CHAPTER XIV
MY HYSTERICAL PATIENT
THAT night I could not sleep, and when on receiving my mail the next morning I found that it contained no line from Fred, my anxiety could no longer be kept within bounds, and I determined that, come what might, another day should not pass without my seeing May Derwent. I left the hospital as soon as I decently could, but, even so, it was almost one o’clock before I was once more on my way to Beverley. On arriving there, I found to my disgust that there were no cabs at the station. An obliging countryman offered to “hitch up a team,” but I declined, thinking it would be quicker to walk than to wait for it, as the Derwents’ house was hardly a mile off. A delicious breeze had sprung up and was blowing new life into me, and I should have enjoyed my walk except for the fact that, as my visit must necessarily be a very short one, I begrudged every minute spent away from May Derwent. I was, therefore, trudging along at a great rate, entirely absorbed in reaching my destination in the shortest possible time, when I was surprised to perceive in the distance a woman running rapidly towards me. As there was neither man nor beast in sight, I wondered at the reason of her haste. A sudden illness? A fire? As the flying figure drew nearer, I was dismayed to recognize May Derwent. I rushed forward to meet her, and a moment later she lay panting and trembling in my arms. As I looked down and saw her fair head lying on my breast I felt as if I were having a foretaste of heaven. I was recalled to earth by feeling her slight form shudder convulsively and by hearing an occasional frightened sob.
“What has happened, May? What has frightened you?” I feared that she would resent this use of her Christian name, but she evidently did not notice it, for she only clung the tighter to me.
Mrs. Derwent, whose approach I had been watching, here joined us, hot and out of breath from her unwonted exertion. Her indignation at finding May in the arms of a comparative stranger was such that she dragged her daughter quite roughly from me.
“You must really calm yourself, May,” she commanded, with more severity than I had thought her capable of.
But the poor child only continued to tremble and cry. As it seemed a hopeless undertaking to try and quiet her, Mrs. Derwent and I each took her by an arm and between us we assisted her home. As we were nearing it, I saw Norman hurrying towards us.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired, anxiously.
As May had grown gradually more composed, her mother felt she could now leave her to my care, and, joining Norman, they walked briskly ahead, an arrangement which I don’t think that young man at all relished.
My darling and I strolled slowly on, she leaning confidingly on me, and I was well content.
“You are not frightened, now?” I asked.
She raised her beautiful eyes for an instant to mine.
“No,” she murmured; and all I could see of her averted face was one small crimson ear.
“I hope you will never be afraid when I am with you,” I said, pressing her arm gently to my side. She did not withdraw from me, only hung her head lower, so I went on bravely.
“These last forty-four hours have been the longest and most intolerable of my life!”
She elevated her eyebrows, and I thought I perceived a faint smile hovering around her lips.
“Indeed!”
“I hope you got some flowers I sent you yesterday?”
“Yes. Didn’t you receive my note thanking you for them? They were very beautiful!”
I loudly anathematised the post which had delayed so important a message.
This time there was no doubt about it—and a roguish smile was parting her lips. This emboldened me to ask: “Were these roses as good as the first lot? I got them at a different place.”
“Oh, did you send those also? There was no card with them.”
“I purposely omitted to enclose one, as I feared you might consider that I was presuming on our slight acquaintance. Besides, I doubted whether you would remember me or had even caught my name.”
“I had not.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, what must you have thought of me! What must you think of me!” she exclaimed, in tones of deep distress, trying to draw her arm away. But I held her fast.
“Believe me, I entertain for you the greatest respect and admiration. I should never dream of criticising anything you do or might have done.”
She shot a grateful glance at me, and seeing we were unobserved I ventured to raise her small gloved hand reverently to my lips. She blushed again, but did not repulse me.
On arriving at the house, I insisted on her lying down, and, hoping the quiet would do her good, we left her alone. On leaving the room, we passed Norman pacing up and down outside, like a faithful dog. He did not offer to join us, but remained at his post.
I had not questioned May as to the cause of her fright, fearing to excite her, but I was none the less anxious to know what had occurred. Luckily, Mrs. Derwent was as eager to enlighten me as I was to learn.
