CHAPTER II
THE EAVESDROPPER
It is one of the canons of correct conduct, scrupulously adhered to(when convenient) by all well-bred persons, that an acquaintance shouldbe initiated by a proper introduction. To this salutary rule, which Ihave disregarded to the extent of an entire chapter, I now hasten toconform; and the more so inasmuch as nearly two years have passed sincemy first informal appearance.
Permit me then, to introduce Paul Berkeley, M.B., etc., recently--veryrecently--qualified, faultlessly attired in the professional frock-coatand tall hat, and, at the moment of introduction, navigating withanxious care a perilous strait between a row of well-filled coal-sacksand a colossal tray piled high with kidney potatoes.
The passage of this strait landed me on the terra firma of Fleur-de-LysCourt, where I halted for a moment to consult my visiting list. Therewas only one more patient for me to see this morning, and he lived at49, Nevill's Court, wherever that might be. I turned for informationto the presiding deity of the coal shop.
"Can you direct me, Mrs. Jablett, to Nevill's Court?"
She could and she did, grasping me confidentially by the arm (the markremained on my sleeve for weeks) and pointing a shaking forefinger atthe dead wall ahead. "Nevill's Court," said Mrs. Jablett, "is a alley,and you goes into it through a archway. It turns out on Fetter Lane onthe right 'and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings."
I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning roundwas nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite and ofa desire to wash in hot water.
The practice which I was conducting was not my own. It belonged topoor Dick Barnard, an old St. Margaret's man of irrepressible spiritsand indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for atrip down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the curranttrade; and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyageof geographical discovery.
I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow arched opening,bearing the superscription "Nevill's Court," arrested my steps, andhere I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait forthe traveler in London by-ways. Expecting to find the gray squalor ofthe ordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of thearch past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of lightand color--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved bysunlit foliage. In the heart of London a tree is always a delightfulsurprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers.The narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with theirwooden palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaintand sober rusticity; and even as I entered, a bevy of workgirls, withgaily-colored blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened upthe quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summerhedgerow.
In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved withwhat looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found tobe old-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I wasmeditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who hadthus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps or an author, orperchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seekinginscribed on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell orknocker, so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door open and entered.
But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a positivewonder, a dream. Here, within earshot of the rumble of Fleet Street, Iwas in an old-fashioned garden enclosed by high walls and, now that thegate was shut, cut off from all sight and knowledge of the urban worldthat seethed without. I stood and gazed in delighted astonishment.Sun-gilded trees and flower beds gay with blossom; lupins, snapdragons,nasturtiums, spiry foxgloves, and mighty hollyhocks formed theforeground; over which a pair of sulphur-tinted butterflies flitted,unmindful of a buxom and miraculously clean white cat which pursuedthem, dancing across the borders and clapping her snowy pawsfruitlessly in mid-air. And the background was no less wonderful; agrand old house, dark-eaved and venerable, that must have looked downon this garden when ruffled dandies were borne in sedan chairs throughthe court, and gentle Izaak Walton, stealing forth from his shop inFleet Street, strolled up Fetter Lane to "go a-angling" at Temple Mills.
So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that my hand was on thebottom knob of a row of bell-pulls before I recollected myself; and itwas not until a most infernal jangling from within recalled me to mybusiness that I observed underneath it a small brass plate inscribed"Miss Oman."
The door opened with some suddenness and a short, middle-aged womansurveyed me hungrily.
"Have I rung the wrong bell?" I asked--foolishly enough, I must admit.
"How can I tell?" she demanded. "I expect you have. It's the sort ofthing a man would do--ring the wrong bell and then say he's sorry."
"I didn't go as far as that," I retorted. "It seems to have had thedesired effect, and I've made your acquaintance into the bargain."
"Whom do you want to see?" she asked.
"Mr. Bellingham."
"Are you the doctor?"
"I'm _a_ doctor."
"Follow me upstairs," said Miss Oman, "and don't tread on the paint."
I crossed the spacious hall, and preceded by my conductress, ascended anoble oak staircase, treading carefully on a ribbon of matting that ranup the middle. On the first-floor landing Miss Oman opened a door and,pointing to the room, said, "Go in there and wait; I'll tell her you'rehere."
"I said _Mr._ Bellingham--" I began; but the door slammed on me, andMiss Oman's footsteps retreated rapidly down the stairs.
