by David Pirie
I whirled in amazement. This lifeless thing was suddenly straightening itself, the limbs uncurling, the head rising a little way. He was hurt, certainly, but by no means dead or even unconscious.
‘Doctor?’ I cried out.
‘The deception, I fear, is only partial,’ he said. ‘You see I had no wish to meet anyone less friendly in this condition. You have sustained burns, I see?’
I ignored this in my anxiety to know. ‘But how could you fall to here and live? It is impossible.’ I was helping him now to sit up and it was amazing to me how vividly he had mimicked the twisted limbs, though his other injuries were, I feared, all too real.
‘Of course and I did not. But I did fall badly and I hurt myself as you see. Fortunately, I made some preparation before I ventured out here tonight, Doyle. Given Cream’s taste, it seemed to me a likely spot for an encounter so I had undertaken a close examination of the cliff, which is not as sheer as it seems. Look and you will see a ledge a quarter of the way down. I calculated I could push him further out but land there myself. I failed in the first, as you know, but just succeeded in the second. Not that it is an experience I recommend. You have to know how to fall and I have injured my shoulder, cracked a rib, and broken a bone in my foot, not to mention much lost blood.’
‘Do you think you can walk?’ I said, for I wanted above all to get clear of this spot.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but I would be glad of your shoulder.’
He staggered to his feet and with my help he was able to limp along the beach. I did not want Bell to tire himself with more explanation and I could guess much of the rest. Cream had won, certainly, but not as clearly and dramatically as he supposed. The Doctor had prepared the nature of the struggle with care and, if Cream had not produced the knife, I have no doubt Bell might even have succeeded. As it was, he fell, but very much on his own terms. His scream was carefully managed to stop his enemy investigating further.
But the rest was the worst, as he told me later. He had waited out of sight, for he was so weak Cream could easily have finished the business if he had known. At last, confident his enemy had gone, his only course was to climb down, for there was no way on earth he could get back up. It would have been a hellish climb in any circumstances but, considering his weakness and his wounds, this was, as he said, as rash an undertaking as he had ever attempted. The wind howled around him, the sea pounded below. Twice he lost his footing and nearly fell. Once a lump of masonry hurtled close by but somehow the rest held. At the end he was so weak he did fall, but by then it was only a matter of feet to the sand.
For a time he had no energy to move and he later heard a voice calling. Dreading Cream had come back to make sure of his work, and feeling he would want concrete proof, Bell feigned the death posture, employing some of the skills he had been shown by the contortionist Morton. Later he was trying to drag himself away from the spot when he heard my running steps. Having no chance of winning any encounter, and nowhere for concealment, he took up the same position, albeit in a different, if similar, place. And here I found him.
Much of this detail I learnt later, including the fact that Bell had decided his pistol would be too risky in such weather. Now I was simply overjoyed to guide him back along the beach and to tell him he need have no fear Cream would be greeting us on our return. The Doctor was too weak for much talk himself, but he was insatiable to listen and wanted to know all that had transpired, not least the source of my own injuries. I managed to give him the salient details as we hobbled along, now strangely oblivious even of our wounds and the wild weather in our great joy at being reunited.
I was concerned to obtain treatment for the Doctor and Bulweather’s house seemed the obvious refuge. I know how hard that walk was for my wounded companion and more than once I urged him to stop and allow me to run and get help, but he was adamant we must proceed. ‘I have no wish to sit on this beach any further tonight, Doyle. My foot is hurting so much anyway rest will hardly help.’
I did not bother to point out the uncharacteristic illogicality of this statement, for I was merely glad to hear his spirit. At last we were at the village and making our way to Bulweather’s door. Looking along the road, I could see there was still considerable disturbance at the Ship but the fire was clearly quenched and it was amazing to me the place was not razed to the ground.
