“Do you see that invalid carriage?” said Callaghan to me. “It was ordered for you.”
XX
Here let me mention that I have fancied since that I recognised the ill-looking foreigner who was with me at the inn and in the train. I recognised him in a chemist’s shop in a very fashionable shopping street. I think it would be libellous to name the street. The telegraphic address which my wife sent to Callaghan was the telegraphic address of that fashionable chemist’s shop.
I had intended to take leave of Callaghan for the time upon our arrival at the station, but I found that this was not to be done, for Callaghan was determined to obey almost to the letter my wife’s behest to him, not to leave me. He took me to luncheon at a restaurant, and then prevailed upon me to come with him by one of our fast trains to my own house, collect there all the papers which I possessed bearing on the affair of Peters, and bring them to his chambers, where he was resolved I should at present stay.
When we arrived there, I was for starting at once to seek out the doctor who had been at Long Wilton, but I was practically overpowered and sent to bed, after handing over to Callaghan, amongst other papers, the notes which Peters had made as to the death of Longhurst.
After some hours Callaghan entered my room to tell me that dinner would be ready in half an hour, that I might get up for it if I liked, or have it brought to my bedroom. He then turned on me reproachfully. “Why had I not shown him these papers long ago, when he came to stay with me?” I was at a loss for an answer, for in fact when I had told him of my suspicions and my reasons for them, I had done the thing by halves, because my want of confidence in him lingered.
“Well, well,” said my good-natured friend, “I daresay I can guess the reason. But these papers explain much to me. You never told me it was the island of Sulu on which Peters discovered the body, or that he went there with Dr. Kuyper. I had heard the name of that island and the doctor before—on the last night of Peters’ life while you were talking music with Thalberg.”
Next morning I set off early to see the doctor who had been at Long Wilton. Callaghan, who at first seemed to think it his duty to be with me everywhere, gave way and consented to go upon some business of his own about which he was very mysterious; but he put me in the charge of his servant, a man singularly fitted to be his servant, an Irishman and an old soldier, who, I discovered, had made himself very useful to him in his spying upon Thalberg, having entered into a close and I daresay bibulous friendship with one of Thalberg’s clerks. My new guardian so far relaxed his precautions as to allow me to be alone with the doctor in his consulting-room; he otherwise looked after me as though he thought me a child, and from the very look of him one could see that I was well protected, though indeed I hardly imagined then that the perils which beset me at Crondall would follow me through the streets of London.
I asked the doctor kindly to give me all his recollections as to what occurred in Peters’ bedroom while he was there. He told me little but what was of a professional nature, and he informed me rather dryly that he made it his practice on all occasions to observe only what concerned him professionally. I therefore put to him with very little hope the main question which I had come to ask—Had he observed anything about the windows. “Certainly,” he said, “that, as it happens, is a professional matter with me. I never enter a sickroom without glancing at the windows, and I did so from force of habit this time, though” (and he laughed with an ugly sense of humour) “it didn’t matter much, as no fresh air could have revived that patient; but the windows were shut, and (for I often notice that too) they were tight shut and latched.” “Are you certain,” I said, “that both of them were latched?” “Certain,” he answered; “they were both latched when I came into the room, and they were latched when I went out, for I happened to have looked again. You see that, once one has the habit of noticing a certain kind of thing, one always notices it and remembers it easily, however little else one may see.” I asked him then whether he happened to remember the order in which the persons who had then been in the room left it. About this he was not so certain, but he had an impression that only two persons were left in the room after him. These were the police-sergeant, who held the door open for a moment while Vane-Cartwright lingered, and who locked it when they had all left. I may say at once that this was afterwards confirmed by the police-sergeant, who added that Vane-Cartwright was standing somewhere not far from the window in question.
I returned by appointment to Callaghan’s chambers some
