Chapter Seven
My New Patient
On Friday morning I entered the office of Messrs Hanway Brothers in Leadenhall Street, and after a short wait was accorded an interview with the manager.
I demanded, of course, an explanation why I had been shipped away from London in such a summary manner, whereupon he apparently regarded me as a lunatic.
“I really had no knowledge of the affair,” he replied, smiling incredulously. “Do you actually allege you were taken on board the Petrel and kept imprisoned in a cabin by Captain Banfield? A most extraordinary story, to say the least.”
I told him of the inquiries made by the British Consul in Christiania, and added —
“I have here the captain’s written orders from your firm, signed by yourself.” And I produced the letter.
He glanced it through eagerly, and then carefully scrutinised the signature.
“This renders the affair far more mysterious,” he exclaimed with increased interest. “The letter-paper is certainly ours, but the whole thing is a forgery.”
“It is not your signature?”
“No, certainly not – only a clumsy imitation;” and taking up a pen, he wrote his signature and handed them both to me for comparison. At once I saw that several of the peculiarities of his handwriting were absent from Banfield’s orders.
“The type-writing is done by a different machine to ours. We use Bar-Locks, while this has probably been written by a Remington,” he went on. “Besides, look at the edge of the paper, and you’ll see that it is badly cut. It is, without doubt, a sheet out of several reams, that were delivered by the stationers some months ago, and were rejected by me because of the careless manner in which the edges had been cut.”
Then he touched his bell and the chief clerk appeared. To him he showed the letter, and without a moment’s hesitation he declared it to be a forgery.
Without going into details of the events of that memorable night, I described how I had recovered consciousness to find myself at sea, and the strict obedience, of the captain to the orders he had received.
“Well, all I can conjecture is,” declared the manager, much puzzled, “that you have fallen the victim of some clever conspiracy. The details show that there was some strong motive for your abduction, and that the conspirators well knew that Banfield remained at home until almost the last moment before sailing. They were, therefore, enabled to put you on board during his absence. The forged orders, too, were brief and well to the point – in fact, worded just as they might be if sent from this house. No; depend upon it there has been some very ingenious plotting somewhere.”
I remained with him a short time longer, then, realising the uselessness of occupying his time, I withdrew, and in further prosecution of my inquiries drove to Doctors’ Commons.
Here, after certain formalities, I gained knowledge which seemed of distinct advantage. Of the official there I learned that the special licence by which I had been married had been applied for by Beryl herself, and was shown a copy of the application signed by her, “Beryl Wynd.”
I read the document through, and its contents held me in amazement, for it prayed “that a licence might be issued for the solemnisation of marriage in the church of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, between herself and Richard Dawes Colkirk, bachelor, Doctor of Medicine, of 114, Rowan Road, Hammersmith.” Besides, it was dated nearly a fortnight before – soon after I had accepted Raymond’s invitation to be his guest.
But my main object in making inquiries at the registry was to discover my wife’s address, and in this I was successful, for in the same document I found that she was described as “Beryl Grace Wynd, spinster, of 46, Earl’s-court Road, Kensington.”
I had, at least, gained knowledge of the house in which the tragedy had been enacted.
“When the young lady called to make this application, were you present?” I inquired eagerly.
“Yes. I saw her.”
“What was she like? Could you give me a description of her?”
“She was good-looking, elegantly dressed, and about middle height, if I remember aright.”
“And her hair?”
“It was of a colour rather unusual,” answered the man, peering at me through his spectacles. “A kind of golden-brown.”
The description was exact. Beryl had been there, and of her own accord applied for a licence to marry me. The mystery increased each moment.
“Was she alone?” I inquired.
“No. Her father was with her.”
“How did you know he was her father?”
“He introduced himself to me as such – Major Wynd.”
“Major Wynd!” I ejaculated. “But Mr Wynd is not an officer. What kind of man is he?”
“Of military appearance, round-faced, and good-humoured.”