Bulweather was still up and delighted to see us, indeed he looked somewhat ecstatic when he saw me and I learnt why soon enough. His dog seemed equally pleased and pranced around, enjoying the social festivities. It turned out Bulweather had been out on a case and had only recently returned to call at the inn, where he had examined the remains of the fire and feared I was lost. Evidently the place had been saved by its tiled roof, which had collapsed on to the floor of my quarters, letting in the torrential rain and also sealing off much of the blaze from what was below.
Now, while we were making ourselves comfortable, Bulweather insisted on walking back to the inn to set Langton’s mind at rest about our safety and inform him Bell would make a full report in the morning. He also obtained some of Bell’s clothes, which were sorley needed, though of course he had no hope of obtaining mine.
Later he talked cheerfully to us as he stoked his fire, which was soon roaring. And, after bringing in some pastries and steaming punch, which his housekeeper had been preparing that afternoon for a Christmas festivity, he proceeded to a full examination of Bell as the two of them compared notes on his various injuries.
‘You are far fitter than you have any right to be,’ he said at the end of it, after dressing his head wounds with great care. ‘If the rib is trussed it should give you no trouble, though I would urge you to keep the weight off your right foot for some weeks as far as possible. I am anxious to hear of your adventures, if you are minded to tell me, while I apply something to Doyle’s burns.’
The ointment he applied to me was wonderfully cooling and with Bell’s agreement I now took it upon myself to enlighten him of the latest developments.
Naturally he listened with great interest. ‘Well,’ he declared at the end, ‘it would seem, gentlemen, that your case is all but over, for I have some information which may interest you. No man could have escaped from that blaze, but more than that Langton told me this evening that burnt human remains were found in Doyle’s room. Nobody is missing. We can therefore be certain your man did not survive.’ He turned back to warm his hands at the fire.
Joseph Bell and I looked at each other then and raised our glasses in silence. I closed my eyes and said a prayer for Elsbeth. Bell was looking at me when I opened them.
It had already been agreed we would stay with Bulweather that night. And shortly afterwards he showed us to comfortable rooms and beds. I lay awake in mine, listening to that incessant rain and marvelling at the events of the day, some so awful and yet at the end so positive. We had finally avenged the dead and come to a successful resolution of our unending problem. I felt angry, though, at the fate of Charlotte, yet another of his dupes. If only tonight’s events had happened the previous day, she would have lived. Yet at least the thing was over and there would be no more like her, no more women killed for his own amusement.
I slept and then much later I awoke. There were sounds in the passage outside my room, someone walking or rather shuffling. Could it be Bell? The odd footsteps came to my door and passed, then came back. They stopped.
Suddenly the door swung open violently. I saw the outline of a distorted figure, its head tilted oddly up as if it were smelling the room. Then it darted forward.
And it was in that instant I knew it for Cream, but not the Cream I remembered. No sneer, no scorn, no lofty good looks. His body was crushed and disfigured by deep burns, the skin black, the shoulders hunched in pain, the hands like red claws. And he was right over me before I could move, his taloned fingers ready to tear out my eyes.
I felt the blinding pain as they descended. And then, gasping for breath, I came awake in the bed. It was a drea
m, of course, a horrible dream, and it took me a little while in the darkness to confirm I was in Bulweather’s spare bedroom and to convince myself that the blessed events of the previous night were real. They had happened, all but this apparition conjured out of my darkest memories of the blaze had been true. He was dead.
Yet now I heard again what had triggered the nightmare. There were footsteps outside, not, admittedly, the shuffling footsteps of my dream but slow purposeful steps, the steps, indeed, of someone who wishes to be silent. They moved past my door and were gone. I lay awake but there was no recurrence. Perhaps Bulweather or the Doctor had been sleepless.
Eventually, after more time had passed, I slept again and this time I slept peacefully. Hours later, when I awoke, the room was full of sunlight. The storm had passed away and, casting aside the memory of my dream, I thrilled to the thought of our victory.
