The House Next Door
The box edging of the drive gave Dr. Ringwood sufficient guidance
through the darkness down to the gate; and by following the garden
wall thereafter, he had little difficulty in making his way to the
entrance of No. 26. By the light of a match he read the name
_Heatherfield_ on the gate-pillar, but here also there was no
distinguishing number. This time, however, there could be no mistake
and he groped his way cautiously up the drive until the light over the
front door shone faintly through the fog.
As he went, a fresh complication in the situation presented itself to
his mind. What would be the effect if he blurted out the news of the
tragedy at Ivy Lodge? If the maid at Silverdale's happened to be of a
nervous type, she might take fright when she heard of the murder and
might refuse to be left alone in the house with only a sick companion.
That would be very awkward. Dr. Ringwood decided that his best course
would be to say nothing about the affair next door, and merely make
some simple excuse for going to the telephone. If he could shut
himself up while he telephoned, she would learn nothing; if not, then
he would need to invent some pretext for getting her out of the way
while he communicated with the police.
He climbed the steps and pressed the bell-button. This time he was not
kept waiting, for almost immediately the door opened and a middle-aged
woman, apparently a cook, peered nervously out at his figure framed in
the fog. Seeing a stranger before her, she kept the door almost
closed.
“Is that Dr. Ringwood?” she asked.
Then, as he nodded assent, she broke into a torrent of tremulous
explanation:
“I thought you were never coming, doctor. It's such a responsibility
being left with Ina upstairs ill and no one else in the house. First
of all, she was headachy; then she was sick; and her skin's hot and
she looks all flushed. I think she's real ill, doctor.”
“We'll see about it,” Dr. Ringwood assured her. “But first of all, I
have to ring up about another patient. You've a 'phone, of course? It
won't take me a minute; and it's important.”
The maid seemed put out that he did not go straight to his patient;
but she led the way to the cloakroom where the telephone was fixed.
Dr. Ringwood paused before going to the instrument. He bethought
himself of a pretext to get this nervous creature out of earshot.
“Let's see,” he said. “I may need some boiling water—a small jug of
it. Can you go and put on a kettle now, so that it'll be ready if I
want it?”
The maid went off towards the kitchen, whereupon he closed the door
behind him and rang up. To his relief, Sir Clinton Driffield was at
home; and in less than a couple of minutes Dr. Ringwood was able to
tell his story.
“This is Dr. Ringwood speaking, Sir Clinton. You may remember me; I'm
attending your butler.”
“Nothing wrong in the case, I hope?” the Chief Constable demanded.
“No, it's not that. I was called here—Heatherfield, 26 Lauderdale
Avenue, this evening. I'm Dr. Carew's _locum_ and a stranger in
Westerhaven; and in this fog I went to the wrong house—the one next
door to here: Ivy Lodge, 28 Lauderdale Avenue. Mr. Hassendean's house.
The place was lit up and a car was at the door; but I got no answer
when I rang the bell. Something roused my suspicions and I went
inside. The house was empty: no maids or anyone on the premises. In a
smoke-room on the ground floor I found a youngster of about twenty-two
or so, dying. He'd been shot twice in the lung and he died on my hands
almost as I went in.”
He paused; but as Sir Clinton made no comment, Dr. Ringwood continued:
“The house hadn't a telephone. I came in here, after locking the
smoke-room door. I've a patient to see in this house. How long will it
take your people to get to Ivy Lodge and take charge?”
“I'll be over myself in twenty minutes,” Sir Clinton replied.
“Probably the local police will be there about the same time. I'll
ring them up now.”
“Very well. I'll see to my patient here; and then I'll go back to Ivy
Lodge to wait for you. Someone ought to be on the premises in case the
maids or the family come home again.”
“Right. I'll be with you shortly. Good-bye.”
Dr. Ringwood, glancing at his watch, saw that it was twenty minutes
past ten.
