Читать книгу In White Raiment - Le Queux William - Страница 8

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.