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« on: March 12, 2023, 08:48:28 am » |
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Dr. DONALD Cheyne Wells pressed the bell at Peter's flat and waited. After a little while he rang again. His finger was hardly off the bell-push when the door was opened, not by the butler as he had expected.
"Why, Jane, what's wrong? Have your servants left you?" he asked good-humouredly.
She did not answer, and it only needed a glance at her face for this shrewd man to realise that a very considerable change had come over Jane Clifton since he had seen her last. She looked, in some indefinable way, older, suddenly matured into womanhood, and he sensed here that hitherto unconsidered factor at which Marjorie had hinted.
"Come in," she said, and closed the door behind him.
"How is Peter? Or isn't he here?"
"Peter is here," she said, and he thought it was an opportune moment to remark the change in her attitude.
"What is the matter, Jane? Have I annoyed you in some way?"
She shook her head.
"No, I'm not annoyed," she said. "Come in, will you, doctor?"
"'Doctor'!" he scoffed, as he followed her into the sitting-room. "What is wrong, Jane? And how long have I been 'doctor' to you?"
And then he remembered.
"Oh, I see! That very talkative lady wife of mine has been engaged in a little propaganda! The fact is, my dear, Marjorie and I aren't as good friends as we ought to be; and as she and I had rather a row the day she came to Longford Manor, she isn't taking a very charitable view of her long-suffering husband. But you mustn't take Marjorie too seriously——"
"I was telling Peter that he shouldn't take you too seriously, either," she said. "The trouble with poor Peter is that, being terribly straight and truthful himself, he believes all the people of the world are made in his mould!"
Donald was amused.
"We seem to have had a little 'panning' party," he laughed. "Where is Peter?"
"In the library. I'll tell him you're here, but I want to speak to you first about something. Won't you sit down?"
She was so formally polite, so irritatingly "grown up" that he hardly knew whether to be angry or amused.
"This sounds as though something dreadful is coming. What is it?"
"Is Peter mad?"
Stripped of preamble, of delicate introduction, the question sounded brutal. But he was not sorry that it was asked. At any rate it made his own task considerably easier. It would have been wise of him perhaps if he had been as direct. Instead, his professional training led him to fence with the question.
"What an odd question to ask---aren't we all mad----"
"Is Peter mad? Let me put it plainly: is he so insane that he could be put away in an institution?"
Again he had his chance and again avoided it.
"Peter's health is a matter which concerns him only, and I would not dream of discussing the subject unless I had Peter's full permission."
"It concerns me also."
Her voice was almost gentle, and he was deceived by her seeming meekness.
"I am his wife, and when I became his wife I accepted a very heavy responsibility. I didn't realise at the time how heavy it was. But if I have that responsibility, Dr. Wells, I have also certain rights granted me by law, and I am entitled to know the state of my husband's health. Indeed, I am the only person who has that right."
"Why don't you talk to your father----" he began.
"I am talking to you, and I'll be perfectly frank. I wish you to commit yourself to an opinion concerning Peter before you see him. If you do not tell me here and now what is the matter with Peter, I shall ask you to leave the house."
He gaped at her in amazement.
"But, my dear Jane, this is a most remarkable attitude to take up---and with an old friend, too! And really I don't like the way you're speaking of your father----"
"I think it would be better if in future you called me Mrs. Clifton."
And now Donald Wells fully understood the peculiar difficulties and dangers of his position. The cold dignity of the girl first took his breath away and then enraged him.
"Stuff and nonsense!" he said roughly. "There's no sense in giving yourself----" He hesitated.
"'Airs' is the word you want," she said. "I am giving myself airs. In fact, I've had the arrogance to take complete control of Peter's life from this morning."
There was a long and, to Donald, a painful silence.
"Very well," he said at last. "Peter is not mentally well. His father, as you know, was a homicidal maniac, who committed a murder and died in Broadmoor. His grandfather had the same taint; and I've every reason to believe that Peter has inherited these weaknesses."
"For what reason have you reached this opinion?" she asked.
