CHAPTER II
THE EAVESDROPPER
It is one of the canons of correct conduct, scrupulously adhered to(when convenient) by all well-bred persons, that an acquaintance shouldbe initiated by a proper introduction. To this salutary rule, which Ihave disregarded to the extent of an entire chapter, I now hasten toconform; and the more so inasmuch as nearly two years have passed sincemy first informal appearance.
Permit me, then, to introduce Paul Berkeley, M.B., etc., recently--veryrecently--qualified, faultlessly attired in the professional frock-coatand tall hat, and, at the moment of introduction, navigating withanxious care a perilous strait between a row of well-filled coal-sacksand a colossal tray piled high with kidney potatoes.
The passage of this strait landed me on the terra firma of Fleur-de-LysCourt, where I halted for a moment to consult my visiting list. Therewas only one more patient for me to see this morning, and he lived at 49Nevill's Court, wherever that might be. I turned for information to thepresiding deity of the coal shop.
"Can you direct me, Mrs. Jablett, to Nevill's Court?"
She could and she did, grasping me confidentially by the arm (the markremained on my sleeve for weeks) and pointing a shaking forefinger atthe dead wall ahead. "Nevill's Court," said Mrs. Jablett, "is a alley,and you goes into it through a archway. It turns out of Fetter Lane onthe right 'and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings."
I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning roundwas nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite and ofa desire to wash in hot water.
The practice which I was conducting was not my own. It belonged to poorDick Barnard, an old St. Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits andindifferent physique, who had started only the day before for a tripdown the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the currant trade;and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyage ofgeographical discovery.
I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow, arched opening,bearing the superscription "Nevill's Court," arrested my steps, and hereI turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait for thewanderer in London byways. Expecting to find the grey squalor of theordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of the archpast a row of decent little shops through a vista full of light andcolour--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved bysunlit foliage. In the heart of London a tree is always a delightfulsurprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers. Thenarrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their woodenpalings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint andsober rusticity; and even as I entered a bevy of work-girls, withgaily-coloured blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened upthe quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summerhedgerow.
In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved withwhat looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found to beold-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I wasmeditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who hadthus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps, or an author, orperchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seekinginscribed on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell or knocker,so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door open and entered.
But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a positive wonder,a dream. Here, within earshot of the rumble of Fleet Street, I was in anold-fashioned garden enclosed by high walls and, now that the gate wasshut, cut off from all sight and knowledge of the urban world thatseethed without. I stood and gazed in delighted astonishment. Sun-gildedtrees and flower-beds gay with blossom; lupins, snap-dragons,nasturtiums, spiry foxgloves, and mighty hollyhocks formed theforeground; over which a pair of sulphur-tinted butterflies flitted,unmindful of a buxom and miraculously clean white cat which pursuedthem, dancing across the borders and clapping her snowy paws fruitlesslyin mid-air. And the background was no less wonderful: a grand old house,dark-eaved and venerable, that must have looked down on this garden whenruffled dandies were borne in sedan chairs through the court, and gentleIzaak Walton, stealing forth from his shop in Fleet Street, strolled upFetter Lane to "go a-angling" at Temple Mills.
So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that my hand was on thebottom knob of a row of bell-pulls before I recollected myself; and itwas not until a most infernal jangling from within recalled me to mybusiness that I observed underneath it a small brass plate inscribed"Miss Oman."
The door opened with some suddenness, and a short, middle-aged womansurveyed me hungrily.
"Have I rung the wrong bell?" I asked--foolishly enough, I must admit.
"How can I tell?" she demanded. "I expect you have. It's the sort ofthing a man would do--ring the wrong bell and then say he's sorry."
"I didn't go as far as that," I retorted. "It seems to have had thedesired effect, and I've made your acquaintance into the bargain."
"Whom do you want to see?" she asked.
"Mr. Bellingham."
"Are you the doctor?"
"I am _a_ doctor."
"Follow me upstairs," said Miss Oman, "and don't tread on the paint."
I crossed the spacious hall, and, preceded by my conductress, ascended anoble oak staircase, treading carefully on a ribbon of matting that ranup the middle. On the first-floor landing Miss Oman opened a door and,pointing to the room, said: "Go in there and wait; I'll tell her you'rehere."
"I said _Mr_. Bellingham--" I began; but the door slammed on me, andMiss Oman's footsteps retreated rapidly down the stairs.
