by David Pirie
I was still numb but I could not help being affected by the declaration, a declaration of war.
‘Perhaps,’ he said more quietly, ‘the disease will prove ineradicable. But it will still be fought.’
And now he stood on the other side of the line and looked at me, and for the first time I saw not just the rage and frustration but also the sorrow in his eyes. ‘Will you come?’ he asked.
I must have stood there for a long time. I was looking down at the line and all my old numbness seemed to descend on me. And then as I looked I saw to my surprise that something was wound around my wrist. It was Elsbeth’s black velvet ribbon, the ribbon I so often used to tie for her. I had no memory of taking it but, in my shock, I must have seized on it and tied it there.
I traced it with the other hand. It was soft to the touch. And I felt a jolt of realisation. For it seemed to me then that this was a message, and some of my numbness lifted. What was the use of wallowing in my own agony? It would not help my beloved now, or any of the others he would kill. Or those who others like him might kill.
I untied the ribbon carefully and held it at one end so that it fluttered in the sea breeze like a flag. If I opened my hand it would fly away, and I could turn from the Doctor and try to forget. Or I could follow him and keep this as her last wish that I help avenge her.
All this time the Doctor stood there observing me, presumably guessing with his old intuition some of these tortured thoughts. Slowly I placed the thing carefully in my pocket. Then I walked across the line to where he stood.
After a time we moved away up the beach. No words were spoken at first. But then he broke the silence. ‘I never told you,’ he said, ‘that my wife died. Before I began this work. It was of peritonitis. A single night. She was gone. And just like you now, I could do nothing. Such things can never be elementary. I am sorry.’
The hardest thing of all, even harder than crossing his line, was moving from the sand of that beach to the solid ground, for it was solid ground I would never again share with her. It was not hers any more. And in a way, therefore, I hated it.
I think I closed my eyes. And then I opened them and saw my feet were on the grass. But I never looked back.
THE DEAD TIME
It is not easy for me to describe in sequence what happened after I stepped off that beach. That is not because my memory of the days and weeks that followed is blank in the same way that it was in the hours after I found her. In the immediate shock of her discovery, I actually did, mercifully, have gaps of darkness. But in the weeks and months after that day there are no such lapses in my memory. I did not lose time, it was more as if I gained it. The days and weeks and months hung heavily on me and in the end they seemed to bleed into each other, linked only by a numb pain in my heart.
I know that Bell had requested, probably on the very night of the tragedy, to talk to my mother about what had happened. But I obdurately refused. Perhaps this was not rational but it was my wish, and so it was that I returned home without anyone in the house knowing of the events. I was fortunate that night, for I have a memory that young Innes had developed a fever, which proved to last only a night and a day but which kept the entire household so occupied that it was a little time before the change in me was recognized, and then my mother merely assumed that I had exhausted myself by his bedside. It was true that I had spent hours with him for it was easier than facing other people and also helped to disguise the oddness of my own behaviour. But once he was well, my mother saw the change in me.
And now Bell was to play a part. I had been so reluctant to reveal my feelings to my mother that I made a point of going into the university almost at once but, as soon as Bell saw me, he insisted I should return home. Moreover, he came with me, and on this occasion I allowed him to talk to my mother on condition that the true circumstances were not mentioned. It seems he explained to her in no uncertain terms that I was suffering from intense fatigue, brought about by too much study. He also indicated tactfully that some private disappointment of the heart could well have contributed to my mood. Using this strategy, he urged her to let me rest and on no account to trouble me with questions. Best of all, he was adamant that Dr Waller should have nothing to do with my case for Bell himself would supervise it, though he did not anticipate that much medical visiting would be necessary.
In one way this was my salvation as, for several days, I was allowed to rest in my tiny room at the top of the house. Afterwards the romantic disappointment was always alluded to with the greatest delicacy by my family which, in a strange way, I found comforting. For, while I was glad of their sympathy, I was equally glad they had no idea of the miserable circumstances.
But there was to be another, perhaps inevitable, effect of the Doctor’s words and I was so caught up in my grief that the full force of it only dawned on me later. The moment of realisation came one selfish morning when I was very low and did not feel like talking to anyone in the world. My mother had insisted on bringing me some tea and, as ever, was discreetly encouraging. But, as she turned away, I caught a glimpse of an emotion in her eyes that I have never forgotten. It is best described as a suppressed terror, and even in my numbness the cause of this terror was quite obvious to me.
In her face, quite plain to see, was the dread, which of course she had always harboured, that I had inherited my father’s affliction. I would like to say that, once I recognised this, I was able to offer her reassurance. In fact I was still not strong enough, but I believe that, after a time, the memory of her expression did galvanise me and helped to prevent me giving in to my own sense of desolation.
And so eventually I forced myself up and entered into the life of the household again with a semblance of normality that was partly real and partly feigned. Gradually I was lifted a little out of the mental abyss by my own activity, and my reward for this was the vast and visible relief that it afforded my mother. I wish I could write here that I have never again suffered such a mental paralysis of mind and body as I did in those weeks after Elsbeth’s death. In fact there have been two other occasions when it returned, both no doubt because of a strong mental association with the time I now describe. In such periods it is as if the mind enters a long and dark railway tunnel, full of incomprehensible sounds and possibly imminent danger. The hapless passenger awaits the light and sometimes it is a long while coming.
