by David Pirie
‘I cannot,’ I said. ‘But this is what you must do and all I tell you now is the absolute truth even if I cannot reveal all of it. When anyone asks, you tell them that I came back and was just as usual, though you might voice your irritation that I was too busy to stay longer and see your family. When asked about me, talk of me as a pleasant man who was a good lodger but not with any great affection. In fact, you should complain that my illness was inconvenient to you, for you were unsure whether you could re-let the room.’
She considered this and it baffled her. ‘It is no great matter to do as you say but am I not to ask why?’
‘There are so many things that are my own problems. I wish to be sure you are not involved in them.’
This made it clearer to her. ‘And tell me, is this connected to what you told me once, that you had a friend who suffered a crime?’
This was unerring, pure brilliant instinct. I had almost forgotten but Sally had once seen me greatly affected by a picture in Madame Tussaud’s, a picture which referred to an unknown poisoner I felt sure was Cream.
‘Yes there is a distant connection,’ I said. ‘But you must mention that to absolutely nobody, not even your own family.’
‘I never would,’ she said simply. And I felt a surge of relief, for I knew it was true and I could cast aside the horrible idea of her telling ‘Tim’ such a thing. If she ever did, he would know in an instant I had been close and her fate would certainly be sealed.
I took a pace forward. ‘I am only sorry to ask you to participate in this small deception, and that it will be some time before I can return, and perhaps release you from it.’
‘That is nothing, I will do what you say,’ she said, clearly distracted by another thought. ‘But what of Tim?’
This was harder but I dissembled as well as I could. ‘I fear he had to arrange to take me right out of London at some inconvenience to himself because of the infection.’ I could see some doubt in her mind and struggled to add some conviction. ‘I believe his visit to this country was brief and my illness interrupted it. So you have not heard from him recently?’
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘But that is always the way with him, is it not?’ I said quickly. ‘I am sure there were periods before when you heard nothing.’
‘Yes it is true,’ she said. ‘Long periods.’
‘Then I suspect it is his way,’ I replied. ‘As a matter of fact, the Doctor wished to be in touch with him to discuss my illness, and asked if he could borrow any letters you have. I would also be interested to see his cable.’
‘Why yes of course, I can give them to you directly. There are not many, but he was always, as you say, a poor correspondent.’ And here she paused, for of course she was no fool. ‘Arthur, he is what he seems?’
‘Oh he is quite as nomadic and engaging as he seems,’ I said, somehow managing to smile, ‘though he can be feckless. I had not seen him for some time and was astonished to find him here. I will be interested to read his letters too. But I warn you he is anything but discreet, so with him, above all — please I mean this, if you see him — talk of me as we agreed.’
I think she understood then. I do not mean for a moment she had any sense that ‘Tim’ was as I knew him to be, but she had some awareness she should be careful of what she revealed to him as she went off to find the letters. Of course I am sure she knew much was being concealed from her even if she could not understand its nature. But this, I had to agree with the Doctor, was in the end far better than telling her the truth and thereby ensuring she would be terrified out of her wits if ‘Tim’ ever returned. Such terror offered no real protection against him, indeed he would enjoy it. And once observed, it would probably compel him to kill them. Whereas if they remained mere bystanders, and he had no inkling of my affection for them, it seemed likely he would not bother with them again. And, if by some chance he did, then their ignorance might well be the only thing that would save them.
Sally soon returned with the letters. I thanked her and added, ‘Because we have had to discuss some painful things, I have not said the most important. Despite our little arrangement about what should be said in public, you of all people must surely know the times I spent in this house with you and your family were among the happiest of my life. I will always treasure them.’
She waited and looked at me, her eyes brimmed with feeling. ‘Yes I think I did know that, Arthur. And it gave me great pride. I only hope you will return to see us, the children especially.’ There was a sudden loud knocking on the door from downstairs which made me jump. At once I moved nervously from the room and along the landing to where I could see the front door. Sally had followed, uneasily aware of my agitation. We both stared down but it was only to see the children and Sally’s sister tumbling into the house as the maid closed the door behind them. Sally saw my relief at once. ‘Go to them,’ I said. ‘I will see myself out and God bless you.’
