THE INQUIRING MIND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3884, 21 August 1928, Page 81

THE INQUIRING MIND.

By

J. Sackville Martin.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness, i Harold Grainger paused at a fork of the road to consider. Evening was drawing on; it was necessary for him to find some shelter. The light of the flame, blazing above the tobacco, revealed a good, honest face, with blue eyes, rather sandy eyebrows and moustache, a firm nose and chin, and a well-cut mouth His youthful and sturdy figure was well set off by the rough tweed Norfolk jacket and knickers of his walking suit. A haversack and a folded mackintosh cape were slung across his shoulders. He wa.s four-and-twenty years of age, had just qualified as a doctor, and was indulging in a fortnight’s walking tour in the west before returning to London to take up an appointment. The* spot where he stood was lonely. He had been following the coast all day and now found himself in a sheltered valley. The road to his right led upwards to the cliff, and at a little distance to an old house, perched, apparently, on its very edge. The road to his left led downwards to further depths of the valley; in the gathering dusk he could make out some trees and the lights of a village. The problem before him was whether he should take the -nearest way and ask for shelter as a favour at the old house, supposing it to he occupied, or go further to the village where there was pretty sure to be an inn, where he could claim it as a right. The house looked uninviting—dark, forbidding, and deserted. He turned his steps onwards to the village. A quarter of an hour’s walking brought him to a cluster of cottages around a village green. It was evidently quite a small place,, and the inn was of modest proportions. But through a lighted window ' he caught sight of a fire in the bar parlour, and the sight took him straight in, looking about him in the narrow passage and calling to attract attention. The landlord came out at his call. “What might you be wanting?” he asked shortly, yet with sufficient civility.

“ A room for the night and supper if you can let me have it,” answered Grainger. “ We don’t get many of your sort down here,” the landlord said; “and we’ve not much accommodation. There’s no fire except in the bar parlour, and

| maybe you won’t be wanting to sit with the plain folks that’s there. And there’s j no fire in the bedroom either.” . “ I’ll sit anywhere,” answered GrainI ger. “ I can sleep well enough with- | out a fire in my room; and I’ll eat anywhere or anything. I don’t think I can go further to-night.” “ You’d have to go a main long way, too,” said the landlord. “But come along. I’ll show you your room. And when you’ve unstrapped yonder pack of yours come down, and you’ll find some sort of meal waiting you in the bar parlour.”

Grainger was not long over his prepc rations. Descending, he found the landlord had been as good as his word. One of the small wooden tables had been laid out for him, and eggs and a rasher of bacon, together with the desired pint of beer, were awaiting him. Two or three of the village inhabitants sat near the fire regarding him with slow curiosity as he ate. Grainger spoke to the landlord with cheerful appreciation. “ I’m lucky,” he said. “ And it was only about half an hour ago that I was undecided whether I should come on here or seek shelter at an old house on the edge of the cliff where the road forks.”

The company fell silent. They stared toward ; Grainger and disconcerted him a little. “ I seem to have made a good choice,” he said after a pause, “ judging by your expressions at least. Is it empty, or does anyone live there?” “ There’s fclks there,” said the landlord gruffly. “ What sort of folks ? ” Grainger asked.