Bulweather’s housekeeper, Mrs Harvey, was cooking breakfast and the smell of it made me hungry even as I was dressing in the borrowed clothes my host had laid out to replace my own tattered remnants. Of course he had little that would fit me, but somehow he had produced a reasonable pair of trousers and various other garments, so I put them on and walked through to find the Doctor and Bulweather already seated. I was delighted to see Bell was eating heartily and the two medical men were engaged in an avid discussion about post-diphtheric paralysis. I sat down to attack the great plate of mushrooms, eggs and bacon with equal enthusiasm, reflecting as I listened to them that I had rarely seen Bell enjoy so great a rapport with another doctor as he did with Bulweather.
After we had finished, we went to the country practitioner’s great fireside with our coffee. ‘I was shocked to hear of it,’ exclaimed Bulweather, for he and Bell had now turned to discussing Cornelius’s connivance. ‘I can only suppose the man acted out of weakness rather than serious dishonesty, for I am sure he is no criminal.’
‘I tend to agree,’ said the Doctor, drinking reflectively. Though still obviously in some pain, his eyes were now bright again and his voice was already taking on a firmer hue. He was also paying great attention to Bulweather’s retriever, patting it expressively and looking down at it. ‘And I am very grateful for your sound advice and your great hospitality to us while we have been here, Bulweather. So there is only one outstanding question left to us: namely, was anyone else, besides Cream, involved in the quest for Jefford’s money?’
‘And what do you think?’ said Bulweather, interested.
‘I will admit I keep returning to that night,’ said Bell. ‘The night of the first of December. You remember, three people were seen: Jefford, Cream and another. Cornelius utterly denies it was him.’ He put down his coffee and leant back, crossing his legs. ‘Still, perhaps we will never be sure. Tell me, how is your wife’s sister?’
Bulweather’s eyes brightened. ‘I have hoped there is a change. Only slight. But in a case so tragic, that would be a miracle.’ He looked at Bell and went on. ‘I am not sure if Doyle has told you, Dr Bell, but I have no shame about it. My wife died of septicaemia. But she also suffered from a milder form of her sister’s affliction.’
‘Indeed,’ said Bell, ‘thank you for your candour. No he did not.’
‘I did not want it to be a secret from you,’ said Bulweather graciously.
‘But I would be very interested to hear,’ said Bell, ‘the precise mode of your wife’s nervous illness.’
‘Of course,’ said Bulweather, ‘though I do not pretend the subject is pleasant to me. Her illness was delusional.’
‘And its precise nature?’ asked Bell gently.
Bulweather sighed. ‘I am afraid even between friends that is too painful …’ His voice trailed off.
‘Then I will tell you,’ said Bell. ‘She supposed, did she not, you were having a relationship with her own sister? And indeed what is even stranger, thanks to an acquisitive innkeeper in Southwold called Burn, I have met several friends of your wife’s sister who, though they appear quite sane, actually share this delusion. They think you had an obsessive regard for your wife’s sister years before she became ill. That you were her first and most lasting seducer, long before she destroyed herself in London; that your wife’s sister’s baby was, in fact, your baby. And that in the end all of this destroyed your wife.’
I put my cup down with a clatter. Bulweather took a breath. ‘But I have told you of the local gossip,’ he said with enormous patience and dignity.
‘Indeed you have,’ said Bell. ‘And I took it into account, not least because I owe you much gratitude. But this is gossip of a very persuasive kind. One of them actually saw you come and go regularly at your wife’s sister’s lodgings on your own. But if this were all, Doctor, I can assure you I would never have dreamt of bringing it up.’ He paused; I waited. ‘Unfortunately it is not all.’
THE LAST VICTIM
‘Then perhaps you will explain what is left,’ said Bulweather quietly.
‘First a triviality,’ said Bell. ‘You are proud of the uniqueness of your dog in these parts and I have no reason to challenge you. Jefford had no dog; Cream, from my studies, dislikes the animals. But I have matched a long-coated dog hair I found in The Glebe some days ago to your dog exactly, even though you claimed never to have been in the house.
