CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH I AM DISCOVERED!
THIS is the last episode in my career, because, old friend, before to-morrow's sun rises, I shall have discovered whether there be a hereafter or not. You know well that I have always been a pure agnostic—knowing nothing, believing nothing—risking everything! With all my care and attention to detail I have at last been found out! Certainly a most unlooked-for and out of the way grouping together of circumstances has been the cause.
I knew that sooner or later, if I continued taking risks, that the end would come. It has. This is a serious and hanging affair. However, I have had ten years of life—of life, man, not of the plant-like existence lived by most folk, but ten years, with every minute giving me the feeling of being really and actively alive.
What a difference!
Of course, you are anxious to hear my story. It is the last one, the grand finale, of More d'Escombe.
If I had not been a keen fisherman, I should not be writing this. Now I have thrown my last fly—I'm sorry—for some things.
About a month ago, I went for the weekend to Dingley, in Hampshire, a village where I can get some good trout fishing from the landlord of the inn, and in which I rent a small cottage during the all-too-short season—April to the early part of June. I went out on the Sunday, ready for a happy day, my luncheon case and flask full, plenty of spare tackle, and flies galore.
A very good rise took place about eleven, but for the life of me I couldn't find the fly they were taking. I could see about twenty different patterns on the water, but the trout were only taking one kind. I worked my way up stream, and at last with a large very dark olive, I got a brace of beauties within ten minutes.
Shortly after this, I saw a lovely fish rising continually in a run close by a large snag.
A most difficult spot to fish, but I could see that the riser was an extra big one.
I threw too low down, and only just saved my cast from the snag.
The next time the fly went right over him—no, he wouldn't touch—when, splash! and my reel was ringing out with a lovely buzz, and the rod was bent to its straining point.
By Jove! What a beautiful trout! How he dashed about, now to one bank, now to the other. If only I had a friend with me to land my prize.
A harsh voice broke in on my thoughts.
"Give us the net, Guv'nor; I'll land him for you."
I looked round, and saw a ragged, dirty-looking man, with loafer and vagabond written in his coarse face and bleared eyes.
"Do you know how?" I inquired hurriedly.
He laughed a rasping guffaw.
"Do I know how! I 'specs I've caught more trout than you've ever thought of," he said. "Does old Bob Gye know how?"
"All right," I snapped; "take the net, then, and don't stand there laughing in that silly way."
He certainly did his part of the work well, and the eyes of the old poacher, as I suspected him to be, glistened as he held up a lovely fish well over three pounds.
As he held up the capture at arm's length, I gave a sudden start.
At last I had found a means at hand to make five thousand pounds, which just then was being dangled in front of me by Sir Walter Michelcombe. He was an immensely wealthy man, as you know, old chap, middle-aged, tall and handsome, and with a charming, pretty little wife.
But here was the trouble.
Michelcombe told me the whole thing in my house one night, being at the time very talkative and off his guard.
He put it down to the whisky.
It seems that he had fallen desperately in love with an actress in London, but she, knowing he was married, would have nothing to say to him.
This rejection only inflamed him the more, and he openly said in my room that night—meaning what he said, too—that he would give five thousand to be rid of his wife.
I laughingly said. "How long do you give me to do this for you?"
"A month—not a day longer."
"Very well." I jotted down a few words on an envelope and said, "Will you sign this?"
He read it—looked at me with wonder and yet fear in his eyes.
"Are you serious?" he asked.
"As serious as a man can be at this time of night, but sign it—no harm done anyway," I replied.
He signed. It was an I.O.U. for £5,000—provided the conditions were fulfilled.
That was all—no conditions were mentioned.
This conversation was vividly recalled to my mind by the tramp, for on his wrist was a bright circular spot, with an inflamed angry-looking blush around it.
"How long have you had that, my man?" I inquired.
"I got that unloading skins at Bristol two days ago," he growled, "and damnation bad I be with it."
I examined it carefully. It was anthrax—malignant pustule—without a doubt.
"If that is not removed immediately," I said to him, "it's all up with you, Master Bob Gye. Do you understand, it's got to be cut out to save your life."
The poor wretch became suddenly faint, and a deadly livid pallor took the place of his beery redness, the while his knees were tremblng violently.
I pulled out my flask.
"Here, man, have a good drink, and cheer up. Don't give in. I'm a doctor myself, and if you like to come to my cottage this evening, I will remove that horrible sore, and put you right again. In the meantime, for God's sake, keep it covered up—don't let a soul catch sight of it. You're highly infectious, and if you are caught now, you will certainly be shut up for some time. Here's half-a-crown, and get some light good food and come and see me at nine." I told him the name of my cottage, and was not sorry to see him slouch off.
