Читать книгу The Goddess: A Demon - Richard Marsh - Страница 6

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I was awoke next morning by Atkins bringing in my cup of coffee. He asked me a question as he arranged it on the small table beside my bed.

“Do you know, sir, if Mr. Lawrence slept in his rooms last night?”

He had aroused me from a dreamless slumber, and I was not yet sufficiently awake to catch the full drift of his inquiry.

“Slept in his rooms? What do you mean?”

“Because, sir, when I took him his coffee just now, as usual, I knocked four times and got no answer. And his door’s locked; it’s not his habit to lock his door when he’s at home.”

Atkins is one of the staff of servants attached to the Mansions, whose particular office it is to wait on the occupants of chambers on the first floor: a discreet man, who has a pretty intimate knowledge of the manners and customs of those on whom he attends.

“Mr. Lawrence was in his rooms last night. I was with him till rather late, and I believe he had a visitor after I had left.”

This I said remembering what Turner had told me about his brother coming down the stairs, with the parcel in his arms.

“I think he must be out now—at least, I can’t make him hear. And the door’s locked; I never knew him have the door locked when he was in.”

“Perhaps he’s ill,” I suggested. “I’ll slip along the balcony and see. You wait here till I come back.”

I do not know what induced me to make such a proposition, except that I was struck by the man’s words, and impelled by a sudden impulse. On every floor a balcony runs right round the building. Lawrence and I had often made use of it to reach each other’s rooms—his are the first set round the corner. I put on a pair of slippers and a dressing-gown, and started.

It was a chilly morning, with a touch of fog in the air, and it had been raining. I made what haste I could. The window of Lawrence’s dining-room opened directly I turned the handle. I went inside, and I saw what I then instantly and clearly realised I had all along felt sure that I should see. I sprang back upon the balcony. Atkins was looking out of my window. I called to him.

“Come here! Quick! There’s something wrong!”

He came running to me.

“What is it, sir?”

“I don’t know what it is, but—it’s something.”

Atkins followed me into the room. Edwin Lawrence lay face foremost on the floor. All about him the carpet was stained with blood. His clothes were soaked. Had it not been for his clothes I should not have certainly known that it was Lawrence, because, when we turned him over, we found that his face and head had been cut and hacked to pieces. In my time I have seen men who have come to their death by violence, but never had I seen such an extraordinary sight as he presented. It was as if some savage thing, fastening upon him, had torn him to pieces with tooth and nail. His flesh had been ripped and rent so that not one recognisable feature was left. Indeed, it might not have been a man we were looking upon, but some thing of horror.

I spoke to Atkins. “Run and fetch Dr. Hume. I am afraid he will be of little use, but he must come. And the police!”

Off he sped to tell the ghastly tidings. So soon as he was gone I looked about me. On a chair close by was a pair of white kid gloves—a woman’s. I picked them up and put them in my pocket. Among the portraits on the mantelshelf was the face of one I knew. I put that in my pocket also with the gloves.

The room was in some disarray, but not in such disorder as to suggest that a desperate struggle had taken place. A chair or two and a table were not in the places in which I knew they generally stood; the table on which we had played that game of cards last night was pushed up against another, on which were some copper vases. A revolving bookcase had been driven up against the fireplace. On the woodwork were gouts of blood. There was a blotch on the back of one of the books—a volume of Rudyard Kipling’s “Many Inventions.” On the edge of the white stone mantelpiece was the mark of where a hand had rested—a blood-stained hand. Something lay on the carpet, perhaps two yards away from the dead man’s feet. I took it up. It was a collar—a man’s collar—shapeless and twisted and stiff with coagulated blood. As I stared at it a wild wonder began to take shape and to grow in my brain.

“Ferguson, what’s the matter? What’s this Atkins tells me about? Good God! is that Lawrence?”

It was Dr. Hume who spoke. He had come into the room while I was staring at the collar.

Graham Hume is a man who has taken high medical honours; but, having ample private means, he does not pretend to have anything in the shape of a regular practice. He has a hobby—madness. He is a student of what he calls obscure diseases of the brain; insisting that we have all of us a screw loose somewhere, and that out of every countenance insanity peeps—even though, as a rule, thank goodness, it is only the shadow of a shade.

Some strange stories are told of experiments which he has made. His chambers are on the ground floor; and, though he has a plate on his door, his patients are few and far between—nor are they by any means always welcome even when they do appear. Probably the larger number of them are residents in the Mansions, and because that was so, any one living in the buildings being in sudden need of medical help used to rush at once to him. Lawrence used to chaffingly speak of him as “the Imperial Doctor.”

