THE DOCTOR ACCUSES
I found it impossible to accept the conclusion to which it all
pointed. I had locked the door of my bedroom, gone to the wardrobe,
taken out that plum-coloured cloak. I had rolled it up as tightly as I
could; the blood with which it was soaked, as it dried, had glued the
folds together. I had difficulty in tearing it open. An undesirable
garment it finally appeared as I spread it out in front of me upon the
bed, discoloured, stiff as cardboard, creased with innumerable
creases. And the stiffness was horrible. When one reflected with what
it had been stiffened, and how, and when, and associated with the
reflection that fair-faced girl, with truth in her voice and innocence
in her eyes, one wondered.
That she had been in Edwin Lawrence’s room at the very moment when the
murder was taking place seemed clear. What had been her errand? What
part had she played in the tragedy? Why, instead of giving an alarm,
had she sought refuge in flight? In the answer to this latter question
would, I felt persuaded, be found the key to the riddle. What she had
witnessed had acted on her like a bolt from heaven; the shock of it
had robbed her of her senses on the instant. With the scientific term
which would describe her condition I was not acquainted; it was some
sort of neurosis, involving, at least for the time, the entire loss of
memory. If she could only describe what she had witnessed, her
innocence would be established.
Such was my personal conviction; but, at present, it was my conviction
only. The material evidence pointed the other way. Time pressed;
danger threatened. If facts, as they were known to me, became known to
others, an eager policeman, anxious to fasten guilt on some one, might
arrest her on a capital charge. Apart from the question of
contaminating hands, what might not be the effect, on one already in
so pitiful a condition, of so hideous an accusation.
That she had witnessed something altogether out of the common way was
plain. This had been no ordinary murder; the work of no everyday
assassin. The presumption was that, taken wholly by surprise, she had
seen enacted in front of her some spectacle of supreme horror; so
close had she been standing as to have been actually drenched by the
victim’s blood. My vision--if it was a vision--might not have any
legal value, but it was full of suggestion for me; and the impression
was still strong upon me that some strange creature had been present
in the room, by which the crime had been actually committed. I
recalled Edgar Allan Poe’s story of “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,”
in which the criminal was proved to have been a huge ape; but, though
I had no notion what the creature I had really seen was, I was
persuaded that it had had nothing in common with any member of the ape
family.
In one respect my vision seemed to have fallen short. I had seen
Lawrence and his assailant; I had seen the whirling skirts--as, in
this connection, I gazed at the plum-coloured cloak, I was conscious
of an inward pang--I had heard the woman’s laughter; but, though I had
a clear recollection of looking around me, with a view of taking in
the entire scene, I had seen no one else. Yet all the evidence went to
show that, at any rate, two other persons had been present: my visitor
of the night before, and the dead man’s brother.
I will admit at once that I had little belief in the brother’s guilt.
I had heard something of Philip Lawrence; and, apart from the known
integrity of the man’s character, I could not conceive of any cause
which could impel him to the commission of so unnatural a crime.
Still, there was Turner’s statement, quite unsuspiciously uttered,
that he had seen him go up to his brother, and seen him come down
again. As I had said to Hume, he would at least be called upon to
explain.
But, as it seemed to me, what I had at present to ascertain was, what
had been the nature of the errand which had taken a young girl, at
that hour of the night, to Edwin Lawrence’s chambers. And, as it
chanced, I immediately came upon something which seemed to throw a
light upon the matter. Turning over the cloak, with a view of
returning it to its hiding-place--for I was aware that, at any moment,
I might be interrupted, and I was resolved, at least until I saw my
way more clearly, to keep the existence of so, apparently, criminatory
a garment a secret locked in my own breast--I came upon a pocket in
the green silk lining. There was something in it, which I took out.
It was an addressed envelope. The writing I instantly recognised; I
had seen it on the scraps of paper which Hume had taken out of
Lawrence’s waste-paper basket. The envelope had been neither stamped
nor posted. The address--it could hardly have been vaguer--was “George
Withers, Esq., General Post-office, London.” Without hesitation I tore
the envelope open. I had reached a point at which I felt that, at any
and every cost, I must get out of the darkness into the light.
