Parker Pyne Investigates

  VIII

  Mr Roberts was sitting in front of a gas fire. On his knee was a letter from Mr Parker Pyne. It enclosed a cheque for fifty pounds ‘from certain people who are delighted with the way a certain commission was executed.’

  On the arm of his chair was a library book. Mr Roberts opened it at random. ‘She crouched against the door like a beautiful, hunted creature at bay.’

  Well, he knew all about that.

  He read another sentence: ‘He sniffed the air. The faint, sickly odour of chloroform came to his nostrils.’

  That he knew all about too.

  ‘He caught her in his arms and felt the responsive quiver of her scarlet lips.’

  Mr Roberts gave a sigh. It wasn’t a dream. It had all happened. The journey out had been dull enough, but the journey home! He had enjoyed it. But he was glad to be home again. He felt vaguely that life could not be lived indefinitely at such a pace. Even the Grand Duchess Olga–even that last kiss–partook already of the unreal quality of a dream.

  Mary and the children would be home tomorrow. Mr Roberts smiled happily.

  She would say: ‘We’ve had such a nice holiday. I hated thinking of you all alone here, poor old boy.’ And he’d say: ‘That’s all right, old girl. I had to go to Geneva for the firm on business–delicate bit of negotiations–and look what they’ve sent me.’ And he’d show her the cheque for fifty pounds.

  He thought of the Order of St Stanislaus, tenth class with laurels. He’d hidden it, but supposing Mary found it! It would take a bit of explaining…

  Ah, that was it–he’d tell her he’d picked it up abroad. A curio.

  He opened his book again and read happily. No longer was there a wistful expression on his face.

  He, too, was of that glorious company to whom Things Happened.

  The Case of the Rich Woman

  I

  The name of Mrs Abner Rymer was brought to Mr Parker Pyne. He knew the name and he raised his eyebrows.

  Presently his client was shown into the room.

  Mrs Rymer was a tall woman, big-boned. Her figure was ungainly and the velvet dress and the heavy fur coat she wore did not disguise the fact. The knuckles of her large hands were pronounced. Her face was big and broad and highly coloured. Her black hair was fashionably dressed, and there were many tips of curled ostrich in her hat.

  She plumped herself down on a chair with a nod. ‘Good-morning,’ she said. Her voice had a rough accent. ‘If you’re any good at all you’ll tell me how to spend my money!’

  ‘Most original,’ murmured Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Few ask me that in these days. So you really find it difficult, Mrs Rymer?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said the lady bluntly. ‘I’ve got three fur coats, a lot of Paris dresses and such like. I’ve got a car and a house in Park Lane. I’ve had a yacht but I don’t like the sea. I’ve got a lot of those high-class servants that look down their nose at you. I’ve travelled a bit and seen foreign parts. And I’m blessed if I can think of anything more to buy or do.’ She looked hopefully at Mr Pyne.

  ‘There are hospitals,’ he said.

  ‘What? Give it away, you mean? No, that I won’t do! That money was worked for, let me tell you, worked for hard. If you think I’m going to hand it out like so much dirt–well, you’re mistaken. I want to spend it; spend it and get some good out of it. Now, if you’ve got any ideas that are worthwhile in that line, you can depend on a good fee.’

  ‘Your proposition interests me,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘You do not mention a country house.’

  ‘I forgot it, but I’ve got one. Bores me to death.’

  ‘You must tell me more about yourself. Your problem is not easy to solve.’

  ‘I’ll tell you and willing. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve come from. Worked in a farmhouse, I did, when I was a girl. Hard work it was too. Then I took up with Abner–he was a workman in the mills near by. He courted me for eight years, and then we got married.’

  ‘And you were happy?’ asked Mr Pyne.

  ‘I was. He was a good man to me, Abner. We had a hard struggle of it, though; he was out of a job twice, and children coming along. Four we had, three boys and a girl. And none of them lived to grow up. I dare say it would have been different if they had.’ Her face softened; looked suddenly younger.

  ‘His chest was weak–Abner’s was. They wouldn’t take him for the war. He did well at home. He was made foreman. He was a clever fellow, Abner. He worked out a process. They treated him fair, I will say; gave him a good sum for it. He used that money for another idea of his. That brought in money hand over fist. It’s still coming in.