Hume was still in the prime of life—perhaps forty, of medium height, sparely built, with clean-shaven face, high forehead, and coal-black hair. A good fellow, in his fashion; but with rather a too professional outlook on to the world. I always felt that he regarded every one with whom he came in contact—man, woman, or child—as a possible subject for experiment. Personally, I was conscious of feeling no dislike for him; but I had a sort of suspicion that he did not like me.

“Yes,” I replied; “that’s Lawrence—what’s left of him.”

He was kneeling by the dead man on the floor, his usually impassive face all alert and eager.

“How has this happened—and when?”

“That is what has to be discovered.”

“Who found him?”

“Atkins and I.”

“Was he lying in this position?”

“No; he was on his face. We turned him over.”

“The man’s been cut to pieces.”

“It almost looks to me as if he had been scratched to pieces.”

“I fancy these wounds are too deep for scratches—in the ordinary sense. It looks as if several narrow blades had been used, set in some kind of frame, or a row of spikes. The flesh has been torn open in regular layers. This is interesting—very.” This was the kind of remark which I should have expected he would make; it came from him sotto voce. “He’s been dead some time, he’s quite cold. Very curious indeed.”

While he spoke he had been unfastening, with deft fingers, the dead man’s clothes, laying bare his neck and chest. Now he called to me, with an accent of suspicion.

“Look at that!”

I looked. I saw that the body was almost as much disfigured as the head and face; that it was covered with gaping wounds.

“I see; enough violence has been used to kill the poor fellow a dozen times over.”

“Is that all you see?” Hume spoke with more than a touch of impatience. “Don’t you see that some sharp-pointed instrument has been thrust right through the man’s body, from the back to the front, and from the front to the back, because he has been attacked from both back and front? If, then, a knife, or something of the kind, has been driven clean through him, as it has been, over and over again, how came it to miss his shirt, his coat, the whole of his clothes?”

“I don’t quite see what you mean.”

“Then, in that case, my dear Ferguson, I am afraid that you are even more dense than you usually are—which is unfortunate. If I were to stab you where you stand, the stabbing instrument would have to pass through your clothing, and, in doing so, would leave a mark of its passage. One would expect to find this man’s clothing cut to pieces; but you can see for yourself that, with the exception of bloodstains, there is not a mark upon them; they are intact, without rent or tear. Are we to infer that the attacking weapon did not pass through them? In that case, was the man naked when he was attacked, and were his clothes put on him after he was dead?”

“I see, now, what you mean.”

“I am glad of that; perhaps your mental faculties are beginning to move. I suppose these clothes are Lawrence’s?”

“I can prove that; he was wearing them when I saw him last.”

“Oh, he was, was he. When did you see him last?”

“Last night.”

Hume glanced quickly up at me.

“Last night? At what time?”

I considered for a moment.

“I don’t remember particularly noticing, but I should say that it was about half-past eleven when I left him, or perhaps a little after.”

“Half-past eleven? Then I should say that within an hour of that time he was dead; perhaps within less than an hour. That’s very odd.”

“Why is it odd?”

“Was he alone when you left him?”

“He was.”

“Did you part on friendly terms?”

The question took me somewhat aback; it was not one which it was easy to answer.

“May I ask why you inquire?”

“My dear Ferguson, it is a question which some one will put to you. You should be prepared with an answer. It seems rather unfortunate that you should have quarrelled with him within an hour of his being done to death.”

“I did not quarrel with him.”

“No? What did you do then? Your unwillingness to reply shows that it was not on the best of terms you parted.”

“I shall be ready to give all necessary information to any one entitled to ask for it.”

“So you are in a position to give information? I see? And you think I am not entitled to ask? Oh! What, to your mind, would constitute a title?—a magistrate’s warrant? You don’t happen to know if any one saw him after you did?”

“I believe that some one did.”

Again he gave that quick glance upwards.

“Who was it?”

“I believe that his brother saw him.”

“You believe! What makes you believe?”

“I was told by Turner, the night-porter.”

“When?”

“Last night; or, rather, early this morning. I had occasion to use the lift. Turner told me that he had seen Mr. Lawrence’s brother go up, and that he had just come down again.”

“What time was that?”

“Between two and three.”

“I fancy that before the clock struck two, or even one, this man was dead.”

“I found this on the floor just before you came in.”

I handed Hume the blood-grimed collar.

“What is it? A collar?” As he turned it over he saw what I had seen. “Here’s a name—‘Philip Lawrence.’”

“I believe that Philip is his brother’s name.”

He looked at me with an unfriendly something in his glance.

