The Passing of Mr Quinn

by G. Roy McRae

  Mr Quinny, indeed, began to realise that the fates were playing too bold a part in this affair for him to direct them. And Inspector Brent was an unconscious instrument in their workings. It seemed that Mr Quinny was given second sight in this matter, and he knew that events were marching towards a swift denouement.

  He was a very tired and enfeebled man when at length he reached his lodgings and fumbled with the latchkey. Mrs Brown, listening intently, heard him walk quietly enough upstairs to his room. The light in the landing he turned off, but a light glimmered under his door for quite half an hour.

  At length Mr Quinny considered himself sufficiently fortified for bed, and he closed his suit-case and turned off the light. But he lay awake and trembling in bed. He was full of quinine and fever. For long hours he controlled himself, and it was after his landlady had dropped off into deep slumber that he commenced to babble.

  A very uneasy and troubled night Mr Quinny passed in his new lodgings. A doctor would have pronounced him a very sick man, and the fact became borne upon Mr Quinny himself. But he fought hard and he had an object in life, a big object, and it had to be achieved within the next twenty-four hours.

  The unmasking of the murderer of Professor Appleby!

  So he wrestled with his demons during the long night. He combated the delirium that was overcoming him step by step, and if he babbled it was in the low tones of one who has fought such bouts before. The whole of his life passed in phantasmagoria before him, and he chuckled sometimes and muttered insanely. It was only when he lived again the later periods that horror came to him. He could have shrieked then, and he clutched in vain at his reeling senses.

  The first streaks of the summer dawn found him with the fever at its height. He was sitting up, leaning over the bed and gripping the sides of it, staring at the floor …

  He seemed to see himself lying once more on the banks of the steamy, greasy river, with the dark, tangled hot forest on either side. Once more he was shaking his skinny, yellow fist at that sluggishly flowing river in which lurked the sly crocodile and the weird hippopotamus. All around him lay the hot quiet of equatorial Africa—that maddening quiet that wears and frays a man’s nerves to shreds. The taint of Africa was in him—had hold of him—gripped him remorselessly. And he whom it had conquered shook his puny fist and defied it for the last time.

  ‘Curse this country!’ he shouted. ‘Curse it—curse it! River and tree—man and beast.’

  After that outburst he lay back, gasping, realising that he was in a lavender-scented bed amidst sweet English countryside, with the rosy glow of dawn peeping through his window. The passion gradually left him; and in the full blow of the summer morn he rose, looking very yellow and weak, and endeavoured, fumblingly, to dress himself.

  He came down to greet the aroma of bacon and eggs which his landlady was cooking, looking more or less calm. In the fever swamps of Africa Mr Quinny would not have cared to wash the perspiration from his face, or to exert himself in any way after such a bout. But he showed in clumsy attempts to help Mrs Brown, and in efforts at conversation, that he really was pathetically grateful to her for the bond of sympathy which she held out to him.

  Mrs Brown stood with arms akimbo, watching him as he toyed with his breakfast.

  ‘They do say that Doctor Alec Portal and his bride are coming home this morning,’ she said, not so much by way of making conversation as because she was bursting with the news.

  He looked up suddenly, and his eyes held their fever glitter for a moment. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said very gravely.

  ‘You remember her, of course,’ Mrs Brown went on with a rush. ‘Her as used to be Professor Appleby’s wife. A rare scandal there was over his death, and all; and that pore, beautiful girl went through the mill properly. Not that I believe she did it meself. That Professor Appleby was a strange man be all accounts—the kind to swallow arsenic on the slightest pretext,’ she added, as if he had been a performing animal in a circus.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ repeated Mr Quinny. ‘I understand that the folk of the village are giving the happy pair a royal welcome home.’

  ‘That we are,’ said Mrs Brown energetically. ‘There’s bunting and flags flying from the school-house, and we shall all turn out to give them a cheer. We’re not the kind to turn against our own folk down here, Mr Quinn, and Doctor Portal is very well liked and respected in the neighbourhood. As for that pore, sweet girl—’

  So she rambled on, and Mr Quinny listened to it all with grave attention. Her description of the housewarming and entertainments that were to take place at Capel Manor that night were particularly vivid. Apparently all the gentlefolk of the countryside, and many of Doctor Portal’s important London patients had accepted invitations. Mr Quinny smiled once in a wry fashion at his own thoughts.

