THE EAVESDROPPER
It is one of the canons of correct conduct, scrupulously adhered to
(when convenient) by all well-bred persons, that an acquaintance should
be initiated by a proper introduction. To this salutary rule, which I
have disregarded to the extent of an entire chapter, I now hasten to
conform; and the more so inasmuch as nearly two years have passed since
my first informal appearance.
Permit me then, to introduce Paul Berkeley, M.B., etc., recently--very
recently--qualified, faultlessly attired in the professional frock-coat
and tall hat, and, at the moment of introduction, navigating with
anxious care a perilous strait between a row of well-filled coal-sacks
and a colossal tray piled high with kidney potatoes.
The passage of this strait landed me on the terra firma of Fleur-de-Lys
Court, where I halted for a moment to consult my visiting list. There
was only one more patient for me to see this morning, and he lived at
49, Nevill's Court, wherever that might be. I turned for information
to the presiding deity of the coal shop.
"Can you direct me, Mrs. Jablett, to Nevill's Court?"
She could and she did, grasping me confidentially by the arm (the mark
remained on my sleeve for weeks) and pointing a shaking forefinger at
the dead wall ahead. "Nevill's Court," said Mrs. Jablett, "is a alley,
and you goes into it through a archway. It turns out on Fetter Lane on
the right 'and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings."
I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning round
was nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite and of
a desire to wash in hot water.
The practice which I was conducting was not my own. It belonged to
poor Dick Barnard, an old St. Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits
and indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for a
trip down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the currant
trade; and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyage
of geographical discovery.
I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow arched opening,
bearing the superscription "Nevill's Court," arrested my steps, and
here I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait for
the traveler in London by-ways. Expecting to find the gray squalor of
the ordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of the
arch past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of light
and color--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved by
sunlit foliage. In the heart of London a tree is always a delightful
surprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers.
The narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their
wooden palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint
and sober rusticity; and even as I entered, a bevy of workgirls, with
gaily-colored blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened up
the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summer
hedgerow.
In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved with
what looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found to
be old-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I was
meditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who had
thus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps or an author, or
perchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seeking
inscribed on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell or
knocker, so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door open and entered.
But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a positive
wonder, a dream. Here, within earshot of the rumble of Fleet Street, I
was in an old-fashioned garden enclosed by high walls and, now that the
gate was shut, cut off from all sight and knowledge of the urban world
that seethed without. I stood and gazed in delighted astonishment.
Sun-gilded trees and flower beds gay with blossom; lupins, snapdragons,
nasturtiums, spiry foxgloves, and mighty hollyhocks formed the
foreground; over which a pair of sulphur-tinted butterflies flitted,
unmindful of a buxom and miraculously clean white cat which pursued
them, dancing across the borders and clapping her snowy paws
fruitlessly in mid-air. And the background was no less wonderful; a
grand old house, dark-eaved and venerable, that must have looked down
on this garden when ruffled dandies were borne in sedan chairs through
the court, and gentle Izaak Walton, stealing forth from his shop in
Fleet Street, strolled up Fetter Lane to "go a-angling" at Temple Mills.
So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that my hand was on the
bottom knob of a row of bell-pulls before I recollected myself; and it
was not until a most infernal jangling from within recalled me to my
business that I observed underneath it a small brass plate inscribed
"Miss Oman."
The door opened with some suddenness and a short, middle-aged woman
surveyed me hungrily.
"Have I rung the wrong bell?" I asked--foolishly enough, I must admit.
"How can I tell?" she demanded. "I expect you have. It's the sort of
thing a man would do--ring the wrong bell and then say he's sorry."
"I didn't go as far as that," I retorted. "It seems to have had the
desired effect, and I've made your acquaintance into the bargain."
"Whom do you want to see?" she asked.
"Mr. Bellingham."
"Are you the doctor?"
"I'm _a_ doctor."
"Follow me upstairs," said Miss Oman, "and don't tread on the paint."
I crossed the spacious hall, and preceded by my conductress, ascended a
noble oak staircase, treading carefully on a ribbon of matting that ran
up the middle. On the first-floor landing Miss Oman opened a door and,
pointing to the room, said, "Go in there and wait; I'll tell her you're
here."
"I said _Mr._ Bellingham--" I began; but the door slammed on me, and
Miss Oman's footsteps retreated rapidly down the stairs.