He kept his temper under control.
"There are several reasons, which I am not at the moment prepared to discuss. I am satisfied in my own mind that Peter has committed a ghastly crime while in a condition of coma---that is to say, when he was not responsible for his actions, or in such a state of mental instability that he could not remember his deeds."
"The murder of Basil Hale?"
"Yes," he said defiantly, "the murder of Basil Hale! And I am also pretty sure that he committed that terrible crime last night. He has seen Clewers, who is the biggest authority on mental diseases, and Clewers has always agreed that there was a chance of the danger recurring."
"That is not the story that you told Peter."
"It is the true story, anyway," he said desperately. "And really, Jane, I don't intend wasting my time in arguing the question of obscure mental processes with a girl----"
"You're not arguing with a girl at all; you're arguing with Peter Clifton's wife," she said.
And then, to his surprise, she walked to one of the inner doors and opened it.
"I'll take you to Peter."
He had to pass through the drawing-room, and saw, to his surprise, that Jane had evidently had company that afternoon, for the tea table was set and there were four or five used cups on the big silver tray. She knocked at a further door and Peter's voice bade her enter. His second surprise was when she did not attempt to accompany him.
Peter was writing when he entered, but he put down his pen and rose to greet his visitor.
"Hallo, Donald!" he said, almost cheerfully. "You look a bit flushed. Have you been having a row with Jane?"
"I don't know whether she's in a rowing mood; she's certainly difficult," growled Donald. He helped himself to a cigarette from the table. "Who's been here this afternoon---Bourke?"
Peter shook his head.
"No. Jane had three men in to tea, friends of hers. They were rather amusing, though God knows I'm not in a fit state to be amused! Well?"
Donald, standing in his favourite attitude before the empty fire grate, pursed his lips.
"That was a bad business last night," he said.
"You mean Radlow?"
"I mean Radlow."
"Do you think"---Peter hesitated. "You don't think I had anything to do with that?"
"Do you?" asked Wells bluntly, but there was no answer. "Anyway, I'm not going to probe into this, Peter. The important fact is, you've got to make a decision, and a momentous decision---for the protection of yourself, the protection of your Jane. It's as plain as a pikestaff that you're---well, not to put too fine a point upon it, mental. I'm terribly afraid there's no doubt about that at all. And what I'm scared of is that the truth about these murders will come out. There'll be a horrible criminal trial, and I honestly think the best thing you can do is to anticipate that by a voluntary act."
Peter was still sitting at the table, his hands folded on the blotting-pad, his head bent.
"What do you suggest?" he asked in a low voice.
"I suggest that you have a talk with Jane, and persuade her to my way of thinking. Then we'd better get a couple of good men, certify you, and put you in some special institution under the care of a practised man. It may only be necessary for five or six years, at the end of which time all these distressing symptoms may disappear."
A quietness reigned in the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
"In other words, to commit myself to the stigma of lunacy?" Peter's voice was scarcely audible.
Donald nodded.
"The thing could be done quietly; the courts will appoint Jane to administer your estate, and perhaps you might like to have me and Jane's father as trustees."
Peter did not look up. Watching him keenly, Donald Wells saw his head droop over the pad.
"What I want to avoid," he went on, "is the beastly publicity. If we can get you certified quietly and put away, and the real authorship of these murders is discovered, the police will take no action---how can they against a man already an inmate of a mental hospital? You've got to consider Jane, my boy" (here he knew he was on safe ground and did not need the confirmatory nod with which Peter responded). "You can't brand her as the wife of a convicted murderer."
The young man at the table raised his haggard face to the other.
"There is no doubt at all?" he almost pleaded.
Donald shook his head.
"None," he said, with a finality that made Peter quiver.
For five minutes he sat without speaking, and then, with a quick sigh, raised his head.
"All right," he said. "Will you go and find Jane and ask her to come in?"
The girl was in the room where she had received her visitor, and she neither expressed surprise nor showed the least concern when, with appropriate gravity, Donald asked her to enter the library. Haltingly, Peter told her the gist of the interview, and she listened without comment.