“You know, Doctor Fortescue, how I have tried lately to keep everything away from my daughter which could possibly agitate her. However, when she suggested that she would like to walk to the village I gladly acquiesced, never dreaming that on a quiet country road anything could occur to frighten her, nervous as she was. With the exception of last Sunday, this was the first time since her return from New York that she had been willing to go outside the gate; therefore I was especially glad she should have this little change. I offered to accompany her or rather them (for Mr. Norman, of course, joined us), and we all three started off together. When we had gone some distance from the house, Mr. Norman remembered an important letter which he had left on his writing-table and which he was most anxious should catch the mid-day mail. So he turned back to get it. I noticed at the time that May appeared very reluctant to have him go. I even thought that she was on the point of asking him not to leave her, but I was glad to see that she controlled herself, for her horror of being separated from that young man has seemed to me not only silly, but very compromising. So we walked on alone, but very slowly, so that he could easily overtake us. The road was pretty, the day heavenly, and my shaken spirits were lighter than they had been for some time.” Mrs. Derwent paused a moment to wipe her eyes. “Did you happen to notice,” she continued, “that clump of bushes near the bend of the road?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, just as we were passing those I caught sight of a horrid-looking tramp, lying on his back, half hidden by the undergrowth. May was sauntering along swinging her parasol, which she had not opened, as our whole way had lain in the shade. She evidently did not see the fellow, but I watched him get up and follow us on the other side of the bushes. I was a little frightened, but before I could decide what I had better do he had approached May and said something to her which I was unable to catch. It must have been something very dreadful, for she uttered a piercing shriek, and turning on him like a young tigress hit him several times violently over the head with her sunshade. Dropping everything, she fled from the scene. You know the rest.”
The last words were spoken a trifle austerely, and I saw that Mrs. Derwent had not forgotten the position in which she had found her daughter, although she probably considered that that position was entirely due to May’s hysterical condition and that I had been an innocent factor in the situation.
“What became of the tramp?” I inquired, eagerly. “I saw no one following your daughter.”
“He did not do so. I stood for a moment watching her tear down the road, and when again I remembered the man I found he had disappeared.”
“Would you know the fellow, if you saw him again?”
“Certainly! He was an unusually repulsive specimen of his tribe.”
As Mrs. Derwent had failed to recognise him, the man could not have been her son, as I had for a moment feared.
“By the way, Doctor, May is still bent on going to New York.”
“Well, perhaps it is advisable that she should do so.”
“But why?”
“The quiet of the country does not seem to be doing her much good, does it? Let us, therefore, try the excitement of New York, and see what effect that will have. Besides, I am very anxious to have Miss Derwent see some great nerve specialist. I am still a very young practitioner, and I confess her case baffles me.”
“I see that you fear that she is insane!” cried Mrs. Derwent.
“Indeed, I do not,” I assured her, “but I think her nerves are very seriously out of order. If she goes on like this, she will soon be in a bad way. If you wish me to do so, I will find out what specialist I can most easily get hold of, and make arrangements for his seeing your daughter with as little delay as possible.”
“Thank you.”
My time was now almost up, so I asked to see my patient again, so as to assure myself that she was none the worse for her fright.
I found her with her eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling, and, from time to time, her body would still twitch convulsively. However, she welcomed us with a smile, and her pulse was decidedly stronger. It was a terrible trial to me to see that lovely girl lying there, and to feel that, so far, I had been powerless to help her. I thought that, perhaps, if she talked of her recent adventure it would prevent her brooding over it. So, after sympathising with her in a general way, I asked what the tramp had said to terrify her so much. She shook her head feebly.
“I could not make out what he was saying.”
I glanced upwards, and caught a look of horror on her mother’s face.
“Oh, indeed,” I said; “it was just his sudden appearance which frightened you so much?”
“Yes,” she answered, wearily. “Oh, I wish I could go to New York,” she sighed.
“I have just persuaded your mother to spend a few days there.”
She glanced quickly from one to the other.
“Really?”
Mrs. Derwent nodded a tearful assent.
“And when are we going?” she demanded.
“To-morrow, if you are well enough.”
“Oh! thank you.”
“But what will you do with your guest?”
“Mr. Norman? Oh, he will come, too;” but she had the grace to look apologetic.
Once outside the room, Mrs. Derwent beckoned me into her boudoir.
“Well, Doctor Fortescue,” she exclaimed, “what do you think of that? May turns on a harmless beggar, who has done nothing to annoy her, and beats him! She is not at all ashamed of her behaviour, either.”
“I confess, Mrs. Derwent, I am surprised.”
“Oh, she must be crazy,” wailed the poor lady.
