Authors: David Pirie
The Night Calls (5 page)
I was still pondering this problem when Bell returned from talking to the first victim. Together we watched the waiter being carried out to the police cab as a large man with whiskers and an official manner entered the premises. This was Inspector Beecher, who seemed in excellent spirits for he nodded to me, even though I knew quite well that my presence on the earlier case had irritated him.
‘Well, Bell,’ he smiled. ‘Judging by the business upstairs this seems to involve your mysterious assailant.’
‘I agree,’ said Bell guardedly.
‘Then you must also agree your anxieties about the man appear to have singularly little foundation. He is only a drunken waiter, so drunk in fact that he made a very ineffectual attacker.’
Bell looked at Beecher without expression. ‘I do not believe that Miss Morrison upstairs thinks he was ineffectual. Nor was his weapon.’
‘Ah, the weapon,’ said Beecher with irritation. ‘You will always seize on any awkward little points. It is true we have not found it yet. But you cannot deny the man’s drunkenness. No doubt he had more brandy after his encounter with Miss Morrison, which would explain why his second attack was less calculated.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Bell, ‘I have already looked at the statements and, according to several witnesses, the waiter you have locked up was deeply intoxicated for hours. It was why the chambermaid was trying to avoid him. He had courted her for months and had been rejected in favour of a local shopkeeper. Now, if you have no objection, Doyle and I would like to examine the room where she was stabbed. I would ask only that you leave Miss Morrison for a short while. She has been subjected to a good deal of questioning, and I promised her as a doctor that we would give her a little time to recover.’
‘Very well.’ Beecher nodded ungraciously. ‘But I cannot wait too long.’ And I could see that already the man was beginning to lose his good humour.
A few minutes later, Bell and I approached the room where Neill and I first saw the figure. Bell stopped before we entered and went to an open window, staring out.
‘I can assure you,’ I told him, ‘he could not have disposed of the weapon there. He never went near it.’
The Doctor turned back and, rather to my surprise, he had a great look of satisfaction on his face. ‘Very good, I accept what you say. Now let us see the room.’
We entered what turned out to be a bare, dark storage room, lit by a single tiny gas lamp. I stared around me. There were signs of the chambermaid’s bleeding on the floor, where they found her, but almost nothing else. The windows were closed and shuttered, and there was absolutely no place of concealment.
Bell examined the walls, then the lamp and the windows. I had noticed the room was warm and, near the bloodstains, a hot-water pipe ran through it at skirting level, but we could both see there was nothing beneath this. Bell studied the pipe and the wall for a moment and then he turned to me.
‘So, Doyle. The weapon. Where is it?’
I looked around me. ‘It was not on his person or in the wynd, I am sure.’
‘Indeed. The victim insists the weapon was dropped here,’ he replied.
‘Then,’ I said, ‘either she is mistaken or —’
‘There is no mistake. She has a cut on her hand where she grasped its blade.’
‘So it is here. It is hidden or it has fallen.’ I went to the windows but the shutters were sealed tighter than a drum.
‘No,’ said Bell, watching me. ‘That is not the answer. They have not been open for years.’
I was baffled. ‘Well, it cannot have disappeared. Doctor, you must …’
‘No,’ interrupted Bell, rejecting my appeal for help. ‘This is your case. You were first to see him. Think.’
I turned from the walls back to the floor and then back to the walls again. There was absolutely nothing in this room. I thought that perhaps there was some trick to the blade, that its knife collapsed into the hilt. I had heard of such things before, but what good was that to me when I could see not even the tiniest object?
‘Use your sense,’ said Bell. ‘When you have eliminated what is utterly impossible, then where do you turn?’
I stared around me. ‘Well, I can ascertain exactly where she fell.’
‘Good,’ said Bell. ‘Do so.’
I could see the bloodstains and pictured the scene easily enough. The door had opened. She faced him. Yet still I had nothing. The Doctor sensed my helplessness and now he came at me as the man had, holding a feigned weapon in his hand. ‘Relive what happened. You are as she was.’
I retaliated just as she had. ‘She said she heard it fall,’ I said to him. ‘I would guess this meant it hit the pipe.’ Slowly I followed what I imagined was her fall to the floor. ‘The knife would surely now be somewhere a few inches from my hand.’ And I stretched out with little hope for I could see there was nothing there.
To my astonishment I did feel something cold. And I sat up at once to look. ‘There is water,’ I said in surprise. ‘Is the pipe leaking? Perhaps a hole …’ But I touched the pipe, which was very hot and quite solid. The Doctor was watching expectantly. ‘No. It seems intact and hot. But this leak is … cold … almost ice-cold.’ I knew by his face I was close. ‘Sharp and cold, the maid said.’ And suddenly I felt the bolt of illumination. ‘My God! It was ice. It was not a dagger at all. He had an icicle.’
