The Darlington Substitution (From The Deed Box of John H. Watson MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

  “Naturally,” I stammered. “I am not accustomed to nocturnal visits of this type.”

  “I am not sure that I know, or indeed that you know what you mean,” she replied. “I had assumed, though, that company at this hour under these circumstances might be somewhat unfamiliar to you. Now tell me, John, what did my husband’s father have to say about you? Did you write it all down in your report to Sherlock Holmes?”

  “How did you know I was writing reports to him?” I asked, too surprised to deny it.

  “Elementary, my dear John,” she replied. “I noticed Bouverie taking a letter from you addressed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes earlier today. I am sure that my father-in-law unburdened himself to you while you were fishing together, and that you are bound in duty to make regular reports of all you see and hear to your friend. Is that not so?”

  “It may be so,” I replied. “How did you gain entrance to my room?” as the thought struck me. “I was under the impression that I had locked my door.”

  She laughed. “So you did,” she replied. “A wise precaution, if there had only been one key in the whole of the house. Now, if you would,” and the grip on my arm tightened, “I would like to read the report to your friend.”

  By now, I had recovered a little of my self-possession. “I have not yet started to write it. I had planned to prepare it first thing next morning, and hand it to Bouverie for posting before breakfast,” I lied.

  “And was I to feature in it?” Her hand not gripping my arm made for my face, and I could feel her hand cupping my chin.

  “It was to consist largely of a medical report on your husband’s condition that Holmes was to forward to a London specialist for his opinion.”

  “And nothing about me?” Her tone was almost petulant. “I am beginning to feel the cold, by the way. I think I would be more comfortable under the covers.” Before I could do anything to stop her, she had lifted the covers of the bed, and was lying beside me. I attempted to move away, but found myself restrained by one of her arms around my neck. I was relieved to discover that she was wearing a long nightdress, albeit one with short sleeves that left her arms bare.

  “Lady Hareby. Elizabeth,” I protested. “Really, this is most—” I found myself at a loss for words. Once more, her warm breath tickled my cheek, and the scent of her filled my nostrils. “I must ask you to leave my bed and my room.”

  “Your bed? Your room?” she asked. “Remember, John, that you are a guest in this house. This house which will soon be mine, if all goes well. Then it will be my bed and my room, will it not?”

  I had no answer to this, and I lay in silence, close to this beautiful but dangerous woman, exercising all my self-control to retain what I could of my composure.

  “Poor little John,” she mocked me. “I really had no idea you would be so moral about these matters. From the look of you, I had guessed you to be a dashing ladies’ man. Obviously that is not the case.”

  I could feel myself blushing in the darkness. “Elizabeth, there is a time and a place for everything. I do not consider this to be the time nor the place for such a discussion.”

  Her response was a silvery laugh. “Dear me. If two in the morning is not a suitable time, and a bed is not a suitable place, when and where would be more suitable, my dear little doctor?”

  “You know very well what I mean,” I retorted angrily, breaking free as roughly as I dared, and springing out of bed. “You are welcome to spend the night in my bed, if that is what you choose to do, but I will not be in it.” With as much dignity as I could manage, I groped for matches, lit my candle, gathered up my dressing-gown and retrieved the report I had written to Sherlock Holmes from the drawer where I had stored it. “I shall be spending the night in the drawing-room or some other location where I will not be disturbed. Sleep well.” With that I closed the door firmly behind me.

  -oOo-

  Chapter 8:

  Dr. Brendell

  I awoke the next morning on the great sofa in the drawing-room. I had thrown over me a travelling-rug which I had discovered in the hall before I went to sleep, having first opened my report to Holmes, and added the lines I have reproduced above as the final paragraph. The dying fire in the grate had prevented the chill and damp of the night from pervading the room, and the warmth of the room, together with the comfort of the heavy rug, resulted in my sleeping well, despite the unfamiliarity of the surroundings.