It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very awkward position.The room into which I had been shown communicated with another, andthough the door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly aware ofa conversation that was taking place in the adjoining room. At first,indeed, only a vague mutter, with a few disjointed phrases, camethrough the door, but suddenly an angry voice rang out clear andpainfully distinct.
"Yes, I did! And I say it again. Bribery! Collusion! That's what itamounts to. You want to square me!"
"Nothing of the kind, Godfrey," was the reply in a lower tone; but atthis point I coughed emphatically and moved a chair, and the voicessubsided once more into an indistinct murmur.
To distract my attention from my unseen neighbors I glanced curiouslyabout the room and speculated upon the personalities of its occupants.A very curious room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayedsplendor and old-world dignity; a room full of interest and characterand of contrasts and perplexing contradictions. For the most part itspoke of unmistakable though decent poverty. It was nearly bare offurniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest--a smallkitchen table and three Windsor chairs (two of them with arms); athreadbare string carpet on the floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on thetable; these, with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed ofgrocer's boxes, formed the entire suite. And yet, despite its poverty,the place exhaled an air of homely if rather ascetic comfort, and thetaste was irreproachable. The quiet russet of the table-cloth struck apleasant harmony with the subdued bluish green of the worn carpet; theWindsor chairs and the legs of the table had been carefully denuded oftheir glaring varnish and stained a sober brown: and the austerity ofthe whole was relieved by a ginger jar filled with fresh-cut flowersand set in the middle of the table.
But the contrasts of which I have spoken were most singular andpuzzling. There were the bookshelves, for instance, home made andstained at the cost of a few pence, but filled with recent and costlynew works on archeology and ancient art. There were the objects on themantelpiece: a facsimile in bronze--not bronze plaster--of thebeautiful head of Hypnos and a pair of fine Ushabti figures. Therewere the decorations of the walls, a number of etchings--signed proofs,every one of them--of Oriental subjects, and a splendid facsimilereproduction of an Egyptian papyrus. It was incongruous in theextreme, this mingling of costly refinements with the barest andshabbiest necessaries of life, of fastidious culture with ma
nifestpoverty. I could make nothing of it. What manner of man, I wondered,was this new patient of mine? Was he a miser, hiding himself and hiswealth in this obscure court? An eccentric savant? A philosopher?Or--more probably--a crank? But at this point my meditations wereinterrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, once more raised inanger.
"But I say that you _are_ making an accusation! You are implying thatI made away with him."
"Not at all," was the reply; "but I repeat that it is your business toascertain what has become of him. The responsibility rests upon you."
"Upon me!" rejoined the first voice. "And what about you? Yourposition is a pretty fishy one if it comes to that."
"What!" roared the other. "Do you insinuate that I murdered my ownbrother?"
During this amazing colloquy I had stood gaping with sheerastonishment. Suddenly I recollected myself, and dropping into achair, set my elbows on my knees and clapped my hands over my ears; andthus I must have remained for a full minute when I became aware of theclosing of a door behind me.
I sprang to my feet and turned in some embarrassment (for I must havelooked unspeakably ridiculous) to confront the somber figure of arather tall and strikingly handsome girl, who, as she stood with herhand on the knob of the door, saluted me with a formal bow. In aninstantaneous glance I noted how perfectly she matched her strangesurroundings. Black-robed, black-haired, with black-gray eyes and agrave sad face of ivory pallor, she stood, like one of old Terborch'sportraits, a harmony in tones so low as to be but one step removed frommonochrome. Obviously a lady in spite of the worn and rusty dress, andsomething in the poise of the head and the set of the straight browshinted at a spirit that adversity had hardened rather than broken.
"I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting," she said; andas she spoke a certain softening at the corners of the austere mouthreminded me of the absurd position in which she had found me.
I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence whatever; thatI had, in fact, been rather glad of the rest; and I was beginningsomewhat vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the voicefrom the adjoining room again broke forth with hideous distinctness.
"I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind! Why, confound you, it'snothing less than a conspiracy that your [Transcriber's note: you're?]proposing!"
Miss Bellingham--as I assumed her to be--stepped quickly across thefloor, flushing angrily, as well she might; but, as she reached thedoor, it flew open and a small, spruce, middle-aged man burst into theroom.
