“Then you haven’t been here very long?”
“No,” she replied. “We have only just moved in. And that reminds me that our stock of morphia is running out. Could you bring a fresh tube of the tabloids next time you call? My husband left an empty tube for me to give you to remind you what size the tabloids are. He gives Mr. Bendelow the injections.”
“Thank you,” said I, “but I don’t want the empty tube. I read the prescription and shan’t forget the dose. I will bring a new tube tomorrow—that is, if you want me to call every day. It seems hardly necessary.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed. “I should think twice a week would be quite enough. Monday and Thursday would suit me best; if you could manage to come about this time I should be sure to be in. My time is rather taken up, as I haven’t a servant at present.”
It was a bad arrangement. Fixed appointments are things to avoid in medical practice. Nevertheless I agreed to it—subject to unforeseen obstacles—and was forthwith conducted back along the covered way and launched into the outer world with a farewell which it would be inadequate to describe as unemotional.
As I turned away from the door I cast a passing glance at the shop window; and once again I perceived a face above the half-blind. It was a man’s face this time; presumably the face of Mr. Morris. And, like his wife, he seemed to be “taking stock of me.” I returned the attention, and carried away with me the instantaneous mental photograph of a man in that unprepossessing transitional state between being clean-shaved and wearing a beard which is characterized by a sort of grubby prickliness that disfigures the features without obscuring them. His stubble was barely a week old, but as his complexion and hair were dark, the effect was very untidy and disreputable. And yet, as I have said, it did not obscure the features. I was even able, in that momentary glance, to note a detail which would probably have escaped a non-medical eye: the scar of a harelip which had been very neatly and skilfully mended, and which a moustache would probably have concealed altogether.
I did not, however, give much thought to Mr. Morris. It was his dour-faced wife, with her gruff, overbearing manner who principally occupied my reflections. She seemed to have divined in some way that I was but a beginner—perhaps my youthful appearance gave her the hint—and to have treated me with almost open contempt. In truth my position was not a very dignified one. The diagnosis of the case had been made for me, the treatment had been prescribed for me, and was being carried out by other hands than mine. My function was to support a kind of legal fiction that I was conducting the case, but principally to supply the morphia (which a chemist might have refused to do), and when the time came, to sign the death certificate. It was an ignominious role for a young and ambitious practitioner, and my pride was disposed to boggle at it. But yet there was nothing to which I could object. The diagnosis was undoubtedly correct, and the treatment and management of the case exactly such as I should have prescribed. Finally I decided that my dissatisfaction was principally due to the unattractive personality of Mrs. Morris; and with this conclusion I dismissed the case from my mind and let my thoughts wander into more agreeable channels.
V
Inspector Follett’s Discovery
To a man whose mind is working actively, walking is a more acceptable mode of progression than riding in a vehicle. There is a sort of reciprocity between the muscles and the brain—possibly due to the close association of the motor and psychical centres—whereby the activity of the one appears to act as a stimulus to the other. A sharp walk sets the mind working, and, conversely, a state of lively reflection begets an impulse to bodily movement.
Hence, when I had emerged from Market Street and set my face homewards, I let the omnibuses rumble past unheeded. I knew my way now. I had but to retrace the route by which I had come, and, preserving my isolation amidst the changing crowd, let my thoughts keep pace with my feet. And I had, in fact, a good deal to think about; a general subject for reflection which arranged itself around two personalities, Miss D’Arblay and Dr. Thorndyke.
To the former I had written suggesting a call on her, “subject to the exigencies of the service,” on Sunday afternoon, and had received a short but cordial note definitely inviting me to tea. So that matter was settled, and really required no further consideration, though it did actually occupy my thoughts for an appreciable part of my walk. But that was mere self-indulgence: the preliminary savouring of an anticipated pleasure. My cogitations respecting Dr. Thorndyke were, on the other hand, somewhat troubled. I was eager to invoke his aid in solving the hideous mystery which his acuteness had (I felt convinced) brought into view. But it would probably be a costly business, and my pecuniary resources were not great. To apply to him for services of which I could not meet the cost was not to be thought of. The too-common meanness of sponging on a professional man was totally abhorrent to me.
But what was the alternative? The murder of Julius D’Arblay was one of those crimes which offer the police no opportunity; at least, so it seemed to me. Out of the darkness this fiend had stolen to commit this unspeakable atrocity, and into the darkness he had straightway vanished, leaving no trace of his identity nor any hint of his diabolical motive. It might well be that he had vanished forever; that the mystery of the crime was beyond solution. But if any solution was possible, the one man who