“Old?”
“Certainly not – scarcely fifty. He wore a single eyeglass.”
The description did not answer to that of the Tempter, but rather to that of Tattersett. The truth seemed plain: the Major had posed as Beryl’s father, and had given his consent to the marriage.
The registry official, a little dry-as-dust individual who wore steel-rimmed spectacles poised far down his thin nose, endeavoured to learn who and what I was; but I merely replied that I was making inquiries on behalf of certain friends of the lady, and having satisfied myself by another glance at the signatures, I bade him good afternoon.
After a hasty lunch in a bar at the foot of Ludgate Hill, I set forth by the underground railway to Earl’s Court, and experienced but little difficulty in discovering Number 46. It stood on the right, between Park Terrace and Scarsdale Villas; but at a single glance I saw that it was not the house to which I had been conducted. The latter had been a big, substantial mansion with a spacious portico supported by four huge pillars, whereas this was a small, old-fashioned house of perhaps ten rooms.
Nevertheless, I walked up the garden path and rang the bell. My summons was answered by a neat maid, who called her mistress, an elderly lady, and the latter declared that she had lived there five years and had never heard the name of Wynd.
“Have you ever let your house furnished?” I inquired.
“Never,” She responded. “But the name is somewhat uncommon, and you ought to have no difficulty in finding the address.”
“I hope sincerely that I shall,” I answered, and, apologising for disturbing her, went down the steps, feeling that my mysterious wife had purposely given a false address in order to place any inquirer on a wrong scent.
Along to the corner of Kensington Road I strolled slowly, debating in my mind the best course to pursue. I turned into a public-house at the corner, and asked to see a London Directory, which I searched eagerly. But there was no such name as Wynd among the residents, neither could I find it among those of people living in the suburbs.
I called upon the Vicar of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, and saw the register I had signed, but the officiating clergyman had been a friend of Wynd’s, and he did not know his address.
It seemed suspiciously as though the name of Wynd was an assumed one. If a false address had been given by the Major at Doctors’ Commons, then in all probability the surname was likewise false.
Fatigued, hungry, and dusty, I at last found myself once again in Rowan Road before the door of Bob Raymond’s house, and entered with my latch-key.
Old Mrs Bishop came forward excitedly to meet me.
“Oh, Doctor,” she cried, “wherever had you been all this week? I felt certain that something had happened to you, and yesterday I got my daughter to write a line to Dr Raymond. But I’m so glad you are back again sir. It’s given my daughter and me such a fright. We imagined all sorts of horrible things like those we read of in Lloyd’s and Reynolds’.”
“Well, I’m back again, Mrs Bishop,” I answered as carelessly as I could. “And I’m confoundedly hungry and tired. Get me a cup of tea and a chop, there’s a good woman.” And I ascended to Bob’s cosy little den from which I had been so suddenly called seven days before.
So Mrs Bishop had written to Bob, and no doubt he would be very surprised that I had disappeared and left the practice to take care of itself. He would certainly consider that my gratitude took a curious form. Therefore, I decided to send him a wire, telling him of my return and promising explanations later.
I cast myself wearily into the big leather armchair, and sat plunged in thought until the old housekeeper entered fussily with my tea.
“Well,” I asked, “I suppose there have been no new patients during my absence?”
“Oh, yes. One, sir.”
“Who was it?”
“A lady, sir. She came about noon on the second day of your absence, and said she wished to consult you. I told her that you’d been called out two days ago, and that you had not returned. She asked when you’d be in, and I said I didn’t know for certain. So she called again later, and seemed very disappointed and anxious. She came next day; but as you were still absent, she left her card. Here it is.” And Mrs Bishop took a card from the tray on a side-table and handed it to me. Upon it was the name, “Lady Pierrepoint-Lane.”
“Was she young or old?”
“Rather young, sir – not more than thirty, I think. She was dressed in deep mourning.”