“They ought to be here about a quarter to eleven, if they can find
their way in that fog,” he reflected.
Leaving the cloakroom, he made his way to the nearest sitting-room and
rang the bell for the maid.
“The water will be boiling in a minute or two, doctor,” she announced,
coming from the back premises. “Will you need it before you go up to
see Ina, or shall I bring it up to you?”
“I may not need it at all. Show me the way, please.”
She led him up to the patient's room and waited while he made his
examination.
“What is it, doctor?” she demanded when he came out again.
“She's got scarlatina, I'm afraid. Rather a bad attack. She ought to
be taken to hospital now, but on a night like this I doubt if the
hospital van could get here easily. Have you had scarlet yourself, by
any chance?”
“Yes, doctor. I had it when I was a child.”
Dr. Ringwood nodded, as though contented by the information.
“Then you don't run much risk of taking it from her. That simplifies
things. I'd rather not shift her to-night, just in case the van lost
its way. But if you can look after her for a few hours, it will be all
right.”
The maid did not seem altogether overjoyed at this suggestion. Dr.
Ringwood sought for some way out of the difficulty.
“There's nobody at home to-night, is there?”
“No, sir. Mr. Silverdale hasn't been home since lunch-time, and Mrs.
Silverdale went out immediately after dinner.”
“When will she be back?”
“Not till late, sir, I expect. Young Mr. Hassendean came to dinner,
and they went off in his car. I expect they've gone to the Alhambra to
dance, sir.”
Dr. Ringwood repressed his involuntary movement at the name
Hassendean.
“When in doubt, play the medicine-man card,” he concluded swiftly in
his mind, without betraying anything outwardly. It seemed possible
that he might get some evidence out of the maid before she became
confused by any police visit. He assumed an air of doubt as he turned
again to the woman.
“Did Mrs. Silverdale come much in contact with the housemaid during
the day?”
“No, sir. Hardly at all.”
“H'm! When did Mrs. Silverdale have dinner?”
“At half-past seven, sir.”
“Was this Mr. Hassendean here long before dinner?”
“No, sir. He came in a few minutes before the half-hour.”
“Where were they before dinner?”
“In the drawing-room, sir.”
“The maid had been in that room during the day, I suppose?”
“Only just doing some dusting, sir. She had been complaining of a sore
throat and being out of sorts, and she didn't do anything she could
avoid bothering with.”
Dr. Ringwood shook his head as though he were not very easy in his
mind.
“Then Mrs. Silverdale and Mr. Hassendean went in to dinner? Did the
housemaid wait at dinner?”
“No, sir. By that time she was feeling very bad, so I sent her to bed
and looked after the dinner myself.”
“She hadn't touched the dishes, or anything of that sort?”
“No, sir.”
“And immediately after dinner, Mrs. Silverdale and Mr. Hassendean went
out?”
The maid hesitated for a moment.
“Yes, sir. At least——”
Dr. Ringwood made his face grave.
“Tell me exactly what happened. One never can tell with these scarlet
cases.”
“Well, sir, I was just going to bring in coffee when Mr. Hassendean
said: ‘Let's have our coffee in the drawing-room, Yvonne. This room's
a bit cold.’ Or something like that. I remember he didn't want the
coffee in the dining-room, at any rate. So I went to get it; and when
I came back with it they were sitting beside the fire in the
drawing-room. I was going to take the tray over to them, when Mr.
Hassendean said: ‘Put it down on the table over there.’ So I put it
down and went away to clear the dining-room table.”
“And the housemaid had dusted the drawing-room this morning,” Dr.
Ringwood said thoughtfully. “Mr. Hassendean wasn't long in the
drawing-room after dinner, was he?”
“No, sir. They didn't take very long over their coffee.”
Dr. Ringwood looked judicial and seemed to consider some abstruse
point before speaking again.
“Mrs. Silverdale didn't look ill during the day, did she?”
