The Dark Water Page 6

  Elsbeth Scott

  Beloved daughter of Clive and Judith

  1859—1878

  We had kept the unusual spelling of Elsbeth, which she always thought might have been only a slip of her mother’s hand. I looked at the grave for a while. Here was all that remained of my love, a love that I still felt with all the strength of my body, so intensely indeed that I would have given anything I had in the world just to see her again in the flesh.

  Did I think she was here somewhere, a lingering spirit? No. In my heart I felt this place had only a tenuous connection to her. Yet it was a connection. And though I had lost the Roman Catholic faith of my forefathers, I did believe she was somewhere. In fact, I refused to give up the notion.

  And now, as I allowed myself the luxury, I saw her again. I saw her bright laughing eyes and the curls tumbling down her face and the way she threw her head back like a child when something amused her. I saw her seriousness, which was sweet and rather tentative. And yes I allowed myself to feel her love for me, something that on occasions gave me strength and at other times caused such a feeling of loss and sadness that it was unbearable. But as ever this took me back to that awful moment when we had found her splayed out and lifeless on a beach and I promised to hunt down the man who had done this without reason, calling it his ‘message to the future’.

  Within the last month I had been nearer to him than at any time since Elsbeth’s death. As I stood there, I found myself yet again wishing fervently he had returned to the cottage while I waited. If I had succeeded in cutting him down I would have welcomed the police with open arms and shown them my dead victim with pride and a full confession. Of course Elsbeth might not have approved the idea of revenge, but she would surely have supported me in order to save the lives of future victims. For this man was, as Bell once observed, less a mere murderer than a killing machine. In a busy week on the terrain he preferred — that is the poorer streets where his victims were almost always prostitutes — he was perfectly capable of killing into double figures.

  I must have stood by the grave for an hour or more. Towards the end, I tried to rid myself of all thoughts of him and think only of her. Then I turned away.

  That evening I entered Carlisle’s drawing room to find my host ebullient. He was already charging his second glass of brandy because, as he said, he had been necessarily abstemious the night before. And it was not long before the old gleam came into his eye.

  The lights in the drawing room were dim, perhaps because he preferred them that way. Shadows from the flames of the fire flickered across his face as he eased back into his chair. No doubt because of the brandy, his words were a little pompous. ‘I wonder’, he said, ‘if you have had occasion to think again of what I mentioned the other night. I feel sure any confidence you will bestow on a fellow is entirely between us. I would not break a gentleman’s trust, you need have no fear my wife would hear of it.’

  This might have repelled me but I was forewarned by the previous conversation and knew exactly what I wanted to say. ‘Sir Henry, I would like to take you into my confidence, but need to know exactly the matter you refer to. I am not quite clear if we are discussing the same subject.’

  This seemed to please him, for his smile broadened. ‘Of course, of course.’ He winked. ‘I talked of a “similar propensity”. Let us just say I understand something of your difficulties.’ The pleasure these insinuations were giving him seemed quite palpable. His face was a little flushed and I am sure his palms were sweating. ‘Namely,’ he went on, ‘that you conceived a passion of some kind for one of the denizens of the street, an unfortunate who can prey upon a man’s nerve so.’

  For a moment I lost my breath. I knew something was terribly wrong. All the oddity of his manner since my arrival was explained. But I also knew I must contain myself. ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘but I am still not quite clear how you were alerted to this conclusion.’

  ‘As to who it was,’ he said, almost whispering, ‘I am no less ignorant than you. The letter said a mutual friend wished to inform me of this unhappy development with Arthur Doyle. Naturally I told nobody.’

  A mutual friend! My hand tightened on the arm of my chair, and it was all I could do to keep myself from jumping to my feet for I half expected Cream to walk in the door.

  ‘When did you receive the letter?’

