CHAPTER XVIII
I AM CALLED
Had I had my way, that night, Miss Moore would have sought a place of refuge, where she could have lain hidden till the cloud passed over and her integrity was made clear. Anything, to my mind, was better than that she should run even a momentary risk of a policeman's contaminating hands. But Hume would have none of it.
Some one knocked at the door, while I was sitting on the side of the bed, wondering, since I had failed to do murder, if suicide was not the next best thing. It was Hume. He gave me one of his swift, keen glances as he came in.
"Anything fresh?"
"Man, I've made an idiot of myself—an idiot."
"Ah! But what I said was, Is there anything fresh?"
I told him the story of my interview with Symonds. He kept on smiling all the time, as if it had been a funny tale. When I had finished he rubbed his chin.
"You've burned your boats, that's clear. You'll never hang for the lady. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put that murder story of yours together again. You've managed very well, my dear Ferguson."
I cared nothing for his sneers. Other thoughts were racking me.
"I shouldn't be surprised if he's gone off to arrest her right away, and all because of my—my cursed blundering."
"I think not. The lady's safe for to-night. The police don't always move so fast as you appear to think. They'll know where to find her when they want her."
"That's it! Hume, couldn't—couldn't she be induced to go where they wouldn't know where to find her?"
"I hope she's not so foolish. To run away would be about equivalent to pleading guilty. She'd have all England hot-foot after her. Better stay and face the music. The inquest's for to-morrow. As one of the most important witnesses, you will be able to make the whole thing clear, and establish her innocence in the eyes of all men."
The inquest! I had never thought of it. And for to-morrow? The idea came with a shock of surprise. That was what Symonds had meant by his ironical allusions to my conduct in the witness-box. In my present state of mind, with my muddled head, and stumbling tongue, an expert heckler might goad me into saying anything—into hanging her with the words out of my own mouth.
I had a wild notion of flying myself, so that there might be no risk of doing her an injury by my inability to hold my own in a tongue-match with the lawyers. But I remembered what she had said about feeling safe when I was near; and I myself had a sort of suspicion that, if the worst came to the worst, I still might do her yeoman's service. So, as I could not keep still at home and think, instead of going farther from her I went closer to her. After I had swallowed a hurried dinner I took a cab Bromptonwards, and hung about Hailsham Road for hour after hour.
I passed and repassed the house. A light was burning in the window of an upper room. I wondered if the room was hers. I would have given a good deal for the courage to inquire, but my nervous system was disorganised. I was as afraid of being seen as if I had been there for an improper purpose.
When any one came into the street from either direction I quickened my pace and almost bolted. Once, when some one raised a corner of a blind, with the apparent intention of peeping out into the street, I fairly took to my heels and ran.
On one point I derived some negative satisfaction—so far as I could judge, the house was not being watched by the police. The lady was free to come or go. I was the only person who was taking an obvious interest in her proceedings.
Perhaps that was in some degree owing to the weather, which was bad, even for London. There was a delightful fog, which, for some inscrutable reason, was seemingly not at all affected by a cutting east wind; and a filthy rain. I had on an overcoat; but was conscious that I was not getting drier as the night wore on. What I was waiting for I could not have told myself, until, towards midnight, a hansom dashed into the street, in which, as it passed, I saw the face of Miss Adair. I was after it like a flash, catching it just as it reached the door of No. 22.
"Miss Adair!" I cried, as the lady was preparing to descend into the mud and rain.
"Good gracious, Mr. Ferguson, is that you? Whatever are you doing here at this time of night?"
"I—I thought I'd call and inquire how—how Miss Moore was getting on."
"Well, and have you called?"
"No, I—I thought I'd wait till you came home from the theatre and—and ask you."
From her post of vantage in the cab Miss Adair looked me up and down, perceiving that I was neither so well groomed nor so dry as I might have been,
"And, pray, how long have you been waiting for me to come home from the theatre?"
"Oh, some—some few minutes."
"A good few minutes, I should imagine. And where have you been waiting?"
"Oh, I—I've been hanging about."
"In the mud, I should say, from the look of you. You are a disreputable object. So I cannot but hope that you've enjoyed your vigil. I may tell you, for your satisfaction, that when I left home Miss Moore was ill."
"Ill! Not—not really ill?"