It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very awkward position. Theroom into which I had been shown communicated with another, and thoughthe door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly aware of aconversation that was taking place in the adjoining room. At first,indeed, only a vague mutter, with a few disjointed phrases, came throughthe door, but suddenly an angry voice rang out clear and painfullydistinct:
"Yes, I did! And I say it again. Bribery! Collusion! That's what itamounts to. You want to square me!"
"Nothing of the kind, Godfrey," was the reply in a lower tone; but atthis point I coughed emphatically and moved a chair, and the voicessubsided once more into an indistinct murmur.
To distract my attention from my unseen neighbours I glanced curiouslyabout the room and speculated upon the personalities of its occupants. Avery curious room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayedsplendour and old-world dignity: a room full of interest and characterand of contrasts and perplexing contradictions. For the most part itspoke of unmistakable though decent poverty. It was nearly bare offurniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest--a smallkitchen table and three Windsor chairs (two of them with arms); athreadbare string carpet on the floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on thetable; these, with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed of grocer'sboxes, formed the entire suite. And yet, despite its poverty, the placeexhaled an air of homely if rather ascetic comfort, and the taste wasirreproachable. The quiet russet of the tablecloth struck a pleasantharmony with the subdued bluish green of the worn carpet; the Windsorchairs and the legs of the table had been carefully denuded of theirglaring varnish and stained a sober brown; and the austerity of thewhole was relieved by a ginger-jar filled with fresh-cut flowers and setin the middle of the table.
But the contrasts of which I have spoken were most singular andpuzzling. There were the bookshelves, for instance, home-made andstained at the cost of a few pence, but filled with recent and costlyworks on archaeology and ancient art. There were the objects on themantelpiece: a facsimile in bronze--not bronzed plaster--of thebeautiful head of Hypnos and a pair of fine Ushabti figures. There werethe decorations of the walls, a number of etchings--signed proofs, everyone of them--of Oriental subjects, and a splendid facsimile reproductionof an Egyptian papyrus. It was incongruous in the extreme, this minglingof costly refinements with the barest and shabbiest necessaries of life,of fastidious culture with manifest poverty. I could
make nothing of it.What manner of man, I wondered, was this new patient of mine? Was he amiser, hiding himself and his wealth in this obscure court? An eccentricsavant? A philosopher? Or--more probably--a crank? But at this point mymeditations were interrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, oncemore raised in anger.
"But I say that you _are_ making an accusation! You are implying that Imade away with him."
"Not at all," was the reply; "but I repeat that it is your business toascertain what has become of him. The responsibility rests upon you."
"Upon me!" rejoined the first voice. "And what about you? Your positionis a pretty fishy one if it comes to that."
"What!" roared the other. "Do you insinuate that I murdered my ownbrother?"
During this amazing colloquy I had stood gaping with sheer astonishment.Suddenly I recollected myself, and, dropping into a chair, set my elbowson my knees and slapped my hands over my ears; and thus I must haveremained for a full minute when I became aware of the closing of a doorbehind me.
I sprang to my feet and turned in some embarrassment (for I must havelooked unspeakably ridiculous) to confront the sombre figure of a rathertall and strikingly handsome girl, who, as she stood with her hand onthe knob of the door, saluted me with a formal bow. In an instantaneousglance I noted how perfectly she matched her strange surroundings.Black-robed, black-haired, with black-grey eyes and a grave, sad face ofivory pallor, she stood, like one of old Terborch's portraits, a harmonyin tones so low as to be but a step removed from monochrome. Obviously alady in spite of the worn and rusty dress, and something in the poise ofthe head and the set of the straight brows hinted at a spirit thatadversity had hardened rather than broken.
"I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting," she said; and asshe spoke a certain softening at the corners of the austere mouthreminded me of the absurd position in which she had found me.
I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence whatever; thatI had, in fact, been rather glad of the rest; and I was beginningsomewhat vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the voicefrom the adjoining room again broke forth with hideous distinctness.
"I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind! Why, confound you, it'snothing less than a conspiracy that you're proposing!"
Miss Bellingham--as I assumed her to be--stepped quickly across thefloor, flushing angrily, as well she might; but, as she reached thedoor, it flew open and a small, spruce, middle-aged man burst into theroom.
"Your father is mad, Ruth!" he exclaimed; "absolutely stark mad! And Irefuse to hold any further communication with him."
