The Dark Water Read online

  No doubt the broken window would make them even more eager to get inside. It was true all the broken glass was outside rather than in, which should have made it obvious to any competent detective this was a violent exit rather than a break-in. But, as Dr Bell had pointed out to me more than once, in the earliest stages of an investigation, people generally see what they want to see. These men would certainly suspect Lucas had died protecting his hoard and would be looking for a point of entry to the cottage. As soon as they found the window they would feel sure they had discovered it.

  Dusk was now advancing and I took advantage of an oak tree to sit down and try the boots, discovering to my joy that, though a little large, they were a rough fit and the socks would help me avoid too much abrasion. I donned them quickly and found that I could walk perfectly well.

  It was obvious all my energy must now be concentrated in putting as much distance as I could between the cottage and myself. I moved through the trees, taking care to keep low. My wounded leg was hurting but I had to force myself on.

  From somewhere behind I could hear cries and soon, as I turned, I noted the glimmer of a lantern. My guess was that one would have climbed into the house to search while the other two explored the garden. I was glad to have my wallet but still cursed myself for my carelessness as a detective. If I had properly investigated the door as soon as I escaped, I would have had ample time to search the body and the garden, for Cream could easily have planted further incriminating evidence. This unpleasant thought spurred me on, though my leg was becoming very painful.

  Suddenly there was a noise ahead of me. I crouched down as a horse-drawn vehicle with a lamp went past at speed. Its lone driver was one of the men I had just seen and he had evidently been dispatched to summon help.

  I crossed the road and tried to keep on but, now the immediate fear had passed, I found I had used up all my strength. Looking back on it from a medical perspective, I am sure I must have been deeply dehydrated during that awful time in the cottage where all I drank was the milk laced with laudanum. Drinking copiously from that stream had helped to revive me, as had the mad scramble of my escape, but now the lassitude of hunger really set in. If it had been summer, perhaps I would have found some berries to help me on, but there was nothing edible in these woods.

  Because of this and the darkness and my ignorance of the terrain, I now failed to keep a clear line. After a time as I continued, I was aware a moon had got up and then I found myself looking down into a dip. There was a sudden shout and like a cursed fool I realised the moonlight was full on me and below I could make out men with lanterns. It was then I realised to my horror I had doubled back on myself and these were my pursuers.

  I turned away and struck out across country uphill in the opposite direction. The fear gave me some new energy and I desperately tried to keep the line, splashing through streams to do so, but it was very hard going and mostly uphill. I have no idea how long I kept on or whether it was safe but eventually it was plain I could go no further until I had rested. Fortunately the night was not cold. I found a sheltered thicket deep in the wood, pulled my coat around me and lay down. Sleep must have followed almost immediately.

  When I awoke it was dawn and I felt stiff, cold, weak and ill. Looking round, I had no idea where I was but strongly suspected it was not nearly far enough from where I had started. Yet I knew I had no stamina to go much further without food, and no money to buy food even if it was offered.

  For the first time it occurred to me it might be better if I gave myself up. And then I reflected on the enormous pleasure it would give my enemy. I would certainly be arrested, much would be made of my consumption of laudanum and, judging by that wallet, there might well be other incriminating evidence against me. Even if somehow I got an acquittal, my father’s mental condition would certainly be paraded in court as proof of my degeneracy. The scandal would probably kill my mother. It was unthinkable. I had to get away.

  From what I could observe I was about three-quarters of the way up a wooded slope with a wind blowing down into me and I only hoped the top of the hill would take me out of these trees. I moved slowly up towards the top, noting my leg was worse than yesterday and I was finding the going far harder. Any obstruction was agony.

  Worse, I became sure that some way behind I could hear shouting. It was distant but it seemed to me very likely it was my pursuers. My only hope was to get out of this wood unobstructed and unseen. I plunged on as fast as I could. And then stopped.

  Someone was waiting ahead of me.

  THE FLIGHT AND THE WILDFOWLER

  He was crouched in a nook about twenty yards away. There seemed little point in turning back so I went on a few paces. Then I saw the gun in his hands and his old green jacket and realised this could not be one of my pursuers. From his stillness and the angle of his vision, all this man’s energies were concentrated on the sky.

  He had not observed my approach because I was behind him, but there was no way on earth I could pass him without being seen so I took cover behind a tree while I considered my options. The sounds of pursuit, for I felt quite sure now that was what I heard, were no louder. They were making slow progress which meant they were being thorough and there seemed little hope of moving back through them. But the man before me would surely give the alarm? As I watched, he began to disentangle himself from the nook, turning a weather-beaten face in my direction. To my amazement he was smiling.

  At first I thought he had seen me. But it seemed he had not and soon I found myself reflecting there was something oddly familiar about this smile. I was brought up in a town, but sometimes as a child I had been carted out to the great shooting estates on the edge of Edinburgh to make a few pence as a beater. Afterwards we were given tea and I observed the ‘guns’ (that term used to describe members of a shooting party) with interest. Many of them were, as might be expected, ignorant and unsympathetic bullies who cared only for their social standing, dwelling on their achievements in the field and the size of their bag.