  Bouverie was drawing back the heavy curtains to admit the daylight, and as I stirred, he appeared to notice me for the first time, and started.

  “Good Lord, sir!” he exclaimed. “You gave me a bit of a turn there. Was your bed not comfortable, then, sir?”

  I made some vague reply regarding the noise of the rain in the night on the roof outside my bed-room window, to which he merely replied, “Shall I have the hot water sent to your room, sir?”

  I was reasonably certain that my nocturnal visitor would no doubt have returned to her own room, so I assented to that proposal, and made my way upstairs to dress and make my toilet. Before I could enter my room, though, I encountered one of the housemaids running down the corridor, shrieking like a steam-engine. I caught hold of her by the shoulders and gazed into her face.

  “Whatever is the matter with you, woman?” I asked her. “Stop that noise and calm down.”

  “It’s the master,” she sobbed. “He’s dead! Lying in his bed cold as ice!”

  A thrill of horror went through my frame as she spoke these words. “Lord Darlington is dead?” I exclaimed, horrified.

  “No, sir, it’s not the old master. It’s the young master, Master Edgar.”

  “I am a doctor. Let me collect my things, and then you can lead him to me.” I hurried to my room, noting that my bed was unoccupied, and snatched up my doctor’s bag. The housemaid led the way along the corridor to the room at the end and opened the door.

  “He’s in there, sir,” she announced. “I must now go and tell the master what’s happened.” She left the room, stifling a sob as she did so.

  I approached the bed’s occupant, who lay like a waxen figure in the half-light from the partially drawn curtains, unmoving and seemingly lifeless. I pressed my fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse, and to my surprise I discovered a weak fluttering heartbeat. A hand-mirror placed to his nostrils showed that he was breathing shallowly.

  “What killed him, Doctor?” came a voice from behind, startling me. I turned to see the Earl, who must have entered while my attention was engaged. He was gasping a little, clutching a stick in his hand, and I saw that he was in some pain, presumably from his gout. “What killed him?” he repeated, almost collapsing into the chair beside the bed.

  “I am happy to tell you, sir, that he is not dead.”

  “Thank God,” said the old man fervently. “Thank God!” he repeated.

  “He is, however, in a very weak state, and I would strongly recommend that he is moved to the nearest hospital as soon as possible. If one of the servants can make the necessary arrangements to have a carriage prepared?”

  Lord Darlington gave the necessary instructions to Bouverie, who had entered the room.

  “Wait,” I commanded as the butler was about to leave. “Arrange for the carriage to be made ready. Make up some sort of bed within the carriage to allow the patient to be transported as comfortably as possible. While this is being done, dispatch one of the grooms or coachmen to the local doctor and ask him to come here. He will need to accompany the patient to the hospital. When that is done, a message should be sent to the hospital to inform the doctors there of what has occurred, and to allow them to make all necessary arrangements.” I tore a leaf from my notebook, and scribbled a few lines to whomever might be in charge of such matters, folded it, and handed it to the butler. I paused before removing another leaf, wrote a few words on it, and handed it to him with a half-sovereign. “This telegram is to be sent to London as soon as you have arranged the other matters. It is reply-paid. Any money remaining after you have
paid for it to be sent, you are to keep for yourself.”

  “Why, thank you, sir,” he replied, departing.

  “That telegram was addressed to Sherlock Holmes, of course, asking him to come here at once,” I explained to the Earl. “Now let us look at my patient.” I administered a few drops of digitalis to strengthen Hareby’s heartbeat, and was soon rewarded by a faint stirring of his limbs and a slight flush of colour returning to his cheeks. “It is far too soon to say he is out of danger,” I explained to his father. “However, the danger is by no means as great as it was when I entered the room.”

  “What could be the cause?” asked the Earl.

  “It may be that he has suffered some sort of cardiac trouble – that is to say, the blood supply to the heart has been interrupted, causing it to cease beating. This may be due to a number of causes, and through it is typically associated with older people, the young and middle-aged are by no means immune.”