“What do you infer from that?”

“I do not attempt to draw an inference.”

“But your tone suggests. Do you suggest that when Philip Lawrence came to see his brother he took off his collar and left it behind him on the floor? Why?”

“It must have been soaked with blood.”

“Then you do suggest that Philip Lawrence left his collar behind because it was soaked with blood.”

“I suggest nothing. I say that I saw it on the floor and picked it up; that’s all.”

Hume stood up.

“What else have you found?”

I fenced with the question. I did not propose to speak of the gloves or the photograph, being conscious that Hume was prepared to make himself extremely disagreeable if occasion offered.

“I have not looked. The collar lay staring at me on the floor; I could not help but see it.”

“Then we will look together. In such a case as this, one never knows what ‘trifles light as air’ may prove ‘confirmation strong as Holy Writ.’ Here’s a waste-paper basket; let’s see what’s in it. More than one man has been sent to the gallows by a scrap of waste-paper. Here’s what appears to be a letter—not too carefully written. Let’s see what we can make of it. Hullo! what’s this?” He read from the scrap of paper he was holding: “‘Such men as you ought not to be allowed to live.’ That’s a strong assertion. And written by a woman, too, in a good, bold hand. I think I should recognise that caligraphy if I saw it again; wouldn’t you?”

He handed me the fragment. The clear, characteristic writing was certainly a woman’s. I felt that I should know it again if I saw it. The words were as he had stated them. He went on.

“If the intention of the person who tore up this letter was to conceal its purport, he did his work with very little skill. Here’s another fragment which is plain enough. ‘To-night I will give you a last chance.’ To-night! I wonder if that was yesternight? If so he had his last chance—his very last. Here, on still another piece, is part of a signature. ‘Bessie.’ It certainly is Bessie. I know a Bessie.” He smiled, not too pleasantly. “I wonder if—it’s scarcely likely, though I shouldn’t be surprised if this turns out to be the work of feminine fingers. I seem to scent a woman in it somewhere.”

“It’s incredible!” I cried. “How could such violence have been used by any woman?”

“How do you know that much violence has been used?—though there are women who are capable of as much violence as men. But, in this case, so far, there is nothing to show that much strength has been exerted. It is a question of what instrument has been employed. Obviously it is one of a most extraordinary and most deadly kind, and one which I should imagine would be as likely to be found in a woman’s possession as a man’s; indeed, I should say more likely, because I should expect to find a man preferring to trust to his own right hand. Let me tell you this, Ferguson. You are making a serious mistake in endeavouring to associate Philip Lawrence with this matter. I know him well. He is a man of high position and noble character; as incapable of such a deed as you. Indeed, I know him well enough to be aware that he is incapable; I have not sufficient knowledge of you to say, with certainty, of what you may be capable.”

“Your language is quite unwarranted. I have made no endeavour of the kind.”

“Are you perfectly candid? Are you sure that there is nothing at the back of your mind? My position here is quasi-official. It is my duty to ascertain how this man came to his death. Yet, while you refuse to answer my inquiries, questioning my right to make them, you volunteer some tittle-tattle about Philip Lawrence, and produce, with something very like a flourish of triumph, a collar with his name on, which, you say, you found upon the floor. I warn you again that, if you attempt to drag in Philip Lawrence’s name, you will be guilty of a serious injustice, the consequences of which will inevitably recoil on your own head.”

“Listen to me, Hume, in your turn. In the first place, I don’t understand why you show me such an aggressive front. And, anyhow, you exaggerate the importance of your position. You merely happen to be the first doctor of whom I could think. Your business is to make a medical examination; so far, in that direction, I cannot say that I have seen you make any undue exertions. To suggest that your office is, in any sense, judicial, is sheer absurdity. We will stop at that. Some men would have regarded the questions which you have put to me as intentionally impertinent. I have enough acquaintance with you to know that it is your unfortunate manner which is to blame, and that your intention was innocuous.

“But let me add this: I know nothing of Mr. Philip Lawrence; I have never seen the man in my life. But, since he was seen to leave the building at an early hour this morning, in a somewhat curious fashion, exhibiting all the marks of haste; and since his brother has now been found here lying dead, I think, in spite of your ardent championship, he will be called upon to give some sort of explanation.”

Why Hume behaved as he immediately did is beyond my comprehension. He came close up to me, looking me full in the face, in distinctly unfriendly fashion.

“Then I say you lie.”

He said it quietly—it is not his custom to speak loudly—but he said it with unmistakable decision. While I was wondering whether or not I should knock the fellow down, Atkins came in with a policeman at his heels. It was time.