"The present interview was not of his seeking," Miss Bellingham repliedcoldly.
"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it was my mistakengenerosity. But there--what is the use of talking? I've done my best foryou and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can find my way.Good morning." With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, the speakerstrode out of the room, banging the door after him.
"I must apologise for this extraordinary reception," said MissBellingham; "but I believe medical men are not easily astonished. I willintroduce you to your patient now." She opened the door and, as Ifollowed her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is another visitorfor you, dear. Doctor--"
"Berkeley," said I. "I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard."
The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped upin bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand, whichI grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.
"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Bellingham. "I hope Doctor Barnard is notill."
"Oh, no," I answered; "he has gone for a trip down the Mediterranean ona currant ship. The chance occurred rather suddenly, and I bustled himoff before he had time to change his mind. Hence my rather unceremoniousappearance, which I hope you will forgive."
"Not at all," was the hearty response. "I'm delighted to hear that yousent him off; he wanted a holiday, poor man. And I am delighted to makeyour acquaintance, too."
"It is very good of you," I said; whereupon he bowed as gracefully as aman may who is propped up in bed with a heap of pillows; and having thusexchanged broadsides of civility, so to speak, we--or, at least,I--proceeded to business.
"How long have you been laid up?" I asked cautiously, not wishing tomake too evident the fact that my principal had given me no informationrespecting his case.
"A week to-day," he replied. "The _fons et origo mali_ was a hansom-cabwhich upset me opposite the Law Courts--sent me sprawling in the middleof the road. My own fault, of course--at least, the cabby said so, and Isuppose he knew. But that was no consolation to me."
"Were you much hurt?"
"No, not really; but the fall bruised my knee rather badly and gave me adeuce of a shake up. I'm too old for that sort of thing, you know."
"Most people are," said I.
"True; but you can take a cropper more gracefully at twenty than atfifty-five. However, the knee is getting on quite well--you shall see itpresently--and you observe that I am giving it complete rest. But thatisn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it. It's my confoundednerves. I'm as irritable as the devil and as nervous as a cat, and Ican't get a decent night's rest."
I recalled the tremulous hand that he had offered me. He did not looklike a drinker, but still--
"Do you smoke much?" I inquired diplomatically.
He looked at me slyly and chuckled. "That's a very delicate way toapproach the subject, Doctor," he said. "No, I don't smoke much, and Idon't crook my little finger. I saw you look at my shaky hand justnow--oh, it's all right; I'm not offended. It's a doctor's business tokeep his eyelids lifting. But my hand is steady enough as a rule, whenI'm not upset, but the least excitement sets me shaking like a jelly.And the fact is that I have just had a deucedly unpleasant interview--"
"I think," Miss Bellingham interrupted, "Doctor Berkeley and, in fact,the neighbourhood at large, are aware of the fact."
Mr. Bellingham laughed rather shamefacedly. "I'm afraid I did lose mytemper," he said; "but I am an impulsive old fellow, Doctor, and whenI'm put out I'm apt to speak my mind--a little too bluntly, perhaps."
"And audibly," his daughter added. "Do you know that Doctor Berkeley wasreduced to the necessity of stopping his ears?" She glanced at me, asshe spoke, with something like a twinkle in her solemn grey eyes.
"Did I shout?" Mr. Bellingham asked, not very contritely, I thought,though he added: "I'm very sorry, my dear; but it won't happen again. Ithink we've seen the last of that good gentleman."
"I am sure I hope so," she rejoined, adding: "And now I will leave youto your talk; I shall be in the next room if you should want me."
I opened the door for her, and when she had passed out with a stifflittle bow I seated myself by the bedside and resumed the consultation.It was evidently a case of nervous breakdown, to which the cab accidenthad, no doubt, contributed. As to the other antecedents, they were noconcern of mine, though Mr. Bellingham seemed to think otherwise, for heresumed: "That cab business was the last straw, you know, and itfinished me off, but I have been going down the hill for a long time.I've had a lot of trouble during the last two years. But I suppose Ioughtn't to pester you with the details of my personal affairs."
"Anything that bears on your present state of health is of interest tome if you don't mind telling it," I said.
"Mind!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever meet an invalid who didn't enjoytalking about his own health? It's the listener who minds, as a rule."
"Well, the present listener doesn't," I said.