  ‘Mind you, it was rare fun at first. Having a house and a tip-top bathroom and servants of one’s own. No more cooking and scrubbing and washing to do. Just sit back on your silk cushions in the drawing-room and ring the bell for tea–like any countess might! Grand fun it was, and we enjoyed it. And then we came up to London. I went to swell dressmakers for my clothes. We went to Paris and the Riviera. Rare fun it was.’

  ‘And then,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

  ‘We got used to it, I suppose,’ said Mrs Rymer. ‘After a bit it didn’t seem so much fun. Why, there were days when we didn’t even fancy our meals properly–us, with any dish we fancied to choose from! As for baths–well, in the end, one bath a day’s enough for anyone. And Abner’s health began to worry him. Paid good money to doctors, we did, but they couldn’t do anything. They tried this and they tried that. But it was no use. He died.’ She paused. ‘He was a young man, only forty-three.’

  Mr Pyne nodded sympathetically.

  ‘That was five years ago. Money’s still rolling in. It seems wasteful not to be able to do anything with it. But as I tell you, I can’t think of anything else to buy that I haven’t got already.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Mr Pyne, ‘your life is dull. You are not enjoying it.’

  ‘I’m sick of it,’ said Mrs Rymer gloomily. ‘I’ve no friends. The new lot only want subscriptions, and they laugh at me behind my back. The old lot won’t have anything to do with me. My rolling up in a car makes them shy. Can you do anything or suggest anything?’

  ‘It is possible that I can,’ said Mr Pyne slowly. ‘It will be difficult, but I believe there is a chance of success. I think it’s possible I can give you back what you have lost–your interest in life.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Mrs Rymer curtly.

  ‘That,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, ‘is my professional secret. I never disclose my methods beforehand. The question is, will you take a chance? I do not guarantee success, but I do think there is a reasonable possibility of it.

  ‘I shall have to adopt unusual methods, and therefore it will be expensive. My charges will be one thousand pounds, payable in advance.’

  ‘You can open your mouth all right, can’t you?’ said Mrs Rymer appreciatively. ‘Well, I’ll risk it. I’m used to paying top price. Only, when I pay for a thing, I take good care that I get it.’

  ‘You shall get it,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Never fear.’

  ‘I’ll send you the cheque this evening,’ said Mrs Rymer, rising. ‘I’m sure I don’t know why I should trust you. Fools and their money are soon parted, they say. I dare say I’m a fool. You’ve got nerve, to advertise in all the papers that you can make people happy!’

  ‘Those advertisements cost me money,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘If I could not make my words good, that money would be wasted. I know what causes unhappiness, and consequently I have a clear idea of how to produce an opposite condition.’

  Mrs Rymer shook her head doubtfully and departed, leaving a cloud of expensive mixed essences behind her.

  The handsome Claude Luttrell strolled into the office. ‘Something in my line?’

  Mr Pyne shook his head. ‘Nothing so simple,’ he said. ‘No, this is a difficult case. We must, I fear, take a few risks. We must attempt the unusual.’

  ‘Mrs Oliver?’

  Mr Pyne smiled at the mention of the world-famous novelist. ‘Mrs
Oliver,’ he said, ‘is really the most conventional of all of us. I have in mind a bold and audacious coup. By the way, you might ring up Dr Antrobus.’

  ‘Antrobus?’ ‘Yes. His services will be needed.’

  II

  A week later Mrs Rymer once more entered Mr Parker Pyne’s office. He rose to receive her.

  ‘This delay, I assure you, has been necessary,’ he said. ‘Many things had to be arranged, and I had to secure the services of an unusual man who had to come half-across Europe.’

  ‘Oh!’ She said it suspiciously. It was constantly present in her mind that she had paid out a cheque for a thousand pounds and the cheque had been cashed.

  Mr Parker Pyne touched a buzzer. A young girl, dark, Oriental looking, but dressed in white nurse’s kit, answered it.

  ‘Is everything ready, Nurse de Sara?’

  ‘Yes. Doctor Constantine is waiting.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Mrs Rymer with a touch of uneasiness.