Bell stood there, a broad smile on his face. Then he turned and led me out through the door to the open window he had inspected earlier. There had been water dripping off a low roof here and several icicles had formed. He broke one off and held it up. It was about the size of a dagger.
‘The girl was very unlucky indeed,’ said Bell. ‘This man merely seized what was to hand and hit upon a deadly weapon, but at least he was in no position to use it very effectively. I am very glad, Doyle, you have learned something trivial, though I fear in a rather more important matter you have proved a grave disappointment.’
‘I do not understand,’ I said, as ever brought down to earth after what I had thought was my deductive triumph.
‘You should have called me as soon as the first incident occurred. Not only had the trail gone quite cold by the time I arrived. But, if you had, I could have told you at once there was absolutely no connection whatsoever between the drunken jealous brawl you interrupted here and the vicious, premeditated and indecent assault on Miss Morrison. As it is, this business, which is utterly predictable, has completely obscured what is far more serious. Now let us go and tell Inspector Beecher what he has no wish to hear.’
Beecher was standing in the ballroom grinning from ear to ear, having evidently recovered his good humour, as Bell approached. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘are you satisfied we have got your man?’
‘No,’ said Bell. ‘Because you have not.’
‘Oh, come,’ said Beecher with impatience.
‘Oh, Miss Morrison had already confirmed it,’ the Doctor said lightly. ‘She saw the waiter with me and will swear on oath that he is not the man who assaulted her.’
Beecher’s smile disappeared so rapidly I thought he was going to choke. ‘You had no business to see her before I did. And how do you explain the fact that they used the same weapon?’
‘Because they did not. The man upstairs used a blade which was seen in full light. Your drunken waiter merely seized the first common article to hand.’
‘And was lucky enough to find a dagger?’
‘No, only this.’ And so saying the Doctor thrust an icicle into the astonished Beecher’s hand. ‘There are plenty of them about tonight and you will find the traces of his one lying under the pipe, inches from where the maid knocked it from him, mixed with her own blood. Your pathologist Summers will confirm it for you, I have no doubt.’
Beecher was speechless as Bell moved off and I followed. ‘Our mystery man is still very much at large,’ the Doctor called back to him. ‘His activities are a matter of enormous concern. And now another opportunity has been squandered.’
Perhaps the Doctor felt he had been a little hard on me, for he was very friendly on the journey back. Indeed, though it was late, he proposed some refreshment. I was delighted to be readmitted to his inner sanctum, the large room which lay up a flight of stairs behind the locked door in his official work place. Here he had gathered an extraordinary collection of criminal artefacts and would even refer to it as his own black museum, for there was at that time some interest in the newly opened Black Museum in Scotland Yard.
I never quite understood who, besides Bell, looked after this chamber, but it was well tended and soon we were glad enough to be seated in two comfortable old armchairs before its fireplace on that bitter night. Behind us those towering shelves, containing so much history of infamy, were illuminated by the flickering firelight. The Doctor offered me some brandy, which I declined. He was an abstemious man himself, for his family were members of the Scottish dissenting Free Church, so I was quite surprised when he poured out a small amount and added water from a carafe. Then he took a sip of it and stared into the fire.
‘I do not like it,’ he said at last. ‘Nor do I feel any nearer to understanding it.’
I knew he was referring to the attack on Miss Morrison. ‘But surely,’ I said, ‘it is only a form of sexual attack. Odd, I agree, but that crime has always existed. And we are fortunate he did not take it further.’
Bell turned to me and the firelight, flickering in his face, made his sharp features look almost sinister. ‘If I were convinced that the attack merely had a sexual motive, I would be a good deal more confident about our friend. Clearly passion is there in part. He is drawn to attack women, but even so his crimes are among the odder I have known. Edinburgh has a long history of vice, but I have never in my life heard of anything quite like this. Today’s attack was foul, but it was also daring. If his timing had been wrong by even a few seconds he would have been seen and perhaps caught. It is as if … as if he is telling us something.’
‘But what?’ For I truly thought the Doctor was guilty of romancing a little in his description.
‘I have an idea and I hope it is wrong. That is all I will say.’ He was staring at the fire as he spoke, but now he turned back to me. ‘I believe my own anxiety caused me to be a little churlish with you earlier, Doyle. Of course I would like to have been there sooner, but if somehow your drunken waiter had got away, no doubt Beecher would have been all the more insistent that he had perpetrated both crimes. So in that sense you performed a very useful purpose and were ill thanked for it. Now it is time to lock up and go to bed, for tomorrow I have to make a journey.’
