The Death-Doctor/02
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH A LADY IS CONCERNED
PERHAPS the strange sequence of events which occurred in a country-house, where I was a guest about six months before I got qualified, first put into my mind the enormous possibilities of crime that a thorough knowledge of toxicology placed in the hands of a medical man who did not possess any so-called morals—or a conscience.
It is a rather queer story, my dear old fellow, and I will tell it you as I gleaned it, after having gathered together all the threads of the tangle.
I had gone to stay with a comparatively new friend, with whom I became acquainted in none too savoury surroundings in London, a fellow, younger than myself, named Anthony Laurence, and who lived with his people at Mallowfield Court, ten miles from York. His father, Sir Geoffrey Laurence, resided there with his second wife. My friend was her son—a youngster of twenty, who was too lazy to take up even the easy profession of arms, which his half-brother Francis, the heir to the estate, had done.
Francis did not get on at all well with his step-mother, who, as I afterwards discovered, was an Argentine lady, and whose son Anthony had inherited from her the tendency to idleness and the love of ease and comfort, which is common to that curious mixture of European and native American nationalities called the Argentino.
Francis—who was at Aldershot—under these conditions went home but seldom, fond as he was of his father, leaving, therefore, his step-mother and her son a free "run" of the family estate.
I cannot say that I was personally struck with Master Anthony, but even in those days I had a keen eye to the main chance, and when he invited me to Yorkshire to stay with his people, I accepted, not knowing at the time, however, how matters stood with the family.
Francis, I learnt, had a good allowance from his father, and the want of money had never troubled him. As a matter of fact, I found out that he was a particularly clean-living young man—the society of women he had never cultivated, and he was looked upon by match-making parents as a hopeless bachelor.
Two days after I arrived at Mallowfield a great disaster happened. Sir Geoffrey became suddenly ill at dinner, and the fussy little family medico diagnosed that he had been attacked by an apoplectic seizure. Consequently, Francis was wired for next morning, and arrived about six o'clock on the same evening.
I was in the hall when he arrived, and saw his step-mother—a sly, dark, beautifully-formed woman who did not look her forty-five years—meet the young lieutenant at the door of his home.
He shook hands with her and immediately inquired after his father.
"He had a stroke last night," she answered, "and Dr. Shaw-Lathome fears that he will not recover. Poor Frank, I am so bitterly grieved." And her handkerchief went up to her eyes.
"May I go up and see him?" asked Francis in a cold, unemotional voice. I found out later that the presence of his stepmother always made him show the worst side of his character.
"Certainly, if you wish," she replied. "We have got a nurse—a very good one."
He went upstairs, and the nurse admitted him to have, as it turned out, his last look at his unconscious father.
Meanwhile—you understand, of course, that I gathered all these facts later—his step-mother retired to her cosy little boudoir, in which, lounging in an easy chair, she found her son Anthony.
He was a pleasant-looking youth, of small build and stature, with large dark eyes, clean-cut thin features and black hair, which he had inherited from his mother.
"Francis is here," she said. "My poor Anthony, you will soon be almost a beggar. Sir Geoffrey has, as you know, left everything to him, with the exception of a life-income to me and a miserable pittance to you. Oh, what an injustice, and a shame!—to a lout like that—it maddens me, Anthony!"
"But why, mother?"
"The will is this: if Francis survives his father practically everything is his, to do as he likes with—and we must go. You know he hates me! But if your half-brother died first, Anthony, the estate would be yours."
"That's no good to me, mother," answered the young man. "Francis is as strong as a horse, so it's evidently settled. Poor father can't live long, but I'll talk to old Frank tonight, and see what he'll do for me. I can't work, and he knows it. Oh! he'll see me put all right. He must help me."
His mother smiled bitterly. "Yes, you're to be a pensioner, on your good behaviour, and perhaps allowed to see your mother once a year, or something like that. I know he hates me, and I hate him. Ah, how I hate him and his cold English ways!"
"I'll try anyway, later on," replied her son. "He's not so bad, mother, you know. It's only his way."
"His way!" she was interrupted by the entrance of the elder son at that moment.
"I'm afraid it's all over with the poor old guv'nor," he said in a shaky voice. "Both Shaw-Lathome and the London man say there's no hope." His face was white, and his lips trembled—he was very fond of his father. "Where am I to sleep to-night?" he continued, looking at his step-mother.
"In the tower-room, Francis, if that will suit you," she answered. "It's nice and quiet, and has its own staircase—so you will not be interrupted."
