TRAGEDY IN THE VILLAGE

Evening Star, Issue 22249, 29 January 1936, Page 3

TRAGEDY IN THE VILLAGE

A SERIAL STORY BY HILDA HIKE INSTALMENT ONE. Dr Paul Callington sat contentedly drinking his black coffee in Dr Godhart’s library and puffing out great clouds of cigar smoke at regular intervals. . _ ' “ You must have been in Trevarthen nearly a year now,” remarked his host, meditatively. . “ Ten months. It was October when I came down.” . “ Well, the place has done you good.” _ . , . “ Oh, a world of good. T was doubtful how things were going myself at first. It’s a fascinating business, fighting blood poisoning, though; there s something of the excitement of a football match about it.” Dr Goclhart shrugged his shoulders.. “I’m afraid I’m not a sportsman, he said. “ Football never excited me, and I must confess that if I have to watch the ebb and flow of a battle with a toxaemia I’d rather see it in somebody else.” t “This is a wonderful place, though. It’s worth while being poisoned to have discovered Cornwall.” “ I know. I’ve had a couple of years here now, and these people fascinate me —the real Cornish, I mean, without any English admixture.” , “ Do you understand them?” ‘""Heavens, no! Stevenson threw up the sponge, and I shouldn’t succeed where he failed.” The two men who were thus talking shop over their coffee were both in their different ways exceptionally interesting characters. _ Dr _ Callington was the famous crime investigator whom the popular Press was in the habit of calling “ the modern Sherlock Holmes,” or comparing to some other well-known character from the copious library of modern fiction. Officially, he was a pathologist,_ with a thorough grasp of the mysteries of that science and an amazingly wide range of miscellaneous knowledge. There were, perhaps, other pathologists whose erudition was equal to his own, but he owed his unique reputation to a faculty for joining tip, by some unconscious mental process, a number of apparently disconnected facts. When the newspapers were not calling him “ the eminent pathologist ” or comparing him to some hero of fiction they generally described him as “ the eminent psychologist.” This was n point on which the medical faculty was less ready to agree with the journalists. For nearly a year, however, neither the medical profession _ nor the Press had been, concerned with the doctor. His last case, brought to a brilliant conclusion, bad only succeeded at the expense of a remarkably daring experiment on himself. He had proved his case,with a series,of blood specimens, but at the cost of blood poisoning of which the effects were only now wearing' off. For some weeks it had been a question whether Dr Callington’s most brilliant achievement would not prove to he his last. Pathologists of three nations had brought their skill to bear on a fight for the life and the reason of their confrere. The fight was successful, and it remained only for rest and treatment to restore him to all his old vigour and genius. The physician, in spite of the proverb, usually does not attempt to treat himself, and, on arriving in Trevarthen, Callington had put himself under the care of one of the two local practitioners. Dr Henry Godhart was rather a remarkable man to find in a small country town. A man of about Callington’s own age, in the early forties, he boasted an English doctorato of medicine and the philosophy degree of Jena. Of mixed French and German parentage, he suggested something; of the pure scientist and something of the poet or musician—an impression to which his shock ot dark hair perhaps contributed. At first Callington’s sole idea had been to vegetate, but it was natural that, with returning vigour, he should feel a desire for intellectual companionship. His relations with Dr Godhart had grown gradually more intimate, but this evening, in the library after dinner, was the first time the two men had really had an unreserved talk. In appearance they presented an interesting contrast. Godhart looked the personification of sound health. His face suggested both to the casual observer and to the trained physiognomist, an admirable balance. He looked a man whose judgment could be trusted, y It was an unsentimental face, but not a cruel one Dr Callington’s appearance at present could hardly be called pleasing. Of medium height, he had normally a skin of extreme pallor, which recent experience had converted into a particularly unhealthy colour. The lace did not suggest an alert intelligence. It was heavy and somewhat expressionless; on the whole, a strong face in which the animal qualities seemed to predominate over the intellectual. In marked contrast was the appearance of the hands, which had a feminine delicacy. “ Have another cup of coffee?” said Godhart. proceeding to dispense his prescription without waiting for a reply. “ Thanks, I will. Delicious coffee, this.” “ Isn’t it? Real Turkish. I taught Mrs Chudleigh the art and she makes it disinterestedly, though her private word for it‘'is ‘ rubbitch ’ or ‘ tra-a-a-de.’ ” “ Some of these people around here,” Callington remarked, “ look as though they had smouldering passions that might flame up at any time. They give me the impression I get in some parts of Ireland and Brittany _ that there’s a very thin veneer of Christian civilisation over their primitive paganism.” “ I know. A good many of the chapels built in the name of Wesley belong to an older cult, I fancy. There’s h wonderful pastor at Bodithiel, a few miles out, who preaches: the wrath of God against the vicar. It frightens me sometimes to see his eyes flashing. But it’s all emotion, you know. They’re not a violent people. I suppose I’m treading on your ground when I talk about crime, but it would take a lot to persuade me that a Cornishmaii had committed a murder ” “ Really!” “ Yes; there was a murder by a native at Castle-an-Dinas early in the century, 1 believe, but that’s the exception. If there are murders here—and they’re rare —you’ll find they’re the work of * furriners.’ ” “ That’s interesting. I daresay one could learn a lot here. But what brings you to this part of the world, if