I was pleased he had said as much, and slept well, but next morning, when I returned to the university, I reflected that I was still no nearer to finding Miss Scott. There was quite a crowd of students around the square and I heard laughter and cheers. Then I recalled with a sinking heart this was the day one of the school of medicine’s most important patrons, Sir Henry Carlisle, was being given a ‘royal’ tour.
I had seen Carlisle often enough and had no high opinion of him. A large, bewhiskered, self-important man with raffish good looks and a swagger, he had made a packet in the colonies and now seemed to like nothing better than to parade himself before the students. I had no doubt his money did some good, nor did I care if he wished to flaunt it, but what always irritated me about Carlisle was the way he sought to ingratiate himself. He would endlessly wink and joke and snigger for our amusement, and had consequently built up a sizable band of followers, some of whom I knew from the rugby field. Indeed there was a story that on one hot day he had declared after his usual tour of the university that the ‘men’ looked a little parched and he would buy them all some beer. At which there was a great cheer and he was carried shoulder-high to Bennett’s Bar, where no doubt they laughed at his jokes for as long as he wished.
As I drew closer, I saw that on this occasion Carlisle was being escorted by one of the most pompous and unctuous medical teachers in the university, a physiologist called Gillespie. ‘If you come this way, Sir Henry,’ he was saying, ‘I would like to show you how our newest operating theatre is progressing, thanks to your generous help.’
Sir Henry grinned at the crowd, and I noticed for the first time that there were women among it. ‘Delighted,’ he said, looking round him. ‘Though I have to admit I am almost expecting to find lace tablecloths draped over the instruments of surgery. After all, much as we may abhor it, it seems you have the tender sensibilities of women to consider now.’
Here was the kind of humour he favoured, even though today, unusually, his wife Lady Sarah Carlisle was beside him. She was small and fair and looked rather ill at ease.
‘Yes,’ Gillespie answered with a smile. ‘It has been left to each teacher to decide whether to admit women.’
‘Quite so,’ Carlisle replied, climbing the steps to the theatre, and winking at one of his acolytes, a sly man who played fullback in the university team. ‘And I hear Latimer for one stands out agin it.’ Here he raised his voice for the benefit of the men by the door. ‘He says the only women in his anatomy class will continue to enter feet first!’
There was a great guffaw of approval and a whoop of delight from Crawford’s gang, who were standing not far away. Moreover, as soon as he was in the theatre and the door had closed, a great jeer went up against the women standing by the entrance. I walked away to my class, but my blood was boiling and Latimer’s dissection did nothing to improve my mood. How could Carlisle abuse his position in this way to stir up feeling against the women? He was not a doctor or a teacher. He had no jurisdiction over any of us. He was merely meant to be involved in charity and good works. And now he was using his money to further his own prejudices. By the end of the class, after an hour of watching the red-faced Latimer pulling amphibians apart, I had made up my mind to do something. It would be no use to approach Carlisle directly, but the unctuous Gillespie would surely hear my complaint. I knew quite well that the man hated trouble of any kind, and I fully intended to cause as much of it as I could.
Not wishing to be distracted, I crossed the square and walked straight down the corridor to Gillespie’s office. The door was half open, and I could hear voices. A woman’s voice sounded angry. I made out the phrase ‘compromise yourself. Perhaps some of the women were already making their feelings known to Gillespie. I knocked on the door and entered.
To my astonishment, Miss Scott stood there, a little flushed in the face, staring at me. I was equally startled. It was the first time I had seen her since the incident with Crawford and I was struck, as before, by her physical beauty. The reddish fair hair was combed out and fell round her face. The eyes were less defiant now, sadder, though surprised enough at the sight of me.
I tried to compose myself. ‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I was looking for Dr Gillespie.’
I turned, expecting to see him, but the other person in the room was the small, somewhat fragile yet elegant figure of Carlisle’s wife. Miss Scott saw my confusion.
‘He is not here, Mr Doyle,’ she said. ‘May I introduce my older sister? Lady Sarah Carlisle.’
Of course I went forward and shook her hand, marvelling at this. Now that I thought about it, there was a faint resemblance between the two sisters, though Lady Carlisle was some years older.
‘Mr Doyle,’ she said. ‘Dr Gillespie has been approving the new wing with my husband. I am sure you can interrupt them.’
I was emboldened now to say what I had come for, and I wanted Miss Scott to hear it. ‘Well, to be honest, ma’am. I only wished to point out to him it is hard enough here for your sister and her colleagues without our own patron airing his feelings against them.’
If I had expected Miss Scott to look pleased with me, I was disappointed. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Carlisle. The latter did not seem put out, but her reply had dignity. ‘Mr Doyle, if certain of my husband’s views incline to the traditional, it is his affair and not particularly unusual.’ And then she smiled over at her sister. ‘But Elsbeth here will make a very good doctor. I am proud of her.’