"Thanks, that will do for me very nicely. I shall go there early, as I may be called up during the night," the young officer replied. "Who knows?"
"You'll have something to eat, Francis?"
"Thank you, I suppose one must eat however bad things are; but I'll go to the 'den' first, and smoke a pipe."
"And I'll go and see that your room is comfortable and ready for you," said the lady. As she left the room, her mouth was shut tight and her hands clenched.
Francis, having sought his room early, was joined at midnight by his half-brother, who went, as he told his mother, to ask for help in the future.
The man-servant Roberts, who took whisky and soda up to the room, noticed that the two young men were excited, and he heard high words between them as he left.
About four o'clock that same morning, the servant, who was sitting up waiting for possible contingencies, was summoned by the nurse to go and fetch the lieutenant as his father had just died suddenly, and at the same time another man was called up to go and wake the doctor, who was sleeping in the house, and other members of the family.
Scarcely a few moments had passed before the man Roberts came rushing back, his eyes almost starting out of his head, his knees shaking under him, his mouth twitching.
"Mr. Francis" he gasped out jerkily, almost in a whisper, "dead—dead in his bed, all screwed up and convulsed! and horrible—awful" Words failed him, he seemed to be struck dumb with horror.
The nurse—a capable woman—took him by the shoulders and shook him. At that moment Dr. Shaw-Lathome arrived, followed almost immediately by myself. We had occupied adjoining rooms. He was a little, fat, fussy man, with gold eye-glasses and short, bristly grey hair—you know the type, old chap.
"What's this I hear?" he inquired.
"Sir Geoffrey has just died suddenly, doctor," answered the nurse. "But this man whom I sent to fetch Lieutenant Laurence says that he is dead also—or if not, convulsed and seriously ill. There is evidently something horrible the matter. Will you see? You can do nothing for Sir Geoffrey himself, and this man"—nodding towards the shivering Roberts—"is useless."
"Eh, what?—young Francis dead? What do you mean?" inquired the medico, looking severely at the servant.
"He is dead in his bed, sir," repeated the frightened man. "Come with me, and I'll show you the room—in the tower—but I won't go in again, sir, no—not for a thousand pounds—awful—awful"
"Go on, then," ordered Dr. Lathome; and turning to me, "Mr. d'Escombe, you're in the profession, will you come with me?"
We followed the servant down the fine staircase, into the big hall, along a corridor, and thence up a narrow, winding stairway, evidently built into a circular tower. The man pointed to a door at the top, and then turned and hurried away. He was half crazy with fright.
The doctor knocked at the door, but getting no answer, opened it, and we both entered, to start back aghast.
The man was right—the sight that had met his eye was enough to terrify stronger men than he. On the bed, curled and curved into the most extraordinary and unnatural position, was the body of the handsome and well-set-up young officer who had arrived but a few hours before.
His face, half buried in a pillow, was almost black, his eyes stared wide open, but showed little except the white conjunctivas, and his tongue—half bitten through—protruded from his mouth. His hands were clenched, the nails driven deep into the skin, and his back was curved like a bow. Even the toes themselves were doubled up close to the soles of his purple feet. The sight was a terrible one even to the medical eye. Every portion of the unfortunate young man was in a condition of extreme muscular spasm.
"There is no doubt that he is dead, poor chap," said my companion; "and it looks like poison—perhaps strychnine! Look about you, Mr. d'Escombe; but don't touch or move anything. We must send for the police at once."
We made a careful but superficial examination of the body, and looked closely for anything, either in the shape of a bottle or glass, which could have contained the fatal dose. But we found nothing.
"We can do no more at present," declared the doctor, before many minutes were over; and as we left the room and its horrors, he carefully locked the door and took the key, which he found on the inside of the lock.
We then went to the bedroom of the dead baronet. I followed, although it was nothing really to do with me, meeting on the way the still half-dazed Roberts, whom we had sent to the police-station.
The lady of the house, subdued and tearful, met us as we entered. Her son was behind her, looking anxious and distraught.
"Oh, doctor, what has happened?" she asked, sobbing volubly.
"A very terrible affair, my dear lady," he answered, recovering his professional manner. "In addition to the death of your husband, which, of course, we expected, I am grieved to tell you that Mr. Francis has come to a terrible end. He is dead too."
Lady Laurence gave a scream, and collapsed, moaning, on a chair, but Anthony stepped forward, his face working convulsively. "What, Francis dead! It's not true, doctor; is it, d'Escombe?" appealing to me. I could see real misery in his eyes. "Say it's not true—tell me, old man."
