The Night Calls (15 page)
Authors: David Pirie
As I stood there, two gaudily dressed, yet not unattractive, women pushed past me, laughing and whispering. They were making for its doorway, and something made me follow.
‘Excuse me, madam,’ I blurted out at the nearest, who turned round, somewhat surprised and half amused. She had rich dark curls and a pretty mouth.
‘Who?’ she said. And both of them laughed.
But I had their attention. ‘I was wondering,’ I said falteringly, ‘if you knew a gentleman who sometimes pays a visit to this house. A gentleman of means. His name is Henry.’
They had lost interest now. ‘Oh, we have many visitors here,’ the woman with the curls said haughtily. I realised now she was French. ‘It’s a matter for us.’ And they turned away.
For a second I was left standing there feeling completely foolish. But I would not let it go and went up the steps after them. ‘Of course,’ I said quickly, ‘it is merely that …’ They were half inside now and the French woman looked back at me scornfully, preparing to close the door in my face. ‘ … that he recommended you.’
The change was spectacular. She smiled broadly, showing a fine set of teeth, and put out an arm to usher me, now a welcome customer, into Madame Rose’s.
I felt as if I were in some kind of dream. Fortunately the madame I had met was nowhere in evidence; indeed the hall was relatively empty apart from a discreet servant who guarded the door. My friend, who I gathered was called Marie, suggested we take some refreshment, but this was the last thing I wanted for I dreaded meeting anyone. So I shook my head mutely and she smiled, evidently quite happy to move on to the main agenda.
I was led to the first floor and into one of those utterly mundane rooms I had already seen with a bed, a sofa and a dressing table. I sat on the sofa and gave her all the money I had, ruefully reflecting that I would scarcely be able to eat for the next few days. It was, it seemed, much less than she required but, after a few protests, she seemed happy enough. ‘Well, if here is all you have,
chérie,’
she said, ‘and you are young. Now do you wish that I prepare?’
chérie,’
she said, ‘and you are young. Now do you wish that I prepare?’
I nodded. ‘Does he come and see you much?’ I said casually, feeling that now we were friends I was entitled to this easy conversation.
She laughed. ‘Henri. He is a lord, is he not? A tall man, whiskers, yes?’ I nodded, trying to look amused and disguise my reaction, for I was sure now it was him.
‘I know him, yes,’ she said, her accent quite pronounced. ‘You are sweet when you say he recommends me but the girl he likes was Agnes. Agnes Walsh. She would give him what he wanted. I think sometimes he hurt her. But she is gone.’
I had to look away, trying to contain my excitement. At last we had a serious link. And the name was familiar. For Agnes Walsh’s clothes had been found in that room of blood. ‘Agnes Walsh,’ I said. ‘She was his mistress? Where is she?’
‘Ah,’ she said, taking a little bottle of scent from her bag and putting it on as she looked in the mirror. ‘Nobody knows.’
‘And he has not been back?’
‘Oh, yes, he is back. He says she may give him something bad. He is angry. I do not know. But he does not choose another girl yet. Maybe he will, or maybe he goes somewhere else.’
This was too much for me and I could no longer hold back my amazement. ‘He did accuse her then? Of infecting him?’
Of course she turned to me at once and all the hardness was back in her eyes. ‘You did not come here for yourself, did you?’
It was pointless to deny it. ‘Is there no way I can find her? If I pay you …’
She got up at once, evidently aware that she had said more than she should have. There was a look of spiteful anger on her face now. She was clearly annoyed to have given such secrets of the place away. ‘I told you, nobody knows where she went. And nobody will say your friend was here, either, certainly not me. Now please … Go! Or I will see you thrown out.’
And she went to the door and flung it open.
I plunged down those stairs and into the street, feeling quite a sense of triumph for I was certain in my own mind that I had discovered the truth. Carlisle was a bully, who enjoyed tormenting women. I could see that even from the way he treated his wife. Eventually he had been infected by a prostitute, Agnes Walsh, and his activities had become even more criminal and bizarre, shown not least in the room of blood with Agnes’s own clothes in the middle of it. As a diversion, he had set us on the trail of Crawford, who he knew very well from the university. Indeed Crawford had laughed more heartily at Carlisle’s smoking-room anecdotes than anyone.