“And you have seen nothing more of her?” I inquired interestedly. “There’s no address on the card.”
“She came again two days ago, and finding that you had not returned, left this note, telling me to give it to you on arrival.” And the woman fumbled behind the mirror on the mantelshelf and handed me a dainty note, the envelope of which bore a neat coat-of-arms.
The heading was “88, Gloucester Square, Hyde Park,” and the brief note ran —
“Lady Pierrepoint-Lane would esteem it a favour if Dr Colkirk could make it convenient to call upon her at his earliest opportunity.”
Curiosity prompted me to turn to Debrett’s Baronetage, in Raymond’s bookcase, and from it I discovered that her ladyship was the wife of Sir Henry Pierrepoint-Lane, Bart., a wealthy landowner and the patron of several livings in Yorkshire and Shropshire whose principal seat was Atworth, in Wiltshire. His wife was the eldest daughter of General Sir Charles Naylon, late of the Indian army.
Having re-read the short paragraph in the Baronetage, which gave a facsimile of the coat-of-arms upon the envelope, I sipped my tea and then wrote a short note regretting my absence from home, and stating my intention to call upon the following morning at eleven o’clock. This I dispatched by boy-messenger.
Hence it was that next morning, when I passed down Stanhope Street and turned into Gloucester Gardens, I felt in no mood to humour and sympathise with the whims and imaginary maladies of a fashionable patient.
With a feeling of irritation and low spirits, I mounted the steps of the house in Gloucester Square and inquired for my new patient.
I was ushered into a pretty morning-room, and shortly afterwards there entered a slim, youngish-looking woman, not exactly handsome, but of refined appearance, dark, with hair well coiled by an expert maid, and wearing a simple dress of pearl-grey cashmere, which clung about her form and showed it to distinct advantage. Before she had greeted me I saw that she was a type subject to nerve-storms, perhaps with a craving for stimulants after the reaction.
“Good morning, Doctor,” she exclaimed, crossing the room and greeting me pleasantly. “I received your note last night. You were absent each time I called.”
“Yes,” I responded. “I was called out to an urgent case, and compelled to remain.”
“Does that happen often in your profession?” she asked, sinking into a chair opposite me. “If it does, I fear that doctors’ wives must have an uncomfortable time. Your housekeeper was quite concerned about you.”
“But when one is a bachelor, as I am, absence is not of any great moment,” I laughed.
At that moment her dark, brilliant eyes met mine, and I fancied I detected a strange look in them.
“Well,” she said with some hesitation, “I am very glad you have come at last, Doctor, for I want to consult you upon a secret and very serious matter concerning myself, and to obtain your opinion.”
“I shall be most happy to give you whatever advice lies in my power,” I responded, assuming an air of professional gravity, and preparing myself to listen to her symptoms. “What is the nature of your ailment?” I inquired.
“Well,” she answered, “I can scarcely describe it: I seem in perpetually low spirits, although I have no cause whatever to be sad, and, further, there is a matter which troubles me exceedingly. I hardly like to confess it, but of late I have developed a terrible craving for stimulants.”
I put to her a number of questions which it is unnecessary here to recount, and found her exactly as I had supposed – a bundle of nerves.
“But this unaccountable craving for stimulants is most remarkable,” she went on. “I am naturally a most temperate woman, but nowadays I feel that I cannot live without having recourse to brandy or some other spirit.”
“Sometimes you feel quite well and strong, then suddenly you experience a sensation of being extremely ill?” I suggested.
“Exactly. How do you account for it?”
“The feeling of strength and vigour is not necessarily the outcome of actual strength, any more than is the feeling of weakness the necessary outcome of actual weakness,” I responded. “A person may be weak to a degree, and the sands of life be almost run out, and yet feel overwhelmingly strong and exuberantly happy, and, on the other hand, when in sound and vigorous health, he may feel exhausted and depressed. Feelings, especially so with women of the better class, rise into being in connexion with the nervous system. Whether a person feels well or ill depends upon the structure of his nervous system and the way in which it is played upon, for, like a musical instrument, it may be made to give forth gay music or sad.”