that’s a fair question? You’re not Cornish.” “ No. It was safety first with me. Work in town was too much. The blood pressure wasn’t what it should be.”

Dr Callington looked surprised. “ Oh, nothing serious, no kidney trouble or anything of that kind, but the tension was on the high side and I thought as a single man with no commitments I might as well take life easily here. My old friend Trethewey was from these parts. We became great pals at St. Vincent’s, and ever since then until he died a year or so ago 1 used to spend Christmas and some part of the holidays with him. I got to know the place and to like it, and when he died and the practice became vacant 1 came down.” The talk drifted on to books and found its way to a lively discussion of the respective merits of Thomas Hardy and Joseph Conrad. “ 1 miss my books,’ , said Callington, as he was taking leave of his host after a most stimulating evening. “ Well, let me help you, ’’said Godhart. “ Such as it is, my library is at your disposal. As ymi know, I scour the countryside killing and curing, but you can drop in at any time. Mrs Chudleigh is persuaded now that you have not come down here either to steal my practice or to arrest anyone for murder. You can come in and spend an hour or two in the libraiy whenever you feel life it.” “ That’s very good of you, and 1 11 accept the offer. I’ve seen a good many things there that 1 d like to get my teeth into.”

Dr Callington did not fail to avail himself of the local practitioner’s invitation. He was sitting out on the lawn reading Tissot on Epilepsy one morning in the week after the conversation already recorded. Wonderful observers some of these Frenchmen, he reflected, not for the first time, as he pondered on some of the observations of the writer on a complaint which must always have a peculiar fascination for the scientific student of human conduct. He turned the book with its pages downwards on his lap, while he, thought out one of Tissot’s suggestions, and Tn the momentary relief from concentration he became aware that Mrs Chudleigh, in the hall a few yards away, was answering the telephone. She appeared to be agitated. “ 1 don’t know what to say. the doctor won’t be home till this evening. He be gone to Bodithiel.” A pause. Then ; “ Yes. and e_r do so ’ate Dr Durston. Do ’e think ’tis reely serious?” • . , , Dr Callington, impressed by the housekeeper’s agitation, rose ft' olll , h* s deck chair and went towards the telephone. , «n y “ ’Old on to ’en a minute, will e. my dear; I’ve got an idea,” pursued Mrs Chudleigh, and she’ put the earpiece on the hall stand. 1 , “What’s the trouble?’ asked Calthat Miss Crago down to Church street. ’Fr’s a wisht poor thing, not quite right in the eacl 1 fancy, though Dr , Godhart won t aye it. Well, ’er be took violent and Mrs Oliver’s little maid who looks after er be seared. She do say as Miss Grago will do some damage if she don t get stopped. She’ve broke ’er medicine bottle.” „ , “Can’t she call in Dr Durston? She ’ates ’im ike pizen. Says e tried to pizen her before.” Dr Callington looked grave. “It’s a little unprofessional, but-ir it’s really an urgent case—and it sounds Jike it—l’d better go round and see her myself.” . , , „ . . Mrs Chudleigh picked up the telephone again. , “ ’Tes all right my dear; don t ee worry, the London doctor s ere, and ’e’ll come round and put ’er to rights. You won’t ’ave no trouble now.” Callington smiled to himself as he took down his hat from the stand and set out for Church street. Any deficiency in.the matter of Norman blood, he reflected, was quite adequately compensated by simple faith. He found Miss Crago as Dr Godhart’s landlady had said, “ a wisht poor thing” Her violence had largely exhausted itself, but she was lying in bed with a frightened look and mumbling something to herself. The maid, a girl of about 16, welcomed the doctor with evident relief. , “You are in charge here?’ he “ Yes, sir. I come in by day to look after lier.” “What is your name? “ Edna Oliver, sir.” “ Now then, Edna, tell mo all about it. Who looks after your mistress by night? ” “ Nobody, sir. She lives alone. Dr Callington looked surprised. “You see, sir,” went on the girl, who spoke fairly correctly, though with an unmistakably Cornish accent and intonation, “ this is the first time she’s been like this.” “ Oh, she’s not subject to fits. “No, sir. She’s not well. She complains of sleeping badly and pains and headaches, and Doctor Godhart gives her medicine that does her a lot of good.” “ I see. Well, tell me what’s happened to-day.” “ Well, sir, 1 was in the other room, dusting up, when I suddenly heard a most piercing shriek. It was —” Edna hesitated for a simile, “ It was like the wail of a lost soul,

