Rivals of Sherlock Holmes, The (12 page)

  'Now about his alias?' said Mr Griffiths briskly, for the train was at that moment steaming into the station. 'How did you know that Harold Cousins was identical with Harry Craven, and had sailed in the
Bonnie Dundee
?'

  'Oh, that was easy enough,' said Loveday, as she stepped into the train; 'a newspaper sent down to Mr Craven by his wife, was folded so as to direct his attention to the shipping list. In it I saw that the
Bonnie Dundee
had sailed two days previously for Natal. Now it was only natural to connect Natal with Mrs Craven, who had passed the greater part of her life there; and it was easy to understand her wish to get her scapegrace son among her early friends. The alias under which he sailed came readily enough to light. I found it scribbled all over one of Mr Craven's writing pads in his study; evidently it had been drummed into his ears by his wife as his son's alias, and the old gentleman had taken this method of fixing it in his memory. We'll hope that the young fellow, under his new name, will make a new reputation for himself – at any rate, he'll have a better chance of doing so with the ocean between him and his evil companions. Now it's good-bye, I think.'

  'No,' said Mr Griffiths; 'it's
au revoir
, for you'll have to come back again for the assizes, and give the evidence that will shut old Mr Craven in an asylum for the rest of his life.'

L. T. M
EADE WAS the pseudonym of Elizabeth Thomasina Meade Smith, an almost impossibly productive writer of the late Victorian and Edwardian eras who made her first appearance in print in the 1870s and went on to publish close to 300 books. At one stage in her career she was writing ten novels a year. In her lifetime she was best-known as the author of stories for girls, often with a school setting, but she also wrote many crime stories, sometimes in collaboration with other writers. With Robert Eustace, for example, she created a remarkable
femme fatale
and supervillain in Madame Sara who appeared in a series of stories in
The Strand Magazine
in 1902-3, later collected in a volume entitled
The Sorceress of the Strand
. 'Stories from the Diary of a Doctor' also appeared in
The Strand
but they were written eight years earlier and accredited to Meade and Clifford Halifax, the pseudonym of a writer and doctor named Edgar Beaumont. The central character is a medical man who finds himself involved in cases where medicine and crime come together. The stories are archetypally late Victorian in their values and are often melodramatic and stilted but many of them are also vividly memorable. 'The Horror of Studley Grange', with its central character driven to the brink of madness by what seem to be supernatural apparitions, is one of the best.

I
WAS IN my consulting-room one morning, and had just said goodbye to the last of my patients, when my servant came in and told me that a lady had called who pressed very earnestly for an interview with me.

  'I told her that you were just going out, sir,' said the man, 'and she saw the carriage at the door; but she begged to see you, if only for two minutes. This is her card.'

  I read the words, 'Lady Studley'.

  'Show her in,' I said, hastily, and the next moment a tall, slightlymade, fair-haired girl entered the room.

  She looked very young, scarcely more than twenty, and I could hardly believe that she was, what her card indicated, a married woman.

  The colour rushed into her cheeks as she held out her hand to me. I motioned her to a chair, and then asked her what I could do for her.

  'Oh, you can help me,' she said, clasping her hands and speaking in a slightly theatrical manner. 'My husband, Sir Henry Studley, is very unwell, and I want you to come to see him – can you? – will you?'

  'With pleasure,' I replied. 'Where do you live?'

  'At Studley Grange, in Wiltshire. Don't you know our place?'

  'I daresay I ought to know it,' I replied, 'although at the present moment I can't recall the name. You want me to come to see your husband. I presume you wish me to have a consultation with his medical attendant?'

  'No, no, not at all. The fact is, Sir Henry has not got a medical attendant. He dislikes doctors, and won't see one. I want you to come and stay with us for a week or so. I have heard of you through mutual friends – the Onslows. I know you can effect remarkable cures, and you have a great deal of tact. But you can't possibly do anything for my husband unless you are willing to stay in the house and to notice his symptoms.'

  Lady Studley spoke with great emphasis and earnestness. Her long, slender hands were clasped tightly together. She had drawn off her gloves and was bending forward in her chair. Her big, childish, and somewhat restless blue eyes were fixed imploringly on my face.

  'I love my husband,' she said, tears suddenly filling them – 'and it is dreadful, dreadful, to see him suffer as he does. He will die unless someone comes to his aid. Oh, I know I am asking an immense thing, when I beg of you to leave all your patients and come to the country. But we can pay. Money is no object whatever to us. We can, we will, gladly pay you for your services.'

  'I must think the matter over,' I said. 'You flatter me by wishing for me, and by believing that I can render you assistance, but I cannot take a step of this kind in a hurry. I will write to you by to-night's post if you will give me your address. In the meantime, kindly tell me some of the symptoms of Sir Henry's malady.'

  'I fear it is a malady of the mind,' she answered immediately, 'but it is of so vivid and so startling a character, that unless relief is soon obtained, the body must give way under the strain. You see that I am very young, Dr Halifax. Perhaps I look younger than I am – my age is twenty-two. My husband is twenty years my senior. He would, however, be considered by most people still a young man. He is a great scholar, and has always had more or less the habits of a recluse. He is fond of living in his library, and likes nothing better than to be surrounded by books of all sorts. Every modern book worth reading is forwarded to him by its publisher. He is a very interesting man and a brilliant conversationalist. Perhaps I ought to put all this in the past tense, for now he scarcely ever speaks – he reads next to nothing – it is difficult to persuade him to eat – he will not leave the house – he used to have a rather ruddy complexion – he is now deadly pale and terribly emaciated. He sighs in the most heartrending manner, and seems to be in a state of extreme nervous tension. In short, he is very ill, and yet he seems to have no bodily disease. His eyes have a terribly startled expression in them – his hand trembles so that he can scarcely raise a cup of tea to his lips. In short, he looks like a man who has seen a ghost.'

