TENEBRAE
The resigned composure with which I accepted Thorndyke’s sentence of
confinement within doors was not entirely attributable to discretion
or native virtue. My resolution to follow scrupulously my principal’s
very pointed advice was somewhat like the ascetic resolutions formed
by the gourmet as he rises replete from the banquet table; for, just
as the latter is in a peculiarly favourable condition for the unmoved
contemplation of a--temporary--abstinence from food, so I, having
enjoyed my little dissipation, could now contemplate with fortitude a
brief period of retirement. Moreover, the weather was in my favour,
being--as Polton reported, when he returned, blue-nosed and powdered
with snow, with a fresh supply of tobacco for me--bitterly cold, with
a threatening of smoky fog from the east.
Under these circumstances it was no great hardship to sit in a roomy
armchair with my slippered feet on the kerb and read and meditate as I
basked in the warmth of a glowing fire; though, to be sure, my reading
was perfunctory enough, for the treatise of “The Surface Markings of
the Human Body,” admirable as it was, competed on very unfavourable
terms with other claimants to my attention. In truth, I had plenty to
think about even if I went no farther for matter than to the events of
the previous day. There was my visit to Sylvia, for instance. I had
not said much to her, but what I had said had pledged me to a
life-long companionship; which was a solemn thing to reflect upon even
though I looked forward to the fulfilment of that pledge with nothing
but hopeful pleasure. The dice were thrown. Of course they would turn
up sixes, every one; but still--the dice were thrown.
From my own strictly personal affairs my thoughts rambled by an easy
transition to the singular episode of the buried portrait, and thence
to the subject of that strange palimpsest. Viewed by the light of Mr.
O’Donnell’s revelations, Mrs. Samway’s position was not all that could
have been desired. She and her husband had unquestionably been closely
associated with Maddock; but Maddock was, it seemed, a habitual
criminal. Could this fact have been known to the Samways? Or was it
that the cunning forger and swindler had sheltered himself behind
their respectability. It was impossible for me to say.
Then there was the strange and perplexing case of the man Maddock,
himself. I could make nothing of that, had not, indeed, been aware
that there had been a “case,” until Thorndyke’s investigations had put
me in possession of the fact. And even now I could see nothing on
which to base any suspicion, apart from the attempts on my life, which
we were assuming to be in some way connected with events that had
occurred in Maddock’s house. The cause of death was apparently not
“Morbus Cordis”; which might easily enough be, seeing that the
diagnosis of heart disease was a mere guess on Batson’s part. But if
not Morbus Cordis, what was it? Thorndyke apparently knew, and seemed
to hint that it was something other than ordinary disease.
Could there have been foul play? And, if so, were the Samways involved
in it in any way? It seemed incredible, for had not Maddock himself
suspected that he was in a dangerous state of health. There was
certainly one possibility which I considered with a good deal of
distaste; namely, that Maddock had been in a hypochondriacal state and
that the Samways had taken advantage of his gloomy views as to his
health to administer poison. The thing was actually possible; but I
did not entertain it; for, even if one assumed that poison had been
administered, at any rate, the cremation of the body was not designed
to hide the traces of the crime. The Samways had nothing to do with
that; the cremation had been adopted in preference to burial by
Maddock’s own wish.
So my thoughts flitted from topic to topic, with occasional interludes
of “Surface Markings,” through the lazy forenoon until Polton came to
lay my solitary luncheon. And after this little break in the
comfortable monotony, another spell of meditative idleness set in.
Polton was busy upstairs in the laboratory with some photographic
copying operations and I was disposed to wander up and look on; but my
small friend politely but very firmly vetoed any such proceeding. On
some other occasion he would be delighted to show me the working of
the great copying camera, but, just now, he had a big job in hand,
and, as he was working against time, he would prefer to be alone. He
even suggested that I might attend to any stray callers and make my
own tea on the gas-ring so as to avoid interrupting his work; and when
I had agreed to relieve him to this extent, he thanked me profusely
and retired and I saw no more of him.
