by Ellen Wood
“How it smells!” said Mrs. Gould in a whisper, as she stood by with the candle.
“Mr. Carlton said it did,” was the nurse’s answering whisper. “Doctors’ noses be so quick.”
“It don’t want much quickness to smell this,” sniffed the landlady.
“It was just at the moment that I’d took my drop short, and you know—”
An awful cry; bringing the nurse’s confession to a standstill; an awful cry of alarm and agony. But whether it came from Mrs. Crane on the bed, or Mrs. Gould by her side, or from both, Nurse Pepperfly was too much startled to know.
Oh, then was commotion in the chamber! What was amiss with their patient? Was it a fainting-fit? — was it a convulsion? — or was it death? Was it the decree of God that was taking her from the world? or had some fatal drug been given to her in error?
There is no mistaking death by those accustomed to the sight; and Mrs. Pepperfly, more thoroughly sobered in brain than she often was, wrung her hands wildly.
“It’s death!” she exclaimed to the landlady. “As sure as you and me’s standing upright here, it’s death, and she is gone! That physic must have been poisoned; and perhaps they’ll try us both for giving it to her, and hang us after it.”
With a hullabaloo that might have been heard over the way, Mrs. Gould tore down the stairs. She was almost out of her senses just then, frightened out of them with consternation and terror. Partly at what had just happened, partly at the nurse’s remark as to possible consequences to themselves, was she terrified. She burst out at the front door, left it open, and ran panting up the street, some confused notion in her mind of fetching Mr. Grey. Before she gained his house, however, she encountered Mr. Carlton.
Without a word of explanation, for she was too breathless and bewildered to give it, she seized his arm, turned to run back again, and to pull him with her. Mr. Carlton did not relish so summary a mode of proceeding.
“Stop!” he exclaimed; “stop! What does this mean? What’s the matter?”
“She’s dead!” shrieked Mrs. Gould. “She is lying dead and stark upon her bed.”
“Who is dead?” repeated Mr. Carlton.
“Our lodger. The lady you came to see this evening — Mrs. Crane. The breath has just gone out of her.”
Almost with the first word of explanation Mr. Carlton shook her arm away and darted off towards the house, she following in his wake. He disappeared within it; and just at the moment the Reverend William Lycett passed, the curate of St. Mark’s Church. Mrs. Gould seized his arm as she had previously seized that of Mr. Carlton, sobbed forth some confused words, and took him up the stairs.
The nurse was standing at the foot of the bed, her eyes round with alarm; and Mr. Carlton had thrown down the bed-clothes and placed his ear close to the heart that lay there. He felt the damp forehead, he touched one of the hands.
“This is awful!” he exclaimed, turning his pale face upon them. “I left her well little more than an hour ago.”
“Is she dead?” asked Mr. Lycett.
“She is dead,” replied the surgeon. “What had you been giving her?” he demanded of Mrs. Pepperfly, his tone becoming stern and sharp.
It was the first indication of what the consequences might be to them, and Mrs. Pepperfly replied meekly, her apron held to her lips: “Sir, I gave her her gruel, and after that I gave her her draught. It’s of no good denying it.”
“That draught!” repeated Mr. Carlton to himself in a low tone of reproach. Not so low, however, but that Mr. Lycett caught the words. “I was wrong not to take it away with me.”
“Has she died from poison?” whispered Mr. Lycett.
“From poison — as I believe. What else can she have died from?” Mr. Carlton, as he spoke, had his head bent over the mouth of the dead, inhaling the odour where the breath had once been.
“You are not acquainted with the properties of drugs as may be gathered from their smell, I presume, Mr. Lycett, or else—”
“Pardon me,” was the interruption, “I am quite well acquainted with them. My father is a surgeon, and half my boyhood was spent in his surgery.”
“Then just bend down here and tell me what you find.”
The clergyman did as desired; but drew back his face instantly. “Prussic acid,” he said in a whisper; and Mr. Carlton gravely nodded in assent. He turned to Mrs. Pepperfly.
“What do you say she had been taking? Gruel? and the draught? The gruel first, of course?”