  ‘I must go and see this village welcome,’ he decided aloud at length. And at about half-past eleven in the morning his landlady had the gratification of seeing him walking out, fairly erect and in a well-cut if worn suit, past the tempting doors of the village inn, and on towards the railway station. Mrs Brown congratulated herself that she was diverting her lodger’s mind from whatever troubles obsessed him.

  The heat of the morning was relieved by a pleasant breeze that danced down from the hills, and the gay bunting and flags were all merrily astir in the High Street when Mr Quinny reached it. The little village of Royston seemed to be given over to holiday, for the High Street was lined on either side with people in their Sunday best, waiting for the happy bride and bridegroom. It was in effect a spontaneous gesture of affection and loyalty to the doctor who had worked so long and hard in their midst, and his bride, whose sad story everybody knew.

  Mr Quinny took up a position at the end of the street beyond the range of chatter and gaiety. He was shaking in every limb once more, and his mouth was twitching convulsively. This cursed fever never left him for long nowadays.

  But he had not long to wait. Soon the car containing Alec and Eleanor came slowly along the High Street, as if, indeed, it were a royal procession. Eleanor Portal, almost breathlessly beautiful all in white, and looking gloriously happy, smiled delightedly with brown eyes shining on all who welcomed her. Alec by her side looked very proud of his wonderful bride, and pleased and handsome, if a little self-conscious. It was unanimously decided that they made a splendid young couple.

  Mr Quinny adjusted his pince-nez with a shaking hand as the car came within range of him. Then he swallowed convulsively, and peered forward. The sun’s rays fell aslant his face as he did so, and dealt with him unmercifully—just as Eleanor, looking smilingly through the windows of the saloon car, met his gaze.

  The metamorphosis in Eleanor was instant and complete. The colour fled from her face, leaving her ghostly, and her glorious eyes dilated. Subconsciously she pulled at Alec’s sleeve, her heart beating as if to stifle her.

  ‘Look!’ she gasped. ‘Alec … oh!… look … That man!’

  Her husband turned instantly, and saw a man with matted, overgrown hair, a face yellow and ravaged and indescribably sombre, peering at them through black-rimmed pince-nez. That was all. He appeared to be carelessly dressed in clothes that had once been good; his necktie was awry with his collar, and his jacket was crumpled; his trousers had no semblance of a crease, and it might be that his finger-nails were black. But there were many such men in the world, men who had thrown appearances to the winds. What was there about this man to cause Eleanor such extreme terror?

  Then Alec Portal saw the sudden twitch of Mr Quinny’s lips, and being a doctor he recognised all the symptoms.

  ‘Poor fellow,’ he said softly. ‘He’s a human derelict. One of life’s wrecks.’ He laid his capable hand on his wife’s slender, trembling one. ‘Darling, what’s wrong?’ he added with new concern. ‘You look as white as a sheet.’

  ‘Don’t you recognise him?’ she whispered. ‘I—I’m sure I know him. I’ve seen him before … And he looks so terrible.’

  ‘Pooh,’ her husband laughe
d, gently scoffing as a man will to allay a woman’s fears. ‘You’re getting nervy already, dear. Every one you see is a ghost. You mustn’t go on like that, otherwise I shall have you as a patient on my hands very quickly.’

  Still she did not smile.

  ‘I think,’ she said slowly and with difficulty, ‘it is George, the old gardener. He has changed a lot. You know George who used to be with—with the professor.’

  Alec threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘George!’ he exclaimed, slapping his knee. ‘Why, he’s the chief gardener at Lady Vawdry’s. Eminently respectable, and a total abstainer. A churchwarden, too, dear, and a most impressive figure in his Sunday black. I’m afraid he’d snort with indignation if he heard that poor fellow identified as himself.’

  Eleanor’s colour was coming back, and she breathed more easily. It must be as Alec said. She was foolishly allowing herself to become a prey to all sorts of absurd fears. It was not brave, nor was it fair to him.

