“A regular pea-souper, by Jove,” said Lord Peter.
Parker grunted, and struggled irritably into an overcoat.
“It affords me, if I may say so, the greatest satisfaction,”
continued the noble lord, “that in a collaboration like ours all the
uninteresting and disagreeable routine work is done by you.”
Parker grunted again.
“Do you anticipate any difficulty about the warrant?” inquired Lord
Peter.
Parker grunted a third time.
“I suppose you’ve seen to it that all this business is kept quiet?”
“Of course.”
“You’ve muzzled the workhouse people?”
“Of course.”
“And the police?”
“Yes.”
“Because, if you haven’t there’ll probably be nobody to arrest.”
“My dear Wimsey, do you think I’m a fool?”
“I had no such hope.”
Parker grunted finally and departed.
Lord Peter settled down to a perusal of his Dante. It afforded him no
solace. Lord Peter was hampered in his career as a private detective
by a public-school education. Despite Parker’s admonitions, he was
not always able to discount it. His mind had been warped in its young
growth by “Raffles” and “Sherlock Holmes,” or the sentiments for which
they stand. He belonged to a family which had never shot a fox.
“I am an amateur,” said Lord Peter.
Nevertheless, while communing with Dante, he made up his mind.
* * * * *
In the afternoon he found himself in Harley Street. Sir Julian Freke
might be consulted about one’s nerves from two till four on Tuesdays
and Fridays. Lord Peter rang the bell.
“Have you an appointment, sir?” inquired the man who opened the door.
“No,” said Lord Peter, “but will you give Sir Julian my card? I think
it possible he may see me without one.”
He sat down in the beautiful room in which Sir Julian’s patients
awaited his healing counsel. It was full of people. Two or three
fashionably dressed women were discussing shops and servants together,
and teasing a toy griffon. A big, worried-looking man by himself in
a corner looked at his watch twenty times a minute. Lord Peter knew
him by sight. It was Wintrington, a millionaire, who had tried to
kill himself a few months ago. He controlled the finances of five
countries, but he could not control his nerves. The finances of five
countries were in Sir Julian Freke’s capable hands. By the fireplace
sat a soldierly-looking young man, of about Lord Peter’s own age. His
face was prematurely lined and worn; he sat bolt upright, his restless
eyes darting in the direction of every slightest sound. On the sofa
was an elderly woman of modest appearance, with a young girl. The girl
seemed listless and wretched; the woman’s look showed deep affection,
and anxiety tempered with a timid hope. Close beside Lord Peter was
another younger woman, with a little girl, and Lord Peter noticed in
both of them the broad cheekbones and beautiful grey, slanting eyes
of the Slav. The child, moving restlessly about, trod on Lord Peter’s
patent-leather toe, and the mother admonished her in French before
turning to apologize to Lord Peter.
“Mais je vous en prie, madame,” said the young man, “it is nothing.”
“She is nervous, pauvre petite,” said the young woman.
“You are seeking advice for her?”
“Yes. He is wonderful, the doctor. Figure to yourself, monsieur, she
cannot forget, poor child, the things she has seen.” She leaned nearer,
so that the child might not hear. “We have escaped—from starving
Russia—six months ago. I dare not tell you—she has such quick ears,
and then, the cries, the tremblings, the convulsions—they all begin
again. We were skeletons when we arrived—mon Dieu!—but that is better
now. See, she is thin, but she is not starved. She would be fatter
but for the nerves that keep her from eating. We who are older, we
forget—enfin, on apprend à ne pas y penser—but these children! When one
is young, monsieur, tout ça impressionne trop.”
Lord Peter, escaping from the thraldom of British good form, expressed
himself in that language in which sympathy is not condemned to mutism.
“But she is much better, much better,” said the mother, proudly; “the
great doctor, he does marvels.”
“C’est un homme précieux,” said Lord Peter.
“Ah, monsieur, c’est un saint qui opère des miracles! Nous prions
pour lui, Natasha et moi, tous les jours. N’est-ce pas, chérie? And
consider, monsieur, that he does it all, ce grand homme, cet homme
illustre, for nothing at all. When we come here, we have not even
the clothes upon our backs—we are ruined, famished. Et avec ça que
nous sommes de bonne famille—mais hélas! monsieur, en Russie, comme
vous savez, ça ne vous vaut que des insultes—des atrocités. Enfin!
the great Sir Julian sees us, he says—‘Madame, your little girl is
very interesting to me. Say no more. I cure her for nothing—pour ses
beaux yeux,’ a-t-il ajouté en riant. Ah, monsieur, c’est un saint, un
véritable saint! and Natasha is much, much better.”