“Of course, sir. She took that soon after you left. There’s the basin, by token, never took down again.”
Mr. Carlton took up the basin pointed out to him. A little gruel remained in it still, which he smelt and tasted.
“There’s nothing wrong here,” he observed.
“And her draught, sir, we gave her some time after, three-quarters of an hour, maybe. Not a minute had she took it when — I shan’t overget the fright for a year to come — she was gone.”
“A year!” echoed Mrs. Gould from the door, where she had stood trembling and sobbing, her head just inside the chamber. “I shan’t overget it for my whole life.”
“Where is the bottle?” inquired Mr. Carlton.
“The bottle!” repeated the nurse. “Where now did I put it? Oh, it’s behind you, sir. There, on the little table by the bed head.” The bottle which had contained the draught lay there, the cork in it. Mr. Carlton took out the cork, smelt it, recorked it and placed it on the table, a dark scowl on his face.
“Do you smell anything wrong?” asked Mr. Lycett.
For reply the surgeon handed him the phial, and Mr. Lycett removed the cork for one moment, and put it back again. It was quite sufficient.
“Where did the draught come from?” inquired the curate. But the next moment his eyes fell on the label, and he saw that it had come from the surgery of the Messrs. Grey.
Mr. Carlton replaced the phial from whence he had taken it, and looked at the landlady. “Mrs. Gould, I think you had better go up and ask Mr. Stephen Grey to step round here.”
Glad to be away from the death-chamber, yet afraid to remain alone, the woman was not sorry to be sent upon the errand. The streets under the bright moon were as light as day, and she discerned Mr. John Grey standing at his own door long before she reached him. His presence seemed to give an impetus to her speed and excitement, and she broke into sobs again as she made a dash at him. “Oh, sir! this will kill some of us.”
Mr. Grey, a man of strong mind, decisive in speech, — sometimes, if put out, a little stern in manner, — looked calmly at the widow. Like Judith Ford, he had no patience with nervous nonsense. He was a tall man, with aquiline features and keen dark eyes.
“What will kill some of us, Mrs. Gould? Our nerves?”
“Where’s Mr. Stephen, sir? Oh, sir, she’s dead! And it is that draught which Mr. Stephen sent down to-night that has killed her.”
“Who is dead?” returned Mr. Grey in wonderment. “What draught? What are you talking about?”
“The lady Mr. Stephen is attending at my house, sir. He sent her a sleeping draught to-night, and there must have been poison in it, for she died the minute she had swallowed it. I mean the young lady, Mrs. Crane, sir,” she added, perceiving that Mr. Grey appeared not to understand her.
“Dead!” he uttered.
“Stone dead, sir. Mr. Carlton said I had better come up for Mr. Stephen Grey. He’s there with Mr. Lycett.”
Mr. Grey closed his own door and entered his brother’s house. Frederick Grey was coming across the hall.
“Is your father in, Frederick?”
“No. I don’t suppose he will be long. I don’t know where he’s gone, though. Uncle John, we had a letter from mamma this evening.”
“Did he make up a draught to-night for Mrs. Crane, do you know?” continued Mr. Grey, passing over his nephew’s gratuitous information.
“Yes, I know he did, for I was in the surgery at the time. A composing draught. Why? It was sent to Mrs. Crane.”
“What thundering nonsense!” echoed the boy, who appeared to have caught only the latter words.
“Nonsense, is it, sir?” sobbed the widow. “She’s dead, at any rate.”
Frederick Grey glanced quickly at his uncle, as if for confirmation or the contrary.
“I am going down there, Frederick. Mrs. Gould says she is dead. As soon as your father comes in, ask him to follow me.”
The lad stood looking after them as they went down the street, his brain busy. At that moment he saw their assistant, Mr. Whittaker, approaching from the opposite side of the street. Frederick Grey took his cap from the hall where it was hanging, and went out to meet him.
“Mr. Whittaker, they are saying the new patient, Mrs. Crane, is dead. Do you believe it?”
“Rubbish,” retorted Mr. Whittaker. “Mr. Stephen told me to-night she was as good as well again. Who says it?”