It was a touching moment, and Miss Scott was about to answer when suddenly the door swung wide open and Gillespie and Carlisle swept in, laughing together.
‘Lady Carlisle!’ Gillespie wrung his hands with typical unctuousness. ‘We have returned from our ministrations to offer you and your husband some refreshment.’
I noticed Carlisle answered for his wife at once. ‘I can certainly bid them welcome,’ he said, smiling at Lady Carlisle and moving to the fireplace. He ignored both myself and Miss Scott entirely. It was as if we were not even there.
A look from Gillespie, however, made it clear I should leave, and I needed no second invitation. Perhaps it might seem like cowardice, but I did not wish to embarrass Miss Scott in any way and reasoned I had no place interrupting a family gathering. After negotiating Carlisle, who gave me a quizzical look, I nodded at the women and withdrew.
Outside, however, I did glance back and saw Sir Henry, Lady Carlisle and Gillespie were talking. It seemed to me that Miss Scott was totally ignored, but then the door was shut.
That afternoon was not so cold as it had been and, rather than go directly home, I wanted to walk and think about this encounter. I was in such a daydream that I hardly noticed where I was heading, and then ahead of me I saw a little cluster of people, mainly traders, with a policeman among them.
Even then I was not alert enough to wonder about this or register who I was. Until my eye was caught by something lying in the gutter. It was a smashed violin.
At once I thought of Samuel and moved quickly through the crowd, for they were gathered around something. I had to push past several people until I came to the front. Samuel’s body lay on the cobbled stones before me, utterly stiff and lifeless. The beggar’s hand was stretched out as if clawing the pavement and his poor face stared up at the sky just as it had when he played. But now it bore an expression of intense pain, all the features contorted.
I turned away in shock. A policeman stood talking to a grey-suited man, who was evidently a doctor, and I moved quickly to them with my questions.
‘See for yourself,’ answered the policeman rather impatiently, as if he were discussing a broken horse-trough. ‘Old Samuel has had some sort of seizure. Drank far too much than was good for him. They say he was in agony.’
‘Aye,’ nodded the doctor. ‘Alcoholic poisoning is what I surmise. Somebody gave him a bottle.’
‘Where is the bottle?’ I said abruptly, for I could make no sense of this. My tone evidently irritated the doctor for he spoke quite sharply.
‘I don’t know. Ask them. They’ll know right enough.’
He indicated a group of street-urchins, some quite filthy, who stood laughing across the way. ‘But I smell no alcohol,’ I said. ‘And he was no great drinker. You’re sure the death is as you say?’
The policeman stared at me. ‘Aye, and what do you ken about it?’ he said with an officious air. Behind him the body was at last being decently covered.
I tried to keep calm. ‘I do not think it is likely he died from alcohol poisoning and I am a medical student,’ I said with as much dignity as I could. But it was a mistake, for both of them smiled.
‘Well awa’ and pester someone else,’ the policeman said. ‘He hasnae been attacked and why would a soul hurt him? They didna even take his pennies.’
He was quite right, for now I saw the beggar’s pathetic pile of coins lying on the edge of the pavement. For some reason Samuel had stacked them neatly in a gleaming little pyramid and the urchins were already eyeing them greedily.
The doctor was not to be outdone. ‘I advise you to get back to your studies, young man. This is a common enough occurrence. He was just a drunken beggar.’
And they turned away without offering me the chance of another word. I tried appealing to the people around me, especially the nearby stallholder who had served us, who knew quite well Samuel was no drinker. But even he slunk away and I could not blame him. For in those days the minor officials of medicine and justice were frequently peremptory, insular and vindictive. Once Opinion had been issued they would never allow an inferior to challenge it on any grounds. No doubt the stallholder had reasons to avoid the police, and certainly he would not risk his livelihood by opposing them.
Finally, knowing Bell was away examining, I presented myself at the nearest police station and made as much noise as I could about the matter. The old detective with a long moustache and whiskers, who came out to talk to me was not unsympathetic, writing down my views solemnly in an ancient red notebook. But he was honest enough to admit that he doubted anyone would investigate further.
I returned home, still feeling angry and upset. And in due course, after talking to my mother, a feeling of intense apprehension drew me to my father’s study. The kind of death I had witnessed in the street was, after all, the death we all feared most for him: that he would be found in a gutter somewhere with a bottle.
At first I was pleasantly surprised to find my father seated in his chair, a little sleepy it was true, but calm. And he seemed to recognise me. His cup of tea was getting cold before him so I took it to his lips. He drank and, for a wonder, thanked me. But then, as ever, the door opened and Waller was there.
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