For some time after his departure, I stood at the window looking out
across the wide space at Paper Buildings and the end of Crown Office
Row. It was a wretched afternoon. The yellow, turbid sky brooded close
upon the houseroofs and grew darker and more brown moment by moment,
as if the invisible sun had given the day up in despair and gone home
early. A comfortless powdering of snow filtered down at intervals and
melted on the pavements, along which depressed wayfarers hurried with
their coat collars turned up and their hands thrust deep into their
pockets. I watched them commiseratingly, reflecting on the superior
advantages of being within doors and forbidden to go out; and then,
having flung another scoopful of coal on the fire, I betook myself
once more to the armchair, the “Surface Markings” and idle meditation.
It was some time past four when my reflective browsings had begun to
proceed in the direction of the tea-kettle, that I heard a light
footstep on the landing as of someone wearing goloshes. Then a letter
dropped softly into the box, and, as I instantly pushed back my chair
to rise, the footsteps retreated. I crossed the room quickly and
opened the door; but the messenger had already disappeared down the
dark staircase, and had gone so silently on his rubber soles that,
though I listened attentively, I could hear no sound from below.
Having closed the door, I extracted the letter from the box and took
it over to the window to examine it, when I was not a little surprised
to find that it was addressed to W.M. Howard, Esq. This was the first
communication that I had received in my borrowed name, and my surprise
at its arrival was not unreasonable, for, of the few persons who knew
me by that name, none--with the exception, perhaps, of Mr.
Marchmont--was in the least likely to write to me.
But, if the address on the envelope had surprised me, the letter
itself surprised me a good deal more; for though the writer was quite
unknown to me, even by name, he seemed to be in possession of certain
information concerning me which I had supposed to be the exclusive
property of Thorndyke, Jervis, Polton and myself. It bore the address,
29, Fig-tree Court, Inner Temple, and ran thus:
“Dear Sir,
“I am taking the liberty of writing to you to ask for your assistance
as I happen to know that my friends, Drs. Thorndyke and Jervis, are
away at Maidstone and not available at the moment, and I understand
that you have some acquaintance with medical technicalities.
“The circumstances are these. At half-past five to-day I shall be
meeting a solicitor to advise as to action in respect of a case in
which I am retained; and the decision as to our action will be vitally
affected by a certain issue on which I am not competent to form an
opinion for lack of medical knowledge. If Dr. Thorndyke had been
within reach I should have taken his opinion; as he is not, it
occurred to me to ask if you would fill his place on this occasion, it
being, of course, understood that the usual fee of five guineas will
be paid by the solicitor.
“If you should be unable to come to the consultation, do not trouble
to reply, as I am now going out and shall not be returning until
five-thirty, the time of the appointment. I am,
“Yours faithfully,
“Arthur Courtland.”
The contents of this letter, as I have said, surprised me more than a
little. How, in the name of all that was wonderful, had this stranger,
whose very name was unknown to me, come to be aware that I had any
knowledge of medicine? Not from Thorndyke, I felt perfectly sure; nor
from Jervis, who, notwithstanding a certain flippant facetiousness of
manner, was really an extremely cautious and judicious man. Could it
be that my principal was overseen in his trusted laboratory assistant?
Was it conceivable that the suave and discreet Polton had moments of
leakiness, when, in unofficial talk outside, he let drop the secrets
of which his employer’s unbounded confidence had made him the
repository? I could not believe it. Not only did Polton appear to be
the very soul of discretion; there was Thorndyke himself; he was not
the man to give his confidence to anyone until after the most
exhaustive proof of the safety of so giving it. Nor was he a man who
was likely to be deceived; for nothing escaped his observation, and
nothing that he observed was passed over without careful
consideration.
My lethargy having been shaken off, I addressed myself to the task of
preparing tea; and, as I listened to the homely crescendo of the
kettle’s song, I turned the matter over in all its bearings. By some
means this Mr. Courtland had become aware that I was either a doctor
or a medical student. But by what means? Was it possible that he had
merely inferred from the circumstance of my being associated with
Thorndyke that I was of the same profession? That was just barely
conceivable; but, if he had, then, as Jervis had said of Father
Humperdinck, he must be “a devil at guessing.”
As I made the tea and subsequently consumed it, I continued to
ruminate on the contents of that singular letter. No answer to it was
required. Then what was Mr. Courtland going to do if I did not turn
up? He admitted that the issue, which seemed to be an important one,
was beyond him, and yet he had to give an answer to the solicitor. And
he was prepared to pay five guineas for the advice of a man of whom
he--presumably--knew nothing. That was odd. In fact, the whole tone of
the letter, with its inconsistent mixture of urgency and casual
trusting to chance, seemed irreconcilable with the care and method
that one expects from a professional man.