“No, sir. But now you mention it, I did think she seemed rather
strange just before she went out.”
“Indeed? I was afraid of something of the sort. What do you mean,
exactly?” Dr. Ringwood demanded, concealing his interest as well as he
could.
“Well, sir, it's hard to say exactly. She came out of the drawing-room
and went upstairs to get her cloak; and as she came down again, I
passed her in the hall, taking some dishes to the kitchen. She seemed
dazed-like, now you mention it.”
“Dazed?”
“Funny sort of look in her eyes, sir. I can't describe it well. Seemed
as if she wasn't taking notice of me as I passed.”
Dr. Ringwood's face showed an increase in gravity.
“I'm afraid Mrs. Silverdale may have got infected too. What about Mr.
Hassendean?”
The maid considered for a moment before answering.
“I didn't notice anything strange about Mr. Hassendean, sir. Unless,
perhaps, he _did_ seem a bit nervous—high-strung like, I thought. But
I'd never have paid attention to it if you hadn't asked me the
question.”
Dr. Ringwood made a gesture of approval, inwardly thanking his stars
for the lay public's ignorance of diseases.
“And then they went off together?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Hassendean took the cloak from Mrs. Silverdale and put
it over her shoulders. Then he took her arm and they went out to his
car. It was waiting in front of the door.”
“H'm! I suppose the housemaid hadn't touched the cloak to-day?”
“Oh, no, sir. She'd been in Mrs. Silverdale's room, of course; but she
wouldn't have any reason to go near the cloak.”
Dr. Ringwood feigned a difficulty in recollection.
“Hassendean! I surely know him. Isn't he about my height, fair, with a
small moustache?”
“Yes, sir. That's him.”
Dr. Ringwood had confirmed his guess. It was young Hassendean's body
that lay next door.
“Let's see,” he said. “I may have to come back here in an hour or so.
I'd like to have another look at my patient upstairs. Will Mrs.
Silverdale be back by that time, do you think?”
“That would be about half-past eleven, sir? No, I don't think she'd be
back as soon as that. She's usually out until after midnight, most
nights.”
“Well, you might sit up and wait for me, please. Go to bed if I'm not
here by twelve. But—— No, if you can manage it, I think you ought to
keep awake till Mrs. Silverdale comes home. That patient shouldn't be
left with no one to look after her. I'm just afraid she may get a
little light-headed in the night. It's hard lines on you; but you must
do your best for her.”
“Very well, sir, if you say so.”
“Perhaps Mr. Silverdale will turn up. Is he usually late?”
“One never can tell with him, sir. Some days he comes home to dinner
and works late in his study. Other times he's out of the house from
breakfast-time and doesn't get back till all hours. He might be here
in five minutes now, or he mightn't come home till two in the
morning.”
Dr. Ringwood felt that he had extracted all the information he could
reasonable expect to get. He gave the maid some directions as to what
she should do in possible emergencies; then, glancing at his watch, he
took his departure.
As he went down the steps of the house, he found no signs of the fog
lifting; and he had to exercise as much care as ever in making his way
through it. He was not unsatisfied with the results of his
interrogation. Young Hassendean had met Silverdale's wife by
appointment, evidently. They had dined together; and then they had
gone away in the fog. Clearly enough, from what the maid said, both of
them were in a somewhat abnormal state when they left the house.
‘Dazed-like,’ ‘a bit nervous—high strung.’ He recalled the expressions
with a faint annoyance at the vagueness of the descriptions.
It seemed quite likely that, instead of going to a dance-hall, they
had simply driven round to Ivy Lodge, which young Hassendean must have
known to be empty at that time. And there, something had happened. The
girl had gone away or been taken away, and the youngster had been left
to die. But where had Yvonne Silverdale gone?
Dr. Ringwood opened the door of Ivy Lodge and took the key of the
smoke-room from his pocket. The house was silent as when he left it.
Evidently no one had come home.