"I think Donald's plan is the best," he said. "It is terrible for you, but we've got to face ugly facts. You know the state in which I came home last night, and you can guess what happened, Jane. It makes my heart ache to tell you this, but I must do it."
"What is Donald's suggestion?" she asked.
He avoided her eyes.
"He is arranging to have me certified. You know what that means?"
She nodded.
"I know what that means. He and another doctor will agree that you are mentally deranged, and you will be taken somewhere----"
"I know the very place," broke in Wells. "A beautiful little house in the country, where there are no other patients."
She silenced him with a gesture.
"I suppose Sir William Clewers will be the other doctor?"
Donald agreed.
"He is the greatest man in our profession," he said enthusiastically.
"Quite a lot of people think he shouldn't be in your profession at all---at least, not practising," she said, with surprising calmness. "They even go so far as to say that he's hopelessly antiquated, that he drinks more than is good for him, and that he has been long since past his work!"
Donald Wells gasped.
"That is a disgraceful thing for people to say," he said with asperity. "He is one of the best known alienists in the world."
"My dear," interposed Peter gently, "I think you'd better leave this matter to Donald."
"We have left the matter to Donald quite a long time," said Jane; "but I feel that this affects me so much that I ought to make every inquiry possible. For the matter of that, how do you know that Peter is mad? Are there symptoms which distinguish him from any other man?"
"Undoubtedly," said Donald Wells promptly.
"There are certain peculiarities of speech and look and manner, even now, when he is perfectly rational, which betray him. I haven't said this before because I didn't want to hurt Peter."
"For God's sake let the matter drop," begged Peter. "This is a horribly ugly business, Jane, and the sooner we get it over the better."
But Jane ignored him.
"What kind of symptoms?" she asked. "Are they such as would be apparent to any medical man?"
Donald nodded.
"To any man who has a knowledge of mental cases," he said.
"Would they be apparent to Sir George Grathman, to Dr. Heinrich Straus?" She named the two great specialists so glibly that Donald stared at her.
"Why, of course," he said.
And then, to his astonishment, he saw her smile.
"Do you think Sir Vardon Jackson would detect signs of insanity in a man?"
Now Sir Vardon Jackson was, of the great alienists, the greatest. He was accepted as an authority by all the American and European medical faculties, and his book on Neuroses was a classic.
"Naturally," said Donald. "I'll call all these people in, but it will be necessary to disclose the whole ghastly truth about Basil Hale's murder, and that I want to avoid."
She did not speak for a second; the smile still lingered on her lips; and then she said slowly:
"I have saved you the trouble. Those three men whose names I have mentioned were here this afternoon!"
"What?" asked Peter, startled. "The men who came to tea?"
She nodded.
"Yes. I brought them to tea because I wanted to make absolutely sure about you. I told them everything except about the murders, and I asked them to be perfectly frank and candid with me---every one of those men said that you were as sane as I."
A deadly silence followed. Peter turned his head slowly towards Donald Wells; his sallow face was twitching, but he said nothing. Jane's pronouncement had left him speechless.
"Would you set your opinion against those gentlemen?" asked Jane.
"Yes, I would," retorted the other, hoarse with anger. "I know the case, I know of the murders, I know exactly what happened. Peter has as good as confessed to me that he killed Basil Hale. These are big men, I admit, but they know nothing whatever of the circumstances. How can they tell by casual examination the state of Peter's mind?"
Jane Clifton inclined her head; the light in her eyes was hard and antagonistic. Donald knew her now for an implacable enemy.
"Very well," she said. "I will agree to this scheme of yours. But Peter has to be certified as insane by those three men I brought here this afternoon and by none other. And if they make a more careful inspection and they agree that he is mad, then I will raise no objection. But one thing I will tell you, Dr. Wells"---her voice lowered---"if Peter is taken away and put under restraint, my lawyers will apply to the courts to throw the whole estate into Chancery---how does that appeal to you?"
