THE LONG TRUNK.
It was certified that Piers Pelham, baronet, aged seven, had come by his
death owing to cardiac failure. The certificate to this effect was duly
signed by the well-known Dr. Tarbot, one of the cleverest and most
rising doctors in Harley Street. The great specialists who had been
called in to see the child expressed no surprise when they heard of the
death; only one of them remarked that he did not think the end would
have come quite so soon.
In other quarters there was a certain amount of gossip. Dick Pelham was
considered wonderfully lucky. Before the child’s death he had been a
mere nobody—a briefless barrister with the ordinary chances of a
moderate success. Now he was a man of vast importance—the baronetcy was
one of the oldest in England, and the acres which belonged to the title
large, fair, and widely spread.
Pelham’s engagement to Barbara Evershed had just been bruited abroad in
society, and she was heartily congratulated. The whole thing was almost
like a story. Nothing could have happened in a more opportune way. Of
course, the death of the child was dreadful, and those who knew the
little fellow were heartily sorry; but few people did know him, and
Barbara had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances.
Amongst these people the general rumor was that the child had been
removed at a most crucial and happy moment. Mrs. Evershed’s monetary
affairs would be put straight, and she would be the mother-in-law of one
of the richest men in England. The match was a splendid one for her
handsome daughter. Yes, Barbara was in luck, but as she happened to be a
popular girl, as the voice of society pronounced her fine-spirited, and
even noble, there was not one who grudged her the happiness which was
now assuredly to be hers.
As to the mother of the dead boy, the terrible shock had brought on a
sharp attack of nervous fever. A nurse had to be called in to look after
her. As a matter of course, Nurse Ives had been asked to undertake the
case, but, much to Barbara’s surprise, she absolutely refused to nurse
Mrs. Pelham.
“I cannot do it,” she said. “I will stay in the house until another
nurse arrives, but I do not wish to have anything to do with the case.”
Tarbot was much annoyed at this decision, but he could not shake Nurse
Ives’s resolve.
Forty-eight hours after the death of the child his coffin arrived. The
undertaker’s men brought it into the room. Nurse Ives was the only one
present. The men lifted the little body from the bed and laid it in the
coffin. They then turned to view their work.
“He makes a pretty corpse, don’t he?” said one to the other.
In truth he did. His face was like a flower, for the color had not quite
left his cheeks.
“You’d a’most fancy he was alive still,” said one of the men. “See that
touch of pink?” He touched the cheek reverently. Nurse Ives went up and
stood at the head of the bed. She gave the man an angry glance and he
apologized for what he had done.
“We will come in if you like later on to screw down the lid,” he said.
“The lid had better be screwed on now,” said the nurse. “There are signs
of mortification already setting in, and it would be unwise to leave the
coffin uncovered any longer. Miss Evershed or Mrs. Pelham might come up
to see the corpse; it would not be safe, and I wish to have the lid
screwed on at once.”
“All right, Miss, we’ll soon put things straight.”
The men put on the lid and screwed it down, and then they went away. The
moment they did so a queer look came over Nurse Ives’s impassive face.
She went quickly to the door of the room and locked it. Then, taking a
turnscrew, she hastily unfastened the screws and removed the lid from
the top of the coffin. Having done this, she lifted the body out.
Once again she laid it on the bed, and now she piled warm blankets over
the little body, and put a hot bottle, which she had previously got
ready, to the feet. Then, going to the dressing-room, she brought away a
small box which contained capsules of amyl nitrite. She broke one of the
capsules in a handkerchief, and, holding it close to the nostrils of the
child, a strong and pungent odor filled the room. The face of the dead
underwent no perceptible change at first, but then the faint color in
the cheeks increased. A look of triumph filled the nurse’s eyes.
“Good!” she cried. “It is all right. I thought I could do it, and I
have. Dr. Tarbot imagined he would be even with me. He is not; I am his
master. What is about to happen to-night will come upon him as a blow
when he least expects it. Yes, all is well; I feather my own nest; I
receive that reward for which I have lost my soul. I prepare for the
evil day. I know what I am about.”
As these thoughts flew through the woman’s mind she went over to the
wicker trunk at the other end of the room and opened it. The trunk was
of a peculiar shape—much longer than is ordinarily made. From this
receptacle she took out bales of cotton wool and several iron weights.
She wrapped the wool round the weights and filled the coffin with them.
When she had put in enough wool and iron to make up the probable weight
of the child, she screwed on the lid again, and having done so, bent
over the little body. The color was still in the cheeks, although the
cheeks were cold, and the eyes remained firmly shut. Not a breath passed
the lips, not a movement was apparent; still, the woman felt quite
satisfied. She gave a further sigh of intense relief, and throwing an
eider-down quilt over the blankets, left the room, taking good care to
lock the door of the chamber of death after her. She went the entire
length of a long corridor and paused outside Mrs. Pelham’s room. The
other nurse had arrived and was already in charge. Barbara Evershed was
standing near the door. Barbara had seen the undertaker’s men bringing
up the little coffin, and her eyes were red from a fresh burst of tears.
“I shall leave to-night,” said Nurse Ives, pausing and looking full into
the girl’s face.
“Will you see Mrs. Pelham?” asked Barbara.
“It will not be necessary; but if she wishes I will go in and say
good-by to her.”
“I am sure she would like it; but first a word. Nurse, I saw the coffin
brought up-stairs.”
“Yes, my dear, yes,” said Nurse Ives. She did not touch Barbara, but she
looked at her with a curious expression. “The coffin has arrived and I
put the child in.”
“I should like to see him once again,” said Barbara.
“You cannot. The lid is screwed on the coffin.”
Barbara’s face flushed.
“Was that necessary?” she asked.