‘God bless you, Arthur, a safe return.’
A little smile, that smile I loved, and then she was gone. I slipped the letters into the bag and waited till they were all in the drawing room and then went down the stairs, which rang with laughter as the children greeted their mother. I looked around as I left the house, glad I was leaving it with that laughter ringing in my ears rather than the silence of terror. But also regretful that once again out of necessity I was leaving a happy place because I brought only fear and threat to those in it.
I deliberately froze my expression into a mask of indifference before I opened the door, hoping that any onlooker would think of me as an unimportant lodger who was not even bid farewell. But, as I reflected miserably, was not this description close enough to the truth? Unimportant except in a propensity to bring darkness and danger to such places of tranquillity. Outside, the street mocked me with its emptiness.
THE MEMORY OF THE CLERK
For the rest of the day I made some attempt to sort out my affairs, writing letters to the practice, explaining and apologising for my absence, though I knew Sally had ensured there were no problems in that direction. I had already heard from the doctor who was covering for me in Southsea that he was happy to carry on for a further few weeks. Some time later Bell returned to the hotel in an excellent mood.
‘It was not a day without its uses, Doyle. The worst news is that the post-office box in Charing Cross to which she wrote was closed earlier today, in other words shortly after the letter from the girl arrived. Clearly it was his only reason to keep it open.’
He must have seen my face fall. ‘No, do not despair yet. This is as close as we have ever been since Edinburgh. Moreover, I have been observing the place closely and one of the clerks is of a thoroughly garrulous disposition. There is a period shortly after eleven in the morning when he is alone at the counter and I suggest we visit him tomorrow. Now tell me of your visit to Sally Morland.’
Later, I sensed all the old energy of the Doctor as we pored over the material I had collected. The letters from ‘Tim’ to the family were brief enough, if friendly, speaking warmly of forthcoming visits to the Morlands or of ones he had just enjoyed, with some teasing references, which I found chilling, to the children. But they did help us to establish a proper chronology of our opponent’s movements. Cream had first met the Morlands over a year before in September 1882, when he was presumably preparing the ground. We thought it likely this was his first return to our country since he left Edinburgh and that, while he was enjoying himself in London, he had inspected likely practices which might need a locum with a view to luring me there. It was around then, too, he must have written to Sir Henry Carlisle.
Once he had noticed the large riverside practice, he could easily have found some pretext to introduce himself and was informed of Dr Small’s visit to Egypt the following year. No doubt he mentioned he might know of a locum and was subsequently introduced to the Morlands. The rest could easily be achieved. After this some months are missing, though we suspected from the evidence of the police art
ist’s drawing I had seen at Madame Tussaud’s he had probably attempted to poison a girl in London on the eleventh of November. It seemed likely he had left the capital shortly after this interrupted encounter, possibly travelling to Europe or Edinburgh, but he returned in time to visit the Morlands with presents around Christmas time. Then in January a note showed he was re-embarking for America. He would have stayed there most of the year (as was indicated by other letters we had in our possession written from Chicago to Hanbury, the seaman who was now dead) and the next letter to the Morlands was dated only a few weeks earlier. Here ‘Tim’ tells them he hoped to make a surprise visit sometime around Christmas and Bell felt sure this was when he had re-entered the country.
‘So,’ said Bell, ‘we can now be confident of his whole plan.’
‘Yes,’ I said with a certain frustration, for I could not see how any of this helped us now. ‘But why not just come to Southsea and murder me?’