"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "I'll treat myself to the luxury of tellingyou all my troubles; I don't often get the chance of a confidentialgrumble to a responsible man of my own class. And I really have someexcuse for railing at Fortune, as you will agree when I tell you that, acouple of years ago, I went to bed one night a gentleman of independentmeans and excellent prospects and woke up in the morning to find myselfpractically a beggar. Not
a cheerful experience that, you know, at mytime of life, eh?"
"No," I agreed, "nor at any other."
"And that was not all," he continued; "for, at the same moment, I lostmy only brother, my dearest, kindest friend. He disappeared--vanishedoff the face of the earth; but perhaps you have heard of the affair. Theconfounded papers were full of it at the time."
He paused abruptly, noticing, no doubt, a sudden change in my face. Ofcourse, I recollected the case now. Indeed, ever since I had entered thehouse some chord of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now his lastwords had struck out the full note.
"Yes," I said, "I remember the incident, though I don't suppose I shouldbut for the fact that our lecturer on medical jurisprudence drew myattention to it."
"Indeed," said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as I fancied. "What didhe say about it?"
"He referred to it as a case that was calculated to give rise to somevery pretty legal complications."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Bellingham, "that man was a prophet! Legalcomplications, indeed! But I'll be bound he never guessed at the sort ofinfernal tangle that has actually gathered round the affair. By the way,what was his name?"
"Thorndyke," I replied. "Doctor John Thorndyke."
"Thorndyke," Mr. Bellingham repeated in a musing, retrospective tone. "Iseem to remember that name. Yes, of course. I have heard a legal friendof mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the case of a manwhom I knew slightly years ago--a certain Jeffrey Blackmore, who alsodisappeared very mysteriously. I remember now that Doctor Thorndykeunravelled that case with most remarkable ingenuity."
"I daresay he would be very much interested to hear about your case," Isuggested.
"I daresay he would," was the reply; "but one can't take up aprofessional man's time for nothing, and I couldn't afford to pay him.And that reminds me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping about mypurely personal affairs."
"My morning round is finished," said I, "and, moreover, your personalaffairs are highly interesting. I suppose I mustn't ask what is thenature of the legal entanglement?"
"Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day and gohome a raving lunatic. But I'll tell you this much: the trouble is aboutmy poor brother's will. In the first place, it can't be administeredbecause there is no sufficient evidence that my brother is dead; and inthe second place, if it could, all the property would go to people whowere never intended to benefit. The will itself is the most diabolicallyexasperating document that was ever produced by the perverted ingenuityof a wrong-headed man. That's all. Will you have a look at my knee?"
As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a rapid _crescendo_ andending almost in a shout) had left him purple-faced and trembling, Ithought it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly I proceeded toinspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and to overhaul mypatient generally; and having given him detailed instructions as to hisgeneral conduct, I rose to take my leave.
"And remember," I said as I shook his hand, "no tobacco, no coffee, noexcitement of any kind. Lead a quiet, bovine life."
"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but supposing people come here andexcite me?"
"Disregard them," said I, "and read _Whitaker's Almanack_." And withthis parting advice I passed out into the other room.
Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile of blue-coverednote-books before her, two of which were open, displaying pages closelywritten in a small, neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and lookedat me inquiringly.
"I heard you advising my father to read _Whitaker's Almanack_," shesaid. "Was that as a curative measure?"
"Entirely," I replied. "I recommended it for its medicinal virtues, asan antidote to mental excitement."
She smiled faintly. "It certainly is not a highly emotional book," shesaid, and then asked: "Have you any other instructions to give?"
"Well, I might give the conventional advice--to maintain a cheerfuloutlook and avoid worry; but I don't suppose you would find it veryhelpful."
"No," she answered bitterly; "it is a counsel of perfection. People inour position are not a very cheerful class, I am afraid; but still theydon't seek out worries from sheer perverseness. The worries comeunsought. But, of course, you can't enter into that."
"I can't give any practical help, I fear, though I do sincerely hopethat your father's affairs will straighten themselves out soon."
She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied me down to the streetdoor, where, with a bow and a rather stiff handshake, she gave me my_conge_.
Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on my ears as I cameout through the archway, and very squalid and unrestful the littlestreet looked when contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet of theold garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and walls madehideous with gaudy insurance show-cards in sham gilt frames, its aspectwas so revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction, and wasstill busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy,Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.
The Vanishing Man Page 2