"Your father is mad, Ruth!" he exclaimed; "absolutely stark mad! And Irefuse to hold any further communication with him."
"The present interview was not of his seeking," Miss Bellingham repliedcoldly.
"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it was my mistakengenerosity. But there--what is the use of talking? I've done my bestfor you and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can findmy way. Good-morning." With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, thespeaker strode out of the room, banging the door after him.
"I must apologize for this extraordinary reception," said MissBellingham; "but I believe medical men are not easily astonished. Iwill introduce you to your patient now." She opened the door and, as Ifollowed her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is anothervisitor for you, dear. Doctor----"
"Berkeley," said I. "I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard."
The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped upin bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand,which I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.
"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Bellingham. "I hope Doctor Barnard isnot ill."
"Oh, no," I answered; "he has gone for a trip down the Mediterranean ona currant ship. The chance occurred rather suddenly, and I bustled himoff before he had time to change his mind. Hence my ratherunceremonious appearance, which I hope you will forgive."
"Not at all," was the hearty response. "I'm delighted to hear that yousent him off; he wanted a holiday, poor man. And I am delighted tomake your acquaintance, too."
"It is very good of you," I said; whereupon he bowed as gracefully as aman may who is propped up in bed with a heap of pillows; and havingthus exchanged broadsides of civility, so to speak, we--or, at least,I--proceeded to business.
"How long have you been laid up?" I asked cautiously, not wishing tomake too evident the fact that my principal had given me no informationrespecting his case.
"A week to-day," he replied. "The _fons et origo mali_ was ahansom-cab which upset me opposite the Law Courts--sent me sprawling inthe middle of the road. My own fault, of course--at least, the cabbysaid so, and I suppose he knew. But that was no consolation to me."
"Were you hurt much?"
"No, not really; but the fall bruised my knee rather badly and gave mea deuce of a shake up. I'm too old for that sort of thing, you know."
"Most people are," said I.
"True; but you can take a cropper more gracefully at twenty than atfifty-five. However, the knee is getting on quite well--you shall seeit presently--and you observe that I am giving it complete rest. Butthat isn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it. It's myconfounded nerves. I'm as irritable as the devil and as nervous as acat. And I can't get a decent night's rest."
I recalled the tremulous hand that he had offered me. He did not looklike a drinker, but still----
"Do you smoke much?" I inquired diplomatically.
He looked at me slyly and chuckled. "That's a very delicate way toapproach the subject, Doctor," he said. "No, I don't smoke much, and Idon't crook my little finger. I saw you look at my shaky hand justnow--oh, it's all right; I'm not offended. It's a doctor's business tokeep his eyelids lifting. But my hand is steady enough as a rule, whenI'm not upset, but the least excitement sets me shaking like a jelly.And the fact is that I have just had a deucedly unpleasantinterview----"
"I think," Miss Bellingham interrupted, "Doctor Berkeley and, indeed,the neighborhood at large, are aware of the fact."
Mr. Bellingham laughed rather shamefacedly. "I'm afraid I did lose mytemper," he said; "but I am an impulsive old fellow, Doctor, and whenI'm put out I'm apt to speak my mind--a little too bluntly perhaps."
"And audibly," his daughter added. "Do you know that Doctor Berkeleywas reduced to the necessity of stopping his ears?" She glanced at meas she spoke, with something like a twinkle in her solemn gray eyes.
"Did I shout?" Mr. Bellingham asked, not very contritely, I thought,though he added: "I'm very sorry, my dear; but it won't happen again.I think we've seen the last of that good gentleman."
"I am sure I hope so," she rejoined, adding: "And now I will leave youto your talk; I shall be in the next room if you should want me."
I opened the door for her, and when she had passed out with a stifflittle bow I seated myself by the bedside and resumed the consultation.It was evidently a case of nervous breakdown, to which the cab accidenthad, no doubt, contributed. As to the other antecedents, they were ofno concern of mine, though Mr. Bellingham seemed to think otherwise,for he resumed: "That cab business was the last straw, you know, and itfinished me off, but I have been going down the hill for a long time.I've had a lot of trouble during the last two years. But I suppose Ioughtn't to pester you with the details of my personal affairs."
"Anything that bears on your present state of health is of interest tome if you don't mind telling it," I said.
"Mind!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever meet an invalid who didn't enjoytalking about his own health? It's the listener who minds, as a rule."