"It is, Anthony, only too true," I replied, wondering somewhat at his extreme agitation, knowing, as I did, that he and his half-brother were not the closest of friends. "And I fear also that it is not a case of natural death," I added.
"Not natural," he half whispered in a husky tone. "Why—why—what do you mean, Archie? Suicide or?" He feared to continue.
"We know nothing yet; the police have been sent for and the room is locked," I told him. "But, buck up, man, you must face the music. You are the head of the family now."
"The head of the family," he repeated under his breath, and glanced furtively at his mother, who, attended by the nurse, still lay faint and pale on the couch to which she had been carried.
I must say that some suspicion of foul play came into my mind. Had Anthony anything to do with the death of the young man upstairs?
The household was by this time in a state of panic. Servants stood here and there in twos and threes, whispering in awe-struck tones. No one seemed to know what to do; but just at this moment a police-sergeant, followed by a constable, was announced by the man Roberts.
"Lady Laurence is too ill to see anyone," answered Dr. Shaw-Lathome, who, in lieu of anyone more competent, had to take charge of affairs. "I will see the sergeant at once." He turned to me once again, as if in need of help. "Will you come with me again, Mr. d'Escombe?" he said. "I am the police-surgeon, and shall have to take this case over at first, any way."
"I'll be pleased to help in any manner I can, "I answered, and turned to leave the room, glancing for the moment at Anthony, who was still standing near his mother with an expression on his face which I could not understand—it was a mixture of fear and fright, and yet somehow he had not the crushed look of a guilty man.
We conducted the officer to the tower-room, and the horrible scene.
Dr. Lathome then pointed out to the police the attitude of the body, and also showed two very dark livid marks, one on each side of the dead man's throat—thumb marks apparently, he said.
The sergeant's eyebrows lifted. "Violence," he commented.
"It looks like it," said the surgeon, "but we must have some further medical help."
"And official," chimed in the officer. "We had better send at once." And he gave the constable some instructions.
On the following day an inquest on the body of Lieutenant Laurence was held, and at the end of it Anthony Laurence, my friend and host, was arrested for the murder of his half-brother.
The evidence was stronger than I had imagined. It was proved that the two young men had quarrelled. Roberts was positive as to that. It also appeared to be quite certain that no one could possibly have visited the dead man on that evening but his half-brother, as in order to reach the tower-room it was necessary to pass through the hall, and that had not been empty for a moment during the few hours before the death.
Anthony, in his evidence, volunteered the statement that he and Francis had quarrelled, and admitted also that the marks on the throat were probably his handiwork, the two having come to blows. "But," he said, "Francis was stronger than I, and although I held him by the throat for a very short time he afterwards threw me out of the room and shut the door. What I did was really done in self-defence."
He swore that he left deceased about one o'clock, very angry, but in perfect health as far as he knew, and that he had then gone to his own room.
There was no evidence to support him, however, as to the time, although Roberts admitted seeing him pass through the hall "very late."
The medical evidence was very curious, and to me, my dear fellow, most interesting and instructive.
"Death," said Professor Hughes, the expert called in, "resulted from asphyxia, and might have been caused by strangulation, and the thumb marks on the throat were extremely suspicious."
Then he went on:
"The general condition, position and appearance of the body was unnatural to a degree, and it seems to me that some other factor beside the compression of the throat should be taken into consideration, although so far we have no evidence whatever of poison. Rigor mortis—stiffening—had set in early in the morning, putting the time of death at eleven o'clock at the latest, under normal conditions, and yet at twelve-thirty the man-servant swears that he saw deceased alive and apparently in robust health. The post-mortem examination reveals nothing, although further research as to the presence of poison will be undertaken."
Under the circumstances the police had no option but to arrest Anthony and detain him on suspicion, pending a further inquiry.
Lady Laurence was exceedingly upset over this result. She cried continuously and refused to eat, or talk, or see anybody, even though the doctor pointed out to her that the evidence was not strong enough to convict her son.
"My poor boy, my poor boy! What shall I do! Whatever shall I do!" she wailed continuously, and constant nursing and attention was necessary for her.
The late baronet's will, as she told her son, left everything, except her jointure, to him, if the elder son, Francis, died before his father, and without a legitimate heir. But the question immediately arose, which of them did die first? There was no definite evidence to show this, and this proved to be another factor in producing the lamentable mental and physical condition of Lady Laurence a few days after the tragedy.
My friend Anthony was eventually brought before the magistrate and charged with murder.