“Yes; it was indispensable. I will speak to Dr. Tarbot on the subject
when he next calls. It would not have been safe for you to see the
little corpse again.”
Barbara was silent for a moment.
“You had better come in and say good-by to Mrs. Pelham,” she said then.
Nurse Ives entered the room. A moment later she stood by the sick-bed.
Mrs. Pelham, with her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, a strained,
piteous expression round her trembling mouth, looked up at the nurse.
“Is that you, Nurse Ives?” she said.
“Yes, madam.”
“I am sorry you are going to leave me. I like to feel that the one who
has been with my darling at the last is now with me.”
“For some reasons I am sorry to go, madam, but it is impossible for me
to stay. I will wish you good-by now. Nurse Hester will do all she can
for you—will you not, Nurse Hester?”
The strange nurse nodded but did not trouble herself to speak. She did
not like Nurse Ives, and she was not going to conceal the fact.
Mrs. Pelham held out her trembling hand.
“Good-by,” she said.
The nurse turned and left the room. Barbara followed her on to the
landing.
“I shall go in a couple of hours,” said the nurse. “I am only waiting to
see Dr. Tarbot and to pack one or two of my things. Ah, I think I hear
the doctor’s step on the stairs.”
The woman stood in the shadow, and the doctor, without seeing her,
entered the sick-room. He stayed there for a few moments and then came
out again, Barbara accompanying him.
“Is that you, nurse?” he said.
“Yes, sir. I have waited to speak to you. I should like to say a word
before I go.”
“All right, I can attend to you now. Good night, Miss Evershed. I hope
you will go to bed and have a good sleep. Nurse Hester can look after
the patient. There is nothing to be alarmed about in her condition—she
is suffering from shock and fever. These symptoms will soon pass off.”
Barbara reentered the room, and Nurse Ives and Dr. Tarbot walked down
the passage together.
“So you have quite made up your mind to go?” he said to her.
“Yes, I leave to-night. I thought I ought to tell you that I had the
coffin screwed up.”
“Indeed! Is that not rather soon?”
“Unmistakable signs of mortification have already set in.”
“Then in that case you did right.”
“I thought you ought to know,” said the nurse, dropping her eyes.
“Certainly. You acted with discretion. It would never do, were such the
case, for Miss Evershed to be bending over the child’s body. Girls have
so much false sentiment in a thing of that kind. The poor little fellow
is now far beyond the reach of any sympathy which earth can give him.”
“That is what I thought, doctor. Well, I shall leave to-night.”
“Shall I order a cab for you?”
“No, thank you; I will go out later on and see to that myself.”
“Very well, nurse. Good-by. I shall find you at your old quarters, eh?”
“Yes.”
“You will not undertake a new case at present?”
“I shall never undertake a new case; you understand our compact?”
“I am not likely to forget. I will call to see you to-morrow evening.”
The doctor ran down-stairs and let himself out of the house. Nurse Ives
went softly back to the room where the child who was supposed to be dead
lay. Having entered, she locked the door. She remained in the room for a
few minutes and then went down-stairs. The footman was in the hall.
“Are you going out, nurse?” he asked.
“Yes; but I shall be back in an hour.”
“We shall all be glad to retire early to-night,” said the man. “I, for
one, am dead tired.”
“Of course you are, and you need not sit up. I am leaving to-night, but
not yet.”
“Then, of course, one of us must stay up to see you out?”
“That is not necessary. If you leave the door on the latch I shall let
myself out, and I have a latch-key with me. I have a little business to
transact now, but will be back again. I shall desire a cab to call for
me when I am ready. Go to bed, Thomas. I can manage for myself.”
The man nodded, and the nurse left the house. She hailed a cab, and
drove straight to her own rooms in Goodge Street. She made certain
preparations there, and then left the house. The same cabby brought her
back to Ashley Mansions.
“I shall want you to wait,” she said to the man. “I shall be leaving
very soon.”
She had been absent nearly an hour, and it was now close on twelve
o’clock. When Nurse Ives came in again the house was quiet; Barbara,
worn out, had retired to her own room. The servants, only too glad of
the early hours after the late excitement, had retired to theirs. Nurse
Hester sat with the sick woman. Mrs. Pelham was very restless. Sleep
would not visit her. She insisted on holding Nurse Hester’s hand, and
the nurse could not leave her for a moment. Nurse Ives knew exactly what
was likely to take place, and had made her plans accordingly. At
midnight she lifted the boy from the bed, and opening the wicker trunk,
laid him in it. He was a little fellow and very slender; the trunk was
long, and the boy fitted in comfortably.
Having done this, Nurse Ives stole down-stairs on tiptoe and motioned
the cabby to leave his horse and enter the house.
“I want you to move a trunk down,” she said. “Will your horse remain
quiet while you are away?”
“Oh, yes; there’s no fear of him,” answered the man. “You haven’t much
luggage, have you?
“No, only the one trunk, and it is not specially heavy. Go up-stairs as
quietly as you can.”
The man did so. He lifted the trunk on his shoulder.
“It’s a queer shape,” he said to the woman.
“It’s a very convenient shape,” she answered. “Skirts of dresses do not
get creased in a trunk like that. I had it made on purpose.”
The man hoisted it on his shoulder and went quietly down-stairs.
He put the trunk on the cab, and Nurse Ives shut the door of 12 Ashley
Mansions behind her. At about half-past twelve she reached her own
place. The cabby carried the trunk up-stairs for her and laid it inside
the room. The lamp was lit here, and the gas stove was burning brightly.
On the table in the center of the room was something covered with a
white cloth. Nurse Ives paid the cabman, who withdrew.
The moment he did so she lifted the covering from the instrument on the
table and proceeded to open the trunk.