He Who Whispers

“Examine the patient?” Dr Garvice repeated.

“I should like to examine her neck and her teeth.”

Pause.

“But, my dear sir!” protested the physician, his voice going up loudly before he checked it. “There isn't a wound or a mark anywhere on the lady's body!”

“Sir,” replied Dr. Fell, “I am aware of that.”

“And if you're thinking of a drug, or something like that . . .!”

“I know,” announced Dr. Fell carefully, “that Miss Hammond was not physically hurt. I know that no question arises of a drug or any king of toxic agent. I know her condition is caused by fear and nothing else. But still I should like to examined the neck and teeth.”

The physician made a half-helpless gesture with his bowler hat.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Miss Peters! You might open the curtains just a little. Please excuse me. I'm off to look in on Miss Seton downstairs.”

Yet he lingered in the doorway as Dr. Fell approached the bed. It was Stephen Curtis after glancing in bewilderment at Miles an receiving only a shrug for reply, who twitched back a few inches one of the curtains on the south windows. A little light ran lengthways across the bed. Otherwise they stood in a bluish-coloured dusk, motionless, with birds bickering outside, while Dr. Fell bent over.

Miles couldn't see what he was doing. His broad back hid all that was visible of Marion above the blanket and the neat fold of the top sheet. Nor was there any sign of movement from Marion.

Somebody's watch—in fact, Dr. Garvice's wrist-watch—could be heard ticking distinctly.

“Well?” Dr. Garvice prompted. He stirred with impatience in the doorway. “Have you found anything?”

“No!” said Dr. Fell despairingly, and straightened up and put his hand on the crutch-handled stick propped against the bed. He turned round. He began, muttering to himself and holding fast his eyeglasses with his left hand, to peer at the carpet round the edges of the bed.

“No,” he added, “I haven't found anything.” He stared straight ahead of him. “Stop a bit, though! There is a test! I can't remember the name of it offhand; but, by thunder, there is a test! It will prove definitely . . .”

“Prove what?”

“The presence of an evil spirit,” said Dr. Fell.

There was a slight rattle as Nurse Peters handled the wash-basin. Dr. Garvice kept his composure.

“You're joking, of course. And in any case”--his voice became brisk—“I'm afraid I can't allow you to disturb the patient any longer. You'd better come along too, Mr. Curtis!”

And he stood to one side like a shepherd while Dr. Fell, Miles, and Stephen filed out. Then he closed the door.

“Sir,” sad Dr. Fell, impressively lifting his crutch-handled stick and tapping it against the air, “the whole joke in that I am not joking. I believe—harrumph--you said you were on your way down to see Miss Fay Seton. She isn't by any chance ill, is she?”

“Oh, no. The lady was a bit nervy early this morning and I gave her a sedative.”

“Then I wonder if you will ask Miss Seton, at her convenience to come and join us here in the upstairs hall? Where,” said Dr. Fell, “we had a very interesting talk last night. Will you convey that message?”

Dr. Garvice studied him from under grizzled eyebrows.

“I don't understand what's going on here,” he stated slowly. He hesitated. “Maybe it's just as well I don't understand.” He hesitated again. “I'll convey your message. Good day.”

Miles watched him go at his unhurried pace down the hall. Then Miles shook the arm of Stephen Curtis.

“Hang it all, Steve!” he said to a man who was standing against the wall hump-shouldered, like an object hung on a hat-peg, “you've got to brace up! There's no sense in taking this so hard as all that! You must have heard the doctor say Marion's in no danger! After all, she's my sister!”

Stephen straightened up.

“No,” he admitted in his slow voice. “I suppose not. But then after all she's only your sister. And she's my . . . my . . .”

“Yes. I know.”

“That's the whole point, Miles. You don't know. You never have been very fond of Marion, have you? But, speaking of being concerned about people, what about you and this girlfriend of yours? The librarian?”

“Well, what about us?”

“She poisoned somebody, didn't she?

“What do you mean, she poisoned somebody?”

“When we were having tea at Waterloo yesterday,” said Stephen, “it seems to me Marion said this Fay What's-he-name was guilty of poisoning somebody.” Her Stephen began to shout. “You wouldn't give two hoots about you own sister, would you? No! But you would care everything in the world, you would upset everything and everybody, for an infernal little slut you picked up out of the gutter to--”

“Steve! Take it easy! What's wrong?”

A shocked, startled look passed slowly over Stephen Curtis's face, showing consternation in the eyes.

His mouth fell open under the fair moustache. He put a hand to his necktie, fingering it. He shook his head as though to clear something away. When he spoke again it was in a voice of contrition.

“Sorry, old man,” Stephen muttered, and punched in an embarrassed way at Miles' arm. “Can't think what came over me. Wouldn't have said that for worlds! But you know how it is when something funny happens and you can't understand any of it. I'm going to go and lie down.”

“Wait a minute! Come back! Not in that room!”

“What do you mean, not in that room?”

“Not in your own bedroom, Steve! Professor Rigaud's trying to get some sleep in there, and . . .”

“Oh, so-and-so to Professor Rigaud!” sad Stephen and bolted down the back stairs like a man pursued.

The troubling of the waters again!

Now, Miles thought, it had reached out and touched Steve as well. It seemed to colour every action and inspire every thought here at Greywood. He still refused, fiercely refused, to believe anything whatever against Fay Seton. But what had Dr. Fell meant by that remark about an evil spirit? Surely to heaven it wasn't intended to be taken quite literally? Miles swung around, to find Dr. Fell's gaze fixed on him.

“You are wondering,” inquired Dr. Fell, “what I want with Miss Seton? I can tell you very simply. I want the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“The truth,” returned Dr. Fell, “about Howard Brooke's murder and the fright-bogy of last night. And she can't, for her soul's sake she daren't, evade questions now. I think we shall have it settled in a very few minutes.”

They heard quick footsteps on the distant front stairs. A figure appeared at the other end of the long, narrow hall. When Miles saw that it was Dr. Laurence Garvice, when he saw Dr. Garvice's hastened stride, he had one of those inspired premonitions which can fly to the heart of truth.

It seemed a very long time before the physician reached them.

“I thought I'd better come up and tell you,” he announced. “Miss Seton is gone.”

Dr. Fell's crutch-handled stick dropped with a clatter on the bare boards.

“Gone?” His voice was so husky that he had to clear his throat.

“She—er--left this for Mr. Hammond,” said Garvice. “At least,” he amended hastily, “I assume she's gone. I found this,” he held up a sealed envelope, “propped up against the pillow in her bedroom.”

Miles took the envelope, which was addressed to him in a fine, clear, sharp-pointed handwriting. He turned it over in his fingers, momentarily without the courage to open it. But when he did grit his teeth and tear ope the envelope, he was a little reassured by the contents of the folded note inside.

DEAR MR. HAMMOND,

I am sorry to say I shall have to be absent in London today on a matter that compels attention. I think now I