sir.” “I see. You go to tlje pictures, don’t you?” _ • “ Sometimes, sir.” “ Very good. Now you heard a shriek that reminded you of a lost soul. What did you do then? ” “ I rushed in hcrcj sir, and Bliss Crago was sitting up in bed and looking all wild like.” “ Is she usually in bed at this time of the morning? h “ Yes, sir. She generally gets up about twelve o’clock.” “ Well, what did she do then? ” “She kept shouting and saying, ‘,l can’t bear it.’ She looked as if she saw somebody in the room and kept staring at it.” “ And there was nobody here but you? ” “ Nobody that I could see,” said the girl non-committally. “ How long did that go on? ” “ I wouldn’t like to say. Blaybe five minutes, maybe more. I tried to give her a dose of medicine, but she knocked the bottle out of my hand and broke it.” “ That was the medicine supplied by Dr Godhart'’ ” “ Yes, sir.” “ And then ?” “ After a time she calmed down and lay down as she is now. Then I telephoned to Dr Godhart, but he was out on his rounds, out to Bodithiel and Blrs Chudleigh said you would come along.” Dr Callington looked at his patient again. The appearance had not altered. It indicated fear and exhaustion. The mumbling was still going on, ,but the doctor could not understand a word of it. A hasty examination satisfied him that there was no central nervous trouble. There was ho intolerance of light and the reflexes were normal. The patient would soon sink into sleep. “ Have yon any idea,” he asked the maid, “ what she is chattering about ? ” “ It’s about her cousin.” “ What about him? ”

“ It’s not him, it’s her. She’s Miss White, who looks after her uncle, out to Bodithiel.” “ And who is the nnclc.” “ He’s Mr Turpin, the Rector. He’s bed-ridden and Miss White looks after him.” “ I see. And are Miss Crago and her cousin friendly?” “ Oh, yes. They’re everything to each other. They do say that Miss Crago has nothing but what her cousin allows her.” “ Have you any idea what is troubling your mistress now about her cousin.” “ ft’s all about her and Mr Turpin.” “What about them?” “ She says Mr Turpin is altering His will and not leaving anything to Miss White; and that it’s a great shame. She said terrible things.” “ Wliat sort of things?” “ Well, she said God hadn’t finished with Mr Turpin yet and there was going to be another judgment and the rector would die.” “ What do you mean by another judgment?” “ Mr Turpin has had one already. He’s paralysed all down one side and he’s been in bed for three years. He lias to have another parson from London.” “ Why do you call it a judgment?” “Mr "Turpin is a bad man. He’s no better than a Romanist. He put up all sorts of idolatrous images in jßodithiel Church and made them confess their sins. Mr Petherick he denounced the wrath of God against him in chapel, and sure enough he was struck sudden and he’s never left His bed since.” “ And Bliss White looks after him?” “Yes; he got her down from London. They don’t belong to these parts, any of them. Bliss White came down to Bodithiel and then she got her cousin down.”

“ They don’t live together, though.” “ No; they did at first and Dr Godhart stopped it. He said Bliss White had more than enough to do looking after her uncle and she ought not to have her cousin to look after as well. So be let her have this house cheap. It belongs to him.” “I see. Well, I don’t think you’re going to have any more trouble with Miss Crago at present. She’ll probably sleep for some time now, and she may wake up quite normal. I’ll tell Dr* Godhart what has_ happened this evening, and if He thinks fit he will come round. What time do you usually leave?” “ About 6 o’clock, sir.”

“ Very good. I believe Dr Godhart gets back at about 5. I’ll see him then and he will make proper arrangements for the night.” The doctor took a final look at the patient, who was now dropping off to sleep, made a note in his pocket-book, and left. There was not much these country folk did not know about each other’s business, he reflected. TIT. As often happens in Cornwall, a promising day turned out badly and it was raining cats and dogs when. Dr Callington called at Dr Godhart’s house a little after 5. He found the local practitioner fully informed by the voluble Blrs Chudleigh of the circumstances in which He had paid a professional call in Church street.

