Throughout this time, Walter Craig pursued his own work doggedly, though mechanically, and endured rather than enjoyed his obscure life.
Silas Webb became a Fellow of the Royal Society and a knighthood came to him, as well as a large number of honorary degrees from illustrious universities round the world. But he held no university post himself, and seemed not to be pursuing further research. Rumour had it that he was devoting his energies to an important book. He never acknowledged Craig or referred to the time he had spent under his tutelage.
Craig forgot and forgave nothing, only occasionally allowing himself a bitter outburst against his former pupil when he was by himself, during which he sometimes gave voice to wild threats of revenge.
He was too much alone and had too much time for brooding. But during his early years in London, an old acquaintance had put him up for membership of the Tabor Club, thinking that Craig was a stranger in the place and would enjoy meeting others, including, in all probability, members of his own profession. The man acted more in hope than expectation, knowing Walter as he did, but in fact Craig took to the club and enjoyed quiet evenings dining there alone, sitting over a book, or even engaging in conversation, though he was always more of a listener than a talker and many who sat with him over a late drink were given no idea of his occupation. He was generally taken for a retired lawyer.
He came into the club one evening in time to have a drink over the evening paper, and then dine alone. It was a wet London night and a taxi cab had driven hard through a deep kerbside puddle, splashing his trousers. He paused on the first landing to check that his shoes were not also full of water. Just ahead of him, the door to one of the card rooms had been opened, and left for a moment, by a servant carrying in a laden tray. The room glowed like a tableau, lit from within. Six green baize-topped tables were set out, with four players at each, their faces like those in some old Dutch master, shadowed behind but with their features brilliant in the light. As Craig glanced through the open door, he saw that the man at the nearest table, and immediately opposite him, was Silas Webb. He looked sleeker, ruddier, more prosperous and filled-out than when he had last seen him but it was unmistakeably Webb.
The door closed.
Because he had been looking into the dimness of the landing outside, beyond the card room, the man could not have made him out, Craig reasoned, even if he had not been studying his cards.
Craig had never seen him in the club before and he would surely have done so if Webb had been a full member.
As he climbed the final flight of stairs to the small library, he met the senior steward coming down.
‘Good evening, Dr Craig.’
On impulse, Craig stopped him and asked if knew Sir Silas Webb.
‘Indeed, yes. In fact he is in the card room now, guest of Lord Mullivan. I could take any message you may have to him, in the game break.’
Craig shrank back, saying that he had merely wanted to check. ‘An embarrassment, you know, to mistake a man for another. I don’t think I have come across him in the club before.’
‘Sir Silas is a guest and staying with us tonight, as the card gentlemen usually play late. As a matter of fact I will be up in a few minutes, to brush out his room.’
Walter’s face must have registered surprise that the head steward worked as one of the cleaners, because the man smiled.
‘It is not quite what you would understand by “brushing out”, sir. Sir Silas has a fear of moths and at this time of year, moths do tend to be about, as you will know, so he likes to have his room inspected and brushed out thoroughly before he retires. We have several domestic staff off tonight with this wretched influenza, so I am happy to oblige.’ He lowered his voice, looking conspiratorial. ‘With other gentleman, you know, it is spiders.’
A couple of members came up the stairs towards them and the steward hurried away.
In the small library, having ordered his customary dry sherry, Craig concealed himself behind the evening newspaper and thought about what he had been told. Webb had never shown a fear of anything when he had worked as his assistant, though he had had a horror of chalk screeching on blackboard and would wince if he heard it. But he had never complained or suggested that the use of small blackboards for making quick calculations and then erasing them, be abandoned. Perhaps he felt rather more important now, a man who was confident in ordering that his room should be brushed out before he slept in it. Craig would have sympathised with anyone else who suffered from such phobias but he had nothing but bad feeling towards Webb.
Over his dinner, sitting alone at a corner table, he thought about it to the exclusion of anything else, and when he had finished, instead of returning to the library, he took the lift to the club’s top floor, on the west side, in which the dozen guest rooms were situated. All the doors were closed, save for one at the far end, from which light slanted into the corridor and he could hear the soft sound of a brush sweeping slowly to and fro. He looked in and saw the steward patiently moving it up and down the walls, over the furniture and down the curtains. The man glanced up and asked if he could help.
‘I just came up to see if you would very kindly show me a couple of these guest rooms, Mr Potts? I have an old friend coming up to town who might wish to stay a night, but between us, he is quite particular.’
‘You’re welcome to see in here, Dr Craig, I have all but finished, and then I can show you Room Eight, which is vacant tonight, and which has a different aspect. When might your friend wish to stay with us, sir? We do become very busy up to Christmas.’
‘No, no, it would not be before then. Thank you.’
Craig had stepped into the middle of the room which Silas Webb would occupy that night. It was quite large and though the furnishings were old-fashioned, everything was well appointed and comfortable. An overcoat hung behind the door and a pair of shoes was placed in front of the wardrobe. In the bathroom, he noted that a sponge bag was monogrammed, S.W. Otherwise, there was nothing personal save an old leather travelling bag on the luggage stand, resembling a doctor’s Gladstone bag, sturdy and well used.