"Well, the present listener doesn't," I said.
"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "I'll treat myself to the luxury oftelling you all my troubles; I don't often get the chance of aconfidential grumble to a responsible man of my own class. And Ireally have some excuses for railing at Fortune, as you will agree whenI tell you that, a couple of years ago, I went to bed one night agentleman of
independent means and excellent prospects and woke up inthe morning to find myself practically a beggar. Not a cheerfulexperience that, you know, at my time of life, eh?"
"No," I agreed, "nor at any other."
"And that was not all," he continued; "for at the same moment I lost mybrother, my dearest, kindest friend. He disappeared--vanished off theface of the earth; but perhaps you have heard of the affair. Theconfounded papers were full of it at the time."
He paused abruptly, noticing, no doubt, a sudden change in my face. Ofcourse I recollected the case now. Indeed, ever since I had enteredthe house some chord of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now hislast words had struck out the full note.
"Yes," I said, "I remember the incident, though I don't suppose Ishould but for the fact that our lecturer on medical jurisprudence drewmy attention to it."
"Indeed," said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as I fancied. "Whatdid he say about it?"
"He referred to it as a case that was calculated to give rise to somevery pretty legal complications."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Bellingham, "that man was a prophet! Legalcomplications, indeed! But I'll be bound he never guessed at the sortof infernal tangle that has actually gathered round the affair. By theway, what was his name?"
"Thorndyke," I replied. "Doctor John Thorndyke."
"Thorndyke," Mr. Bellingham repeated in a musing, retrospective tone."I seem to remember the name. Yes, of course. I have heard a legalfriend of mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the caseof a man whom I knew slightly years ago--a certain Jeffrey Blackmore,who also disappeared very mysteriously. I remember now that Dr.Thorndyke unraveled that case with most remarkable ingenuity."
"I daresay he would be very much interested to hear about your case," Isuggested.
"I daresay he would," was the reply; "but one can't take up aprofessional man's time for nothing, and I couldn't afford to pay him.And that reminds me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping aboutpurely personal affairs."
"My morning round is finished," said I, "and, moreover, your personalaffairs are highly interesting. I suppose I mustn't ask what is thenature of the legal entanglement?"
"Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day andgo home a raving lunatic. But I'll tell you this much: the trouble isabout my poor brother's will. In the first place it can't beadministered because there is not sufficient evidence that my brotheris dead; and in the second place, if it could, all the property wouldgo to people who were never intended to benefit. The will itself isthe most diabolically exasperating document that was ever produced bythe perverted ingenuity of a wrongheaded man. That's all. Will youhave a look at my knee?"
As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a rapid _crescendo_ andending almost in a shout) had left him purple-faced and trembling, Ithought it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly I proceededto inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and to overhaulmy patient generally; and having given him detailed instructions as tohis general conduct, I rose and took my leave.
"And remember," I said as I shook his hand, "No tobacco, no coffee, noexcitement of any kind. Lead a quiet, bovine life."
"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but supposing people come hereand excite me?"
"Disregard them," said I, "and read _Whitaker's Almanack_." And withthis parting advice I passed out into the other room.
Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile of blue-coverednotebooks before her, two of which were open, displaying pages closelywritten in a small, neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and lookedat me inquiringly.
"I heard you advising my father to read _Whitaker's Almanack_," shesaid. "Was that a curative measure?"
"Entirely," I replied. "I recommended it for its medicinal virtues, asan antidote to mental excitement."
She smiled faintly. "It certainly is not a highly emotional book," shesaid, and then asked: "Have you any other instructions to give?"
"Well, I might give the conventional advice--to maintain a cheerfuloutlook and avoid worry; but I don't suppose you would find it veryhelpful."
"No," she answered bitterly; "it is a counsel of perfection. People inour position are not a very cheerful class, I'm afraid; but still theydon't seek out worries from sheer perverseness. The worries comeunsought. But, of course, you can't enter into that."
"I can't give any practical help, I fear, though I do sincerely hopethat you father's affairs will straighten themselves out soon."
She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied me down to the streetdoor, where, with a bow and a rather stiff handshake, she gave me my_conge_.
Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on my ears as I cameout through the archway, and very squalid and unrestful the littlestreet looked when contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet ofthe old garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and wallsmade hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards in sham gilt frames, itsaspect was so revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction,and was still busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy,Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.