  She had sworn to herself that she would be to Alec a perfect wife, never consciously failing him in the slightest detail. She loved him so much, and she knew that, as yet, he adored her. It gave her an awful thrill of fear to think that she might do something to kill that love. If that happened she believed it would be best for her to die.

  So she tried to smile, and to banish her fear—yet it persisted at the back of her mind. She would not try to capture elusive memory, yet she was more than vaguely troubled, and a little abstracted during the rest of the drive. She knew that somewhere she had seen that man before; she had known him—he had played some part in her past life. But what? Who was he?

  Alec was very tender with her. He felt that, of necessity, she must feel some strain on returning home again. But with the goodwill and affection of everybody, he hoped—nay believed—that she would learn to forget the past and live only for the happiness that life held for her.

  And then there was the house. Their new home! As they came in sight of it, its long drive of stately elms, its newly painted lodge and its trim lawns glinting green in the shimmering sunshine, her husband leant towards her.

  ‘Old Derek wrote to say that he hoped we would be very happy at Capel Manor,’ he said softly. ‘He was a good sportsman—a white man for all his faults.’

  She nodded, her eyes suspiciously moist. ‘Poor, dear Derek,’ she whispered, as if it were a prayer. ‘I hope he is safe and happy, Alec.’

  He squeezed her hand. It was his own wish, too, for he felt the victor’s concern and regard for a vanquished and chivalrous rival. Often of late he had thought of the absent wanderer and wished him well, for it is a mean man who will wish the gods to grin on himself alone.

  Now the car had drawn up outside the front door of Capel Manor, and Eleanor and Alec alighted. A small retinue of servants stood on the front steps to greet them, and Eleanor, covered in blushes and confusion, could only nod shyly at their expressions of greeting and welcome.

  A thought came back to her, a memory of Professor Appleby giving orders to the terrified servants in his thin, metallic voice, treating her, his wife, as one of them. For an instant she envisioned him, standing with his back to the fireplace in that sumptuously furnished study of his, his eyes aglitter behind his monocle, as he listened through the microphones to all that went on in that house—that house entangled in the snarl of suspicion!

  But she banished the terrifying memory. It caused her to feel weak, trembling.

  She was with Alec now, and, like children hand in hand on a voyage of discovery, they were wandering round their new home. She exclaimed with delight at everything she saw. Everything was wonderful. The kitchen was a miracle of household economics and modern improvements. Here she was to reign as queen. The rooms, with their broad bay windows looking on to sunlit lawns, were tastefully and expensively furnished. The bedroom was a bedroom such as a woman dreams about but seldom attains, and a white bathroom mutely preened itself on being the acme of immaculateness.

  Eleanor began to wonder whether the husband she had married was a fairy prince or a millionaire.

  ‘Alec,’ she said in a hushed tone, almost shocked; ‘you must have spent an awful lot of money. But, you dear, dear boy, it’s simply wonderful—like a fairy palace.’

  Doctor Alec Portal did look absurdly like a big overgrown boy. As she smiled at him, and he smiled back at her, she decided that she adored the tiny dimples in his firm cheeks. They detracted from his hawk-like appearance. He was so tall and strong, and she knew that he could look so strong that—yes, she liked the dimples.

  And he? Well, he looked at her, and to save himself from incoherent babbling, he drew her to him and placed an arm round her slim shoulders. Sometimes the sight of her dazzling loveliness was almost too much for him.

  ‘Come, darling; there’s one place you haven’t seen, and that’s my consulting room. It used to be Derek’s study, and I’ve kept it as it was because the old fellow sent me a telegram right at the last moment asking me not to make any alterations in the furnishing. A little queer of him, eh? But I suppose it’s some sentiment, so of course I’ve respected it. Come and see where the money spider is going to weave his web, darling.’

  Laughingly she went with him. She protested that it was a shame that everything should be new except his consulting room. But when they entered Derek Capel’s study there seemed little to complain about. The luxury-loving owner of Capel Manor had exquisite taste. A great thick pile carpet covered the wide expanse of the room; there were rugs everywhere, and deep arm-chairs; an extremely handsome bookcase lined one side of the wall, and above the wide fireplace was an elaborate overmantel holding two photographs in silver frames.