  But there was another type of ‘gun’ that could hardly be more different. These men had a keen appreciation of the countryside and an almost mystical regard for every aspect of it, even its foul weather. They took their shooting seriously but the actual kill was in many ways the thing they liked least. Indeed they showed such an appreciation of their prey that they often refused to take a shot at all, claiming that some circumstance or other was ‘unsporting’.

  The smile on the face of this man who had clambered out from behind the trees made me sure he must be of the second kind. Few men will squat for a long period in damp and discomfort at dawn and come out smiling. But I was also aware that one of the great delights of such wildfowlers is to catch the first flight of duck at the earliest hour. This meant getting into position while it was still dark, and it gave me some confidence the man in front of me had heard nothing of my pursuit, indeed he could well be my only hope.

  And so on an impulse I walked up out of my cover towards him.

  He looked at me, showing absolutely no anxiety, only cocking his head slightly as he considered my appearance. It must certainly have seemed far from promising. My face sported a growth of unkempt beard, my overcoat was torn and covered with dirt, my boots clogged with mud. But I decided from the start it was best not to apologise for it.

  ‘I hope I have not disturbed the flight for you,’ I said in as cheerful and steady a voice as I could.

  ‘Oh they were too high,’ he said, his voice cultivated but kindly. ‘It is so often the way. ‘Nine times out of ten they come out ahead but I would not have missed them for the world. A flock of six and then a great one of more than thirty. Did you see?’ he asked, even my appearance forgotten in his enthusiasm.

  ‘I regret to say no,’ I replied. ‘I have had quite a walk tonight. I am a doctor. And I have lost my way.’

  ‘A doctor,’ he said with wonder but not with malice. Now I was sure I had guessed correctly that he had heard nothing of the recent alarm.


  ‘One who was vain enough to accept a challenge from a friend who wished me to see if I could live in this valley in the open for a week without proper supplies. It has not been a pleasant experience.’

  ‘I should think not,’ he answered, still with his eyes bright and friendly though the smile had left him. ‘But which valley do you mean?’

  Of course now I cursed myself for underestimating so formidable a countryman. ‘To tell the truth,’ I said quietly, throwing myself on his mercy, ‘I was the victim of a crime, an attack. I am a doctor and can prove it but if I encounter the police here, they will certainly suspect me. I am prepared to answer any charge but I have a great friend, Professor Joseph Bell of Edinburgh University, who knows the truth about what I have suffered and I want to try to make my way to him.’

  ‘Joseph Bell,’ he repeated slowly. He stared at me further. ‘I cannot say I know the name. Can you tell me what is the flat triangular bone that forms the posterior part of the upper joint of the arm?’

  ‘The scapula,’ I said, for it happened the shoulder had been a key aspect of my final anatomy exam. This was lucky, for I am certain plenty of questions would have stumped me.’

  He relaxed now and started to unload his gun. ‘I only know it because I dislocated my shoulder last year. I suppose you trained at Edinburgh.’ And I confirmed this.

  ‘Well I read law at Pembridge College,’ he said. ‘And now we have spent quite enough time here. The birds are on their way to their feeding ground and so should we, for you look all in. My place is only about twenty minutes on foot.’

  To hear these words was the biggest relief I had enjoyed since the ordeal began. I have little memory of the walk that followed but I know it was short and my companion talked carefully yet happily of his country pursuits. Indeed, when I look back on this whole strange episode I see it framed by two bright interiors, the first of horror as I faced Cream in the Morland house, the next of sheer relief in that wildfowler’s little one-storey home as I entered his hallway and caught a glimpse of a bright sitting room with a fire.

  On the first occasion I passed out altogether, on the second I very nearly did. But my companion took my arm to steady me and led me away to a small guest bedroom. There was no fire here but it was warm enough and he indicated a basin of water, some toiletries and a bed. ‘You are exhausted,’ he said. ‘We will put some food out but rest for now.’

  I slept a little but it was not so much sleep I needed and soon I opened my eyes to find someone had placed some food on the table. I got up and though my legs were like jelly, I was soon looking down at warm milk, oatcakes and marmalade. I ate it all greedily and in as uncivilised a fashion as you could imagine, using my hands more than the cutlery.

  There was water too and after my feast I did sleep, though only for an hour or so until I was awoken by a great knocking on the outside door. The noise filled me with horror for I could hear barking only a little way off. I waited, dreading the prospect of the door being flung open and policemen standing there. Once my lawyer had heard the facts, might he not relent on his charity?

  After a time I heard footsteps coming to my room and the door opened, but it was only my host. ‘I am sorry if you were awoken,’ he said. ‘The police have been here and they are looking hard for a stranger, but I made no mention of you, for they were hunting a murderous thief with stolen gold, not an impecunious doctor from Edinburgh. But there is always the chance they might bother you if you set off today. Tomorrow would be better.’

  I thanked him seriously. He then offered me his razor and the use of his mirror and some of his old sporting clothes, so that an hour later I was sitting opposite my host by the fire in the sitting room, looking perhaps a little shabby but not, at least, like a wild man of the woods. And when Mrs Herne, his kindly housekeeper, came in, she greeted me with a smiling politeness that could hardly have been possible a few hours earlier.