But, as I have described, it did come to an end now, partly helped by the look I had seen on my mother’s face. Not that the world I re-entered was exactly the same as I had left – how could it be? — but it was the world all the same, and I had to live in it.
I suppose that in certain respects, given my youth, my illness was an even grimmer household secret than that of my father. Fortunately Waller kept out of the way completely, and in the worst week I believe the family told anyone who enquired that I was away in London. Later, after my ‘return’, Bell welcomed me back with some kindness and I learned the news that our strange campaign had begun with a highly unsatisfactory inquest.
A CRIMINAL RECTITUDE
It was true then, as it still is today, that the word ‘suicide’ was literally unspeakable in a reputable family in Edinburgh. There was such a stigma attached to the thing, that even the inquests in such cases were quite often little more than a sham. Dunbar had been far enough away, and small enough in size, for Carlisle to exercise every ounce of undetected influence to avoid the dreaded verdict. With the help of a local doctor, who I am sure meant well, it was given out that Elsbeth had been struck by a sudden outburst of the fever that had killed her father and that, in the throes of her delirium, she had made the tragic mistake of swallowing an excessive amount of a purgative. That her death, in other words, was merely a tragic accident.
Of course this meant ignoring the supposed ‘note’, the oddity of the circumstances, the absence of any direct evidence of fever and many other things, but as a medical student I had heard of far more flagrant distortions. Not many years earlier a philosophy lect
urer had hanged himself from the beams of his bedroom, but the rope was destroyed and it was given out that he had broken his neck falling downstairs. Out of sympathy for the family, the police and the doctors were often expected to collude in such things.
On this occasion, though, it meant that Bell was placed in an utterly invidious position. ‘Suicide’ had become the dark secret and Beecher spelled out his own position to Bell in no uncertain terms. Out of the kindness of his heart, he was prepared to help the family in their difficulty by supporting the fiction of an accident. But if Bell tried to peddle his own theory of murder, then the police would not hesitate to produce the note and admit what they considered to be the truth: namely that she had killed herself.
I still remember the pent-up frustration in the Doctor’s face as he sat in his upstairs room, many weeks after Elsbeth’s death, telling me about this conundrum. Even as he described it, his features were white with rage. ‘I can fight one lie, Doyle, but this was a wilderness of them – a twisted travesty of justice. Many nights I debated the matter with myself. You might say it was my obligation to bring out the truth at any cost. And in some respects so it was. But I lacked evidence I needed, while I also knew Lady Sarah’s condition was still delicate. And finally I was forced to concede that my intervention would only have achieved the opposite of what I intended. No doubt, once the note was produced, ‘suicide’ would become the popular wisdom, and probably the verdict too.’
In private of course he had continued to make every effort to persuade the authorities of what had happened. Ultimately he put his case to Carlisle, who was still genuinely chastened by his own skirmish with the law and treated him civilly, responding to the story not with his old arrogance but with unusual candour and dignity. He accepted that Bell had been right about such things before and was prepared to believe he might be right about such a fantastic hypothesis now, even though the police took the view the pills he had given his wife, and which had come from a man he met only fleetingly at Madame Rose’s, were the result of some chemist’s mistake. But, he continued, there were other considerations too. Even in the unlikely event that the police were persuaded of Bell’s theory, there seemed little prospect of finding the criminal. Meanwhile Lady Sarah – now making an excellent recovery under Bell’s own care – firmly believed in the story of her sister’s fever, and any mention of Bell’s theory would revive in public the question of suicide, which might affect her badly. It was why, Sir Henry said, he had undertaken such efforts to avoid it.
Naturally I was indignant and wished I had witnessed this interview myself. I pointed out that Cream was probably the last person on earth Carlisle wished to bring before the public eye, given his unfortunate association with the man. But Bell was convinced Carlisle was genuine. He certainly no longer exercised the same power over his wife as he had done, and to prove it Bell had every intention of taking me to visit her.
We made that visit shortly after I returned to the university. I freely confess my heart quailed a little to find myself back in front of Carlisle’s great door with its brass handle. By mutual agreement, Sir Henry had arranged to be absent, yet I dreaded seeing Lady Sarah almost more, for her face alone would trigger memories. But Bell, I am sure, felt that since I would have to make the visit at some point, it was better to be done with it. And perhaps too he had another motive.
At least, as I was aware almost immediately, everything had changed in that once dreadful house. The hateful manservant, for example, was nowhere to be seen, for we were ushered in by a friendly young housemaid. I learned later that the butler had quit the house in a show of moral indignation, but actually because he knew quite well that Lady Sarah wished to be rid of him. This maid curtsied charmingly and showed us into the drawing room, which had lost all its overheated air and had fresh flowers in two vases. We waited only a moment and then the door opened and she entered.