And there was another point. The time of the consultation was
half-past five. Now within an hour of that time Thorndyke would be
back--or even sooner if he came by the earlier train as he had done on
the previous day--as Mr. Courtland must have known, since he knew
whither my principal had gone, and he must have often attended assizes
himself. Could he not have waited an hour? And again; had this
business been sprung upon him so suddenly that he had had no time to
get Thorndyke’s opinion? And, yet again, why had he written at all,
instead of dropping in at our chambers with the solicitor, as was so
commonly done by Thorndyke’s clients?
All of which were curious and puzzling questions which I put to
myself, one by one, and had to dismiss unanswered. And then I came to
the practical question, to which I had to find an answer, and which
was: Could I, under the existing circumstances, accede to Mr.
Courtland’s request? To go outside the precincts of the Inn was, I
recognized, absolutely forbidden; but I had given no actual promise to
remain in our chambers, nor had I been positively forbidden to leave
them. Thorndyke had advised me to remain indoors, and his advice had
been given so pointedly and with so evident a desire that it should be
followed that I had not hitherto even thought of leaving our premises.
But this was an unforeseen contingency; and the question was, did it
alter my position in regard to Thorndyke’s advice?
I think I have never been so undecided in my life. On the one hand, I
was strongly tempted to keep the appointment. The prospect of
triumphantly handing to Thorndyke a five-guinea fee which I had earned
as his deputy appealed to me with almost irresistible force. On the
other hand, my knowledge of Thorndyke did not support this appeal. I
knew him to be a man to whom a principle was much more important than
any chance benefit gained by its abandonment, and my inner
consciousness told me that he would be better pleased by a strict
adherence to our understanding than by the increment of five guineas.
So my thoughts oscillated, to and fro, now impelling me to risk it and
earn the fee, and now urging me to keep to the letter of my
instructions; and, meanwhile, the time ran on and the hour of the
consultation approached. What decision I should have reached, in the
end, it is impossible to say. As matters turned out, I never reached
any decision at all, for, just as the Treasury clock struck a quarter
past five, I heard a light, quick step on our landing and immediately
after a soft but hurried knock at the door.
I strode quickly across the room and threw the door open. And then I
started back with an exclamation of astonishment. For the visitor--who
stood full in the light of the landing-lamp--was a woman; and the
woman was Mrs. Samway.
As I stood gazing at her in amazement, she slipped past me into the
room and softly shut the door. And then I saw very plainly that there
was something amiss, for she was as pale as death, and had a dreadful,
frightened, hunted look which haunts me even now as I write. She was
somewhat dishevelled, too, and, though it was a bitter evening, her
plump, shapely hands were ungloved and cold as ice, as I noted when I
took them in mine.
“Are you alone?” she asked, peering uneasily at the door of the little
office.
“Yes. Quite alone,” I replied.
She gazed at me with those strange, penetrating eyes of hers and said
in a half-whisper: “How strange you look with that beard. I should
hardly have known you if I had not expected--”
She stopped short, and, casting a strange, scared glance over her
shoulder at the dark windows, whispered:
“Can they see in? Can anyone see us from outside?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” I replied; but, nevertheless, I stepped over
to the windows and drew the curtains.
“That looks more comfortable, at any rate,” said I. “And now tell me
how in the name of wonder you knew I was here.”
She grasped both my wrists and looked earnestly--almost fiercely--into
my eyes.
“Ask me no questions!” she exclaimed. “Ask me nothing! But listen. I
have come here for a purpose. Has a letter been left here for you?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Asking you to go to a place in Fig-tree Court?”
“Good God!” I exclaimed. “How on earth--”
She shook my wrists impatiently in her strong grasp. “Answer me!” she
exclaimed; “answer me!”
“Yes,” I replied. “I was to go there at half-past five.”
Again her strong grasp tightened on my wrists. “Humphrey,” she said,
in a low, earnest voice, “you are not to go. Do you hear me? You are
not to go.” And then, as I seemed to hesitate, she continued more
urgently: “I ask you--I beg you to promise me that you won’t.”
I gazed at her in sheer amazement; but some instinct, some faint
glimmer of understanding, restrained me from asking for any
explanation.