“No, madam—simply hysterical—I am sure of it. Still, this makes me more than ever wishful to have another opinion about her case.”
Before we parted, it had been decided that the choice of suitable rooms should be left to me.
Back again in New York, I went immediately in search of them. I was so difficult to satisfy that it was some time before I selected a suite overlooking the Park, which seemed to me to answer all demands.
May and her mother were not expected till the following afternoon, so I tried to kill the intervening time by making the place look homelike, and I succeeded, I think. Masses of flowers and palms filled every nook, and the newest magazines and books lay on the tables.
I met the ladies at the station, where they parted from Norman, whom I had begun to regard as inevitable. It was, therefore, with a feeling of exultation that I drove alone with them to their hotel.
When May saw the bower I had prepared for her she seemed really pleased, and thanked me very prettily.
I left them, after a few minutes, but not until they had promised to dine with me at a restaurant that evening.
CHAPTER XV
A SUDDEN FLIGHT
ONE of the many things and people which I am sorry to say my new occupation as Squire of Dames had caused me to neglect, was poor Madame Argot. On leaving the Derwents, I determined to call on her at once. To my surprise, I found Mrs. Atkins there before me. The poor Frenchwoman was crying bitterly.
“Look here!” I said, after we had exchanged greetings; “this will never do. My patient must not be allowed to excite herself in this way.”
“Ah, mais monsieur,” she cried, “what vill you? I mus’ veep; zink only; vone veek ago an’ I ’appy voman; now all gone. My ’usban’, ’e mad, and zey zay ’e murderer too, but I zay, No, no.”
Mrs. Atkins patted her hand gently.
“Monsieur Stuah, ’e tell me to go,” she continued, “an’ I don’ know vere; me not speak English vera good, an’ I mus’ go alone vid peoples zat speak no French. Ah, I am a miserable, lonely woman,” she sobbed.
Mrs. Atkins consoled her as best she could, and promised to get her a congenial place. It was a pretty sight to see the dashing little woman in that humble bed-room, and I had never admired her so much. When she got up to leave, I rose also, and, not wishing to pass through Mr. Stuart’s apartments, we left the building by the back way. When we were in the street, Mrs. Atkins started to walk up town.
“Are you going for a walk?” I asked.
“Yes; it is much cooler to-day, and I really must get a little exercise.”
“Do you mind my joining you?” I inquired.
“I’d be glad of your company,” she answered, cordially.
“It’s terribly sad about that poor woman, isn’t it?” she said, as we sauntered along.
“It is, indeed,” I replied; “and the hospital authorities give no hope of her husband’s recovery.”
“I suppose there is no doubt that he killed the man?”
Here we were again on this dangerous topic, and I glanced quickly at her, fearing a repetition of last night’s attack.
She noticed my hesitation, and laughed.
“Oh, you needn’t be so afraid of what you say. I ain’t going to faint again. I want to know the truth, though, and I can’t see why you shouldn’t tell me.”
“Well, if you insist upon it,” I said, “here it is: I really don’t know whether he is guilty or not; I have been convinced that he was till very recently, but Merritt (the detective, you know) has always been sceptical, and maintains that a woman committed the murder.”
“A woman,” she repeated, turning her eyes full on me. “But what woman?”
“Merritt refuses to tell me whom he suspects, but he promises to produce the fair criminal before next Tuesday.”
We walked on for about a block, when, struck by her silence, I looked at her, and saw that she had grown alarmingly pale. I cursed myself for my loquacity, but what could I have done? It is almost impossible to avoid answering direct questions without being absolutely rude, and as I knew the detective did not suspect her I really could not see why she should be so agitated.
“I guess I’m not very strong,” she said; “I’m tired already, and think I’ll go home.”
I wondered if my society had been disagreeable or, at any rate, inopportune, and had caused her to cut short her walk.
As we repassed my house, I caught Mrs. Atkins peering apprehensively at it. I followed the direction of her eyes, but could see nothing unusual.
When I got back to my office, I found that Atkins had called during my absence; I was very sorry to have missed him, as he no doubt came to report what Dr. Hartley had said about his wife.
That night I was called out to see a patient, and returned home during the small hours of the morning. I was still some distance from my house when I distinctly saw the back door of the Rosemere open, and a muffled figure steal out. I was too far away to be able to distinguish any details. I could not even be sure whether the figure was that of a man or a woman. I hastened my steps as I saw it cross the street, but before I had come within reasonable distance of it, it had disappeared round the corner.