It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very awkward position.
The room into which I had been shown communicated with another, and
though the door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly aware of
a conversation that was taking place in the adjoining room. At first,
indeed, only a vague mutter, with a few disjointed phrases, came
through the door, but suddenly an angry voice rang out clear and
painfully distinct.
"Yes, I did! And I say it again. Bribery! Collusion! That's what it
amounts to. You want to square me!"
"Nothing of the kind, Godfrey," was the reply in a lower tone; but at
this point I coughed emphatically and moved a chair, and the voices
subsided once more into an indistinct murmur.
To distract my attention from my unseen neighbors I glanced curiously
about the room and speculated upon the personalities of its occupants.
A very curious room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayed
splendor and old-world dignity; a room full of interest and character
and of contrasts and perplexing contradictions. For the most part it
spoke of unmistakable though decent poverty. It was nearly bare of
furniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest--a small
kitchen table and three Windsor chairs (two of them with arms); a
threadbare string carpet on the floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on the
table; these, with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed of
grocer's boxes, formed the entire suite. And yet, despite its poverty,
the place exhaled an air of homely if rather ascetic comfort, and the
taste was irreproachable. The quiet russet of the table-cloth struck a
pleasant harmony with the subdued bluish green of the worn carpet; the
Windsor chairs and the legs of the table had been carefully denuded of
their glaring varnish and stained a sober brown: and the austerity of
the whole was relieved by a ginger jar filled with fresh-cut flowers
and set in the middle of the table.
But the contrasts of which I have spoken were most singular and
puzzling. There were the bookshelves, for instance, home made and
stained at the cost of a few pence, but filled with recent and costly
new works on archeology and ancient art. There were the objects on the
mantelpiece: a facsimile in bronze--not bronze plaster--of the
beautiful head of Hypnos and a pair of fine Ushabti figures. There
were the decorations of the walls, a number of etchings--signed proofs,
every one of them--of Oriental subjects, and a splendid facsimile
reproduction of an Egyptian papyrus. It was incongruous in the
extreme, this mingling of costly refinements with the barest and
shabbiest necessaries of life, of fastidious culture with manifest
poverty. I could make nothing of it. What manner of man, I wondered,
was this new patient of mine? Was he a miser, hiding himself and his
wealth in this obscure court? An eccentric savant? A philosopher?
Or--more probably--a crank? But at this point my meditations were
interrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, once more raised in
anger.
"But I say that you _are_ making an accusation! You are implying that
I made away with him."
"Not at all," was the reply; "but I repeat that it is your business to
ascertain what has become of him. The responsibility rests upon you."
"Upon me!" rejoined the first voice. "And what about you? Your
position is a pretty fishy one if it comes to that."
"What!" roared the other. "Do you insinuate that I murdered my own
brother?"
During this amazing colloquy I had stood gaping with sheer
astonishment. Suddenly I recollected myself, and dropping into a
chair, set my elbows on my knees and clapped my hands over my ears; and
thus I must have remained for a full minute when I became aware of the
closing of a door behind me.
I sprang to my feet and turned in some embarrassment (for I must have
looked unspeakably ridiculous) to confront the somber figure of a
rather tall and strikingly handsome girl, who, as she stood with her
hand on the knob of the door, saluted me with a formal bow. In an
instantaneous glance I noted how perfectly she matched her strange
surroundings. Black-robed, black-haired, with black-gray eyes and a
grave sad face of ivory pallor, she stood, like one of old Terborch's
portraits, a harmony in tones so low as to be but one step removed from
monochrome. Obviously a lady in spite of the worn and rusty dress, and
something in the poise of the head and the set of the straight brows
hinted at a spirit that adversity had hardened rather than broken.
"I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting," she said; and
as she spoke a certain softening at the corners of the austere mouth
reminded me of the absurd position in which she had found me.
I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence whatever; that
I had, in fact, been rather glad of the rest; and I was beginning
somewhat vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the voice
from the adjoining room again broke forth with hideous distinctness.
"I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind! Why, confound you, it's
nothing less than a conspiracy that your [Transcriber's note: you're?]
proposing!"
Miss Bellingham--as I assumed her to be--stepped quickly across the
floor, flushing angrily, as well she might; but, as she reached the
door, it flew open and a small, spruce, middle-aged man burst into the
room.