“Mother Gould. She has been up here to fetch Uncle John, and he has left word that papa is to follow soon. Tell him, will you?”
He vaulted off ere he had well finished speaking, caught up Mrs. Gould at her own door, and ran upstairs after his uncle. Mr. Grey had already entered the chamber of Mrs. Crane. He first satisfied himself that she was really dead, and then began to search out the particulars. Mr. Carlton directed his attention to the bottle.
“Mr. Grey,” he said, “you know how chary we medical fraternity are of bringing an accusation or casting blame one on another; but I do fear some most unfortunate error has been committed. The phial has undoubtedly contained prussic acid in some state, and it appears only too certain that it is prussic acid she has died from.”
“The phial has certainly had prussic acid in it,” returned Mr. Grey; “but it is impossible that it can have been sent by my brother.”
“He may not have made it up himself,” returned Mr. Carlton. “Is the writing his? ‘Composing draught to be taken the last thing. Mrs. Crane.’”
“That is his, and I believe he made up the draught himself. But as to his having put prussic acid in it, I feel sure he did not do so.”
“I was here when it arrived, and I detected the smell at once,” said Mr. Carlton. “At the first moment I thought it was oil of almonds; the next I felt sure it was prussic acid. Not that I suspected for an instant it contained sufficient to destroy life, the slightest drop, perhaps; though why Mr. Stephen Grey should have put it in I did not understand. Now I cannot tell you why it was, but I could not get that smell out of my head. I think it may have been from reading that case of fatal error in the Lancet last week. You know what I mean?”
Mr. Grey nodded.
“And before I left I told Mrs. Crane not to take the draught unless she heard from Mr. Stephen Grey again. As I went home I called at your house; but Mr. Stephen was not at home. I intended just to mention the smell to him. Had he said it was all right, there was an end of all apprehension; but mistakes have been so frequent of late as to put medical men on their guard.”
“True,” assented Mr. Grey.
“I have only a word to finish,” continued Mr. Carlton. “When I found I could not see Mr. Stephen Grey, I went home, made up a composing draught, and was coming out with it when an urgent message was brought to me to see a patient. It lay in my way here, and I was as quick as could be, but — as you see — not sufficiently so.”
Mr. Carlton slightly pointed to the bed as he concluded. Frederick Grey, who had stood by, listening eagerly, suddenly stepped up to him.
“Have you that draught with you, sir?”
“Of course I have,” replied Mr. Carlton. But he did not seem pleased with the lad’s tones, so unaccountably abrupt and haughty. “Here it is,” he added, taking it from his pocket. “You will find no prussic acid in that.”
Frederick Grey received the small bottle in his hand, uncorked it, smelt it, and tasted it, just as Mr. Carlton had done by the fatal one. Doctors, as Mrs. Pepperfly remarked, like to taste physic; and Frederick had possibly caught up the habit, for he was already being initiated into the mysteries of the profession, under his uncle and father.
“No, there’s no prussic acid in that,” said he. “Neither was there in the draught made up by my father. I stood by him the whole of the time and watched him make it up.”
They were interrupted by Mr. Stephen Grey. To describe his grief and consternation when he saw the dead, would be impossible. Mr. Whittaker had given him the message, had told him Mrs. Gould had been to them with a tale that the lady was dead; but Mr. Stephen, who knew of old Mrs. Gould and her fears, had set it down in his own mind that the lady had only fainted. Mr. Stephen heard the details with astonishment. They were unaccountable; but he warmly repudiated the suspicion as to the error having been made by himself.
“The thing appears to be perfectly inexplicable,” exclaimed Mr. Lycett.
Stephen Grey laid his hand lightly on the brow of the corpse. “I declare,” said he in an earnest, solemn tone, “in the presence of what remains of this poor young lady; nay, I declare it in a more solemn presence — that of God, who now hears me — that there was no prussic acid, or any other poison whatever, in the sleeping draught I sent here this night. Some foul play has been at work; or else some most grievous and unaccountable mischance has been unwittingly committed. Mr. Carlton, we must do our best to fathom this. You will aid me in it?”