‘That should be entirely obvious, Doyle,’ said Bell, giving me a somewhat sharp look as he took out the last and most recent item, a telegram. ‘He wanted you on his ground, not yours. Here he could poison you with impunity, and watch you suffer as you realised you had been duped and delivered into his hands. In Southsea such a thing would have been far more difficult to achieve. He might possibly have prevailed against you in a direct struggle but it is hardly the kind of risk he enjoys or seeks.’
I had to acknowledge the truth of this. But Bell had already forgotten his rebuke. He was staring down at the telegram with far more interest than he had manifested in the letters. After a long time he tossed it over to me.
The telegram was from Salisbury, which is what might have been expected since it was dated on one of the days Cream had been with me in the cottage.
GOOD NEWS. DOYLE OUT OF ANY DANGER AND CONVALESCING FROM HIS ILLNESS BY THE SEA BUT MAY TAKE SOME TIME TIM
‘It is odd, is it not, Doyle?’ said the Doctor, his eyes closed.
‘I suppose it is odd he bothered to write,’ I said. ‘He had no need, for what further use were they to him?’
‘None I certainly hope, but his effort to communicate is in itself not so remarkable. If they had heard nothing they would certainly have raised an alarm in due course. I doubt in truth he had much to fear from that, but as we have seen the man does not take utterly unnecessary risks.’
‘But what else is there here?’ I said. ‘It is just a lot of obvious lies.’
‘But sometimes,’ said the Doctor, a lie can be suggestive. Why “by the sea”? Salisbury is not by the sea. Why indeed say anything about the place at all?’
‘To make it sound more convincing,’ I said with a little impatience. ‘People often convalesce in sea air.’
‘Indeed they do but the question remains, why did he choose it?’ he persisted.
‘It was to distract attention from Salisbury,’ I said, rather surprised he had not considered this.
‘But there is no need. The town is a long way from that cottage and hardly a clue in itself. You could have been dead and he far away long before anyone ventured to make such connections if they ever did.’ He began to get out his case, which contained the lenses and other equipment he used to examine letters. ‘No, I am sure “by the sea” was the first thing that came into his head and I wonder if that might not help us, for these things are often the most revealing. Now I would like to make what I can of these with my tools, I will see you in the morning.’
About ten o’clock the next day, which was dull but not cold, we set out for Charing Cross and were soon outside the post office in question. It seemed obvious to me it had been chosen carefully. There was another much larger post office by the station but this was a smaller affair at the end of a nondescript thoroughfare called Adam Street. The place was staffed by two or three people at best and Bell had no need to point out the clerk, whom he had described as garrulous, for the man’s voice was audible from well down the street, expressing his diabolical outrage that a light single brougham he had seen in a carter’s yard that morning was being sold for as much as seventy-five guineas.
Since it was still twenty minutes before the hour, Bell was in no mood to hurry, so we changed direction and took a turn down the Strand, gazing into the shops, which were now bright with Christmas fare, not least the ‘Chocolate in Spain’ shop I had sometimes frequented. Later we returned and, as a nearby clock struck the hour, Bell entered the place while I lingered by the doorway, reading a dull notice about the use of adhesive stamps.
The clerk, now alone, proved to be a florid gentleman with whiskers who smiled broadly at the sight of us for it was obviously a torment to him not to hear the sound of his own voice. At once he launched into a torrential discourse on the weather before Bell interrupted him to make an enquiry about Dr Mere’s post-office box, emphasising he was extremely anxious to contact its former owner.
‘Why, sir,’ said the clerk grandly, ‘that is impossible, not only are there rules of confidence in such matters but I would have no record of a closed box, even though it was shut down only yesterday.’
‘And did he come in person to close it and collect his letters?’
‘I have told you,’ intoned the man ponderously, ‘I cannot comment on what must be considered private …’
The Doctor ignored this. ‘Of course.’ He spoke in his most mellow and avuncular tone. ‘It would be quite improper to intrude on any confidential matters but I am Professor Joseph Bell of Edinburgh University and the gentleman happens to be a very old friend whom I am anxious to contact while I am here from Edinburgh. I am sure he would have no objection to your answering a few civil questions.’ And there was a chink of coins as he opened his purse and produced a small sum.