“But is not my case remarkable?” she asked.
“Not at all,” I responded.
“Then you think that you can treat me, and prevent me from becoming a dipsomaniac?” she said eagerly.
“Certainly,” I replied. “I have no doubt that this craving can be removed by proper treatment. I will write you a prescription.”
“Ah?” she exclaimed, with a sigh. “You doctors, with your serums and the like, can nowadays inoculate against almost every disease. Would that you could give us women an immune from that deadly ailment so common among my sex, and so very often fatal.”
“What ailment?” I asked, rather surprised at her sudden and impetuous speech.
“That of love!” she responded in a low, strained voice – the voice of a woman desperate.
Chapter Eight
What Happened to me
“Do you consider love an ailment?” I asked, looking at her in quick surprise.
“In many cases,” she responded in a serious tone. “I fear I am no exception to the general rule,” she added meaningly.
Those words amounted to the admission that she had a lover, and I regarded her with considerable astonishment. She was a smart woman. I could only suppose that she and her husband were an ill-assorted pair. Possibly she had married for money, and was now filled with regret, as, alas! is so frequently the case.
“You appear unhappy,” I observed in a sympathetic tone, for my curiosity had been aroused by her words.
“Yes, Doctor,” she answered in a low, intense voice, toying nervously with her fine rings. “To tell the truth, I am most unhappy. I have come up to town to consult you, unknown to my husband, for I have heard that you make the treatment of nervous disorders your speciality.”
“And by whom was I recommended to you?” I inquired, somewhat interested in this new and entirely undeserved fame which I had apparently achieved.
“By an old patient of yours – a lady whom I met at a house-party a month ago, in Yorkshire.”
“But I understood that you were consulting me regarding your craving for stimulants,” I said, as her dark, serious eyes met mine again.
She was a decidedly attractive woman, with the easy air and manner of one brought up in good society.
“The craving for drink is the least dangerous of my ailments,” she responded. “It is the craving for love which is driving me to despair.”
I remained silent for a moment, my eyes fixed upon her.
“Pardon my remark,” I said, at last, in a low tone, “but I gather from your words that some man has come between yourself and your husband.”
“Between myself and my husband!” she echoed in surprise. “Why, no, Doctor. You don’t understand me. I love my husband, and he has no love for me!” Her statement was certainly a most unusual one. She was by no means a simple-minded woman, but, on the contrary, clever and intelligent, with a thorough knowledge of the world. It therefore seemed astounding that she should make this remarkable confession. But I controlled my surprise, and responded —
“You are, unfortunately, but one wife among thousands in exactly the same position. If we only knew the composition of the ancient love-philtre it would be in daily requisition. But, unfortunately, medical science is unable to influence the passion of the heart.”
“Of course,” she sighed. Then, with her eyes cast down upon the small table beside which she was sitting, she added, “I suppose, if the truth were known, you consider me very foolish in making this confession to you, a comparative stranger?”
“I do not consider it foolishness at all,” I hastened to assure her. “A neglected wife must always excite sympathy.”
“And have I yours?”
“Most assuredly,” I answered. “It is evident, from my diagnosis, that you are suffering from sudden and abrupt alterations in the feelings. You are more especially subject to a feeling of malaise, accompanied by mental depression, as at this moment. Therefore, I must endeavour to remove the cause. As regards the affection you bear your husband, I would presume to remind you of the very true adage which declares that ‘Love begets love.’”
“Ah,” she interrupted, “that is untrue in my case.”
“Am I, then, to understand that your husband is attracted by some other person?”
“I really don’t know; I do not know what to think. He is indifferent – that is all.”
“What difference is there in your ages?”
“I am thirty. He is fifty-eight.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “And am I to presume that your marriage was a loveless one?”
