THE MEDICAL LADY BAFFLED.
No. 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, South Kensington, was in a ferment of
excitement. Something had happened. The boarders did not quite know
what, but there was in the air that electrical unrest that spreads so
rapidly from one individual to another.
The mystery of Miss Semaphore’s illness was under discussion. What ailed
her? She had eaten nothing for two days. Was she really better? Was she
worse? Why this secrecy and embarrassment on the part of the usually
garrulous and impulsive Prudence? Why was no doctor called in? Why, why,
why, in a thousand forms, was the favourite interrogative pronoun on the
lips of the ladies and gentlemen as they sat round the fire after dinner
and discussed something more interesting to them than the _Daily
Telegraph_, that oracle beloved of boarding-houses.
When tea was served, the maid sent up by Mrs. Wilcox to remind Prudence
that it was waiting in the drawing-room, knocked long and vainly at her
door, and at last, turning the handle, discovered that the apartment was
empty. Knocking at Augusta’s door likewise had no result, and the girl
came down to say she thought Miss Prudence Semaphore must have gone out
already.
This was confirmed by Major Jones, who remembered seeing someone like
her turn down Tate Street when on his way home.
Where had she gone to? All the ladies at her table were anxious to know,
but they asked in vain. The medical woman saw that her opportunity had
come.
“I shall take advantage of her absence,” she said resolutely, “to visit
that poor, suffering sister of hers, whom I consider she has treated
shamefully.”
There was a murmur of applause at this noble resolution, and the medical
woman, having hastily swallowed her tea, rose from table and made her
way upstairs. Mrs. Whitley followed at a convenient distance. She was
curious, but not daring. The medical woman knocked at the door of Miss
Augusta’s room, and listened for a reply. There was none. She repeated
the knock, and then tried the handle; the door was locked from the
inside, and the key, sticking in it, prevented anything like a
satisfactory view of the interior.
“My dear Miss Semaphore, it is only me,” she murmured ungrammatically;
“I have come to enquire for you. May I not come in?”
Miss Semaphore naturally did not answer. The medical woman stood
straight up and reflected for half-a-second.
“It is my duty,” she said aloud, and, thus braced to the task, marched
to the door of Prudence’s room, opened it, passed in, and entered the
sleeping apartment of the elder Miss Semaphore. Mrs. Whitley by this
time had come forward, and paused as she passed the threshold. The
medical woman was just emerging with a bewildered face, when she saw
her, and exclaimed,
“She has gone!”
“Gone!” ejaculated Mrs. Whitley.
“Yes, gone! There is no one there! The room is empty!”
“What an ex-tra-or-dinary thing! Why where on earth can she have gone
to, and at this time of night too?”
“There is some mystery here,” said the medical woman solemnly. “All is
not right, but I’ll see this matter out, or my name is not Jane Lord.”
Downstairs went Mrs. Whitley and “Jane Lord” to tell the news. There was
an excited chorus of enquiries to a duet of replies.
Why and how had Prudence Semaphore spirited away her sick sister? What
had happened? She had certainly told Mrs. Wilcox that Miss Augusta would
go for change of air, but who could imagine her sneaking off in the
evening without luggage or farewell? There was something behind it, but
what?
“It sounds just like one of those horrid police cases one reads in the
papers,” said Mrs. Dumaresq; “I do hope the poor creature has not been
murdered and the body conveyed away.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Whitley, “surely you don’t think her
sister—”
“I don’t think anything,” said Mrs. Dumaresq with dignity; “but I must
say Miss Prudence Semaphore’s manner has more than once struck me as
peculiar.”
Mrs. Whitley lowered her voice to an awe-stricken whisper.
“Then you think, perhaps, she has gone mad and murdered her sister? How
awful! The police should be told at once, they really should.”
“My dear Mrs. Whitley, do not be so hasty. Whatever my suspicions may
be, I have not formulated them. In diplomacy one learns never to jump to
conclusions; but I confess this seems to me to be a very mysterious and
unpleasant affair. It makes me regret ever having come to a
boarding-house, in spite of the advice of my dearest friend, the Duchess
of Middlesex. ‘Don’t go to any such place, Mimi,’ she said. She always
calls me ‘Mimi.’ ‘You never can tell who you may meet or what may
happen, and it is so very unpleasant to be mixed up with persons with
whom one cannot associate.’ Didn’t she, Angelo?”
Mr. Dumaresq, as usual, confirmed his wife’s statement.
“But do you really think there is something wrong—that a crime has been
committed?” asked the little group of ladies one of the other.
“I, for one, should not be surprised,” said the medical woman boldly;
“but it is well not to speak till one is certain, and of course I may be
mistaken.”