I was desperate to tell the Doctor, and the following day I went to his rooms, only to find he was out on a visit to the Royal Hospital for Sick Children. At last he returned in good spirits, for it turned out that one of his young patients was making a far better recovery from pleurisy than he had dared to hope. Before I could open my mouth he took one look at me and said, ‘You have found something out, I see.’
I explained all that I had heard. He was impressed, and also, thank heavens, tactful. I told him I had gathered the information on the street, and I am sure he disbelieved me, but he did not ask for details.
‘Carlisle is, I fear, like many men of our age, a gross hypocrite,’ he said. ‘As yet I cannot finally accept you have proved he is a murderer, but …’ and he raised his hand, anticipating my objection, ‘but the facts you have uncovered are very suggestive indeed. At last we have a serious link to the room of blood. There is a web here, and I am quite sure Carlisle is part of that web.’
All our attention was now centred on the missing Agnes Walsh. ‘Since,’ the Doctor continued, with a mercifully small hint of irony, ‘you have been so successful gathering information on the street, I suggest you gather some more for me. You must find out from your sources if there is any news of this Agnes Walsh. Some of these women will have seen her. And I really believe, Doyle, it is possible that if we find her, and help her, we will be within sight of the solution to this whole business.’
I was greatly heartened by his response but, after I left him, my excitement diminished a little. For I had to face the bald truth that my source would provide nothing more, indeed she would not even speak to me. In the end I decided the best course was to enlist my own friends. Together we could cover more ground, and I could still keep the real reason for the enquiry a secret.
Stark and Neill were loafing around Surgeon’s Square in the sunshine, lamenting the absence of the women. We agreed to meet in Rutherford’s that night and, after we had sat down together in that bustling panelled bar, I waited to let the conversation take its course. All of us were amused by the fact that a first-year man had fainted away outright at an operation the previous day and, after the topic of operations had fizzled out, I launched into my story.
I told them that a relative had got in touch with our family, anxious to make contact with an Agnes Walsh, an old acquaintance who it seemed had fallen on hard times in Edinburgh, possibly even working on the streets. My relative wanted to help her and was very anxious to make contact discreetly for that purpose.
Neither Stark nor Neill had ever visited my home, so they had no way of disproving the lie. They were well aware that I had little money, but Neill always put this down to the strictness of my parents, comparing it to the penury of our hero Poe who constantly quarrelled with his wealthy stepfather. So with only a little embroidery, my tale excited the imagination of both of them. Stark concluded that my relative was wealthy and the poor waif would be transformed at a stroke into a princess, while Neill loved the idea of a charitable mission into the stews of the old city. The division between rich and poor, he often said, was the nearest thing our country had to a frontier.
And so we set out into the streets, full of enthusiasm for the quest to redeem Agnes Walsh. I suppose I should have felt some guilt about the subterfuge. But I reasoned that, if we found Agnes, she would indeed be helped, for the Doctor had already indicated he would offer medical care. I had, of course, no intention of revealing Bell’s role in the business, and if my friends discovered it I would merely say I had consulted him on the matter.
In the event, none of these precautions proved remotely necessary. We started the proceedings optimistically enough, with Neill whistling merrily as we turned into the street where most women were to be seen, hanging out of their windows and sometimes standing in doorways. Our first encounter was with a small fair-haired woman who stood in an alley and smiled warmly at us as we passed. When we told her we were searching for Agnes Walsh she looked blank.
But the next experience was very different. We had arrived at one of the smaller houses of assignation which flourished in the town at that time. It was run by a matronly dame in middle age, who greeted us warmly and invited us in.
Neill smiled at her as he stepped forward. ‘We are hopeful of finding a Miss Agnes Walsh or anyone who has news of her.’
The effect on the woman was dramatic. The smile left her face and she moved back at once, slamming the door in all our faces. Stark and Neill were as aghast as I was.
‘What has she done, this Agnes Walsh?’ said Stark. ‘Did she strangle one of these girls?’
‘I do not understand,’ I said, pretending innocence but thinking fast. The woman had looked angry but also frightened. Were they aware of the trouble Agnes had brought on them? We went on down that street passing two young women who stood arm in arm smiling at us in front of a window. This time I took the lead and asked politely if they had any knowledge of the whereabouts of Agnes Walsh, but at this they merely shook their heads curtly and tried to interest us in coming inside.