You say to yourself, Brown, "That's not quite like More d'Escombe, to operate on an ordinary tramp, especially in such an infectious and deadly condition."
Quite right, old man, but I wanted the anthrax bacillus, and here was the opportunity to get it—far from home—far from London—far from the person who would develop it.
In London I could have made a stab-culture in gelatine, or a culture on either agar or blood serum. I knew the colonies of bacilli. I had observed them often beneath my microscope, beautiful wavy wreaths, like locks of hair, radiating from the centre and apparently terminating in a point which, however, on examination with a high power objective, is observed to be a filament which turns upon itself.
Yes, my dear fellow, as you know by experience, bacteriology is a beautiful study. You discover fresh forms of life every day.
The bacillus anthracis is extremely interesting. In bouillon, after twenty-four hours' incubation at 37° C., there are shown irregularly spiral threads suspended in the liquid.
And these, on being examined, are seen to be made up of bundles of parallel chains of bacilli. Later growth is more abundant and forms a flocculent mass at the bottom of the fluid. But I wanted it at once, and the delay necessary for cultivation was by this happy chance avoided.
I did no more fishing on that day. I had two miles to walk back to the domicile.
I strolled along the bank, smoking and thinking deeply—so deeply that I almost ran into a very pretty and well-dressed nurse who was going in the opposite direction.
I note with a strange, cynical amusement how the present impasse has arisen through a number of things happening which were, not merely one or two, but the whole of them, most unlikely and extraordinary.
The fact of meeting this nurse, little as I knew it, was the first link which was to drag me out of this sphere. I looked at her with a languid interest, wondering who was ill in the neighbourhood, and noticing the well-cut features and handsome figure which she possessed.
She, in her turn, looked me straight in the face as she passed. I arrived home, took off my fishing clothes, and settled down to a most excellent little dinner.
I could hardly believe that the tramp would face the music, but I got the material ready for removing the pustule. Most certainly, nine tramps out of ten would have shied at the knife, but this one formed the second link of the chain, made up of improbabilities, by turning up.
Very ill and bad he looked, and I gave him as little chloroform as possible, and did the small operation with the greatest dispatch.
When he came round, he had a drink—the poor wretch couldn't eat—and then I gave him five shillings, and told him to take the train out of Dingley at once.
"If you're here to-morrow," I said, "I shall be compelled to inform the local authorities about you."
He promised to go, and he did, much to my satisfaction.
I now had the means of inoculating any number of persons with anthrax, and no one knew that such a bacillus was in my possession.
It is a very uncommon condition, and the ordinary cultivation tubes could easily be traced in London, if necessary. But here, as I say, I was safe from possession of the virus being attributed to me, if anything untoward did crop up.
What a small and hopeless fool is man, if fate is against him!
I was always more or less in attendance on Lady Michelcombe, who was a petite fragile-looking little woman, with large dark eyes, which opened wide when she talked to you, and a charming, although somewhat childish manner. A very lovable little lady, who looked upon Michelcombe himself, big, burly, and overbearing as he was, as her lord and master, in very truth.
A woman who deserved to be loved and made much of; really a very pleasing character, and yet Michelcombe wanted her out of the way.
I must say I had a few qualms of conscience at the idea of doing this, but I was dreadfully pushed for money; you see, I have such expensive tastes, and it is marvellous how money goes.
I went a few days after my return from Dingley to pay a professional call on Lady Michelcombe, whom I found lying on a sofa, clad in a most fascinating garment, which somehow fixed itself on my mind. It was pale yellow, made of some soft clinging material, loosely made and yet at the same time seeming to fit everywhere.
You will say to yourself. Brown, "It is about time the poor fellow was out of it, if he is coming to this." Well, I suppose I am feeling a bit strained to-night, and I couldn't help thinking about that frock. Lady Michelcombe looked more childish than usual that morning.
"You wicked man, you've quite deserted me lately; now come and confess to me. Who is it?"
"My dear Lady Michelcombe, instead of chiding, you should pity me," I answered. "I have been using great self-control in remaining away for the week I arranged, and overcome the temptation to run in and see you every day."
"I don't think I shall believe you," she said, with the curious little rippling laugh peculiar to her. "I might have been dead and buried for all you knew."
"You certainly look very much alive and above ground at present, and you have on a most charming gown," I replied.
"Now I want you to tell me about my heart, doctor," said my patient. "I don't believe it is quite right."
"Oh, I am sure it is," I answered, "but I will make sure," and producing a stethoscope, I went through the form of examining her chest. While I was doing so she gave a little scream.
"Oh, doctor, you've scratched my arm, you bad man."
"Where?" I said, putting the stethoscope away.