“Not at all,” she answered quickly. “I was very fond of him, and he made some pretence of affection.”
“And how many years have you been married?”
“Three,” she responded.
According to “Debrett” she had married five years ago, but for such small untruths a woman may always be forgiven.
I looked at her, unable to entirely satisfy myself regarding her. She seemed suffering from an agitation which she was striving with all her might to control. That her nervous organisation was impaired was no doubt correct, but it struck me that the cause of it all was some sudden and terrible shock to the system.
“I assure you that you have my sympathy in your mental distress,” I said at length. “There have always been fatalists who have argued that we must accept without question what is sent us, that we must bow in submission to a ‘will’ without really seeking to find out what the ‘will’ is.”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “It is quite impossible not to admit that the increased knowledge of the laws which regulate the visible universe has increased our living faith and added to the glory of the Almighty, while it has made it more difficult for men to make gods after their own image and use them for their own purposes.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Modern medicine is teaching us every day that much bodily suffering is due to man’s wilful neglect of the beneficent laws of Nature. That diseases are due to ignorance and disregard of law, and are not ‘sent’ as scourges by a petulant and capricious deity, is clearly a doctrine which in no way dims the glory of God.”
“I quite agree,” she responded. Then, in a low tone, more confidential than before, she added, “You, Doctor, have expressed sympathy for me in my distress, and I look to you for assistance. Curious though it may seem, I have scarcely a single friend in whom I can confide.”
“I shall respect your confidence, as is my duty,” I answered, “and will do my best to stifle your craving for stimuli.”
“But the love of my husband?”
“Endeavour to live uprightly and honestly, and show him your true worth above all other women,” I said. “It is the only way.”
“I have done so,” she answered sadly, “but have failed.”
“Do not give up. A man is never wholly proof against a good woman, especially if that woman be his wife.”
A silence fell between us.
“And may I count upon your aid in all this, Doctor?” she asked, with some hesitation.
“Certainly,” I responded. “If I can give you any advice, I shall always be pleased to do so.”
“But my husband must know nothing. Recollect I have consulted you unknown to him.”
“As you wish, of course.”
“And, in future, if I wish to see you, may I call at your surgery?”
“If you desire,” I replied. “But I am only locum tenens for my friend, Doctor Raymond, who is in the country. Perhaps I may go into practice in the country afterwards.”
“And leave me!” she exclaimed anxiously. “I hope not.”
“I shall still consider you my patient,” I said.
“No,” she said. “I trust that you will regard me as more than a mere patient – as your friend.”
“I am honoured by your friendship,” I replied. “And if I can, at any time, do anything to assist you in this mental trouble of yours, I will do it with pleasure.”
I had, during our conversation, been attracted by her frankness of manner and the evident sorrow which weighed so heavily upon her. She had confessed to me, and we had now become friends. My position was a curious one: the adviser of a woman who was wearing out her heart for her husband’s love. It was not altogether devoid of danger either, for her ladyship was an exceedingly attractive woman.
I had written the prescription and handed it to her, but, apparently in no mood to allow me to go, she did not rise.
While I had been busily writing at the little escritoire her manner had apparently changed, for she was no longer the serious, nervous woman of ten minutes before, but quite gay and vivacious, with a look of triumph in her fine, dark eyes.
“I am very glad, Doctor Colkirk, that you have promised to assist me,” she said, laughing merrily and stretching out her tiny foot from beneath the hem of her skirt with a distinct air of coquetry. “I feel sure that we shall be excellent friends.”
“I hope so,” I replied. “But you must be careful of your general health, and persevere with the treatment.”
“I don’t care much for chemists’ concoctions,” she laughed. “It’s very good of you to have given me this prescription, but I don’t propose to make use of it.”
“Why not?” I inquired in quick surprise.
“Because I only described to you imaginary symptoms,” she laughed mischievously. “I enjoy a glass of port immensely after dinner, but further than that never touch stimulants, nor have any inclination for them.”