That reaction was the most typical, a sullen denial. But none of us could forget the slamming door and, an hour or so later, after we had received further rebuffs, my companions were becoming bemused, if not irritated.
Neill still had the greatest spirit and decided to prevail on a woman standing beside a lamp-post. He did a twirl around it and kissed her delicately on the cheek, making her laugh. But once again, when he asked his question, we could see her head shaking, and he came back to us mournfully.
‘She has never heard of your mystery woman,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your relative will be disappointed.’
‘If it is a relative,’ said Stark impudently. ‘By the by, what in the world has happened to your Miss Scott? We thought you were walking out with her, and now the women I see at the library say she has gone to London.’
‘I believe she has,’ I said.
‘But Doyle,’ said Neill, ‘you must tell us, is it true you had trysts in Latimer’s lab?’
‘A strange kind of tryst,’ I said quickly. ‘The women only needed to practise their dissection and I offered help. Now, what of our quest for Agnes?’
But we were already footsore and exhausted. Neill saw some women’s heads peering out of another house of assignation a little way down. He called at them, ‘Agnes Walsh?’
As always they shook their heads.
‘Well,’ said Neill, grinning, ‘let us try something more exciting.’ And to my amazement he whooped and yelled out, ‘Jesse James! John Wesley Harding!’
The women laughed at these antics.
‘Who in the world are they?’ I asked.
‘They are Western heroes,’ said Stark. ‘He was telling me about them today.’
‘Yes,’ said Neill, excidedly. ‘Harding has a notch on his gun for every kill, and he’s rumoured to have twenty-three. Jesse James is a Christian gentleman who robbed a train in Iowa and gave three million dollars to a Southern school. The place is so vast. You could search for years and not find a man. And think of how hard we have found it tonight in just one small town. Come on, let us return to Rutherford’s. We are doing ourselves no good at all here.’
The memory of that fruitless evening quest for Agnes Walsh colours all the days and weeks that came after it. For now, just at the moment I so desperately needed to pursue the case against our mysterious assailant, it seemed to come to a complete standstill. The Doctor was gracious enough when I told him I could make no headway in my search for Agnes Walsh, but I could see he was frustrated. And his frustration grew as week followed week with no new development.
But none of this affected my mood on the days I visited Elsbeth. Mrs Henderson turned out to be a small, exceedingly friendly woman of tidy habits. But quite soon she went to St Andrews for her annual holiday fortnight, leaving us alone to walk among the dunes or sit in that beautiful beach hut, staring out at the water. It was, I think, on my third visit that she broached the subject of Sir Henry Carlisle. We were sitting in the tiny kitchen, it was cloudy outside, and Elsbeth had been a little quieter than usual, absently kneading the blue scarf she was wearing with her hand. No doubt she was wrestling with her conscience, for she knew the question she wanted to ask was inviting a breach of confidence. But in the end her natural sympathy for her sister overcame any scruples.
I was discussing Lady Sarah’s condition and had laid out the matter delicately yet I hope reasonably clearly. I never specified the infection, for Bell was adamant I should not, but I felt it only fair to provide enough indications so she could reach her own conclusions.
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘this infection … you are in a position of confidence and I do not press you for a final diagnosis, but I wish to know one aspect, which is this. Was it passed by her husband?’
And she looked at me with eyes that held so much quiet feeling, waiting for an answer.
Of course I had to give her one and in the end common sense triumphed over medical etiquette. ‘I believe so,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘In which case,’ she said very quietly, ‘I would very much like to kill him.’
The softness of her tone in no way detracted from its passion. I stared at her and she nodded.
‘It is why, as you may have noticed, I never speak of him.’ She was trembling now and my heart ached for her. ‘You see before you a woman doctor with means and with motive. The act could perhaps be disguised as part of something else. His nocturnal habits seem promising.’ And then some of the spirit went out of her and she turned away. ‘But do not worry,’ she spoke haltingly, the tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Unfortunately the scheme has a flaw. Even now, after all that has happened, I am persuaded my poor sister actually loves him.’
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