Dr. Hanson’s Case-Book
For pleasure or comfort of any sort it was too hot in the wall-girt
garden, but merely to be away from the house brought a certain sense
of ease and rest. Sitting under the old shady cedar it was easier to
keep dark thoughts away, and difficult to realize that the homely
looking red-brick house was a shelter for murder and crime. Difficult
to realize that at some hour during the previous night the little
Chinese flagon had been secretly lifted from its place on the shelf
among its almost equally deadly little neighbors. Lifted, oh! so
gently, and the queer flat stopper quietly removed from its fragile
slender neck. Then just a tilt, and drip, drip, drip, a few drops
added to the contents of a tapering glass, and at some hour of the hot
still night, poor Stella had slipped out of sleep into death.
Whose hand, I wondered, had set that murderous little bottle back in
its place? Was it a hand that trembled and shook? Or was it steady and
deft like the hands I had seen so swiftly busy with the bandages round
a small boy’s face?
Inspector Brown’s two gardeners were making laborious work of their
search. The end of the roof where the ivy grew was full in the blaze
of the sun, and coats and waistcoats were in turn discarded. There
were intervals for chatty little rests and the mopping of faces. In
three-quarters of an hour a very small bit of the roof had been dealt
with, and I calculated that it would be dark before the whole could be
cleared unless Progress was speeded up.
The inspector was evidently of the same opinion, for he came in while
we were watching and we soon heard his loud-voiced complaints across
the lawn. A little later the party was increased to three.
They cleared the roof methodically, a foot at a time. When the main
strands of the tangled growth had been cut and disentangled, they were
carefully shaken out and thrown to the lawn below. The loose leaves on
the roof were examined and put into a bucket. These having been
removed, the smaller bits were collected together and riddled through
a sieve. The siftings were swept aside and the remainder carefully
searched. Then another few strands were cut and the process repeated.
Margaret and I watched them idly as we sat, their clippings and the
noise of the bucket as it was handled up and down from the roof
punctuating our desultory conversation. I fancy we were both
meditating with lazy inconsequence on the day’s events and our few
remarks reflected our meditations.
“We are sure to have some of them down from the club to make inquiries
this evening,” I said.
“Yes. It will be rather awkward, won’t it?”
A long pause in which I puffed away leisurely at my pipe and she lay
back gently rotating her red parasol.
“Don’t you think we ought to have some definite understanding about
what we are all of us going to say when callers do appear? We are sure
to have no end directly it gets about. The Hansons know nearly every
one there is to know in Merchester and I can assure you from my own
experience, that we simply can’t be beaten where curiosity is
concerned.” She moved her chair round as she spoke to get a better
view of the surgery wing.
“I think that you are right,” I said, knocking the ashes out of my
pipe. “I’ll have a word with the doctor about it.”
“He would deal with them better than any of us,” she agreed, “but he
may not be here all the time, and I can’t imagine that either Ethel or
Kenneth would excel at the job. They are both too——” She paused for a
word.
“Exactly,” I laughed, “they are both of them too—— and you can leave
it at that.”
We fell back on our meditations, and I thought what a peaceful drowsy
scene it would have made if only the men at work on the roof had been
gardeners indeed, and Margaret and I the remnant of some pleasant
social gathering. Gardeners pruning an ivy tree for next year’s more
vigorous growth—hope for the future and life! Plain clothes policemen
searching for a piece of poisoned glass—murder and death! The
cathedral chimes rang out again and roused us both. It was six
o’clock. We had sat in the garden for nearly an hour. We got up and
went back to the house, she to go to Ethel, and I to find The Tundish.
He was in the dispensary—the coolest spot in the house—his feet on the
desk in front of him and his chair tilted back to a dangerous angle.
He was scowling at a manuscript in which he was deeply engrossed.
Now, I had anticipated his pleasant, “Hello! Jeffcock,” but I was met
with a frown and a curtly spoken “Well?” It was the first time I had
seen him either bothered or abrupt. The heat of the past few days,
which had prostrated the rest of us and made us irritable and touchy,
had not been sufficient to sap his energy or sour his sweet temper. I
remembered that, in addition to facing the appalling position in which
he found himself here at Dalehouse, he had had to rush away directly
after breakfast to some other scene of illness and distress. He had
hurried back through the sweltering heat to meet the aspersions of
Allport and the angry attack of Kenneth. Throughout the fevered day he
had been calm, kindly and unruffled. A “rock” as Ethel had whispered,
for all of us to lean on.
I was surprised, therefore, to find him frowning and sharp-spoken, and
he either saw my surprise or else he read my thoughts, for he closed
the book with a bang, took his feet off the desk, and stood up saying,
“Sorry, Jeffcock old man, but I’ve got an incipient hump.”
“In my opinion, you’ve been through enough to turn you into a
veritable dromedary, so far as humps are concerned,” I answered.
“Oh! that—you mean my strong position as favorite for the
gallowsstakes? No, my dear Jeffcock, to be perfectly truthful, that
bothers me not at all. Death is a friend we shall all have to shake by
the hand. It’s this depressing little record of unwholesome happenings
and disease that nearly gave me a fit of the blues.”
