CHAPTER VI
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."
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!"