  ‘Introduce you to some Eastern magic, dear lady,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

  ‘Mrs Rymer followed the nurse up to the next floor. Here she was ushered into a room that bore no relation to the rest of the house. Oriental embroideries covered the walls. There were divans with soft cushions and beautiful rugs on the floor. A man was bending over a coffee-pot. He straightened as they entered.

  ‘Doctor Constantine,’ said the nurse.

  The doctor was dressed in European clothes, but his face was swarthy and his eyes were dark and oblique with a peculiarly piercing power in their glance.

  ‘So this is my patient?’ he said in a low, vibrant voice.

  ‘I’m not a patient,’ said Mrs Rymer.

  ‘Your body is not sick,’ said the doctor, ‘but your soul is weary. We of the East know how to cure that disease. Sit down and drink a cup of coffee.’

  Mrs Rymer sat down and accepted a tiny cup of the fragrant brew. As she sipped it the doctor talked.

  ‘Here in the West, they treat only the body. A mistake. The body is only the instrument. A tune is played upon it. It may be a sad, weary tune. It may be a gay tune full of delight. The last is what we shall give you. You have money. You shall spend it and enjoy. Life shall be worth living again. It is easy–easy–so easy…’

  A feeling of languor crept over Mrs Rymer. The figures of the doctor and the nurse grew hazy. She felt blissfully happy and very sleepy. The doctor’s figure grew bigger. The whole world was growing bigger.

  The doctor was looking into her eyes. ‘Sleep,’ he was saying. ‘Sleep. Your eyelids are closing. Soon you will sleep. You will sleep. You will sleep…’

  Mrs Rymer’s eyelids closed. She floated with a wonderful great big world…

  III

  When her eyes opened it seemed to her that a long time had passed. She remembered several things vaguely–strange, impossible dreams; then a feeling of waking; then further dreams. She remembered something about a car and the dark, beautiful girl in a nurse’s uniform bending over her.

  Anyway, she was properly awake now, and in her own bed.

  At least, was it her own bed? It felt different. It lacked the delicious softness of her own bed. It was vaguely reminiscent of days almost forgotten. She moved, and it creaked. Mrs Rymer’s bed in Park Lane never creaked.

  She looked round. Decidedly, this was not Park Lane. Was it a hospital? No, she decided, not a hospital. Nor was it a hotel. It was a bare room, the walls an uncertain shade of lilac. There was a deal wash-stand with a jug and basin upon it. There was a deal chest of drawers and a tin trunk. There were unfamiliar clothes hanging on pegs. There was the bed covered with a much-mended quilt and there was herself in it.

  ‘Where am I?’ said Mrs Rymer.

  The door opened and a plump little woman bustled in. She had red cheeks and a good-humoured air. Her sleeves were rolled up and she wore an apron.

  ‘There!’ she exclaimed. ‘She’s awake. Come in, doctor.’

  Mrs Rymer opened her mouth to say several things–but they remained unsaid, for the man who followed the plump woman into the room was not in the least like the elegant, swarthy Doctor Constantine. He was a bent old man who peered through thick glasses.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, advancing to the bed and taking up Mrs Rymer’s wrist. ‘You’ll soon be better now, my dear.’

  ‘What’s been the matter with me?’ demanded Mrs Rymer.

  ‘You had a kind of seizure,’ said the doctor. ‘You’ve been unconscious for a day or two. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Gave us a fright you did, Hannah,’ said the plump woman. ‘You’ve been raving too, saying the oddest things.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Mrs Gardner,’ said the doctor repressively. ‘But we musn’t excite the patient. You’ll soon be up and about again, my dear.’

  ‘But don’t you worry about the work, Hannah.’ said Mrs Gardner. ‘Mrs Roberts has been in to give me a hand and we’ve got on fine. Just lie still and get well, my dear.’

  ‘Why do you call me Hannah?’ said Mrs Rymer.

  ‘Well, it’s your name,’ said Mrs Gardner, bewildered.

  ‘No, it isn’t. My name is Amelia. Amelia Rymer. Mrs Abner Rymer.’

  The doctor and Mrs Gardner exchanged glances.

  ‘Well, just you lie still,’ said Mrs Gardner.

  ‘Yes, yes; no worry,’ said the doctor.