“Madame, je vous en félicite.”
“And you, monsieur? You are young, well, strong—you also suffer? It is
still the war, perhaps?”
“A little remains of shell-shock,” said Lord Peter.
“Ah, yes. So many good, brave, young men—”
“Sir Julian can spare you a few minutes, my lord, if you will come in
now,” said the servant.
Lord Peter bowed to his neighbour, and walked across the waiting-room.
As the door of the consulting-room closed behind him, he remembered
having once gone, disguised, into the staff-room of a German officer.
He experienced the same feeling—the feeling of being caught in a trap,
and a mingling of bravado and shame.
* * * * *
He had seen Sir Julian Freke several times from a distance, but
never close. Now, while carefully and quite truthfully detailing
the circumstances of his recent nervous attack, he considered the
man before him. A man taller than himself, with immense breadth of
shoulder, and wonderful hands. A face beautiful, impassioned and
inhuman; fanatical, compelling eyes, bright blue amid the ruddy bush
of hair and beard. They were not the cool and kindly eyes of the family
doctor, they were the brooding eyes of the inspired scientist, and they
searched one through.
“Well,” thought Lord Peter, “I shan’t have to be explicit, anyhow.”
“Yes,” said Sir Julian, “yes. You had been working too hard. Puzzling
your mind. Yes. More than that, perhaps—troubling your mind, shall we
say?”
“I found myself faced with a very alarming contingency.”
“Yes. Unexpectedly, perhaps.”
“Very unexpected indeed.”
“Yes. Following on a period of mental and physical strain.”
“Well—perhaps. Nothing out of the way.”
“Yes. The unexpected contingency was—personal to yourself?”
“It demanded an immediate decision as to my own actions—yes, in that
sense it was certainly personal.”
“Quite so. You would have to assume some responsibility, no doubt.”
“A very grave responsibility.”
“Affecting others besides yourself?”
“Affecting one other person vitally, and a very great number
indirectly.”
“Yes. The time was night. You were sitting in the dark?”
“Not at first. I think I put the light out afterwards.”
“Quite so—that action would naturally suggest itself to you. Were you
warm?”
“I think the fire had died down. My man tells me that my teeth were
chattering when I went in to him.”
“Yes. You live in Piccadilly?”
“Yes.”
“Heavy traffic sometimes goes past during the night, I expect.”
“Oh, frequently.”
“Just so. Now this decision you refer to—you had taken that decision.”
“Yes.”
“Your mind was made up?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You had decided to take the action, whatever it was.”
“Yes.”
“Yes. It involved perhaps a period of inaction.”
“Of comparative inaction—yes.”
“Of suspense, shall we say?”
“Yes—of suspense, certainly.”
“Possibly of some danger?”
“I don’t know that that was in my mind at the time.”
“No—it was a case in which you could not possibly consider yourself.”
“If you like to put it that way.”
“Quite so. Yes. You had these attacks frequently in 1918?”
“Yes—I was very ill for some months.”
“Quite. Since then they have recurred less frequently?”
“Much less frequently.”
“Yes—when did the last occur?”
“About nine months ago.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“I was being worried by certain family matters. It was a question of
deciding about some investments, and I was largely responsible.”
“Yes. You were interested last year, I think, in some police case?”
“Yes—in the recovery of Lord Attenbury’s emerald necklace.”
“That involved some severe mental exercise?”
“I suppose so. But I enjoyed it very much.”
“Yes. Was the exertion of solving the problem attended by any bad
results physically?”
“None.”
“No. You were interested, but not distressed.”
“Exactly.”
“Yes. You have been engaged in other investigations of the kind?”
“Yes. Little ones.”
“With bad results for your health?”
“Not a bit of it. On the contrary. I took up these cases as a sort of
distraction. I had a bad knock just after the war, which didn’t make
matters any better for me, don’t you know.”
“Ah! you are not married?”
“No.”
“No. Will you allow me to make an examination? Just come a little
nearer to the light. I want to see your eyes. Whose advice have you had
till now?”
“Sir James Hodges’.”
“Ah! yes—he was a sad loss to the medical profession. A really great
man—a true scientist. Yes. Thank you. Now I should like to try you with
this little invention.”
“What’s it do?”
“Well—it tells me about your nervous reactions. Will you sit here?”
The examination that followed was purely medical. When it was
concluded, Sir Julian said:
“Now, Lord Peter, I’ll tell you about yourself in quite untechnical
language—”
“Thanks,” said Peter, “that’s kind of you. I’m an awful fool about long
words.”
“Yes. Are you fond of private theatricals, Lord Peter?”