“Very well,” I said. “I won’t go if you say I’m not to.”
“That is a promise?”
“Yes, it’s a promise. Besides, it’s nearly half-past already, so if I
don’t go now, the appointment falls through.”
“And you won’t go outside these rooms to-night. Promise me that, too.”
“If I don’t go to this lawyer, I shan’t go out at all.”
“And to-morrow, too. Give me your word that you won’t let any sort of
pretext draw you out of these rooms to-morrow, or the next day, or, in
fact, until Dr. Thorndyke says you may.”
For a few moments I was literally struck dumb with astonishment at her
last words, and could do nothing but gaze at her in astounded silence.
At length, recovering myself a little, I exclaimed:
“My dear Mrs. Samway--,” but she interrupted me.
“Don’t call me by that horrible name! Give me my own name, Letitia;
or,” she added, a little shyly and in a soft, coaxing tone, “call me
Lettie. Won’t you, Humphrey, just for this once? You needn’t mind. You
wouldn’t if you knew. I should like, when I think of my friend--the
only friend that I care for--to remember that he called me by my own
name when he said good-bye. You’ll think me silly and sentimental, but
you needn’t mind indulging me just once. It’s the last time.”
“The last time!” I repeated. “What do you mean by that, Lettie, and by
speaking of our saying good-bye? Are you going away?”
“Yes, I am going away. I don’t suppose you will ever see me again. I
am going out of your life.”
“Not out of my life, Lettie. We are always friends, even if we never
see one another.”
“Are we?” she said, looking up at me earnestly. “Perhaps it is so; but
still, this is good-bye. I ought to say it and go; but O God!” she
exclaimed with sudden passion, “I don’t want to go--away from you,
Humphrey, out into the cold and the dark!”
She buried her face against my shoulder, and I could feel that she was
sobbing though she uttered no sound.
It was a dreadful situation. Instinctively certain though I was that
her grief had a real and tragic basis, I could offer no word of
comfort. For what was there to say? She was going, clearly, to a life
of wretchedness without hope of any relief or change and without a
single friend to cheer her loneliness. That much I could guess,
vaguely and dimly. But it was enough. And it wrung my heart to witness
her passion of grief and to be able to offer no more than a pressure
of the hand.
After a few seconds she raised her head and looked in my face, with
the tears still clinging to her lashes.
“Humphrey,” she said, laying her hands on my shoulders, “I have a few
last words to say to you, and then I must go. Listen to me, dearest
friend, and remember what I say. When I am gone, people will tell you
things and you will come to know others. People will say that I am a
wicked woman, which is true enough, God knows. But if they say that I
have done or connived at wickedness against you, try to believe that
it was not as it seemed, and to forgive me for what I have done amiss.
And say to yourself, ‘This wicked woman would have willingly given her
heart’s blood for me.’ Say that, Humphrey. It is true. I would gladly
give my life to make you safe and happy. And try to think kindly of me
in the evil report that will reach you sooner or later. Will you try,
Humphrey?”
“My dear Lettie,” I said, “we are friends, now and always. Nothing
that I hear shall alter that.”
“I believe you,” she said, “and I thank you from my heart. And now I
must go--I _must_ go; and it’s good-bye--good-bye, Humphrey, for the
very last time.”
She passed her arms around my neck and pressed her wet cheek to mine;
then she kissed me, and, turning away abruptly, walked across to the
door and opened it. On the landing, in the light of the lamp, she
turned once more; and I saw that the hot blush that had risen to her
cheek as she kissed me, had faded already into a deathly pallor, and
that the dreadful, frightened, hunted look had come back into her
face. She stood for a moment with her finger raised warningly and
whispered:
“Good-bye, dear, good-bye! Shut the door now and shut it quietly”; and
then she passed into the opening of the dark staircase.
I closed the door softly and turned away towards the window; and, as I
did so, I heard her stumble slightly on the stair a short way down and
utter a little startled cry. I was nearly going out to her, and did,
in fact, stand a moment or two listening; but, as I heard nothing
more, I moved over to the window, and, drawing back the curtain,
looked down on our doorstep to see her go out. My mind was in a whirl
of confused emotions. Profound pity for this lonely, unhappy,
warm-hearted woman contended with amazement at the revelation of her
manifest connection with the mystery that surrounded me; and I stood
bewildered by the tumult of incoherent thought, grasping the curtain
and looking down on the great square stone that I might, at least,
catch a farewell glance at this poor soul who was passing so
unwillingly out of my life.
