Strangely the beach house looked exactly as it had before: white and innocent in the sun. This was wrong, I thought, though I could hear raised voices from inside which seemed more fitting. A uniformed policeman stood to one side of the door and he would not look at me. Nor do I blame him, for what is death to those who have no part in it but a burden and an embarrassment?
The voices were louder as I entered. Dr Bell stood at the back wall, Inspector Beecher was near the window. Elsbeth had gone. No, she was there, but she was covered. The person who had been private and intimate to me, my friend and love, yes, even while she was lying here dead, was now merely an artefact to be discussed and covered and uncovered and soon no doubt dissected.
As I entered, Beecher was speaking and did not see me. ‘You cannot,’ he was saying. ‘You cannot use that superior tone now. That is all there is. And you know it.’
‘So,’ said Bell whose fists were clenched but whose face I could not see, ‘you say not even the procurator will—’ And then he broke off, for Beecher observed me and Bell saw his expression and turned too. It was only now that I realised there were others here, a second uniformed policeman at the far side of the window and the pathologist, Summers. They had obviously been waiting to remove her.
The Doctor looked extremely concerned at my appearance and moved away from Beecher to me, making it quite clear that their discussion had ended.
Beecher looked sombre too. ‘A terrible business, Mr Doyle,’ he said solemnly. ‘My sympathies.’
I said nothing, for I was beginning to reflect on what I had heard and it puzzled me. Beecher too looked as if he wanted to say more and my silence gave him the opportunity. ‘We think it fairly clear …’ he started.
But the Doctor interrupted him, looking more troubled than ever.
‘I think we should leave that now.’ His eyes fairly blazed at Beecher. ‘It is not the place—’
Even here in such a setting Beecher clearly did not like being overruled by the Doctor and he stuck his thumbs in his lapels, still looking sombre but every inch the authority. ‘Yes, of course, Dr Bell. It is sad. But we can have no reason for concealment. The matter here is straightforward.’
I could not entirely understand what he meant. Beside me two more uniformed police had entered, carrying something. They were about to take her out. This realisation did not help what I heard next.
‘We have the note she left. I recall she was thought unstable at the university where there had been trouble. The poison came from there. It is clearly suicide. There is no evidence anyone else was even here.’
Even now the words did not quite have their full impact, for I could not entirely believe them. But I did take a pace towards him and I uttered only one word, ‘Neill.’
It came out very soft but he heard it.
‘Ah, well, Mr Neill. I have told Bell here that I entered that house and none of the women would say a word against the man. The woman at the top was awake and one of her customers had roughed her up, but she remembered nothing. Hardly surprising, for she had taken a drug.’
Summers took up the same song. ‘We understand what you have been through, sir, but there is no case of any substance against the man.
‘Certainly not here,’ Beecher went on. ‘Yes, Bell has his theory … but all he could show for it is a pile of sand.’
This was too much for me. It was as if they had all conspired in this, and Beecher was enjoying the detail of it. Yet all the time I knew quite well the man would kill again. This was what I shouted as I lunged forward at Beecher and I got my hands round his throat and pressed as hard as I could until his head cracked against the wall. I managed to pull forward and repeat the action even harder before the policeman and Summers (and Bell too for all I know) were on me. But I would not let go until they had almost snapped my arms and pinned them down and hauled me away.
Even now I struggled to be free as Inspector Beecher got to his feet, breathing heavily. It was fortunate for him that he had a head like a small ox. And to my great irritation there was only kindness in his eyes. ‘Of course the poor boy is not of right mind. Take him out. Give him some air.’
It must have been the uniformed policemen who hauled me out of that place and only released me when I was several yards down the beach, once more facing the sea.
Again there is a gap of time here. For I had a new horror to wrestle with. She was not to be avenged, but to have the stupid indignity of a suicide. A suicide! With all her love and all her confidence! The idea was a travesty and one of his devising. That much was certain.
Now Bell was beside me again and I turned to remonstrate with him. ‘But there must be evidence!’
His gaze on me was fierce. ‘Only what we ourselves destroyed, as he knew we would. There are not even footprints, for I have searched. He must have walked by the shoreline and lured her down here so that he never crossed fro
m sand to house. Later he returned by road to use the letter she was drafting to you. There he was lucky, but even without it he would have constructed some forgery and Beecher would have accepted it.’
I could just about take this in but it only emphasised our uselessness. There was movement behind us and I looked back to see that the covered body was being carried out, held high.
I turned back to Bell. ‘I only wish,’ I said bitterly, ‘we had never met. He kills her and escapes and you can do nothing. Your method is shown as a pitiful lie.’
Bell’s eyes sparkled with anger. ‘No.’ He raised his hand as he indicated the beach house. ‘No, that is the lie. There is no possible reason for the crime. No gain, no profit. Not even wicked pleasure. It is meaningless. On behalf of all that is decent in this age, I tell you if that is the future, if that is the “new world”, then I reject it utterly and with contempt.’ I have rarely seen him so ferocious and for a moment it took me away from dwelling on my own grief. ‘Perhaps,’ he went on, ‘when men commit murder for no reason, my methods are useless, objective deduction useless. Very well then! We will find new!’
‘But you can do nothing,’ I said.
He stared at me. ‘On the contrary, I will do everything in my power. And if it takes years, we will trace him. Our crusade is personal now. I want you to see something, Doyle. If he uses the sand to mark this, so will we.’
And he bent forward with his cane, which looked like a great staff, its silver top gleaming in the sun, and dragged it through the sand. Between us now there was a solid line. ‘Here …’ Bell said. ‘Here the line is drawn against his world. If it means we fight the future, so be it! For we will, on into the next century if we have to.’