"Your father is mad, Ruth!" he exclaimed; "absolutely stark mad! And I
refuse to hold any further communication with him."
"The present interview was not of his seeking," Miss Bellingham replied
coldly.
"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it was my mistaken
generosity. But there--what is the use of talking? I've done my best
for you and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can find
my way. Good-morning." With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, the
speaker strode out of the room, banging the door after him.
"I must apologize for this extraordinary reception," said Miss
Bellingham; "but I believe medical men are not easily astonished. I
will introduce you to your patient now." She opened the door and, as I
followed her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is another
visitor for you, dear. Doctor----"
"Berkeley," said I. "I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard."
The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped up
in bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand,
which I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.
"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Bellingham. "I hope Doctor Barnard is
not ill."
"Oh, no," I answered; "he has gone for a trip down the Mediterranean on
a currant ship. The chance occurred rather suddenly, and I bustled him
off before he had time to change his mind. Hence my rather
unceremonious appearance, which I hope you will forgive."
"Not at all," was the hearty response. "I'm delighted to hear that you
sent him off; he wanted a holiday, poor man. And I am delighted to
make your acquaintance, too."
"It is very good of you," I said; whereupon he bowed as gracefully as a
man may who is propped up in bed with a heap of pillows; and having
thus exchanged broadsides of civility, so to speak, we--or, at least,
I--proceeded to business.
"How long have you been laid up?" I asked cautiously, not wishing to
make too evident the fact that my principal had given me no information
respecting his case.
"A week to-day," he replied. "The _fons et origo mali_ was a
hansom-cab which upset me opposite the Law Courts--sent me sprawling in
the middle of the road. My own fault, of course--at least, the cabby
said so, and I suppose he knew. But that was no consolation to me."
"Were you hurt much?"
"No, not really; but the fall bruised my knee rather badly and gave me
a deuce of a shake up. I'm too old for that sort of thing, you know."
"Most people are," said I.
"True; but you can take a cropper more gracefully at twenty than at
fifty-five. However, the knee is getting on quite well--you shall see
it presently--and you observe that I am giving it complete rest. But
that isn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it. It's my
confounded nerves. I'm as irritable as the devil and as nervous as a
cat. And I can't get a decent night's rest."
I recalled the tremulous hand that he had offered me. He did not look
like a drinker, but still----
"Do you smoke much?" I inquired diplomatically.
He looked at me slyly and chuckled. "That's a very delicate way to
approach the subject, Doctor," he said. "No, I don't smoke much, and I
don't crook my little finger. I saw you look at my shaky hand just
now--oh, it's all right; I'm not offended. It's a doctor's business to
keep his eyelids lifting. But my hand is steady enough as a rule, when
I'm not upset, but the least excitement sets me shaking like a jelly.
And the fact is that I have just had a deucedly unpleasant
interview----"
"I think," Miss Bellingham interrupted, "Doctor Berkeley and, indeed,
the neighborhood at large, are aware of the fact."
Mr. Bellingham laughed rather shamefacedly. "I'm afraid I did lose my
temper," he said; "but I am an impulsive old fellow, Doctor, and when
I'm put out I'm apt to speak my mind--a little too bluntly perhaps."
"And audibly," his daughter added. "Do you know that Doctor Berkeley
was reduced to the necessity of stopping his ears?" She glanced at me
as she spoke, with something like a twinkle in her solemn gray eyes.
"Did I shout?" Mr. Bellingham asked, not very contritely, I thought,
though he added: "I'm very sorry, my dear; but it won't happen again.
I think we've seen the last of that good gentleman."
"I am sure I hope so," she rejoined, adding: "And now I will leave you
to your talk; I shall be in the next room if you should want me."
I opened the door for her, and when she had passed out with a stiff
little bow I seated myself by the bedside and resumed the consultation.
It was evidently a case of nervous breakdown, to which the cab accident
had, no doubt, contributed. As to the other antecedents, they were of
no concern of mine, though Mr. Bellingham seemed to think otherwise,
for he resumed: "That cab business was the last straw, you know, and it
finished me off, but I have been going down the hill for a long time.
I've had a lot of trouble during the last two years. But I suppose I
oughtn't to pester you with the details of my personal affairs."
"Anything that bears on your present state of health is of interest to
me if you don't mind telling it," I said.
"Mind!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever meet an invalid who didn't enjoy
talking about his own health? It's the listener who minds, as a rule."