“So you have deceived me,” I said severely, for it seemed as though she wished to poke fun at me.
“Yes. But I hope you will forgive me,” she answered, laughing.
“I cannot see what motive you can have in calling me in to describe a malady from which you are not suffering. A doctor’s time is valuable.”
“I had a motive.”
“And pray what was it?”
“Well, I wished to make your acquaintance,” she answered boldly, without hesitation.
“You adopted a rather unusual course,” I remarked, somewhat annoyed.
“I think, under the circumstances, this little ruse of mine may possibly be forgiven,” she answered. “I am not the first woman who has called in a doctor professionally merely in order to make his acquaintance.”
“And for what reason did you wish to know me?”
“I trust you are not annoyed with me?” she exclaimed. “You must admit that I acted the part of the nervous woman so well that even you, a medical man, were, deceived.”
“I admit that you have taken an unfair advantage of me,” I answered calmly, wondering why she should thus have sought my acquaintance.
“But you will forgive me, Doctor, won’t you?” she urged.
“If you will tell me the reason you were so desirous of meeting me.”
“I wanted to know you.”
“Why?”
“I had seen you in the distance many times, and desired to become personally acquainted with you.”
“For what reason?”
She hesitated, and I thought I detected a faint blush upon her cheek.
“I – well, I wished to number you among my friends.”
“Then I presume that the story regarding your husband is also a fiction?” I said, surprised that I had previously formed such an entirely wrong impression of her.
“No, not exactly,” she responded. “I hope to have the pleasure of introducing you to him some day ere long.”
“I shall of course be delighted,” I answered in a tone which I fear did not convey any desire on my part to be honoured by the baronet’s acquaintance. “But, having deceived me as you have to-day, I confess that my confidence is somewhat shaken.”
She laughed and raised her hand to her hair.
“Ah! it is always best to commence by being enemies and to end by being friends.”
“You intend, then, that we shall be friends?”
“Of course. That is the reason why I asked you to call on me.”
“But where have you seen me?”
“Oh, in lots of places,” she answered vaguely. Her attitude was very strange. Could it be possible that she had seen me, and, becoming attracted by my personal appearance, had found out who and what I was? Was it possible that she intended that I should be her lover?
The thought flashed across my mind as she sat there smiling upon me, displaying an even row of pearly teeth, while her face was radiant with triumph and happiness. I had promised friendship to this woman, who had so cleverly formed my acquaintance.
“Tell me one place where we have met,” I asked, for, to my knowledge, I had never set eyes upon her before that morning.
“You were having supper at the Savoy with your friend, Doctor Raymond, one night three weeks ago,” she answered. “On the following evening you both dined together at the exhibition at Earl’s Court.”
“And you saw us at both places?” I exclaimed, surprised.
“Yes,” she laughed. “You see how well acquainted I have been with your recent movements.”
“I had no idea that any lady had been taking an interest in my unimportant self,” I laughed.
Yes, it was true, this woman was seeking to fascinate me by those wiles so purely feminine. But I laughed within myself, for I was fortunately proof against it all. The incident was decidedly amusing. Of a verity the doctor is bound to steel his heart against many feminine blandishments.
Ere the words had left my lips, however, our conversation was interrupted by a woman’s voice outside the room, crying merrily —
“Nora! Nora! Where are you? We shall be so awfully late!”
And an instant later a young girl, dressed to go out, burst gaily into the room. She drew back with a quick word of apology when she recognised that her ladyship was not alone, but at sight of her I sat there dumb-stricken and rigid as a statue.
Was I dreaming? Could it be, after all, only a mere chimera of an excited imagination? No; I knew myself to be in full possession of all my faculties. The mystery was inscrutable. There before me, somewhat abashed by her own unceremonious intrusion, her soft cheeks slightly flushed, radiant and in perfect health, stood my dead wife in the flesh!