I looked at the book with interest.
“It’s Hanson’s case-book,” he answered my unspoken question. “Such
books should be burned. Burned and then the ashes scattered at sea,
for half the world’s unhappiness springs from the disorders that we
doctors write up so secretly in our case-books and keep hidden away
under lock and key.” He flicked the pages between finger and thumb
with a look of sad disgust as he spoke.
“Ugh!” he said, as he replaced the book in a drawer in the desk, which
he pushed home with an angry bang.
I asked him what he thought we ought to say to any callers who might
come, and whether we had not better have some agreement among
ourselves as to how much information we were to give them when they
came.
“Why, yes, of course we must,” he said pleasantly. “I hope that I
shan’t have to go out again to-night, and probably I had better see
any one who calls while I am here. I shall be able to choke them off
more easily than Ethel would, and it will appear quite natural for me
to explain that she has gone to lie down and rest. Then at supper-time
we can decide together what to say to all the Merchester busybodies
to-morrow. It surprises me that we have not been pestered with callers
already. It is all over the city, I know, for half a dozen of my
patients found it difficult to hide their curiosity, when I was out on
my rounds this afternoon. You will see that quite apart from the
kindly concern of Hanson’s more intimate friends, half Merchester will
be calling or ringing us up during the next twenty-four hours. They
will come for subscriptions, to borrow books, and to be treated for
imaginary complaints. Anything, in fact, that will give them a chance
to satisfy their ghoulish curiosity, and here is the first of them
now, unless I am very much mistaken.”
The bell had begun to ring as he was speaking, and Annie announced
Rushton, the secretary of the tennis club. He was asking for Ethel. We
had him shown into the dispensary.
After shaking hands with us and refusing to sit down, as he wanted to
get back to the club as soon as he could, he came to the object of his
visit with commendable brevity. He hoped that it was not true that
Miss Palfreeman was dead, but that she was merely ill, as Mr. Bennett
had told them when he called at the club to scratch our names in the
morning. He was a rather nervous little man, at the best of times, and
it was obvious that he was not enjoying his visit.
“It is unfortunately only too true,” The Tundish replied. “She died at
some hour during the night, and Miss Hanson had the shock of trying to
wake her up this morning.”
“Oh! I say, I am so sorry. And is it true that there is to be an
inquest?”
“Yes, that is true too. No one was with her when she died, and I am
unable to certify the cause of her death. We have consulted the
police, and they tell us that an inquest can’t possibly be avoided.”
Rushton stood embarrassed, and muttering, “Oh dear, how sad! How very,
very sad!” Ill at ease, he was tracing half-circles on the cork
matting with the toe of his shoe.
“Look here, I don’t want to add to your troubles,” he said, looking up
suddenly, as though he had made up his mind to go through with an
unpleasant task, “but I thought I ought to tell Miss Hanson about it
at once. I wanted to see her and tell her. There are all manner of
things being whispered about at the club.”
He hesitated again uncomfortably, and then went on with a sort of
nervous rush. “They are saying that the police have been in and out of
the house all day long. That Miss Palfreeman was murdered, that you
have all of you been detained, and that you, Dr. Wallace, were seen
being driven off to the police station itself under escort. There are
all sorts of whisperings, and each that I have overheard has been a
little more gruesome than the last. It’s beastly unpleasant news to
have to give you, but I really felt that some one ought to come and
let you know of the things that are being said.”
“It has been exceedingly kind and considerate of you,” The Tundish
reassured him. “From the questions I was asked and the looks that I
got—looks that I could almost overhear!—when I paid a few professional
visits this afternoon, I guessed that some such stories must be
afloat. The facts, however, are as I have told you. Miss Palfreeman’s
death is at present a mystery to us all. She was rather overtired, but
otherwise in normal health when she retired for the night. The police
have moved her body to the mortuary so that a careful examination can
be made. There is to be an inquest, and Mr. Jeffcock here, and the
others, have been asked to remain in Merchester until it is over. That
is really all that we can tell you. We are nearly as much in the dark
as any one else. It is a very painful position without exaggeration,
and if you can help to thin out some of the rumors that are thickening
the air we shall all be not a little grateful.”
“Oh, I will. I most certainly will. I’ll do everything I possibly
can.” He retreated nervously.
The doctor, I felt, had not been overconvincing. Rushton, I am sure,
really came to us out of kindness and because he felt that some one
ought to warn us of what was being said, however unpleasant the task
might be. But if he had no suspicions of his own before he came, the
doctor’s so-called explanations would most surely have aroused them. A
doctor in the house—a mysterious death which the doctor would not
certify—a body removed to the mortuary by the police, and an
inquest—an unpleasant string of facts to have to admit! Add a little
imagination, a dash or two of spite, and a misunderstanding here and
there as the details are whispered by one scandal-loving cathedral
matron to the next, and it is easy to realize that the final story
might even outcrimson the actual facts. The Tundish had done his best,
but it was very evident that until the whole abominable business was
properly cleared up, and Stella’s murderer discovered and caught,
nothing that we could say or do would silence the gossip that was
about.