The contents of the letter I give verbatim.
“Dear Tom,
“I am going to see that scoundrel to-night. He had better take care,
or something will happen to him, of that I am sure. And he will be
sure before I have done with him. In any case, I’ll write you at
length to-morrow.”
“B.”
Two points struck me about this odd epistle: it contained neither a
date nor an address, and, while “George Withers” was on the envelope,
the letter itself began “Dear Tom,” the inference being that “George
Withers” was an assumed name, to which it had been arranged that
communications should be directed. The “B.” of the signature was, I
had little doubt, the “Bessie” of the scraps of paper; in which case
the “E,” which Mrs. Peddar had discovered on the linen, stood for
“Elizabeth.” There still remained the puzzle of the “M.”
The letter had scarcely a reassuring effect. That the “scoundrel”
alluded to was Lawrence, and that “to-night” was last night, I thought
was probable. If that were so, then it seemed that this young girl had
gone to Lawrence with anything but friendly intentions; and it was
quite certain that something had happened to him, as she had
predicted. One could only hope that it was not the something which she
had in her mind’s eye; and that, in any case, she had had no hand in
the happening. As a clue to the lady’s identity the letter did not
carry one much forwarder.
As I was wondering what was the next step which I should take, a
thought occurred to me--the photograph which I had taken from
Lawrence’s mantelshelf. I had it in the pocket of my coat. I took it
out. It was an excellent likeness; the operator had caught her in a
characteristic pose, and made of her a really artistic picture. But it
was not with the likeness that I was at that moment concerned. I
looked at the back of the portrait, to see by whom it had been taken.
There was the name of one of the best London photographers in London.
Eureka! the thing was done. I had only to go to the man’s
establishment to gain particulars of the original. Surely, when he had
been told the circumstances of the case, he would not refuse to let me
have them.
Filled with this idea I began to feverishly roll up the plum-coloured
cloak. As I did so there came a rapping at the door.
“Who’s there?”
“I want to speak to you.”
The voice was Hume’s. Fortunately I had locked the door, or he would
quite possibly have walked straight into the room.
“I will be with you directly.”
I returned the cloak to the wardrobe, put the portrait into my pocket,
and with it the letter, then went to Hume.
He stood with his back to the window, and his hands behind his back,
regarding me, as I entered the room, with a keenness very like
impertinence. There was something hawk-like in his attitude, as if he
was ready to pounce on me the instant he could find an opening. I had
never had much pleasure in the man’s society; but this air of open
resentment was new. It was as if out of Lawrence’s murdered body there
had come a malicious spirit, which had entered into him, and inspired
him with a sudden and unreasoning desire to work me mischief. That he
meant to be disagreeable his first words made plain. I immediately
made up my mind that, to the best of my ability, his intention should
be persistently ignored.
“No wonder, Ferguson, that you resented my inquiry as to the terms on
which you parted last night with the dead man.”
“Indeed? My dear chap, sit down. If you can manage it, don’t wear
quite such an air of gravity. This affair of poor Lawrence’s seems to
have affected you even more than it has me--which is odd.”
“It is odd.”
“Because I had always supposed that he was a more intimate
acquaintance of mine than yours.”
“Such seems to have been the case. How much did you owe him?”
“Owe him! Hume, you seem disposed to ask some very odd questions.”
“You think so? When a person is suspected of a crime, the first thing
one looks for is a motive; you understand?”
“I understand your bare words, but what is behind your bare words I do
not understand.”
“Presently you will. Before we part I will endeavour to make myself
sufficiently plain. I repeat my question: How much did you owe him?”
“Nothing.”
“You lie.”
“Hume, that is the second time you have used such language to me this
morning, and the second time I have refrained from knocking you down.”
“That is true. Perhaps my turn will come to be knocked down. I am
aware that you are the sort of person who, for less cause, will do
much more than knock a man down.” He inclined his head further towards
me, his resemblance to a bird of prey becoming still more pronounced.