"Look, it's bleeding, you cruel monster; and see, there's the reason," pointing to my coat sleeve, in the cuff of which was sticking a pin.
"I really am very sorry, Lady Michelcombe," said I. "I apologize most humbly. It is a bad scratch. I will send you something to put on it. It would never do to have an arm like that disfigured for any length of time."
"Yes, and it hurts, too. I dismiss you until you show your contrition by attending personally to the wound you have made."
"I will come back very soon, and dress the gash," I replied, with a smile, which she returned. "Au revoir."
In about half an hour the scratch was tied up with a little ointment dressing on it.
The bacillus anthracis was abundant in the ointment. I looked in again in the evening, and exchanged the first box of ointment for one that was innocuous, and went away, feeling as safe as possible.
In two days. Lady Michelcombe was very ill, and I had a consultant called in, and a nurse sent for.
The consultant was a man known to be against operating, and has attained his present exalted position, not by the possession of much learning or skill, but by a manner, a presence, and a talent for diplomacy and tact. The nurse—here again, note the unkindness of fate, was, to my surprise, the very girl whom I had met on the river bank some days before. She informed me that she was Lord Michelcombe's half-sister, but her manner was stiff and ungracious.
I discovered that she was nursing not to make a livelihood, but for the love of it.
Lady Michelcombe was operated on, in my opinion, twenty-four hours too late.
She died on the following day, and many searching inquiries were made as to the origin of her illness. Of course, nothing was discovered, and I felt quite safe.
Then came the worst, the "unkindest cut" of all. That idiot Michelcombe developed anthrax, evidently caught from his wife. He was a bad subject, a notorious drinker, a man who had lived hard, and undermined his once fine constitution.
A nasty, indescribable feeling came over me when I was informed by a note from the nurse that another medical man had been called in, and that my services were not required.
I began to see red. Two days passed. They seemed to me like two years.
What was happening? Was Michelcombe going to pull through? What would he say? How much could he let out? Our arrangement! Discovery seemed impossible. I had covered my tracks very carefully, yet my mind misgave me.
I took an enormous quantity of morphia in that time. On the second evening the storm burst.
I heard the door-bell ring, and in a few moments, "Miss Cardew" was announced.
Miss Cardew was the nurse—the nurse. She came into my room, pale-faced, with her mouth set, and an ugly glint in her eyes.
"Lord Michelcombe died an hour ago," she said, in a cold, calm voice, "and before he died he told me the infamous and horrible plot between you and him. How God allows such a man as you to remain on this earth, is a wonder to me. That such a cold-blooded, heartless, wicked villain could exist, I have never imagined."
"You are going a little too far, Miss Cardew," said I. "May I ask you to what you refer?"
"To what! Oh, if I were a man, and could thrash you until you screamed for mercy—and then let you die the death you brought on that poor little woman."
"You make assertions which you are quite unable to substantiate," I answered. "I beg you to be careful in what you are saying about me."
"You blind fool!" she half shouted at me. "You think I don't know—I know everything. Little did you think that I, too, saw the tramp at the village, and his wrist also."
This was the worst blow of all. Here was the connecting evidence which could hang me. What miserable luck!
I was too thunderstruck to say anything for the moment, and she continued:
"Yes, he showed me his pustule, and asked me if it was right to have it removed. Little did I think that this wretch was to cause the death of my best friend at the hands of the greatest fiend unhung!"
I stood dumbfounded.
Her eyes glared and flashed with passion as she spoke, and if looks could kill, I should not have survived a second.
I remained standing, looking almost fascinated, as it were, at the woman who had run me to earth, and who had the pluck to come and tell me all she knew.
What could I do?
"I am going to place all my facts before the police to-morrow morning, if you are alive. Dr. More d'Escombe. Doctor! Good heavens! I wonder how many poor, unsuspecting souls you have doctored to death? You have twelve hours, and a private detective is watching you for me, if you try to bolt. You're a coward, I've no doubt. If you take the correct course, I shall keep quiet for the sake of the reputation of the minor villain, my dead half-brother. If I have never done a good action before, and never do one again, I am satisfied with my life in ridding the world of such a monster as you."
She turned swiftly and left the room before I had time to say a word, leaving me still standing.
I had a big drink, thought it over thoroughly. There was no getting away from the evidence. Everything dove-tailed so beautifully.
I must go home to Kensington and die in a respectable way, or something of the kind. Only this one infernal woman knew. By Heaven! if I could silence herAh!—
*****
1 a. m. Bah! it's no use, my old friend, I can't get near her. She has a couple of private detectives on the watch.
Good-bye! Most probably, I shall go off for my last sleep in about an hour.
Beaten by a woman!
Let my career serve as a warning to others.
THE END
Printed at The Chapd River Press, Kingston, Surrey.