“Not particularly,” said Peter, genuinely surprised. “Awful bore as a
rule. Why?”
“I thought you might be,” said the specialist, drily. “Well, now. You
know quite well that the strain you put on your nerves during the war
has left its mark on you. It has left what I may call old wounds in
your brain. Sensations received by your nerve-endings sent messages
to your brain, and produced minute physical changes there—changes we
are only beginning to be able to detect, even with our most delicate
instruments. These changes in their turn set up sensations; or I should
say, more accurately, that sensations are the names we give to these
changes of tissue when we perceive them: we call them horror, fear,
sense of responsibility and so on.”
“Yes, I follow you.”
“Very well. Now, if you stimulate those damaged places in your brain
again, you run the risk of opening up the old wounds. I mean, that if
you get nerve-sensations of any kind producing the reactions which we
call horror, fear, and sense of responsibility, they may go on to make
disturbance right along the old channel, and produce in their turn
physical changes which you will call by the names you were accustomed
to associate with them—dread of German mines, responsibility for the
lives of your men, strained attention and the inability to distinguish
small sounds through the overpowering noise of guns.”
“I see.”
“This effect would be increased by extraneous circumstances producing
other familiar physical sensations—night, cold or the rattling of heavy
traffic, for instance.”
“Yes.”
“Yes. The old wounds are nearly healed, but not quite. The ordinary
exercise of your mental faculties has no bad effect. It is only when
you excite the injured part of your brain.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Yes. You must avoid these occasions. You must learn to be
irresponsible, Lord Peter.”
“My friends say I’m only too irresponsible already.”
“Very likely. A sensitive nervous temperament often appears so, owing
to its mental nimbleness.”
“Oh!”
“Yes. This particular responsibility you were speaking of still rests
upon you?”
“Yes, it does.”
“You have not yet completed the course of action on which you have
decided?”
“Not yet.”
“You feel bound to carry it through?”
“Oh, yes—I can’t back out of it now.”
“No. You are expecting further strain?”
“A certain amount.”
“Do you expect it to last much longer?”
“Very little longer now.”
“Ah! Your nerves are not all they should be.”
“No?”
“No. Nothing to be alarmed about, but you must exercise care while
undergoing this strain, and afterwards you should take a complete
rest. How about a voyage in the Mediterranean or the South Seas or
somewhere?”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Meanwhile, to carry you over the immediate trouble I will give you
something to strengthen your nerves. It will do you no permanent good,
you understand, but it will tide you over the bad time. And I will give
you a prescription.”
“Thank you.”
Sir Julian got up and went into a small surgery leading out of the
consulting-room. Lord Peter watched him moving about—boiling something
and writing. Presently he returned with a paper and a hypodermic
syringe.
“Here is the prescription. And now, if you will just roll up your
sleeve, I will deal with the necessity of the immediate moment.”
Lord Peter obediently rolled up his sleeve. Sir Julian Freke selected
a portion of his forearm and anointed it with iodine.
“What’s that you’re goin’ to stick into me. Bugs?”
The surgeon laughed.
“Not exactly,” he said. He pinched up a portion of flesh between his
finger and thumb. “You’ve had this kind of thing before, I expect.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lord Peter. He watched the cool fingers, fascinated,
and the steady approach of the needle. “Yes—I’ve had it before—and,
d’you know—I don’t care frightfully about it.”
He had brought up his right hand, and it closed over the surgeon’s
wrist like a vice.
The silence was like a shock. The blue eyes did not waver; they burned
down steadily upon the heavy white lids below them. Then these slowly
lifted; the grey eyes met the blue—coldly, steadily—and held them.
When lovers embrace, there seems no sound in the world but their own
breathing. So the two men breathed face to face.
“As you like, of course, Lord Peter,” said Sir Julian, courteously.
“Afraid I’m rather a silly ass,” said Lord Peter, “but I never could
abide these little gadgets. I had one once that went wrong and gave me
a rotten bad time. They make me a bit nervous.”
“In that case,” replied Sir Julian, “it would certainly be better not
to have the injection. It might rouse up just those sensations which we
are desirous of avoiding. You will take the prescription, then, and do
what you can to lessen the immediate strain as far as possible.”
“Oh, yes—I’ll take it easy, thanks,” said Lord Peter. He rolled his
sleeve down neatly. “I’m much obliged to you. If I have any further
trouble I’ll look in again.”
“Do—do—” said Sir Julian, cheerfully. “Only make an appointment another
time. I’m rather rushed these days. I hope your mother is quite well.
I saw her the other day at that Battersea inquest. You should have been
there. It would have interested you.”