Bell had judged his appeal to both cupidity and snobbery well. The clerk’s eyes fairly gleamed at the amount and he smiled broadly. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I am sure there can be no harm in replying to a gentleman’s honest queries.’ Then he must have recalled my presence for I heard Bell comment, ‘That gentleman is with me and also a friend, indeed we are old colleagues.’
‘Ah,’ came the relieved reply. ‘Well, as I was saying, there can be no harm. No he did not come in person, we had instructions some time ago with a forwarding address, telling us when one more letter arrived to forward it and close the box.’
‘I see,’ said Bell, rather disappointed. ‘Who forwarded it yesterday? Was it you?’ The man nodded and Bell’s manner became more hopeful. ‘And did you happen to note the address on it?’
‘Now there,’ said the man, sadly, ‘you place me in a difficulty. It is not that I am unwilling, sir, to tell you. But during a day we have many many letters to forward and return. Why, I have already written six addresses this morning. I would never remember one in particular.’
‘And you did not see the man?’
‘Not to my knowledge, sir. No.’
I sensed the Doctor’s impatience. ‘Yet this was only yesterday and you cannot have many people using such a service here. I assume he would have left a sum of money to pay for stamps, the calculation would therefore be yours. Is there nothing you remember? Was the address, for example, in London or abroad?’
‘Not abroad, sir,’ the clerk mused, obviously enjoying the attention. ‘No it was out of London, I am sure of that, for I recall wondering when it would reach him and adding to the postage. Yes, you are right, sir, now it comes back. It was by the sea, I think.’
I sensed Bell’s excitement. ‘So it was somewhere you recognised?’ Bell pressed.
‘Ah now, sir, the truth is I hardly knew the name of the place. But I think it began, yes I am sure the word “South”… That was the first part.’
‘Southampton?’ said Bell, and my heart raced. Was he returning to America or seeking me out?
‘Why no, sir. I would have remembered that. I have a sister there.’ The man laughed at the small coincidence. I knew his slowness must be infuriating the Doctor but you would never have known it, for he laughe
d too. Southsea was also quickly ruled out, eliminating the possibility Cream was searching for me there. ‘No,’ the clerk went on, ‘the thing is I didn’t know the name well though I had heard of it, so I doubt I will recall it unprompted other than the South. But I rather think, sir, it was the east coast. I cannot say why, I have never been there, but I do recall thinking that it was a little odd to have south such and such on the east coast and not on the south. We get to think about names and their whys and wherefores of that kind here. Why only the other day I had to address a parcel and it struck me how many streets in London have a “gate” somewhere in their name.’
‘You are right there.’ The Doctor’s voice was still merry but there was a hint of command in it. He was clearly not prepared to let this man ramble any further off the subject, which he would do at the slightest opportunity. ‘So you are sure it is “South” and the east coast?’
‘Yes,’ said the man, and I looked up to see he was beaming with pride at his feat of memory. ‘I can be fairly certain of it, certainly the South and I think, sir, yes I am almost equally sure it was in the east not the south or the west. And that it was on the coast of England. I hope it is of some help to you, sir. We always try to oblige. Why the other day a man was here having posted his letters to all the wrong places and we had to try and get them back, the place was quite a muddle but we got them, sir, we got them. Those I can remember, some of them.’
Bell quickly interrupted with other questions about the address, whether it was an inn or a private house, but the man remembered no more and, with some difficulty, as further stories were proffered, Bell thanked him and managed to beat his retreat.
He was, however, not remotely dispirited as we walked out into the street. ‘We have come away with rather more than I expected,’ he said once we were out of earshot. ‘I am glad it is not Southampton and America.’
I was less sanguine. ‘But there must be many towns with a South in their name and he is not the most reliable of witnesses.’