"Really ill. This time there's not a doubt about it. She's in bed. Dr. Hume says that it's the result of the breakdown from the overstrain which might have been naturally expected."
"Hume! Has Hume been here?"
"Certainly. And another medical man."
"But—what did Hume want?"
"My good sir! Dr. Hume's a doctor; and a very clever one."
"Yes; but only in special cases. This sort of thing is not his line."
"I think you are mistaken. I should say that everything was in his line. Besides, he is a very old and a very intimate friend of Miss Moore's."
"Oh—I—I wasn't aware that he was quite—quite so intimate as that"
I felt that the woman was regarding me out of the corner of her eye. She knew that she was torturing me.
"Oh dear, yes. Not that I fancy that Bessie's very fond of Dr. Hume. Indeed, it's rather the other way. It's my belief that she can't bear the sight of the man. Though I don't know why. He's most charming—and so clever. Don't you like clever people?" No, I did not, I never did, and never shall. "Should I ascertain how Bessie's progressed since I went out, or don't you care to stay?"
"If—if you would let me know how she is!"
Letting herself in with a latchkey, she made inquiries of the maid who appeared in the hall.
"How is Miss Moore?"
"I don't think she's quite so well, miss. I sent for Dr. Nockolds, and I did think of sending for Dr. Hume."
"Hume!" I cut in. "I shouldn't send for Hume. The other man's as good, if not better."
Miss Adair turned to me.
"But, my dear Mr. Ferguson, Dr. Hume is a most skilful practitioner."
"Yes; but not—not in these sort of cases. I'm sure the other man's better. And, if you like, I'll send in a man; I—I know a most wonderful man."
"And what did Dr. Nockolds say?"
"He seemed to think she was going on all right, only a little feverish. But he sent in a nurse, who's going to sit up with her to-night."
"She'll be all right with the nurse, not a doubt of it. Good night, Mr. Ferguson. So good of you to call."
That woman showed me to the door without giving me a chance to slip a word in edgeways. I went home in the cab which had brought her from the theatre. Hume indeed! Why had I not been trained to be a doctor? If there was a more miserable man in London that night than I was, I should have liked to have seen him.
And on the morrow it was worse! They held the inquest, after the agreeable English custom, in a public-house—the Bolt and Tun—the sort of place no decent person would have entered in the ordinary way. There, in a long room, with a sanded floor, the coroner sat with his jury. The witnesses hung about as if they did not know what to do with themselves. The police were very much in evidence. And a heterogeneous collection of doubtful-looking men, women, and children represented the general public.
The coroner was a man named Evanson—a Dr. Reginald Evanson. A small, thin, sharp-faced man with sandy hair, who looked as if he drank. I am very much mistaken if it was not only because he failed as a medical practitioner that he got himself elected coroner. I disliked the fellow directly I caught a glimpse of him; and I do not think that he took an inordinate fancy to me. As for his jury, he and they were a capital match; there was not one man among them to whom, on the strength of his appearance, I would have lent a five-pound note.
They commenced proceedings by viewing the body. Edwin Lawrence still lay on his own bed, so that they had a walk of a hundred yards or more. It seemed as if they enjoyed the little excursion, for two or three of them were sniggering and joking together when they returned; I should not have been surprised to learn that they had refreshed themselves with a glass of something at the bar, on the way upstairs. Then evidence was called. George Atkins.
It was Atkins and I who had discovered the tragedy. They did not keep him long. He said his say in a crisp, business-like manner, which I only hoped that I might be able to imitate when my turn came. He told how he had taken his morning cup of coffee to Lawrence's bedroom door; how he had failed to receive an answer; how he had brought my coffee to me, telling me of his inability to make the man hear; how I had gone along the balcony, looked through the window, called to him; how we had entered the room together, and what we had seen lying on the floor.
When Atkins had told them so much they let him go.
"Call John Ferguson."
It was unnecessary. John Ferguson was waiting, close at hand, completely at their service—or, at least, as much at their service as he was ever likely to be.
I stepped up to the table.
"Large size in blokes, ain't he?" whispered one idiot to another, as I passed through the little crowd.
The other idiot chuckled. I could have hammered their heads together, so sensitive was I at that moment to everything and anything, and so calmly judicial was my frame of mind, in excellent fettle to cut a proper figure on an occasion when everything—happiness, honour, life itself—might hang upon a word!