Mr. Carlton did not hear the words. He had fallen into a reverie. Perhaps he was trying to account for the events of that night. His thoughts at that moment were not so much given to the unhappy dead, as to the face he had seen, or thought he had seen, upon the staircase landing earlier in the evening. That the face was none of his own fancy’s conjuring: that it was not an appearance from the world of spirits, but one belonging to a living, breathing person, he felt in his judgment convinced. Did he connect that face with the dark deed which had followed? Did he suspect that that stealthy visitor, whoever it might be, was the serpent watching and waiting to deal the deadly blow? It cannot at present be told; but it is certain that Mr. Carlton did attach a dread fear, not the less strong for its being vague and undefined, to that shadowy face.
Vague indeed! More than once he caught himself fancying — nay, almost wishing — that it was only a supernatural appearance from the other world.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE COBWEBBED JAR.
WHAT was now to be done? How were they to set about fathoming — as Mr. Stephen Grey suggested — this dreadful business? It was so shrouded in mystery! The poor form, calm and still now, lay upon the bed, and the wondering gentlemen stood around it. Medical men come into contact with strange phases of human life, as exhibited in man’s passage from the cradle to the grave, but this little knot of the brethren could only acknowledge to themselves, that of all strange occurrences which had ever passed under their notice, this appeared to be the strangest.
Mr. Carlton suddenly left his place from the far-side of the bed, held the door open, and motioned the two women from the room. He then in like manner motioned young Frederick Grey. But the boy, who was standing against the wall, close to it, did not stir in answer.
“I’d rather stay in, Mr. Carlton,” he fearlessly said. “Is there any reason why I may not do so?”
Mr. Carlton hesitated. The words of the boy, spoken out so boldly, had caused the three gentlemen near the bed to look round. Mr. Carlton evidently did wish him to leave the room, but he as evidently did not see his way quite clear to making him do so.
“Is he discreet?” he asked, looking to the two brothers for an answer.
“Perfectly so,” replied Mr. John Grey, who did not himself see any reason why his nephew should be expelled.
Mr. Carlton closed the door and returned to the group. “Mr. Stephen Grey has suggested a doubt of foul play,” he began; “but is it possible that there can be any feasible grounds for it? I
ask, gentlemen, because you are all better acquainted with these two women than I am. If either, or both of them—”
“Goodness, man!” interrupted Mr. Stephen Grey, in his impulsive manner, “you can’t suppose I suspect Mother Pepperfly or the old widow! Pepperfly has her besetting sin, drink; and the widow is a foolish, timid old body; but they’d no more commit murder than you or I would commit it. What could you be thinking of, Mr. Carlton?”
“Pardon me,” rejoined Mr. Carlton; “I merely drew the conclusion from your own remark. I’m sure I have no reason to cast a doubt upon them, but there has been no one else about the lady.”
“If I understood Mr. Stephen Grey rightly, he did not intend to cast suspicion upon any one,” interposed Mr. Lycett. “His remark arose simply from his inability to account for the mystery.”
“Precisely so,” assented Stephen Grey. “If my thoughts had a bent one way more than another, it was whether the medicine could have been exchanged or tampered with between my house and this.”
“It is not likely,” said Mr. Grey. “Dick carries out his medicines in a covered basket. But another idea has suggested itself to me. Stephen, you have seen more of this unfortunate young lady than any one present; I never set eyes on her until now, and I dare say you, Lycett, can say the same. Mr. Carlton has seen her once only—”
“Twice,” interrupted Mr. Carlton. “Last night and this. I should not have come down to-night had I known the hour for my meeting Mr. Stephen Grey here had so long passed. But I was with patients on the Rise, and the time slipped by unheeded.”
“At any rate you have not seen much of her,” rejoined Mr. John Grey. “My brother Stephen has, comparatively speaking; and what I was about to ask him was this: whether it is at all probable that she herself added the poison to the draught. Was she at all depressed, Stephen?”
“Not in the least,” returned Stephen Grey. “She has been as gay and cheerful as a person can be. Besides, she could not have added anything to the draught without being seen by the nurse; and we have her testimony that it was in her possession in the other room until the moment she administered it.”