“But did you—did you notice anything wrong in the room just now, any
signs of a struggle, or—or poison of any kind, or a weapon?” asked Mrs.
Whitley. “I suppose you looked?”
“Frankly,” said the medical woman, “I did not; I was so surprised and
taken aback when I found she was not there, that I just looked at
nothing at all except the bed. That had been slept in apparently, and I
think the room was rather untidy, but I did not stay a moment.’
“Don’t you think, ladies,” said Mrs. Whitley, in a low voice, “that it
would be well for Miss Lord and myself to run upstairs now and
thoroughly investigate the apartment?”
The others agreed; so the medical lady and her satellite made their way
to Miss Semaphore’s room, and conscientiously poked into every corner.
They found nothing except a twist of Miss Augusta’s false hair, and a
baby’s knitted boot. This last the medical woman picked up and held out.
“Where did this come from, I wonder,” said she; “I suppose one of them
made it for some charity.”
“No doubt,” said Mrs. Whitley; and having fruitlessly investigated
everything that had been left unlocked, and shaken every door, box, or
wardrobe that was securely fastened, they turned to make their way to
the morning room, a little disappointed at their fruitless search.
Unfortunately, just as they were passing through, Prudence returned
home, and meeting them on the threshold, at once divined that they had
been investigating in her absence. They noted her frightened face, and
the look of relief that crossed it at the recollection that after all
there was nothing to find. The medical lady thought it best to carry off
their proceedings with a high hand.
“Dear, dear!” she said, laughing; “don’t look so startled, Miss
Semaphore. We thought that as we saw or heard nothing of you at tea, we
had better see you or your sister, and enquire if we could be of use to
her in your absence; but you were both out.”
“Yes,” said Prudence, breathlessly, “we were both out; and I must say,
Miss Lord, I consider it a great liberty for you and Mrs. Whitley to
have entered my room and my sister’s under the circumstances.”
“Highty toity,” responded the medical woman, “we were trying to do our
duty by your unfortunate sister, whom you left without proper medical
attendance during her illness, and have apparently taken out of her sick
bed this night at the risk of her life, and conveyed away without the
smallest necessary precaution.”
Terrible is the wrath of the sheep. Prudence stood at bay in a towering
rage.
“Allow me to tell you, madam,” she said, “that you know nothing at all
about it. My sister is perfectly well, never better in her life, and I
won’t be dictated to by you, or Mrs. Whitley either, as to any course of
action I think fit to take.”
“Well, I’m sure,” gasped the medical woman, “this is what one gets for
trying to be kind to some people. Come away, my dear Mrs. Whitley, and
leave this—person. Far from thanking us for our thoughtfulness to her
sister and herself, she only insults us. Of course if poor Miss Augusta
dies from want of proper care, we shall not be to blame,” and, with much
dignity, the two ladies swept downstairs, to tell the result of their
mission.
That something was horribly wrong, all the boarders were agreed, but as
to what that something was, they differed. Was Miss Augusta Semaphore
living or dead? If living, what was the nature of the mysterious disease
with which she was afflicted that necessitated such prompt and secret
action on the part of her easy-going sister?
Mrs. Whitley, as one who had visited her room, was terrified at this
view of the case, and went into strong hysterics at the idea of having
perhaps contracted some terrible malady during her investigations. She
was not to be calmed until both she and the medical woman, by the advice
of the latter, went through a course of thorough fumigation and
disinfection.
Where was Augusta now? That was another interesting theme for
speculation. Somewhere near, apparently, since Major Jones had seen
Prudence by herself in Tate Street shortly after dinner. Nothing else
was talked of all day, but as Prudence came down calmly to meals,
seemingly happier and more composed than she had been for some days,
excitement began to die down. Perhaps there was nothing in it after all.
Augusta was queer; she might have insisted in going off in the night
like that. Anyhow, nothing much could be wrong, or Prudence would never
look so cheerful. As for her having gone mad, or murdered her sister,
even Mrs. Whitley now laughed at the idea; but the medical woman still
clung to her belief that all was not right.
Poor, tired Prudence, weary of scheming, and lying, and being badgered,
felt the change and rejoiced. If they only would question her no more,
how happy she might be! A fortnight would soon pass, and by that time,
all suspicion being averted, she might safely give notice and join her
sister. Meantime, to leave no room for speculation as to her movements,
she went out very little, appeared at every meal, and told old Mrs.
Belcher, the most sympathetic of the boarders, who immediately spread
the story, that her sister had gone to the seaside for a change, and
that if she did not speedily improve in health, she, Prudence, would
soon join her there.
All suspicions were now apparently tranquillized, and Prudence, having
despatched by the first post a cheque for £30 to good Mrs. Brown, felt
sufficiently calm to await events.