  ‘About twelve months ago,’ he replied, staring at me fixedly. This came as a relief, for it showed me Cream was not all-seeing. The letter was obviously just one early, if vicious, dart in his current campaign. Of course he would do anything to blacken my name and had tried twice to compromise me in London. Had he written to others? If so, I knew nothing of it. But then most people, unlike Sir Henry, would hardly take such a letter seriously. No doubt Cream hoped Lady Sarah would be told and rumours would spread, but he had no way of knowing Sir Henry was not the man he once was. The letter had preyed on a weakness but otherwise its only result had been to save me from the Edinburgh cold.

  ‘Have you the letter?’ I said lightly.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Carlisle with a little smile. ‘I destroyed it. I would never leave such a thing for prying eyes. Now tell me, is she one of the lower kind who get under a man’s skin? You see I am quite familiar with the type. I saw some rare beauties on the street in the old days.’

  His tone played on my nerves. On balance, I supposed he was telling the truth about the letter and I was not unmindful of his hospitality but it was also hard to forget how he had behaved in the time leading up to Elsbeth’s death. Once again I nearly got to my feet, but controlled myself. Outrage would in any case be instantly interpreted as guilt. So I paused.

  ‘Sir Henry,’ I said at last, ‘you may not believe this, perhaps in one way it does not matter, but your letter was entirely false.’

  He looked at me, taking this in. The brandy was making him slow. ‘Then who sent it?’

  Of course I could have told him. Bell had certainly informed Carlisle of our suspicions and he had even met Cream at some of his haunts. But the last thing I now wanted was to bring this man any further into the case than he already was. His proximity to it had harmed and delayed us before. The idea of entrusting him with any more confidences was not to be countenanced. I would almost prefer that he disbelieved me.

  ‘I am afraid there are several people who like to spread wicked gossip about me. You may remember James Cullingworth who studied medicine here and ran a quack practice I joined for a time. He is one. What you are saying is not true, I fear, but it is up to you whether you believe me.’

  He considered this for a time. I think he was genuinely undecided whether I was speaking the truth or merely being reticent. Possibly it was lucky he had already drunk so much, for otherwise he might have become more spiteful at my refusal to indulge him.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that is that. I suppose a man must keep his own counsel if it is what he wishes.’

  He looked across at me and perhaps it was just the flickering light from the fire but at that moment there seemed something monstrous in his face, a spasm of frustration, as the muscles around the mouth quivered. A log on the fire gave way with a little crunch and suddenly it felt so strongly to me as if the spirit of someone else was in the room, as if one of those wronged women (for often their lives were short) had returned to spit out their hatred at this man. It was a huge relief when the maid entered shortly afterwards to ask if we required anything else before we retired.

  I did not sleep well that night and was glad next day to quit that comfortable house for good. There was no longer such a hard frost on the ground, so even if Bell did not return I would take my chances elsewhere rather than face the leering suspicions of Henry Carlisle. If his wife had been present, I might have felt differently, but she was not expected for days yet.

  With these reflections, I made my way down the dark stone corridor to Bell’s old vault-like room at the university. In front of me, as ever when I stepped through the door, was a kind of tunnel between hu
ge shelves of various compounds and chemicals leading to the enormous tank that ran halfway to the ceiling. It was a wonder more people did not wander in here, for the door to his rooms was constantly open, but I suppose they were repelled by the Doctor’s fierce reputation.

  I lingered by the tank where the water was a dark ugly red. The bottom of it seemed to contain a pale grey material like parchment. It was, as I later discovered, human skin.

  Beyond it a huge book case towered and I came round it to find his empty desk. There was no coat or silver-topped cane, no sign whatsoever of his return. I was deeply disappointed. And then my eye fell on the door that led to a secret staircase and beyond it to the inner sanctum where Bell kept a number of ghoulish mementoes and memories relating to crime. The door was wide open.

  This was remarkable. Bell was always meticulous in locking it. Indeed, I had never known him to fail in this respect whatever the occasion. At once, considerably alarmed, I passed through it and moved quickly up the stairs, dreading what I might find at the top.