  The ham kedgeree she had made was delicious, all the more so because the lawyer, whose name was Stephen Middleton, insisted we should not spoil it by discussing pressing matters. Instead he talked of everything under the sun, not least of his collection of local natural history books, and I gathered I was somewhere in Wiltshire.

  The afternoon was spent uneventfully as Middleton had some clients to see. But, as the day wore on, I found, to my distress that I was starting to imagine what Cream would make of this little household. I knew he would want to destroy it at once, just because of its unreflecting kindness. I imagined his long white hand knocking on the door and his knife cutting down my host as soon as it was opened and then smashing and defiling every little object he could find in order to express his hatred of the place. Such thoughts only reinforced my wish to keep him away from these people’s lives.

  So that night, over dinner I avoided the most sensational aspects of my story. I merely told my host that at Edinburgh I had assisted Professor Joseph Bell in the pursuit of a criminal who had later sworn to avenge himself on me. That the grudge had grown over the years and, in the last few weeks, he had imprisoned me near by until I had escaped. Any crimes the police had discovered would have been committed by this man who was now likely to be far away.

  After that we turned to other topics. I gathered Middleton’s wife was on a visit to her sister in Ireland. But he assured me it would have made no difference if she had been here, for she was a champion of all waifs and strays. His library, as I might have expected, was largely composed of wildfowling, rural and ornithological works, and as the evening wore on he showed me some of his favourites with such delight that it helped to stem some of my own anxiety. Then, before we retired, he outlined his proposal for the morning.

  ‘My housekeeper’s son has a trap which we use to collect provisions and I have arranged for him to take you to the railway station at Salisbury. You will have a mixed-up journey in the cheapest seats, for I can spare no more, but I dare say you will get to Edinburgh via a great many other places in due course.’

  I could tell from the whole bearing of the man the last thing he would want was fulsome thanks. I therefore told him I was grateful for all his trust and hospitality, that I would never see a morning flight of duck again without thinking of him (something that remains true) and that he could be confident I would repay the debt within a few weeks. He waved this away and I returned to my bedroom.

  I was ready next morning as Mrs Herne arrived in the trap with her son and I got on to it, thanking her all the more profusely since she had returned with my coat, now miraculously cleaned.

  The start of the journey was uneventful. Nobody challenged us, the search having moved elsewhere. John Herne was a quiet, reliable boy of nineteen who was dutifully polite, obviously not having any idea, or indeed any interest, who I might be. After about twenty minutes, slightly to my alarm, we stopped at a large coaching inn called the Quarter Moon where he had an arrangement with the landlord to change the horse.

  ‘My apologies, Dr Doyle,’ he said, for his mother must have told him my name. ‘I had no chance to do it earlier. Do you wish to get down and take something? I will only be a few minutes.’

  I declined and in truth I felt a little nervous to be there at all and looked around me warily as Herne uncoupled the horse and disappeared into the stable. It was a large and comfortable-looking place but fortunately nobody in the main building was up, all the windows were dark and I sat there alone, listening to Herne jesting with the stable boy, though I could not hear what was said. He was true to his word, for once his horse was settled he appeared with a new one and hitched it up. I was relieved the stable boy never ventured out to look me over and then we were on our way.

  We were about an hour to Salisbury, where he left me, wishing me a safe journey. And Middleton had been true to his word. I travelled third class and it was a long uncomfortable journey with many changes but eventually I was sitting in a freezing waiting room in York in the early hours of the morning, almost on the last leg.

  There I dream
t I was back in that infernal cottage and Cream was standing over me, his hand gripping me like a vice, that ghastly handsome face glaring down into mine.

  I woke to find an arm was shaking me firmly. But it was a porter telling me the train was in and almost leaving.

  I needed no encouragement, but got myself up and ran out to see the London express and its doors being finally slammed shut. Fortunately the platform was directly by the waiting room and I managed to pull one of them open and clamber in. A mother and child were the only occupants, sleeping peacefully in the far corner.

  Feeling churlish if pleased with myself, I tried to wave my thanks to the porter but he was moving off in the other direction. At last, I thought, I could sit here until Waverley Station. I would soon be with allies I knew. I had escaped him. It was as well I had no idea then, not the slightest inkling, of the cost of the escape.

  AN OLD ENEMY

  We arrived at Edinburgh in late morning. I had not slept much, but as I stared around me at a frosty Waverley Station with its bustling crowds and porters I could hardly believe how sane and normal it looked. I felt greatly lifted and, after some reviving tea, I decided I would walk though the frost to the university, which was not after all so far up the hill in the old town.

  I strode out briskly, turning up the collar of my coat against the cold and once again uttering a silent prayer of thanks to Stephen Middleton. There was a spring in my step, for I longed to enlist Bell in a counter-attack on my enemy. At the university I encountered a porter who had been there since the old days and gave him a friendly wave. He did not recognise me at first but then smiled broadly and came over.