“ So you’ve been looking after one of my patients for me,” he said genially. “Yes; I hope you don’t mind. It seemed the right thing to do on the telephone message.” “ Perfectly right. I’m glad you went. How did you find her?” “ Just recovering from a brain storm. It was all over when I got there. _ I made an examination, had a talk with the maid, and left the patient going to sleep. You’ll have to make some arrangement for the night, though.” “ What did you make of it?” “Purely psychological. The case puzzles me ja. bit, but I daresay you can clear it up. I should say from what I saw that she’s been pushing bromides rat Ker far.” “That’s my treatment.” “Really! How do you regard the case?” “ Epileptiform. It’s a vague term, I know, but convenient. The attacks she gets aren’t true epilepsy, but neither are they pure hysteria.” “ I gathered from the maid that this was the first attack of the kind.” “ The first, violent storm, yes. I’ve been expecting it, though.” “I should say.” said Callington, “ that there was nothing epileptic about the attack to-day. It reminded me more ” He hesitated. “ Go on,” said Dr Godhart. “ Does she dabble in spiritualism at all?” Not that 1 know of.” Dr Callington was lost in thought for a moment “Don’t imagine,” he said, “that I’m committing the impertinence of questioning your treatment, but what I saw to-day wouldn’t have suggested a heavy bromide treatment as at all appropriate to the case.” “ Well, you’re my patient,” said Dr Godhart, laughing, “ and I can’t let you worry your head about all that. Forget you’re a doctor and tell me what she did.” “ She was upset, 1 gather, because some clergyman or other was going to disinherit her.” “Really! That’s interesting. Bliss White must have been talking to her. i’nv rather surprised at that, for she’s taking it in a most amazingly philosophic way herself. A most remarkable woman.” “ You know the cousin?” “ Very well. I’ve seen her to-day. It’s a complicated story. Old Turpin is the rector of Bodithiel. He’s a horrible aid creature, chockful of learning, and he hasn’t got the smallest homoeopathic dose of the milk of human kindness. “ About three yeaVs ago this old fossil got a hemiplegia. It’s left-sided, worse luck, so his speech isn’t affected, and as his body is quite inactive in bed his nasty mind and his bitter tongue work all the harder. He got his niece, Agatha "White, down from London to look after him. She’s a most charming woman. She’s a trained nurse, but she gave up all her connections and came clown to attend to the Reverend Lionel Turpin. !His temper’s been getting more and more unbearable, and his latest iniquity is to cut the woman out of his will.” “ I gather that’s what provoked Bliss Crago’s brain storm.” “ Well, I don’t know how she heard of it. He told me only this morning to ask Twining, the solicitor, to see him when he goes to Bodithiel next week. 1 told him what 1 thought of him. It was unprofessional, hut there are limits to the endurance of a country practitioner.” “He’s a patient of yours?”

“ I visit him once a month, to save any trouble. It’s not a bad idea with a patient who’s had a stroke. It saves an inquest.” “Quite!” “ I must have been with him to-day while poor Ethel Crago was having her shindy. Well, I felt like being violent myself.” “ What sort of age is he?”

“ Sixty-ish. He may drag on for years. That’s the devil of it. He’ll leave all his money to some wretched

guild, and Miss White will have only the workhouse to look forward to.” ‘‘He’s got money?” “ Rolling in it. He pays a curate to run the parish—a supercilious young devil from some community or other.” “ How does the parish like it?”

“ Hates it. There’s about a dozen, mostly young girls, who rally round the handsome young curate. He’s vowed to celibacy, of course, but some of them have hopes. The big_ noise in the religious world of Bodithiel is Petherick, the dissenting parson.” “Ah! The maid mentioned him this morning.” “A remarkable fellow! You ought to make his acquaintance. He’s one of those inspired fanatics who make revivals and work miracles. They say his sermons are electrical. I’ve never heard one, but I’ve met him. and I can believe it. He’s got a hypnotic eye and a voice that does anything he likes with the people here.” “ He’s an enemy of the rector.” “Enemy! ‘Man of wrath’ and ‘ Son of Belial ’ are the mildest words he’s got for him. I think he holds that all the texts in Scripture which most of his flock apply to the Pope were really written of the Reverend Lionel Turpin. However, the latest development has really put the lid on it.” “ What’s that ?” “ Old Turpin has acquired the freehold of the Independent Chapel where Petherick officiates, and he’s given him and Hs flock notice to quit next year.” “ I say, that’s rather thick.” “ That’s the man. As a matter of fact, Petherick called to see Turpin this afternoon, and I expect—l was going to say I hope—that, after this meeting of the two men of God, I shall hear that the Rector has had an apoplectic stroke. They certainly didn’t pray together.” “It seems to promise liveliness.” It doc- ' If anything did happen to old Turpin in suspicious circumstances, I think it would go badly with Petherick. He’s used language enough to damn himself a thousand times over.” “ Is he dangerous?” “Not a> bit. The Cornish, as I’ve told you. are violent in word, but not in action. He’ll kill Turpin with his mouth and he’ll pray against him. but' you can’t kill people that way.” “ I’m not so sure of that.” said Callington. (To be Continued.)