The seconds passed. A man came out of our entry, and, turning to the
left, walked at a rapid pace towards the Tudor Street gate. Still she
did not appear. Perhaps she had heard him on the stairs and was
waiting to pass out unnoticed. But yet it was strange. Nearly a minute
had elapsed since she started to descend the stairs. Could I have
missed her? It seemed impossible, since I had come to the window
almost immediately. A vague uneasiness began to take possession of me.
I recalled her white face and frightened eyes, and as I stared down at
the door-step with growing anxiety, I found myself
listening--listening nervously for I knew not what.
Suddenly I caught a sound--faint and vague, but certainly a sound. And
it seemed to come from the staircase. In a moment I had the door open
and was stealing on tip-toe out on the landing. The house was
profoundly silent. No murmur even penetrated from the distant streets.
I crept across the landing, breathing softly and listening. And then,
from the stillness below, but near at hand came a faint, whispering
sigh or moan. Instantly I sprang forward, all of a tremble and darted
down the stairs.
At the first turn I saw, projecting round the angle, a hand--a woman’s
hand, plump and shapely and white as marble. With a gasp of terror I
flew round the turn of the staircase and--
God in Heaven! She was there! Huddled limply in the angle, her head
resting against the baluster and one hand spread out on her bosom, she
lay so still that she might have been dead but for the shallow rise
and fall of her breast and the wide-staring eyes that turned to me
with such dreadful appeal. I stooped over her and spoke her name, and
it seemed to me that a pitiful little smile trembled for a moment on
the bloodless lips, but she made no answer beyond a faint, broken
sigh, and it was only when she moved her hand slightly that the
overwhelming horror of the reality burst upon me. Then when I saw the
crimson stain upon her fingers and upon the bosom of her dress, the
meaning of that horrible pallor, the sharpening features and strange,
pinched expression flashed upon me with a shock that seemed to arrest
the very blood at my heart. Yet, stunned as I was, I realized
instantly that human skill could avail her nothing; that I could do
nought for her but raise her from the sharp edge of the stair and rest
her head on my arm. And so I held her, whispering endearments
brokenly, and looking as well as I might through the blinding tears
into those inscrutable eyes, that gazed up at me, no longer with that
stare of horror but with a vague and childlike wonder. And, even as I
looked, the change came in an instant. The wide eye-lids relaxed and
drooped, the eyes grew filmy and sightless, the hand slipped from her
breast and dropped with a thud on the stair, and the supple body in my
arms shrank of a sudden with the horrible limpness of death.
Up to this point my recollection is clear, even vivid, but of what
followed I have only a dim and confused impression. The awfulness--the
unbelievable horror of this frightful thing that had happened left me
so dazed and numb that I recall but vaguely the passage of time of
what went on around me in this terrible dream from which there was to
be no waking. Dimly I recollect kneeling by her side on the silent
staircase--but how long I know not--holding her poor body in my arms
and gazing incredulously at the marble-white face--now with its drowsy
lids and parted lips, grown suddenly girlish and fragile--while the
hot tears dropped down on her dress; choking with grief and horror and
a fury of hate for the foul wretch who had done this appalling thing,
and who was now far away out of reach. I see--dimly still--the livid
marks of accursed fingers lingering yet on the whiteness around the
mouth to tell me why no cry from her had reached me, and the dreadful,
red-edged cut in the bodice, mutely demanding vengeance from God and
man.
And then of a sudden the silence is shattered by rushing feet and the
clamour of voices. Someone--it is Jervis--leads me forcibly away to
our room and places me in a chair by the table. Presently I see her
lying on our sofa, drowsy-eyed, peaceful, like a marble figure on a
tomb. And I see Thorndyke, with a strange, coppery flush and something
grim and terrible in the set calm of his face, showing the letter,
which I had left on the table, to a tall stranger, who hurries from
the room. Anon come two constables with heads uncovered carrying a
stretcher. I see her laid on the sordid bier and reverently covered.
The dread procession moves out through the doorway, the door is shut
after it, and so, in dreadful fulfilment of her words, she passed out
of my life.