  They withdrew. Mrs Rymer lay puzzling. Why did they call her Hannah, and why had they exchanged that glance of amused incredulity when she had given them her name? Where was she and what had happened?

  She slipped out of bed. She felt a little uncertain on her legs, but she walked slowly to the small dormer window and looked out–on a farmyard! Completely mystified, she went back to bed. What was she doing in a farmhouse that she had never seen before?

  Mrs Gardner re-entered the room with a bowl of soup on a tray.

  Mrs Rymer began her questions. ‘What am I doing in this house?’ she demanded. ‘Who brought me here?’

  ‘Nobody brought you, my dear. It’s your home. Leastways, you’ve lived here for the last five years–and me not suspecting once that you were liable to fits.’

  ‘Lived here! Five years?’

  ‘That’s right. Why, Hannah, you don’t mean that you still don’t remember?’

  ‘I’ve never lived here! I’ve never seen you before.’

  ‘You see, you’ve had this illness and you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘I’ve never lived here.’

  ‘But you have, my dear.’ Suddenly Mrs Gardner darted across to the chest of drawers and brought to Mrs Rymer a faded photograph in a frame.

  It represented a group of four persons: a bearded man, a plump woman (Mrs Gardner), a tall, lank man with a pleasantly sheepish grin, and somebody in a print dress and apron–herself!

  Stupefied, Mrs Rymer gazed at the photograph. Mrs Gardner put the soup down beside her and quietly left the room.

  Mrs Rymer sipped the soup mechanically. It was good soup, strong and hot. All the time her brain was in a whirl. Who was mad? Mrs Gardner or herself? One of them must be! But there was the doctor too.

  ‘I’m Amelia Rymer,’ she said firmly to herself. ‘I know I’m Amelia Rymer and nobody’s going to tell me different.’

  She had finished the soup. She put the bowl back on the tray. A folded newspaper caught her eye and she picked it up and looked at the date on it, October 19. What day had she gone to Mr Parker Pyne’s office? Either the fifteenth or the sixteenth. Then she must have been ill for three days.

  ‘That rascally doctor!’ said Mrs Rymer wrathfully.

  All the same, she was a shade relieved. She had heard of cases where people had forgotten who they were for years at a time. She had been afraid some such thing had happened to her.

  She began turning the pages of the paper, scanning the columns idly, when suddenly a paragraph caught her eye.

  Mrs Abner Rymer, widow of Abner Rymer, the ‘button shank’ king, was removed yesterday to a
private home for mental cases. For the past two days she has persisted in declaring she was not herself, but a servant girl named Hannah Moorhouse.

  ‘Hannah Moorhouse! So that’s it,’ said Mrs Rymer. ‘She’s me and I’m her. Kind of double, I suppose. Well, we can soon put that right! If that oily hypocrite of a Parker Pyne is up to some game or other–’

  But at this minute her eye was caught by the name Constantine staring at her from the printed page. This time it was a headline.

  DR CONSTANTINE’S CLAIM

  At a farewell lecture given last night on the eve of his departure for Japan, Dr Claudius Constantine advanced some startling theories. He declared that it was possible to prove the existence of the soul by transferring a soul from one body to another. In the course of his experiments in the East he had, he claimed, successfully effected a double transfer–the soul of a hypnotized body A being transferred to a hypnotized body B and the soul of body B to the soul of body A. On recovering from the hypnotic sleep, A declared herself to be B, and B thought herself to be A. For the experiment to succeed, it was necessary to find two people with a great bodily resemblance. It was an undoubted fact that two people resembling each other were en rapport. This was very noticeable in the case of twins, but two strangers, varying widely in social position, but with a marked similarity of feature, were found to exhibit the same harmony of structure.

  Mrs Rymer cast the paper from her. ‘The scoundrel! The black scoundrel!’

  She saw the whole thing now! It was a dastardly plot to get hold of her money. This Hannah Moorhouse was Mr Pyne’s tool–possibly an innocent one. He and that devil Constantine had brought off this fantastic coup.

  But she’d expose him! She’d show him up! She’d have the law on him! She’d tell everyone–

  Abruptly Mrs Rymer came to a stop in the tide of her indignation. She remembered the first paragraph. Hannah Moorhouse had not been a docile tool. She had protested; had declared her individuality. And what had happened?