‘Secondly when, in The Glebe, I asked you to give the men brandy, you went to a cupboard that is fairly well concealed and got it out without a thought. Strange, indeed, if you had never been there before. Third my investigations have satisfied me that though the asylum provided an excellent second alibi on the night of Jefford’s death, you were, in fact, there only a relatively short time. Fourth and much more serious, despite all the beatings administered by his dreadful father, little Tommy Norman will not, on any account, come to you as a doctor. Why? Because of something he was very frightened to tell me. At last, yesterday, he did and, though he is afraid to tell anyone else, it seems you were the man he saw most clearly by the witch’s pool on the night Jefford died.’
Bulweather’s expression changed now. He was pale and sat lower in his chair. The Doctor had not, however, finished. ‘All of this I knew,’ he said, ‘and considered almost conclusive. Then last night I took the liberty of walking around a little in this house, for my wounds were aching. There was not a great deal in your desk but enough. It is clear you travel to London regularly, though you do not advertise it. There are credit notes which I assume to be associated with card games. Several mention Jefford. And it seems you have debts. I suggest you met Jefford in London. That, having little liking for the man, but knowing of his concealed riches, you connived with Cream, whom you also met there, to share it between you. I am sure you both assumed Jefford would lead you to it. Then you would divide it.’
The door opened and Mrs Harvey was there, offering us more coffee. Bulweather indicated we were adequately provided and she withdrew. His face was ashen now.
Bell’s tone became a little gentler. ‘Cream may well have led you on, I accept that. I know you were indeed in Ipswich when Harding died and with Doyle when Ellie was killed on the beach. It has therefore occurred to me you may have sickened of the thing after that horrible bloody night at The Glebe and took no part in any of the rest. Cream would certainly have let you abandon the hunt, for you were of no further use to him and could hardly incriminate him without incriminating yourself. But you undoubtedly helped to kill Oliver Jefford.’
I looked at Bulweather but drew little confidence from his expression. How, I thought, could this man have colluded with Cream? In every way he was so different.
Bulweather saw the question in my look. He patted his dog and got up now, stretching his great height before the fireplace. He looked different in one way, less certain, and yet it was clear he wanted to justify himself.
‘He called himself Dr Mere when I met him in London.’ He spoke slowly. ‘I could see at once he was a formidable man. I will admit I admired him. He was clever. I have rarely met anyone so clever. And there were times in L
ondon beyond … well beyond the horizons I had known before.’
Now he turned to me. ‘What I have said to you, Doyle, about the mentally afflicted was no lie. I believe it. I was deeply in love with my wife’s sister Claire. That is true, it is not proper, but it is a fact. While my wife was alive, I kept it at one remove. Claire went to London after our baby was adopted. She fell into evil ways. Once my wife was dead, I was able to seek Claire out. I honoured my wife’s memory and my love. And have I not served that love even now? I brought Claire back here, I paid for her comfort, all for love. Is that not one thing I can be proud of? There is much I am not proud of in my life but I have no regrets about Claire.’
‘Will you tell us about that night with Jefford?’ said Bell.
Bulweather’s expression changed. ‘Jefford was just a little fop,’ said Bulweather. ‘I had no regard for him at all. And we felt taking his money was hardly a sinful act. But he was stubborn, far more than we had expected. Cream came here, encouraging Jefford to play tricks and get up a lot of ghostly rumours. He was waiting only to get his hands on the money. On that night at The Glebe at first it was just a drunken game. We wanted to see his vault or, as he called it, the “witch’s vault”. Jefford refused. This kind of jesting about his “vault” had been going on for days. But now suddenly it changed. Cream lost patience and used a knife and Jefford was on the floor and there was blood. Yes I would have robbed the man, I do not deny it. But I had no stomach for any of this. I turned away, but Cream went on with the torture. He cut him on his ear, on his foot, on his face. Jefford was screaming. And I did nothing. I just kept silent, hoping he would die. Finally, he told us what we wanted to know, or so we thought.’
Bulweather was no longer looking at us but at the fire. ‘He seemed so badly hurt I would never have dreamt he could even move, except for his hands, which drew that message. We believed it was the true place. Cream thought we should go and dig and come back and torture him more if he had lied. But when we returned, he was gone.’