  It was obvious Bell had not returned, but Cream must know of this place’s existence. And I could just imagine the pleasure he would take in destroying it. I could see in my mind the artefacts smashed and vandalised, the books and papers — including the vital records of our attempts to track him down — torn and burnt. He would only need a few minutes to achieve this. Now he was back in the country, what was to stop him? I turned the corner and halted.

  The room was exactly as it always had been. Not a book or item was out of place. I felt huge relief. And then I heard the sound. Someone was crouched in a chair beyond the shelves, holding something high up in his hand.

  I moved forward and stopped dead. For, raised above the chair before me was a human head. Not a skull, but the severed head of a man, its eyes open and staring, with medical dressings around the stump of the bloody neck.

  RETURN OF THE DOCTOR

  A voice rang out with excitement. ‘The dead eyes still reflect you, Doyle. Even though the pupils do not dilate in the light. I can see your image in them quite clearly.’ The figure jumped to its feet and Dr Bell deposited his grisly relic on a nearby table. Then he grasped me by the hand. ‘Well,’ he said more politely than accurately, ‘you catch me quite unawares.’

  And then he stopped, for he had noted at once the change in my appearance since we last met some weeks earlier. ‘Yes,’ he spoke more slowly, surveying me. ‘But the image in the dead eyes is certainly a poor one, I was unable to see detail.’ It was only too clear what he saw now worried him. His eyes flicked over the scar on my neck, the incongruity of my clothes (for I was still wearing what Middleton had given me) and not least my near-skeletal appearance.

  The Doctor insisted we should go downstairs at once. ‘It is, you will admit, unusual, Doyle, for me to leave the door unlocked. The truth is I decided after our London adventures that I needed to be more secure and a locksmith is arriving any minute. He has instructions to go no further than the door for I was anxious to inspect my new acquisition. As soon as his plans are laid, we will talk.’

  The locksmith in question, a sandy-haired man with a very serious manner, appeared shortly after we came downstairs and, in view of my anxiety, I was relieved to hear Bell ordering a range of devices for his door including a metal plate for one side of it and a Rutherford lock which would effectively prevent any unauthorised entrance while he was away. I knew from past experience there must be another entrance somewhere but Bell was obviously content with the security of that, for he made no mention of it. Since even I had no idea where it was, I decided it was unlikely Cream would be any better informed.

  As soon as the man had gone. Bell suggested we repair for some lunch. ‘We must talk in confidence,’ he said, ‘but if we go now the place will be empty and it seems to me you need all the sustenance you can be given.’

  And so it was that we found ourselves in the private dining room of one of the city’s travelling hotels. The place was brightly furnished with a large fireplace and, since Bell was known to its proprietor, we were treated handsomely enough. Even so, that room aroused very sad memories. Long ago Bell had arranged for us to meet my beloved Elsbeth here for some private discussion during the investigation that culminated in her death. The Doctor was not a man to forget such things and I am quite sure he was aware the place might stir associations, but he had always been utterly practical about such matters. It was his firm belief, ever since the loss of his wife, that only by living on in the same places and things could you honour the dead. ‘There is no sense,’ he said to me once, ‘in running away from memories, for it is to run from the love of those we have lost. And they would not wish that.’

  So I tried to put such thoughts to one side, though I hardly did the food justice and I noticed my hand was trembling more than ever as I lifted my glass. However, once the waiters had retired and we were alone, I told him everything. At first he was utterly astonished. He found it hard to credit I could be describing events that had commenced only a few minutes after he last saw me when we parted on the streets of London. It troubled him that he had taken his train north with no notion whatsoever of all that was happening to me.’

  ‘But why did the Morlands not send word to my hotel?’ he said. ‘Even if they assumed you were ill, they should have.’

  ‘I doubt they would even know where you were staying,’ I said. ‘I had never mentioned it to them.’