  'When did these symptoms begin to appear?' I asked.

  'It is mid-winter now,' said Lady Studley. 'The queer symptoms began to show themselves in my husband in October. They have been growing worse and worse. In short, I can stand them no longer,' she continued, giving way to a short, hysterical sob. 'I felt I must come to someone – I have heard of you. Do, do come and save us. Do come and find out what is the matter with my wretched husband.'

  'I will write to you to-night,' I said, in as kind a voice as I could muster, for the pretty, anxious wife interested me already. 'It may not be possible for me to stay at Studley Grange for a week, but in any case I can promise to come and see the patient. One visit will probably be sufficient – what your husband wants is, no doubt, complete change.'

  'Oh, yes, yes,' she replied, standing up now. 'I have said so scores of times, but Sir Henry won't stir from Studley – nothing will induce him to go away. He won't even leave his own special bedroom, although I expect he has dreadful nights.' Two hectic spots burnt in her cheeks as she spoke. I looked at her attentively.

  'You will forgive me for speaking,' I said, 'but you do not look at all well yourself. I should like to prescribe for you as well as your husband.'

  'Thank you,' she answered, 'I am not very strong. I never have been, but that is nothing – I mean that my health is not a thing of consequence at present. Well, I must not take up any more of your time. I shall expect to get a letter from you to-morrow morning. Please address it to Lady Studley, Grosvenor Hotel, Victoria.'

  She touched my hand with fingers that burnt like a living coal and left the room.

  I thought her very ill, and was sure that if I could see my way to spending a week at Studley Grange, I should have two patients instead of one. It is always difficult for a busy doctor to leave home, but after carefully thinking matters over, I resolved to comply with Lady Studley's request.

  Accordingly, two days later saw me on my way to Wiltshire, and to Studley Grange. A brougham with two smart horses was waiting at the station. To my surprise I saw that Lady Studley had come herself to fetch me.

  'I don't know how to thank you,' she said, giving me a feverish clasp of her hand. 'Your visit fills me with hope – I believe that you will discover what is really wrong. Home!' she said, giving a quick, imperious direction to the footman who appeared at the window of the carriage.

  We bowled forward at a rapid pace, and she continued:

  'I came to meet you to-day to tell you that I have used a little guile with regard to your visit. I have not told Sir Henry that you are coming here in the capacity of a doctor.'

  Here she paused and gave me one of her restless glances.

  'Do you mind?' she asked.

  'What have you said about me to Sir Henry?' I inquired.

  'That you are a great friend of the Onslows, and that I have asked you here for a week's change,' she answered immediately.

  'As a guest, my husband will be polite and delightful to you – as a doctor, he would treat you with scant civility, and would probably give you little or none of his confidence.'

  I was quite silent for a moment after Lady Studley had told me this. Then I said:

  'Had I known that I was not to come to your house in the capacity of a medical man, I might have re-considered my earnest desire to help you.'

  She turned very pale when I said this, and tears filled her eyes.

  'Never mind,' I said now, for I could not but be touched by her extremely pathetic and suffering face, by the look of great illness which was manifested in every glance. 'Never mind now; I am glad you have told me exactly the terms on which you wish me to approach your husband; but I think that I can so put matters to Sir Henry that he will be glad to consult me in my medical capacity.'

  'Oh, but he does not even know that I suspect his illness. It would never do for him to know. I suspect! I see! I fear! but I say nothing. Sir Henry would be much more miserable than he is now, if he thought that I guessed that there is anything wrong with him.'

  'It is impossible for me to come to the Grange except as a medical man,' I answered, firmly. 'I will tell Sir Henry that you have seen some changes in him, and have asked me to visit him as a doctor. Please trust me. Nothing will be said to your husband that can make matters at all uncomfortable for you.'

  Lady Studley did not venture any further remonstrance, and we now approached the old Grange. It was an irregular pile, built evidently according to the wants of the different families who had lived in it. The building was long and rambling, with rows of windows filled up with panes of latticed glass. In front of the house was a sweeping lawn, which, even at this time of the year, presented a velvety and well-kept appearance. We drove rapidly round to the entrance door, and a moment later I found myself in the presence of my host and patient. Sir Henry Studley was a tall man with a very slight stoop, and an aquiline and rather noble face. His eyes were dark, and his forehead inclined to be bald. There was a courtly, old-world sort of look about him. He greeted me with extreme friendliness, and we went into the hall, a very large and lofty apartment, to tea.

  Lady Studley was vivacious and lively in the extreme. While she talked, the hectic spots came out again on her cheeks. My uneasiness about her increased as I noticed these symptoms. I felt certain that she was not only consumptive, but in all probability she was even now the victim of an advanced stage of phthisis. I felt far more anxious about her than about her husband, who appeared to me at that moment to be nothing more than a somewhat nervous and hypochondriacal person. This state of things seemed easy to account for in a scholar and a man of sedentary habits.

  I remarked about the age of the house, and my host became interested, and told me one or two stories of the old inhabitants of the Grange. He said that to-morrow he would have much pleasure in taking me over the building.