Counsel defending him seemed to me to be singularly incapable, and but for my prompting from the seat I had secured behind him, I believe he would have allowed the case to proceed without even pointing out what a sad mistake was being made, and how flimsy the evidence was against the man charged. Yet I had, at the back of my mind, the idea—call it intuition if you like—that Anthony was not keen on making a defence, though I felt certain that when the case came before a judge—if it did—that Anthony was safe, although the evidence against him in some directions was very strong.
"Who else," argued the prosecution, "could have done it? It is evident that the deceased had only the one visitor that night, and with him a quarrel was admitted." Motive also was adduced, and in the end my young friend was committed for trial. I obtained permission to see him on two occasions while he was in prison, but could get practically no information from him.
"You know, Archie, that I didn't do it," he said sadly. He seemed miserably depressed, and no wonder! "And I know nothing about it, but I can see that there is a lot of evidence against me. We did have a row that night. I asked him to give me a decent income—told him that he ought to do so, and he rounded on me, saying that I was a lazy young devil, that he wouldn't encourage me, but that if I would show any inclination to do work of some kind or another that he would then help me. I got angry, and my mother's name cropped up—that started the fuss. He said she was a designing woman and hated him, and I stood up for her, and after—well, you've heard—I was chucked out. I hadn't a chance against Francis."
"I believe you, Anthony," I answered. "And I'll do all I can to help you, but—who killed him? I feel certain it was not suicide."
The youngster said nothing—and again I felt that he knew, or suspected more than he could tell.
Who else was there, I asked myself, except his mother, Lady Laurence. She had certainly not visited the dead lieutenant after he went to the tower-room. The mystery was inscrutable—every track ended, as it were, in a blind alley.
Anthony asked me to stay at the house for a time and help his mother in her loneliness; for she, poor soul, was a stranger in the land, and the neighbourhood left her severely alone.
Lady Laurence, however, in a few days' time recovered from her severe prostration up to a point, but she sat, silent and wretched, day after day in her boudoir, saying nothing—but thinking all the time of her son in his prison cell.
Meanwhile I was not idle, and as the day for the trial at the Assizes at York approached I began to feel more hopeful.
"I think we shall clear him all right," I told the widow two days before the case was likely to come off. "I have not drawn altogether blank." As a matter of fact I suspected the employment of a hypodermic syringe as the means by which poison had been given.
She stared at me, with a terrified expression, as it appeared to my mind, but said nothing.
On the following day we took rooms at the Station Hotel at York. During the evening Lady Laurence was startled by her maid, who came into her sitting-room and said, "Mrs. Laurence to see you, m' lady; shall I show her in?"
"Mrs. Laurence," repeated her ladyship. "Mrs. Laurence, who can she be? Yes, show her in, please—if she is respectable."
"Oh, quite, m' lady," replied the girl, and in a few moments she ushered in a tall, slim young woman, dressed neatly in a well-fitting black gown.
"Pardon my intrusion," said the visitor, in a soft, pleasant voice; "but I have been ill, and have only been able to leave my room for the first time to-day, after nearly a month in bed, during which time I was not allowed to read or write. I only learned yesterday about my poor Francis." There the girl broke down, and cried as if her heart would break.
Lady Laurence looked on astounded, wondering what on earth the girl meant, but did not attempt to move—did not even suggest a chair to her visitor.
The girl, however, soon recovered her self-control, and continued:
"Poor dear Francis. He would never let me write to you or tell you."
"What do you mean?" inquired Lady Laurence, but I feel sure her heart sank with a premonition of trouble in store. "Poor Francis?—to whom do you refer?"
The girl—she was very young—threw up her head on hearing the hard tone of voice.
"I refer to my late husband—Lieutenant Francis Laurence," she replied in a steady voice.
"Your husband?" The elder woman could hardly trust her voice, it seemed to be lost. "Why—why—Francis was not married?"
"Pardon me, but he was," answered the visitor. "And, moreover, we have a little boy three months old; it was about him, in particular, that I came to see you."
The elder woman looked at the speaker with blank amazement in her face, and at the same time an expression of mingled horror and despair was apparent.
"Francis married! A son! Impossible—it can't be true!" she gasped out, as she sank back on her couch.
"It is true, Lady Laurence," replied the young lady; "and I am anxious to know how my son is situated by the death of his father and grandfather?"
Lady Laurence stood up, looked at her visitor for a moment with widely dilated eyes and a ghastly, bluish-white face, and then dropped on the floor, senseless.
She was carried to bed, and I, having been hurriedly summoned, managed to obtain the same nurse who had attended to her husband, to look after her. I also sent for a medical man.