He suffered the steward to show him round the vacant Room Eight, feigning interest, before he returned to the small library and a glass of brandy. Walter had always avoided thinking about Silas Webb. If he had ever come upon his name in reference to some new honour or award bestowed upon him, he did not allow himself to dwell upon it, knowing that it would only distract him, and embitter him further. He could do nothing, prove nothing. He had much better turn away.
Tonight, however, all the anger and resentment at his own betrayal, and at Silas Webb’s rise to the top of the tree, boiled up inside him. He rang for a second brandy, which was something he rarely did, but he needed to calm himself and stop his hands trembling. His life had been blighted and his career set back, by an illness for which no one was to blame. But Webb had taken advantage of his long absences to steal his ideas, theories, proofs, and to remove any traces of vital individual, and possibly identifiable, links, after he did so. Without conscience he had presented the work and findings as his own and been rewarded and lauded for it. He had risen, unjustifiably and without shame, to the top of his profession, on the back of another man.
Craig had never regarded titles and honours as especially desirable and he did not covet money, but he was proud, proud of his work and what good its applications might do. He was deeply angry that someone he regarded as a lesser man had achieved recognition for it.
It grew late. He heard voices on the staircase. If he went out there now he might encounter Webb and he had no wish for a confrontation. As he drank his brandy slowly, he allowed the hint of a plan that had entered his mind to ripen, and his pangs of conscience to weaken, until there was no longer anything between him and his determination. He decided to return to the Tabor the following evening, in the hope of catching the head steward, but, as he left now, he met the steward crossing the front hall.
‘Goodnight, Dr Craig.’
‘Steward, I know it is late and I am sure that Sir Silas will have retired …’
‘He has not long gone up, sir, but there is still time for me to take a message to him.’
‘No, no, I don’t wish to have him disturbed, the matter is not urgent, but I wonder – how might I discover when he is staying here next?’
‘He is always here as a guest on card nights and you have only to look in the visitor’s book on the porter’s desk to see if he is staying.’
They parted and Craig found a cab to take him home, nursing both his old hatred and a new-found sense of anticipation.
Three
When the card room door had been left open, Silas Webb had, in fact, caught a glimpse of the man standing on the landing outside. He had not caught Walter Craig’s eye but even a second’s glance had shown him a changed man. And yet, he had thought as the door swung to, perhaps not essentially changed after all. He had always judged Webb to be a grey man, somewhat messy and downtrodden in appearance, and as he turned his attention back to the card table it occurred to him that, clever though he was, Craig had always been destined for ultimate failure, a man who slipped down rather than climbed up. Webb had buried his own part in that failure and fall so deeply that now he barely acknowledged it to himself, but seeing Walter Craig after so many years peeled away his defences and he felt naked and altogether ashamed. The feeling lasted only seconds and by the time he had bent his head to his hand of cards, he had crushed it.
But Craig’s face stayed with him, superimposing itself on those of his fellow players in turn, coming between him and his hand, and following him up to his room in the early hours. He cursed the man, but, as he settled to sleep, he had fully restored his image of himself as a success, and one achieved entirely through his own talent and efforts. If he had not picked up and built upon what he had by now convinced himself were the small beginnings made by Craig, nothing more could possibly have come of them. His own rewards were thoroughly justified.
The small dark worm of shame deep inside him squirmed slightly.
But if he met the man again face to face, he decided that he would acknowledge him.
Four
Several weeks passed, during which Walter Craig made preparations. After that, he had only to wait. He visited the Tabor every night, to dine or to spend an evening in the library, occasionally not to stay but to look in the guestbook. He was a patient man and an unobtrusive one and he drew no one’s attention.
On an evening in early December, he saw the notice on the card room door listing the players in a tournament on the following night. He was ready. Nothing had been left to chance. His task had been surprisingly easy, once he had made enquiries and paid a visit to a house in Surrey. He was given careful instructions. Nothing else was needed.
He had anticipated some setback or complication on the night itself, but none had occurred and he began to feel as if his way had been made straight, eased, because he was in the right and his actions justified. Besides, he was merely making a gesture, perhaps a rather foolish one – at worst he was about to play a prank, nothing more. He had never gone in for practical jokes as a boy but on those odd occasions when he had played one and been successful, he had felt a spasm of the purest joy which had borne him up through many wearisome days.
Tonight, as he entered the club and went straight to the side staircase that led to the upper floor and the guest rooms, he was anticipating that same joy, only flavoured now with the exquisite spice of revenge.
PART TWO
Tom Williams had listened intently to my story so far but now I saw that he yawned. The fire had been topped up twice during the previous hour but just then it collapsed into a soft heap of ash. I stood up. ‘Come on, Tom, home time. My Lady Bishop will be wondering.’