The next morning I was aroused at a very early hour by a vigorous ringing at my bell. Hurrying to the door, I was astonished to find Atkins there. He was white and trembling. I pulled him into the room and made him sit down.
“What is the matter?” I asked, as I went to the sideboard and poured out a stiff glass of brandy, which I handed him. “Drink that, and you’ll feel better,” I said.
He gulped it down at one swallow.
“My wife has disappeared.”
“Disappeared!” I repeated.
He nodded.
“But when?—how?”
“I don’t know. At dinner yesterday she acted queerly. The tears kept coming to her eyes without any reason–”
“Before you go any further,” I interrupted him, “tell me if this was after the doctor had seen her?”
“Yes, and he practically confirmed all you said. He laid great stress on her being spared all agitation, and advised a course of baths at Nauheim.”
“Her tears, then, were probably caused by worrying over her condition,” I said.
“I don’t think so, for the doctor was very careful to reassure her, and I had not even mentioned that we were to go abroad. No, it was something else, I’m sure.” He paused. I wondered if anything I had said during our short walk had upset her.
“I suggested going to a roof garden,” continued Atkins, “and she acquiesced enthusiastically, and after that was over she insisted on a supper at Rector’s. It was pretty late when we got home, and we both went immediately to bed. Now, I assure you that ever since she fainted on Wednesday I have been most affectionate towards her. I had determined to bury my suspicions, and my anxiety for her health helped me to do so. She responded very tenderly to my caresses, but I could see that she was still as depressed as before, although she tried her best to hide it from me. I tell you all this so that you may know that nothing occurred yesterday between us that could have caused her to leave me, and yet that is what she has done.”
He buried his head in his arms. I laid my hand on his shoulder.
“Tell me the rest, old man.”
“The rest?—I woke up a short time ago and was surprised to find my wife had already left the room. Wondering what could be the matter (for she is usually a very late riser), I got up also. On the table beside my bed lay a letter addressed to me in her handwriting. I tore it open. Here it is,” and he handed me a small pink note redolent of the peculiar scent which I had noticed his wife affected. This is what I read:
My Darling Husband:
I must leave you. It is best for both. Don’t think I’m going because I don’t love you. It isn’t that. I love you more than ever. It breaks my heart to go. Oh, my darling, darling! We have been happy, haven’t we? And now it is all over. Don’t look for me, I beg you. I must hide. Don’t tell any one, even the servants, that I have gone, for two days. Oh, do oblige me in this. I have taken all the money I could find, $46.00, and some of my jewelry; so I shall not be destitute.
Forgive me, and forget me.
Your loving, heart-broken wife,Lulu.
After reading the note to the end, I stared at him in speechless astonishment.
“What do you think of that?” he asked.
“Well, really, of all mysterious, incomprehensible–”
“Exactly,” he interrupted, impatiently, “but what am I to do now? It is, of course, nonsense her telling me not to look for her. I will look for her and find her, too. But how shall I go about it? O my God, to think of that little girl sick, unhappy, alone; she will die—” he cried, starting up.
“Atkins,” I said, after a moment’s reflection, “I think the best thing for you to do is to lay this case before Mr. Merritt.”
“What, the man who was mixed up in the murder? Never!”
“You can hardly speak of a detective as being mixed up in a murder,” I said. “Every celebrated detective has always several important cases going at once, one of which is very likely to be a murder. The reason I suggest Merritt is that I have seen a good deal of him lately, and have been much impressed by his character as well as his ability. He is a kindly, honourable, and discreet man, and that is more than can be said for the majority of his fellows, and, professionally, he stands at the very top of the ladder. You want to find your wife as quickly as possible, and at the same time to avoid all publicity. You therefore must consult a thoroughly reliable as well as competent person.”
“But if I go to Merritt and tell him that my wife has disappeared, I must also tell of the strange way she has been behaving lately. That will lead to his discovering that the murdered man was a friend of hers, and who knows but that he may end by suspecting her of complicity in his death?—and I acknowledge that her flight lends some colour to that theory.”
“My dear fellow, he has been aware for some time—since Monday, in fact—that the dead man visited your wife the very evening he was killed, and yet, knowing all this, he told me that Mrs. Atkins could not be connected in the remotest way with the tragedy.”
“He said that!” exclaimed Atkins, with evident relief.
“He did,” I assured him.