She knew! Ever since the interview began he had had an uneasy feeling that there was something more behind her attitude and manner than the antagonism engendered by Marjorie's foolish confidence. He had had a second argument, which involved a betrayal of his employer. All possibility of that source of profit was now dissipated.
"You'll tell Sir Vardon and these other men that Peter is a murderer, will you? You'll tell them all about Basil Hale's body, and how you found Peter covered with blood, lying on his bed fully dressed? You'll tell them that, will you?"
Again she smiled.
"You can tell them that," she said quickly, "because you know how he got there."
On this note the interview should by all logic have ended, but Donald lingered on. There was yet a chance of salvation. He began rapidly to build his defences.
"I'm going to put all my cards on the table, Jane---all right, Mrs. Clifton----"
"Now I think you'd better address your remarks to me."
Peter's voice was cool and steady, so unlike the panic-stricken Peter she had seen a moment or two before that Jane felt that somebody new had come into the room.
"What are your cards, Wells, and how many of them are knaves?"
Donald winced at this. He was a man with a curiously perverted sense of dignity. He had yet another characteristic: all Donald's best efforts were carefully rehearsed. He had to extemporise the particulars of his proposition, and in doing so he blundered.
"At what figure do you value your peace of mind, Clifton?" he asked. "Pay me a hundred thousand pounds, and I'll undertake to leave you a very happy man. It sounds ridiculous, but I can send away every worry that's in your mind; I can give you a new outlook. But you've got to do it quick."
Peter walked to the door leading to the corridor and threw it open.
"I shall need something more than your assurance to make me happy," he said. "There is the door!"
"I see!"
Donald took up his silk hat and brushed it mechanically.
"You're accepting your wife's estimate of me and putting that against the service I have rendered to you----"
"I will not be so vulgar as to remind you that your services have not been altogether disinterested," said Peter. "Yes, I am accepting Jane's view. I don't know how much of a fool I've been, but I'm beginning to understand, in a muddled kind of way, that I haven't been exactly Socrates."
Still Wells lingered.
"I suppose it hasn't struck you that if the police know the truth about Hale, your wife will be arrested as an accessory? If it hasn't, you might give that matter a little thought, will you?"
Peter did not answer; he stood significantly by the door. Following the visitor to the front door, he closed it upon him. When he came back he found Jane sitting on the table, doubled up with hysterical laughter. He looked at her for a moment in astonishment, and then he began laughing too. Jane was the first to recover.
"Now for sanguinary war, Peter," she said.
She knew that the crisis in Peter's life and hers was near at hand, that she was dealing with a force so unscrupulous that it did not stop short of murder. Only one question she wished she could have answered to her satisfaction. Did Basil Hale know when she was married that she was tying herself for life with what he believed was a homicidal maniac? Was his visit to Longford Manor on the night of her marriage entirely accidental?
She was alone when she debated these questions. It was an act of impulse on her part which made her stretch out her hand and draw the telephone towards her and put through a call to John Leith.
"Well, Jane, what have you decided?"
She did not at first understand what he was asking.
"Decided---oh! Then you knew Donald was coming here?"
There was no reply. She repeated the question.
"Yes, I knew. What is Peter going to do?"
"I'll tell you, father, if you will tell me something."
"I'll tell you anything, my dear." His voice had a faint note of surprise in it, but that surprise became a devastating shock when she asked:
"Why did you send Basil Hale to Longford Manor the night I was married?"
Through the sensitive instrument she heard the quick intake of his breath, and waited. His voice was sharper, shriller, when he spoke.
"Did he tell you that? Well, you know . . . I didn't want to take any risks with you, my dear . . . with Peter . . . Peter's family record. . . . I thought it was best to have somebody handy . . ."
"I understand, father. You knew, or thought you knew, that Peter was mad when I married him?"
She did not wait for his reply, but hung up the receiver. The telephone rang furiously for five minutes afterwards, but she neither answered it herself nor would allow Peter to speak for her; and when, half an hour later, came John Leith in a state of agitation, he found no answer to his repeated ringing, for she had watched his arrival from her bedroom window.
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