‘No!’ he said, ‘You cannot simply leave the story dangling there. I demand to hear the rest.’
‘Indeed you shall, but another night. I am worn out.’
‘Then let it be tomorrow. I will try to exercise my soul in patience until then. But let me have a hint, something to tease me, a titbit to chew on.’
‘I am engaged tomorrow, but the next night, you can give me dinner and then we will retire to this same corner and I will tell the rather unpleasant conclusion to my tale.’
Five
The death of Sir Silas Webb was reported in the newspapers the day after it occurred but although there were fulsome references to his eminence, honours and awards, the circumstances and manner of his demise were not mentioned, other than to say that the coroner had recorded it as having been due to ‘natural causes’.
In fact, Webb had died of heart failure in a guest room at the Tabor Club some time between ten minutes to two, when he was seen going up to bed at the conclusion of a card game, and seven-fifteen the next morning, when the servant went to wake him with tea. On receiving no reply to his knock, the man entered and found Sir Silas’ body on the floor. He was still fully clothed, in dinner dress, though his black tie was undone and hanging loose, as if he had clutched at it desperately to try to get himself more air.
There was a private funeral and a grand memorial service, attended by hundreds of prominent and eminent men, after which the matter, like Sir Silas, rested.
Some three months later I was writing up case notes at the end of the day when there came a soft knock on the door of my consulting room. I was expecting no one. My last client had left at five and it was now gone six. The lamps were lit in the street and the one on my desk shone onto my papers.
I opened the door to a woman of late middle age, dressed in a violet coat with a fur collar, a small violet hat, and neat black buttoned boots. She was carrying a bag.
‘Dr Roper? I am sorry to arrive without warning but I do hope that you might be able to see me.’
I explained that my working day was over and that it was usual for prospective clients to make an appointment in advance, but she looked both distressed and determined.
‘I understand and I have been on the point of telephoning for some days but every time I have almost done so, I have lost my nerve. It was only by acting on impulse and before I could have second thoughts that I managed to come here today.’
The shoulders of her coat were damp with rain, her face was pale and so wretchedly drawn, with the effects of sleeplessness and worry, that I could not find it in myself to send her away. I indicated a chair and she sat on the edge of it, holding the bag closely to her.
‘I am certain that if anyone can help me, if anyone can find out the truth, it is you, Dr Roper.’
‘I am flattered, though you may well be wrong. I must ask how you have heard of me.’
‘Your name is – known. Friends … people in whom I have confided have told me … I have never seen any form of advertisement.’
‘I do not advertise. I have as much work as I can do coming solely from personal recommendation. But – you know who I am. May I please have your name?’
‘Hesther Webb. My husband – my late husband – was Sir Silas Webb. Perhaps you may have heard of him?’
‘I have and please accept my sympathy, Lady Webb.’
She inclined her head slightly.
‘I am not sure how … what …’ She looked down at her hands which were fidgeting with the gloves she had removed. I waited. She looked up at me, pleading in her eyes.
‘Perhaps it would help if I told you how I work?’
‘Thank you. Yes.’ I could barely hear her.
‘It depends on what exactly it is that you want, what the case concerns and how complex. For example, if a member of your family had gone missing …’
‘I need you to find out the truth about my husband’s death. It was decided quickly that he had died of sudden heart failure – you may know that the Coroner set it down as that. But he had no history of heart weakness and he had not been ill recently, in any way. My husband was rarely ill and never seriously so in the fifteen years I knew him.’
‘Nevertheless,’ I sai
d, as gently as I could, ‘it is perfectly possible for the heart to fail without warning and without any apparent history.’
‘But it feels wrong, so very wrong. I am certain that something happened to him, something which caused his unnatural death.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘That is just the problem, Dr Roper. I have no idea. I am just as sure as I can be that all was not as it seemed.’
‘Are you suggesting that your husband died by – I must speak bluntly – that someone killed him? For that is the only possible explanation for his death, other than natural causes, suicide or accident. Suicide was ruled out, even had he any reason, and so was accident – for example if he had fallen and hit his head – there would have been immediate evidence of that, which would have been picked up by the police and the first examining doctor.’
‘And they found nothing. There were no signs of anything like that having taken place.’
‘If his death was caused by someone else – I speak bluntly again – only in the realms of fiction is it possible to kill another person and leave no trace. Even poison betrays itself. I am sure you have thought about all this, Lady Webb.’
‘I have thought of nothing else, night and day, since my husband died.’
‘Did Sir Silas have any enemies?’
‘Every man who achieves the worldly success and recognition he did must surely attract some dislike … but deadly enemies? No, of course not. No one would have wished him harm, I am quite certain of it.’
‘Then …?’
‘I have nothing to base my suspicions on. No evidence. Nothing other than an inner conviction.’
‘I understand, and our inner convictions are always to be taken seriously, but what would you wish me to do? Others in their official capacity have investigated your husband’s death most thoroughly and I would not dream of casting doubt on the findings of honest professional men.’