Lady Sarah had certainly aged a little. Her face was lined and there was a new sadness in her eyes but she had lost all the weakness that once caused us so much anxiety. Now, evidently in command of herself and of her household, she seemed to have made what was nearly a full recovery, despite her loss.
She smiled with great happiness to see Bell and then she saw me. For just a moment both of us exchanged a flash of such pain that I had to look away. When I turned back I could see that, like me, she had tears in her eyes and she clasped my hand and said only, ‘I am so glad you came. I very much wished to see you.’
Rather to my surprise the Doctor now excused himself. ‘I am quite sure the two of you would like to talk alone,’ he said, smiling. ‘I told the cab to wait and I will return in an hour or so.’ And, as no doubt had always been his plan, he withdrew.
Yet soon I was glad he did, for now that I was in Lady Sarah’s presence, I found that I badly wanted to tell her, not of the end, but how happy Elsbeth had been when I last saw her.
And that indeed is largely what we talked about. I described the last day I had spent with Elsbeth, and others as well — the jokes we shared, the walks we took, the things we said. I did not mention my marriage proposal for, even if it were not a private thing, it would have been unnecessary. Lady Sarah understood quite well what I was saying and it obviously pleased her. Indeed soon she joined in, offering stories of Elsbeth that she alone knew: of little things the two sisters had done together, of games they had played as children and their private ways.
We were even able to become quite merry until it so happened that almost at the same time we both found ourselves mentioning her sister’s unruly hair and the trouble she had with it. It was as if a chill had suddenly entered the room, for we felt again the physical sense of our deprivation and all the joy went out of us. From somewhere in the room a clock struck the hour and it acted as a kind of signal.
‘Mr Doyle,’ she said, and I knew at once what was coming. ‘Since you were last to see her, I think I would like you to confirm my view. I am sure you will share it, but I have to put it to you for there are stupid rumours she would take her own life. Elsbeth’s death was a tragedy, but it was an accidental one. That is so, is it not?’
I do not know how long I waited. I was wrestling with my own conscience, aware that to tell her what I knew would cause extraordinary pain, but nonetheless desperately reluctant to collude in the web of lies. In the end, and it may be that this was cowardly, I found I was asking Elsbeth herself what I should do and the words came then quick enough. ‘I do not believe so,’ I said.
The effect was so dramatic that I wondered if I had made the most terrible mistake. It was as if the woman in front of me had been physically struck. I found myself recalling at once how desperately frail and ill Lady Sarah had looked not so long ago when she was being slowly poisoned. And would not the Doctor have been frank with her if he had thought it was worth the risk? Once again, was I simply allowing my own feelings to overwhelm my common sense? At last she spoke.
‘I knew that there had been a rumour it was suicide. Now your words confirm it. And as you see …’ For a moment her lips worked and nothing came out. ‘I just find this so hard to bear and very hard to believe.’
‘But it was certainly not suicide,’ I exclaimed. ‘That was what was used to cover the truth. You can put it entirely from your mind. The police believed so only because it was convenient for them not to pursue the matter.’
Her expression changed again. There was shock but some of the absolute distress left her. ‘But if not, then what are you saying?’
‘That I believe, both Bell and I believe, that it was deliberate.’
She was clasping her hands now. ‘That is horrifying, but the evidence—’
‘There is little, I must warn you.’
Her tone became vehement. ‘Yet even so this is still more intelligible than almost anything I have heard to date. What I could never bear, Mr Doyle, is the utterly incredible notion that my sister would take her own life. And the accident therefore was the only other explanation. But in itself i
t seemed hard to believe. And you say the police do not accept your theory?’
‘That is so. And it is why the Doctor did not wish to air it for he was concerned—’
‘—that the idea of suicide would be believed before an unknown murderer.’ She completed the thought and I was struck by the firmness of her tone now. ‘Yes, and I feel sure he was right and I am grateful to him for that. I would ask you to convey that gratitude. The worst of all for me would be for Elsbeth’s name to be tainted by an act she never would or could have committed in a thousand years. Now you must tell me what you believe. Leave nothing out.’
I cannot pretend I obeyed her injunction. I did not for a minute wish to paint Neill in his true and terrifying light for, while this might disturb and horrify her, it would hardly help her to understand. And it was now obvious to me that, after her torture of doubt, to understand was what she wished most of all. I told her therefore that someone Elsbeth and I both knew, an American called Thomas Neill Cream, had proved in our eyes to be criminally insane. The word was one that Bell and I would often argue about, and not one that satisfied either of us, but it was convenient now for, I added, there was little point in analysing his motives. We believed he had deliberately poisoned Elsbeth but he had now left the country for good and would not be back.
She was silent for a time, thinking over my account. ‘If it is so strange as that—’ she said after a time, and though there were tears in her eyes she was still fully in command of herself, ‘for, Mr Doyle, though I believe you and Bell and know from experience that I should believe you, it is strange – then I can understand why the police fell back on their stupid belief. Thank you for telling me. I assume there is little prospect of persuading them to act against this individual.’
‘We have, as yet, insufficient evidence,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘Though every day we hope—’