  “Could it be the result of...” and here the old man paused, lowered his voice and looked about him, though we were by this time the only people in the room. “Could it be poison?” he continued.

  “There are indeed poisons which could produce this effect,” I answered in the same low tones. “And for that reason, I suggest that no-one except you or myself is allowed to enter this room, other than to remove your son to the hospital. However, please also bear in mind that this could be a perfectly natural event, with no human cause involved.”

  “You do mean no-one at all is to enter the room?” he asked me significantly. “You take my meaning, I am sure.”

  “Most certainly I do,” I replied. “If she asks why she is not allowed in the room, it is by my orders as a doctor. She is to be informed that he is too weak to receive any visitors. In addition, I wish this room to remain as undisturbed as is possible under the circumstances before Sherlock Holmes arrives here. If there is any trace of foul play, he will discover it, believe me. Where does she sleep, by the way?”

  For answer, he pointed to a door in the wall. “That door leads to a bathroom that is shared by Lord and Lady Hareby. On the other side of the bathroom is a similar door, leading to Lady Hareby’s chamber,” he explained. I rose and examined the door, noting that it had been bolted at top and bottom from inside the bed-room. The fanlight above the door appeared to be slightly ajar, but close to the ceiling as it was, it was impossible that anyone could have gained entry to the room through it, even if the gap had been substantially wider than three inches or thereabouts, its present width.

  “I am thankful you are here, Doctor. If you had not been present, I do not know what might have been the outcome,” added Lord Darlington as I returned from my inspection. He shook his head sadly.

  “Let us not speculate on what might have been, tempting though it may be at times to indulge our fancies in that way,” I told him. “I would like to dress and shave, if I might ask you to stay here while I do so,” I said.

  “By all means. By the way,” eyeing me curiously, “how did you come to be roaming the corridors in that state of undress when you came across Sally, the housemaid?”

  “That is a matter I would sooner not discuss at present, if you have no objection, sir. I believe, though, that I may be able to reveal this minor mystery at some point in the future.”

  “Very well. Off with you.”

  Years of campaign life had imparted to me the skills needed to wash hurriedly, shave and dress myself in a matter of minutes. I returned to the room where the Earl awaited me. “Now I feel that you must leave, sir. It will not be good for you to remain here, and there may be other members of your household who will need your presence. I would be grateful if you could arrange for my breakfast to be brought to me here, should the ambulance from the hospital not have arrived by the time the meal is served.”

  “Of course. It may be as well to take myself to visit my daughter-in-law, much as it pains me to do so,” he replied, sighing. “Thank you for all your help and assistance in this matter, Doctor.”

  -oOo-

  ONCE he had gone, I took a closer look at my patient, for I was now forced to consider him as such. He was breathing was now considerably more regular, and his pulse, though still feeble, beat at fixed intervals. I judged that he was not in immediate danger, and cast about the room for any clues that might confirm my suspicion of possible foul play.

  There was a tray containing medicine bottles, the labels of which I examined without touching them. The majority bore the inscription of a pharmacist in the nearest town, but the exception was a patent medicine often prescribed to stimulate liveliness and energy in cases of lethargy, one which I would not recommend for my own patients, but one which I believed to do no harm – something that could not be said of all such nostrums.

  Other than this, there was nothing untoward in the room. A decanter of water with a glass resting on it stood beside the bed, with the glass containing one or two drops of water, indicating that it had been used recently. On my applying my nostrils to the glass, I could smell nothing, implying that it had contained merely water. I made a note of all these facts in my notebook, remarking also that the curtains were only half-opened, and that the morning’s hot water, now cooling, had been brought in by the housemaid and left on the dressing table.

  There was a cough behind me, and I turned to see Mrs. Bouverie holding a tray. “May I put this down here, sir?” she asked me. “I’ll just clear away these things,” indicating the medicine bottles.