  As if attracted magnetically towards them both, Eleanor and her husband crossed towards the fireplace.

  Doctor Alec Portal took up one of the photographs. It was of Derek himself, and it had been facing one of Eleanor. Derek, handsome and smiling, with his glossy hair brushed back and that latent recklessness lurking in the romantic, dark-fringed eyes. Alec held it out to the woman he loved, and they looked queerly at one another, as if the same thought had passed through the minds of both.

  How had Derek Capel used his life since he had vanished? Irresponsible, unstable as water, and too finely tempered, he was the type of man to take a blow badly. On the other hand, he had great gifts which he might have used wisely and for the betterment of the world. These two who were so splendidly happy felt vaguely troubled as they stared at this photograph of him in the full flush of his manhood.

  ‘Poor Derek,’ Eleanor said wistfully. ‘Oh, I do hope he has fallen in love with some nice girl and married her.’

  Alec replaced the photograph, and tried to turn her thoughts into more cheerful channels.

  ‘How am I ever going to settle down to stern duty amidst all this splendour?’ he asked in mock despair. ‘And I’m afraid you’ll have to take that photograph of yourself away, darling, otherwise I shall spend all my time looking at it, and that’ll mean worse heart trouble than I have already.’

  She laughed like a little child, and taking up a pair of his medical stethescopes that were lying near, beckoned to him.

  ‘Come here, Alec,’ she commanded. ‘Let me test that heart of yours. I don’t really believe you’ve got one.’

  With the ’phones over her ears she listened.

  ‘Isn’t it thumping madly?’ he asked at length, longing to take her in his arms.

  ‘Too much smoking, sir,’ she pronounced demurely, and the next moment he took a kiss from her as penalty.

  Time was forgotten by them during the next half hour as Eleanor helped him to arrange his medical books. When they remembered that they were to entertain guests that night at their housewarming they agreed together that it was a nuisance, and that they would much rather have been alone.

  ‘We shall have to hurry though. Alec,’ she said, suddenly brisk. ‘See. I’ll place these instruments in the drawers of your desk for the time being, so that you’l
l know where to find them when you want them.’

  She pulled out one or two of the drawers, and hastily crammed his things into them. It was when she grasped the handle of the topmost right-hand drawer that she met with a rebuff. The drawer would not open.

  She tugged, but it would not yield.

  And suddenly a queer, inexplicable fear struck at her heart. ‘Alec,’ she called before she had time to think. ‘There’s something wrong here. The drawer won’t open.’

  He crossed to her side swiftly, and tried it.

  ‘No,’ he said with a shake of his head after a moment; ‘it won’t open, darling. Derek must have locked it.’

  Then, indeed, every instinct reared up all at once and warned Eleanor. Her brain performed swift, acute evolutions, like some finely constructed and perfectly timed piece of mechanism. Derek had locked this drawer. Why?

  All in a moment her breath was coming swiftly, and the lovely colour had fled from her face leaving her perfectly white. She bent over the desk to hide her emotion from Alec.

  That letter! All in a flash she remembered the damning letter she had sent to Derek Capel on the night of Professor Appleby’s death. At night she had implored him to come over to her aid, knowing that Professor Appleby was in one of his most devilish humours, and in desperate rebellion against her fate she had added to her letter those awful words; ‘He is not fit to live. If I had the courage I believe I would kill him myself.’

  Now she understood. That was why Derek had wired at the last moment to ask that his study should be left unmolested. He had locked that accusing letter in this drawer, and he had remembered it when it was too late.

  Treacherous, miserable Fate that seemed to dog Eleanor Portal all through fear and unhappiness. She was free—free for all her life! Doomed to time from the far-reaching hand of the Law. But that which she valued far above life itself—her husband’s love—was now at stake. She knew, just as certainly as she knew that the letter was in this drawer, that if Alec discovered it and read it his faith in her would be shattered, and no protestations, no proof of innocence or affection or loyalty on her part could ever rebuild it.