Then I took charge of the visitor, and learnt from her all I have just told you.
The sick woman, during the night, began to ramble and talk incoherently, with occasional lucid intervals, but her mind had apparently given way; why, it was hard to tell.
The nurse, after awhile, sent for me. "You must come and listen to her," she said. "She talks about the most awful things. What is curare?"
Then, Brown, the light suddenly dawned upon me. I was a theoretical student of toxicology, and knew as much about poison, and more, than most men. My thoughts at once went back to that gruesome, unnatural figure on the bed in the tower-room. Francis had died of poison—and that poison was undoubtedly curare!
"Phew! What a fool I was not to think of it before," I said to myself. "I can see it all now."
"Does she talk of curare?" I inquired.
"She speaks of little else at present," replied the nurse. "Curare, poison, death, convulsions, needles—her mind seems to run in a circle."
"Needles," I repeated. "Needles!" and then went with the nurse and listened outside the door of the sick room.
Next morning I went by the first train back to the Laurences' house, and at once made my way to the tower-room, which had been left entirely undisturbed since the young fellow's horrible death.
First I carefully examined the sofa-couch at the foot of the bed; there was only one cushion on this, and that I left alone. Next, the big padded easy chair had to be overhauled, and I poked about these two articles of furniture with a stick I carried with me very carefully, and very closely, but no one accompanying me would have understood my movements. However, I found nothing and turned my attention to the bed, still rumpled and upset, and at last wrapping my hand in my handkerchief, and on the top of that a small towel, I started to prod and push about the pillows.
I had been at this work from the start about three hours before I gave a sudden jump, and looked anxiously at the palm of my hand, and I admit I felt a sudden sensation of deadly fear, carefully as I had protected myself. After that, if you had watched me, you would have seen me very slowly and with infinite care draw from the pillow I last examined a pin—a thing six inches long—which I could not get entirely away until, with my pocket scissors, I had cut the linen cover. Then I held very gingerly in my fingers one of those long pins used by ladies with a round black head, the point of which appeared to be rusty, and which had evidently been sewn into the pillow itself.
The mystery was solved! Poor unsuspecting Francis had laid his head down on this death-trap, the point of the poisoned pin had scratched him, and death, horrible and rapid, had supervened. That was the end of him.
The whole story was now clear. A mother, jealous, vindictive and greedy for wealth; a mother who loved her own son and hated her husband's child had brought this about—and, I felt sure, a son who suspected his mother.
I pictured her that night when Francis arrived, desperate and half-insane, going to the tower-room with this pin, its point prepared with the curare poison, and sewing it into the pillow, feeling sure that the young officer would die before his father, and that her son would become Sir Anthony Laurence.
How frightful must have been her feelings when her son was arrested for her crime. Again, how harried her conscience when the question arose as to which of the twain had died first, and finally, how hopeless and useless her dreadful crime, when she found out that there was another heir to the property and title.
No wonder that her nervous system had given way; but I very much doubt if the cause of the death of Francis Laurence would ever have been elucidated unless the word curare had dropped from her lips in delirium.
When I returned that night she was still as bad as ever, and, as a matter of fact, was removed to the York County Asylum within the next few days and soon afterwards died therein.
She was certainly a clever woman, and had probably some considerable knowledge of the poisons of her native land. I think I told you she was a South American, and it was, of course, from there that she brought her supply of curare, which is certainly a most deadly and efficacious poison, and one which, if introduced into the blood stream in the proper way, leaves no trace for the post-mortem examiner—as this case ultimately proved.
The medical evidence from start to finish was of no value, except as to its false premises; the very early onset of rigor mortis would have given me, in my later days, much information—but I was young and inexperienced then.
I saw the chief constable, and told him what I had found in the pillow, but taking all the facts into consideration he decided to take no further proceedings, seeing that, not only was the unfortunate woman insane, but that also there was no real definite evidence against anyone, although there was no doubt as to what had happened.
Anthony was brought up for trial, but at the Assizes the grand jury did not return a true bill against him, and consequently nothing further came out.
The outcome of all this proved my young friend's salvation, as he afterwards took up the profession of the law, and did well. The claims of the small heir were, of course, incontestable, and he is now already promising to become a shining light in the county.
The whole story—and perhaps I have been somewhat verbose—had a considerable effect on my after life, for as I have already said, it showed me very plainly how easy it is to make things appear to be almost the exact antithesis of what they really are.
To my mind, toxicology is the only "ology" worth studying; not only is it fascinating to a degree, but it is valuable—very valuable.