  I dissuaded her from doing so, and accepted the tray holding my breakfast, balancing it on my knees while sitting in the armchair by the window.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” she asked me. “I trust that this meets your requirements?” referring to the porridge, eggs and toast.

  “Indeed it does, thank you. The housemaid who discovered Lord Hareby. I believe Lord Darlington said her name was Sally...?”

  “That would be Sally Crowthorpe, sir.”

  “Could you please send her here? I would like to ask her a few questions. Please reassure her that she is under no kind of suspicion and that there is no blame attached to her. I merely require an account of her actions this morning while they are still fresh in her memory.”

  “Very good, sir.” She bowed slightly and left. A few minutes later, the housemaid whom I had met in the corridor and who had informed me of Lord Hareby’s condition, entered the room.

  “Excuse me, sir, but I was told by Mrs. Bouverie just now that you wanted to speak to me?”

  “Yes, that is correct. I would be grateful if you could tell me what happened this morning just before you discovered Lord Hareby here?”

  “He’s not dead, then?” I reassured her on that point, and she commenced her narrative. She had brought in the hot water for Lord Hareby to wash and shave, since he apparently preferred to perform his toilet in his own room, rather than the adjoining bathroom. She had noticed upon entering that the heavy curtains were half-drawn, giving her enough light to set down the jug and basin on the dressing-table. As usual, she had performed this action somewhat noisily, as this was Lord Hareby’s preferred method of being awoken, “and he’d always liked us to do that, ever since he was a schoolboy,” she assured me. However, contrary to his usual practice, he had not stirred, and failed to move even when she had deliberately made a loud noise intended to wake him.

  On going over to the bed to examine him, she had seen him “white as them sheets he was lying on”, as she put it, and apparently totally immobile and not breathing. Feeling him timidly, she had noticed that he was cold and did not respond to her touch. She had assuming him to be dead and run out of the door into the passage, frightened by what she had seen, where she had encountered me on my way to the bed-room.

  “And you never touched anything, Sally?” I asked her. “Not the curtains, and not the medicine bottles?”

  “No, sir, I never touched the curtains, and I’d never go near those bottles, sir.”

  “Did you ever kn
ow him to have the curtains open in the morning?”

  She appeared to reflect on this. “No, sir. Not these past few years, at any rate. When he was a lad, maybe sometimes he’d wake up early and draw the curtains himself and sit there looking at the park outside. But he hasn’t been doing that for some time.”

  “I see. Thank you, Sally.”

  She sketched a curtsey and left the room, leaving me to finish my breakfast.

  I started to regret having imposed this lonely vigil on myself, but occupied my time by performing such duties of a physician as I was able. I was pleased to see that, although he showed no signs of regaining consciousness, the patient’s condition appeared to remain stable and indeed, showed signs of improvement. I had not long to wait, though, before I could hear the sounds of a carriage drawing up below the window.

  A few minutes later, two of the grooms, as I took them to be, knocked on the door. The older of them I recognised as Hanshaw, who had met and transported Lord Darlington and myself from Berwick station. They had assembled some kind of stretcher on which to carry the patient, and though somewhat crude, I pronounced it perfectly fit for the purpose. “Let us wait for the doctor to arrive, as I believe he should be travelling to the hospital with his Lordship,” I told them. A thought struck me.

  “Was either of you mean with Lord Hareby when he had his accident some months ago that was the cause of his trouble?” I asked them.

  Hanshaw answered for both of them. “No sir, though we were all out that day with the hunt. We were whippers-in that day, and we were with the hounds but of course his Lordship was riding. From what I heard, his horse stumbled over a rabbit-hole and fell, and he was thrown off and hit his head on a stone. Knocked out cold, he was. Jim here and me brought him back on a hurdle, but he was in a real sorry state. His head had been split open, and he was all over blood,” he added with what seemed to be a certain relish. “Begging your pardon, sir, but can I ask what’s up with him now?”