“Ferguson, I’m a pathologist; a student of mental diseases. As such I
have regarded you for some time with growing interest. Unless I err
you are the victim of a form of aberration which is not so unusual as
some may suppose; you suffer from mnemonic intervals.”
“I have not the faintest notion what you mean.”
Indeed, I was beginning to wonder if the doctor himself was not stark
mad. He went on, in his quick, even tones, as if he were calculating
what the effect of each word would be before he uttered it.
“If you were to kill me where I am standing, I believe that you would
be capable of forgetting what you had done directly I was dead; and
quite possibly the consciousness of your action might never visit you
again. That is what I mean.”
“Hume!”
For some cause his words seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of my
bones, as if they had been daggers of ice.
“Now I will explain to you why I assert that, consciously or
unconsciously, you lie in stating that you owed Edwin Lawrence
nothing. You see this.” He held out a small leather-covered volume,
which was fastened by a lock. “I found it in his room after you had
gone. It’s a sort of diary--rather an unexpected volume for such a man
to have--which statement is itself only another instance of the
unwisdom of judging, on insufficient data, of the direction in which a
man’s tastes may be inclined. In it he appears to have made fairly
regular entries, the last so lately as last night, after you had left
him. Here it is:
“‘Have been playing cards with Ferguson, and winning pretty heavily.
Have long been conscious that F.’s an unusual type of man--dangerous.
The sort you would rather not have a row with. Felt it more than ever
to-night; believe if he could have torn the heart clean out of me,
without scandal, he would have done it then and there. A bad loser. He
said some things, and looked more; as good as suggesting I had not
played on the square. I did not break his head, but, though I only
laughed, I did not love him any the more. It’s eighteen hundred and
eighty that he owes me. I suspect it will be like drawing his
eye-teeth; but I’ll have it. The money will be useful.’
“That is the last entry he made in his diary. He must have been killed
before the ink had long been dry. It suggests the terms on which you
parted. What have you to say to it? Do you still assert that you owed
him nothing?”
I had listened to Hume’s readings with feelings which I am unable to
describe. In the rush of events I had, for the moment, forgotten the
game of cards which we had played together. It was not pleasant to
have it recalled in such a fashion, by such a man. The falsity of the
conclusions which he drew from my temporary forgetfulness stung me not
a little.
“I do still assert that I owed him nothing. One minute; let me finish.
But the eighteen hundred and eighty pounds which I should have given
to Edwin Lawrence will now be handed over to his estate.”
“True. As he correctly perceived, you are an unusual type of man.
Ferguson, you and I are alone together. What I am about to say will be
said without prejudice. I shall not whisper a hint of it abroad
without good and sufficient ground to go upon, but I tell you now,
quite frankly, that it is my opinion that you used some means--what
they were I do not pretend at present to understand--to compass Edwin
Lawrence’s death.”
“Hume!”
“I know that you were in his room when he was being killed.”
“You know that I was in his room!”
“I suspected it at first. Now I know it. I will tell you how. A girl,
one of the servants of the place, just stopped me to say that, at an
early hour this morning--so far as I can judge, within five minutes of
the commission of the murder--she saw you running along the corridor,
from Lawrence’s room towards your own, as if you were flying for your
life. My own impression is that you were flying from the life which
you had taken.”
“Hume! Some one saw me in the corridor! Who was it?”
“At this moment, never mind. The woman will be produced in due course.
She says that the perspiration was pouring down your cheeks; which
seems odd, considering that the morning was chilly, that you are not
of a plethoric habit, and that you were clad only in your pyjamas.”
It was with difficulty that I retained my self-control. Was it
possible that it had not been a vision after all, but that I had been
the actual spectator of that awful tragedy?
As I was endeavouring to arrange in my mind the new aspect of the case
suggested by Hume’s words, the door opened and a man came in.
“Is one of you two gentlemen Mr. Ferguson?”
“I am.”
“Then you’re the gentleman they’ve sent me to as being Mr. Edwin’s
friend. The Lord forgive me, but I believe that my poor master’s
murdered him!”