"Well, the present listener doesn't," I said.
"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "I'll treat myself to the luxury of
telling you all my troubles; I don't often get the chance of a
confidential grumble to a responsible man of my own class. And I
really have some excuses for railing at Fortune, as you will agree when
I tell you that, a couple of years ago, I went to bed one night a
gentleman of independent means and excellent prospects and woke up in
the morning to find myself practically a beggar. Not a cheerful
experience that, you know, at my time of life, eh?"
"No," I agreed, "nor at any other."
"And that was not all," he continued; "for at the same moment I lost my
brother, my dearest, kindest friend. He disappeared--vanished off the
face of the earth; but perhaps you have heard of the affair. The
confounded papers were full of it at the time."
He paused abruptly, noticing, no doubt, a sudden change in my face. Of
course I recollected the case now. Indeed, ever since I had entered
the house some chord of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now his
last words had struck out the full note.
"Yes," I said, "I remember the incident, though I don't suppose I
should but for the fact that our lecturer on medical jurisprudence drew
my attention to it."
"Indeed," said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as I fancied. "What
did he say about it?"
"He referred to it as a case that was calculated to give rise to some
very pretty legal complications."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Bellingham, "that man was a prophet! Legal
complications, indeed! But I'll be bound he never guessed at the sort
of infernal tangle that has actually gathered round the affair. By the
way, what was his name?"
"Thorndyke," I replied. "Doctor John Thorndyke."
"Thorndyke," Mr. Bellingham repeated in a musing, retrospective tone.
"I seem to remember the name. Yes, of course. I have heard a legal
friend of mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the case
of a man whom I knew slightly years ago--a certain Jeffrey Blackmore,
who also disappeared very mysteriously. I remember now that Dr.
Thorndyke unraveled that case with most remarkable ingenuity."
"I daresay he would be very much interested to hear about your case," I
suggested.
"I daresay he would," was the reply; "but one can't take up a
professional man's time for nothing, and I couldn't afford to pay him.
And that reminds me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping about
purely personal affairs."
"My morning round is finished," said I, "and, moreover, your personal
affairs are highly interesting. I suppose I mustn't ask what is the
nature of the legal entanglement?"
"Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day and
go home a raving lunatic. But I'll tell you this much: the trouble is
about my poor brother's will. In the first place it can't be
administered because there is not sufficient evidence that my brother
is dead; and in the second place, if it could, all the property would
go to people who were never intended to benefit. The will itself is
the most diabolically exasperating document that was ever produced by
the perverted ingenuity of a wrongheaded man. That's all. Will you
have a look at my knee?"
As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a rapid _crescendo_ and
ending almost in a shout) had left him purple-faced and trembling, I
thought it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly I proceeded
to inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and to overhaul
my patient generally; and having given him detailed instructions as to
his general conduct, I rose and took my leave.
"And remember," I said as I shook his hand, "No tobacco, no coffee, no
excitement of any kind. Lead a quiet, bovine life."
"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but supposing people come here
and excite me?"
"Disregard them," said I, "and read _Whitaker's Almanack_." And with
this parting advice I passed out into the other room.
Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile of blue-covered
notebooks before her, two of which were open, displaying pages closely
written in a small, neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and looked
at me inquiringly.
"I heard you advising my father to read _Whitaker's Almanack_," she
said. "Was that a curative measure?"
"Entirely," I replied. "I recommended it for its medicinal virtues, as
an antidote to mental excitement."
She smiled faintly. "It certainly is not a highly emotional book," she
said, and then asked: "Have you any other instructions to give?"
"Well, I might give the conventional advice--to maintain a cheerful
outlook and avoid worry; but I don't suppose you would find it very
helpful."
"No," she answered bitterly; "it is a counsel of perfection. People in
our position are not a very cheerful class, I'm afraid; but still they
don't seek out worries from sheer perverseness. The worries come
unsought. But, of course, you can't enter into that."
"I can't give any practical help, I fear, though I do sincerely hope
that you father's affairs will straighten themselves out soon."
She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied me down to the street
door, where, with a bow and a rather stiff handshake, she gave me my
_conge_.
Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on my ears as I came
out through the archway, and very squalid and unrestful the little
street looked when contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet of
the old garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and walls
made hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards in sham gilt frames, its
aspect was so revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction,
and was still busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy,
Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.