  He nodded and waved a hand for me to proceed. After that his astonishment seemed to subside a little and he paid the utmost attention to my words, interrupting merely to clarify this or that detail. Sometimes he frowned, though whether this was a frown of worry or of doubt that I was telling the truth, it was impossible to say.

  At last I was finished. I suppose I had expected some reaction to the enormity of it all. But he was silent and, as was typical, he sat there, drumming his fingers on the table, looking at me closely.

  Then he seemed to remember himself. ‘I apologise,’ he said slowly and uncharacteristically, for in matters of criminal investigation he always did as he pleased without any reference to anyone. ‘Whatever the truth of all this, you have obviously suffered a good deal. I suggest we return to the university now.’

  I did not quite know how to take this. But I said nothing and we spoke not at all on the journey back to his rooms. They were as we had left them, the locksmith would not commence his work until the following week. The Doctor unlocked the door leading to his secret room and locked it carefully behind us as we climbed the short staircase.

  We walked past the shelves, which contained such a strange assortment of objects connected to murder — as well as photographs, pamphlets and books — until we reached the chairs and fireplace by the window. A fire now burnt here cheerfully and, in normal circumstances, I would have pressed the Doctor to reveal the identity of the mysterious person who tended this room, for it was one secret I had never discovered. But I was in no mood to do so now.

  Bell himself looked grim as we took chairs on opposite sides of the fireplace just as we had done so often before in happier circumstances. He stared at the fire for a moment and then back at me.

  ‘You must understand, Doyle, when you hear what I am about to say that, even during the last case, I became very worried about your self-prescribing habits.’ I opened my mouth to protest but he raised a hand to stop me. ‘I was, as you know, extremely concerned about the effect laudanum might be placing upon your constitution. Now you appear before me with every appearance of addiction and tell a story which you admit yourself has certain aspects of a dream. None of its details have any corroboration. I have heard nothing from any of your friends or relatives as to an absence, there is no news of a murder in Wiltshire in the press, let alone a manhunt. Also …’

  But he never finished for this was too much. In my agitation I jumped to my feet. ‘You do me a great disservice, Doctor.’ I took a pace away and then back. ‘He wanted to make me an addict and, if he had only kept in t
he background, I am sure he would have succeeded. But my contempt for him was strong enough to overcome even the spell of drugs. Of course there are no letters to you, for I was in London where nobody at the practice knew of our association. Even if they did, why would they write when they have simply been told I am recuperating from illness? As to the press, I have no idea what the Wiltshire police wish to give out. But a weekend has intervened and I expect you will find something tomorrow. I have to say that I had hoped for a more sympathetic response from the one man in the world who knows what he is.’

  And with this I pulled open my shirt to show him the scars on my chest and stomach, loosening my collar to reveal the full extent of the cut on my neck. ‘Do you really think,’ I said, ‘I would have stabbed myself?’

  The Doctor got to his feet and studied the wounds with excitement, the physical evidence acting upon him as my words had not. ‘I accept,’ he said, looking troubled. ‘I accept it is unlikely but you will have to be patient with me, Doyle. I will always test the veracity even of a friend in order to be sure of my facts. And these facts are, as I know you will agree, unexpected.’

  ‘So what are you proposing?’ I said.

  ‘To lend you some money.’ He moved over to the drawer which he unlocked. ‘You must buy some clothes and whatever else you need. The hotel where we dined can put you up for the night, I have already spoken to them and I doubt it need be any longer than that. I will see you there later and offer you my conclusions.’

  I had been so angered by his disbelief that I was in no mood to turn down his offer, indeed I felt it was the least he could do. We parted shortly afterwards and I trudged around some shops buying a coat and jacket of Edinburgh tweed, some shirts and trousers and undergarments as well as shaving tackle. The hotel was, as he said, ready to receive me with every courtesy. I remembered now that Bell had once operated successfully on the proprietor’s mother and I was shown to a suite of rooms that in normal circumstances I would have considered palatial.