“That is the first of a great many kindly people who will make it
their business to call because they felt that we ought to know of the
awful things that are being said,” The Tundish remarked, with a wry
grimace.
“Don’t you think that he really did feel like that?”
“Oh yes, yes! And so will many of the others who come for the same
purpose. But they will one and all go away to strengthen the rumors of
which they came to warn us. I’m not blaming them—it’s human nature. We
shall find it rather trying, though, I fancy. It’s half past six. I’ll
just run up-stairs and find out how Ethel is getting on, and then if
it is not too hot for you I’ll join you in the garden for a stroll.”
I agreed, and went out through the front door, round the end of the
house, and into the garden behind. The heat was still devastating. Not
a leaf was astir. Not even a stray wisp of cloud broke the pale blue
of the sky, a blue that faded imperceptibly into a misty white above
the top of the high garden wall.
Inspector Brown’s three men were still busy with the ivy on the roof,
and the heap on the lawn had grown to a goodly size. Nearly
three-quarters of the roof had been cleared. The inspector himself
stood watching them at work, peaked hat in hand, his red round face
looking like a damp boiled beet-root from underneath his handkerchief,
which he had knotted at the corners and placed on his head for
protection against the sun. He beckoned to me as I rounded the end of
the house, and I went and stood by his side.
“You’re making good progress,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Have you found what you were looking for?”
“Yes.”
“But you are going to clear the lot while you are about it, eh!”
“Yes.” And looking at me queerly, and mimicking the little exclamation
with which I had finished my own sentence, he added, “There might be
something else, eh!”
He continued to stare, his eyes looking for all the world like a
couple of bright blue buttons stuck in his big red face, and then he
surprised me by asking, “Do your initials happen to be F. H., Mr.
Jeffcock?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
But I never got an answer to my question. He turned abruptly and
walked away, ignoring me rudely and completely. I half thought of
following him to make further inquiry, but his broad solid back and
his thick bull neck both looked unresponsive, so I mastered my
curiosity, and crossing the lawn to the cedar tree, sat down in the
shade to wait for The Tundish.
I was beginning to think that he must have forgotten me, when Margaret
hurried to me. “He wants us both in the dispensary,” she said, before
she reached me, and turned quickly back to the house beckoning me to
follow.
He got up from the desk as we entered, and placed the prescription
book, in which he had been writing, on the table that stood in the
middle of the room. Then he took three bottles and a taper medicine
glass from the shelves over the bench, and put them on the table by
the book. He was solemn and portentous. Margaret and I were silent as
we stood and watched him.
“I am going to prepare some medicine for Ethel,” he informed us when
he had got everything ready, “and in the circumstances I feel that I
should like you to see me make it up. I can’t explain my wish in so
many words; in fact, I really don’t quite know why I want you to be
here. If I wanted to poison Ethel, I could of course do it with the
greatest ease while you both stand looking on. For instance, you can
check the prescription which I have written out in full, and you can
check the bottles with the prescription, but you can’t possibly be
sure that I haven’t already tampered with the bottles. So you see it
is all rather farcical, and yet I do very definitely feel that I
should like you to witness me making it up.”
I was aghast at the horrible suggestion his words contained, but he
stood smiling at us pleasantly, imperturbable, inscrutable.
“I think that I can understand your feelings a little,” Margaret said
inaptly, “you’re afraid it might somehow happen again. Is Ethel really
ill then?”
“No, oh no, not exactly ill, but the bang on her mouth has loosened
one tooth and some of the others have had a nasty jar. It has given
her neuralgia and I want her to have a comfortable night if she can.
We still have some unpleasant hours ahead, I fear.”
He was making up the medicine as he spoke, pouring first from one and
then from the other bottles—a series of simple acts which he seemed to
invest with some quality of magic. The glass lightly held between
finger and thumb might have stood on a slab of stone for steadiness.
Each ingredient trickled quickly yet surely to fill it to within a
hair’s breadth of the graduation mark against which he had placed his
thumb. Not once did he have to make an addition or adjustment, and so
quick and precise was it all that he had finished while he was
answering Margaret’s question, and the simple every-day movements took
on the aspect of a conjuring trick.
We initialed the labels of the bottles he had used and the
prescription he had written in the book after checking the one with
the other.
Margaret, too, had evidently been impressed by his sleight of hand,
for she said, “And now shall I sit on a broomstick, and whisk it
up-stairs to Ethel?” It was the most original remark I had ever heard
her make.
“No thanks, I’ll take it up myself.”
Margaret reddened, but he smiled at her coolly, adding, “I want to
have a chat with her,” and he picked up the glass and was gone.
We didn’t say anything, but if looks could speak——? I think we were
both of us wondering why he should have bothered to ask us to see him
prepare the medicine, and then having had us for witnesses, have
refused to let Margaret take it up to Ethel. He could have gone up
with her for his little chat. It was queer and extraordinary. I could
not understand it.