“All right, then; let’s go to him at once.”
As soon as I was dressed we got into a cab and drove rapidly to Mr. Merritt’s. We met the detective just going out, but he at once turned back with us, and we were soon sitting in his little office. Atkins was so overcome by the situation that I found it necessary to explain our errand. The detective, on hearing of Mrs. Atkins’s flight gave a slight start.
“I wish I knew at what time she left home,” he said.
“I think I can help you there,”—and I told him of the person I had seen stealing from the building, and who I now believed to have been no other than Mrs. Atkins.
“Half-past two,” he murmured; “I wonder she left as early as that. Where could she have gone to at that hour! It looks as if she had arranged her flight beforehand and prepared some place of refuge. Do you know of any friend in the city she would be likely to appeal to in such an emergency?” he inquired, turning towards Atkins.
“No,” he replied; “whatever friends she has here have all been previously friends of mine, and as she has only known them since our marriage they have not had time to become very intimate yet.”
After asking a few more pertinent questions, Mr. Merritt rose.
“I think I have all the necessary facts now and will at once order the search started. I hope soon to have good news for you.”
We all three left the detective’s house together, but separated immediately afterwards. Atkins, haggard and wild-eyed, went off to look for his wife himself. I had to go to the hospital, and Merritt offered to accompany me there.
“Well, what do you think of this latest development?” I asked.
“I am not surprised.”
“Not surprised!” I exclaimed; “what do you mean?”
“Just this: I have been expecting Mrs. Atkins to make an attempt to escape, and have tried to prevent her doing so.”
“How?” I inquired.
“One of my men has been watching her night and day. He is stationed in your house, and I am extremely annoyed that he has allowed her to slip through his fingers, although I must say he has some excuse, for she certainly managed things very neatly.”
“But Mr. Merritt,” I exclaimed, “do you now think Mrs. Atkins guilty?”
He smiled enigmatically, but said nothing.
“This is a very serious matter for me,” I continued. “After what you repeatedly said to me, I thought you scouted the probability of her being in any way implicated in this murder. It was on the strength of this assurance that I induced Atkins to confide in you. Had I known that you were having her shadowed I shouldn’t, of course, have advised him to put his case in your hands. I feel dreadfully about this. It is exactly as if I had betrayed the poor fellow. I must warn him at once.”
I stopped.
“Don’t do anything rash,” he urged, laying a detaining hand on my arm.
“But–”
“I quite understand your feelings,” he continued, looking at me with his kindly blue eyes. “When I first heard the nature of your errand I felt a good deal embarrassed. But it was then too late. What I knew, I knew. I assure you, Doctor, that what I have heard this morning, far from assisting me to solve the Rosemere mystery, will prove a positive hindrance to my doing so. I shall no longer feel at liberty to employ ruse or strategy in my dealings with the lady, and if I find her shall have to treat her with the utmost consideration.”
“Do you think she murdered the man? Is she the woman whose name you promised to reveal next Tuesday?”
“I must decline to answer that question.”
I glanced at him for a minute in silence.
“If I am not mistaken, this flight will precipitate matters,” he went on, reflectively. “If the right party hears of it, I expect an explosion will follow.”
“Don’t talk in enigmas, Mr. Merritt; either say what you mean or—” I paused.
“Hold your tongue,” he concluded, with a smile. “You are quite right. And as I can’t say any more at present, I will say nothing. By the way, I hear Mrs. and Miss Derwent and Mr. Norman are in town.”
“Yes,” I curtly assented. “Well, Mr. Merritt,” I went on, abruptly changing the subject, “I must leave you now. I am very much upset by your attitude towards Mrs. Atkins. I am not yet sure that I shall not tell her husband. Together, we may perhaps prevent her falling into your hands.”
The detective smiled indulgently as we parted. I saw now all the harm I had done. Poor Mrs. Atkins had feared from the first that she might be suspected, and having discovered that she was being watched, had naturally been unwilling to leave the protection of her own home. When Argot was arrested she thought all danger was over, till I stupidly blurted out that the detective was stalking a woman, not a man. Then she fled. And she chose the middle of the night, reasoning, no doubt, that at that hour the sleuth would most likely be off his guard. Since I had known her and her husband better, I could no longer suspect her, and I now tried to remember all the arguments Merritt had formerly used to prove her innocence. Foolish she might have been, but criminal, never,—I concluded. And it was I who had put her enemies on her track!