“ You’ve an inquiring mind,” said the landlord sourly. “ I’ve never known much good of inquiring too much. I know nowt about them.” Grainger turned to his supper again. They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the passage, and a moment later a young girl entered the room hurriedly. Grainger had time to note that she was apparently about 20 years of age, of medium height, slender, with dark hair and brown eyes, and that she wore a fawn-coloured dustcoat and a small black hat. When she spoke her voice told him that she was strongly agitated. "You are the landlord?” she queried, addressing that individual, and without waiting for an answer she went on: “ I want a horse and trap to drive to Fairford for a doctor,” she said. “At once please, or as soon as possible.” “ I’ve only one horse, and he’s lame,” the landlord said. “ Tis five mile to Fairford.” “Tin where can I get one? ” she asked, clasping her hands. “ Nowhe as far as I know.” “ Oh, bvt I must have one—l must! ” she cried. ‘ I have run all the ay. I n ust have a doctor.” Harold Grainger rose from his seat. ‘ I happen to be a doctor,” he said. “Can I do anything?” * O 1 J .’ m so she cried; “so glad. Will you come at once?” “At mee,” he answered. “Is it far ? ” “ Not very,” she answered. “ It’s a house on the cliff. I’ll take you there.” Again Grainger felt that all eyes were turn .i upon him. He ran up to his room, and came down again with his cap and waterproof cape, ready for the road. Ihe girl wasted no words, but led him outside, and they walked quickly up the hill. Grainger felt stiff after his iong day’s exercise, and he judged that the girl must be tired too. But she ret the pace, anxiety giving her strength; and he had to exert himself to keep up with her. “ It’s my mother,” she said. “ She’s very ill. I’m afraid she’s dying. You may fancy how relieved I was to find you, Dr ,” she began. ‘ ’

“ Grainger,” he said. “ Oh, thank you, Dr Grainger. Mv name is Haversham—Edith Haversham. It is good of you to come. There is something so strange about her illness. I can’t understand it. But she is very ill. We must hurry.”

In a quarter of an hour thev reached the spot where the road forked. In a few minutes they stood before the house. It was evidently old, and built on the very edge of the cliff; so close indeed that it seemed to project over it Grainger judged that at one time it had stood further back, and that coast erosion had p’aced it in its present position a position which seemed to him to be one of considerable danger. The seaward side, indeed, appeared positively unsafe. He wondered how long it would last.

Ihe gffknocked. In a little time he. heard the bolts of the great door being shot back. It opened slowly and grudgingly and a man’s face peered out by the light of a candle which its owner held in his hand. It was the face of an old man with shaggy white eyebrows, a long and aquiline nose, thin lips, and white whiskers. A high bald forehead crowned the whole. It wa« a face, eagle-like in its power and cruelty, and as the door opened, Grainger could see that the man was of immense height—some 6ft 3in or Oft 4in—his lean figure wrapped in a flowered dressing gown. He eyed the two on the doorstep and set the door a little wider, allowing them to enter. “I have brought a doctor,” explained the girl quickly, “ Dr Grainger. He was in the village inn. He was good enough to come with me.” ° “ Dr Grainger,” said the old man. looking at the newcomer. “ Young, I see! The latest knowledge, no doubt! Fresh

from the schools! I am glad to see you, Dr Grainger.” He led the way along a darkened hall and into a large room lit by a lamp. Grainger looked about him. The room was comfortably furnished, with large chairs, a sofa, a table, bookshelves whose upper limits were lost in shadow, and a fireplace, in which a fire glowed. The principal feature, however, was the long window, directly facing the door, and set in a recess, running almost the whole width of the room, with narrow sidewindows, looking east and west. Although it was dark, Grainger judged that its main aspect must look directly seawar<J. His attention was recalled to his host, who was watching him keenly beneath his shaggy eyebrows. “It is good of you to come, Dr Grainger,” he said, “though I fear—with all due respect to your skill—that your patient is beyond hope. I am a doctor myself. I graduated at an American university; and at my age, I am not without experience. I cannot hold out any hopes of. my poor wife’s recovery. But being as I am, her husband and she being possessed of some little property—-you can see that an awkward situation might arise if she were to die without medical attention other than that which I could give her. Your arrival is therefore most opportune.”

A= curious suaveness in his manner struck the young man unpleasantly. The girl had taken off her hat and cloak, and was standing as though! awaiting a signal. “You may take Dr Grainger upstairs, my dear,” said the old man, turning towards her. ”

. Grainger turned and accompanied the girl upstairs. She stopped a moment in the hall to light a candle, and went on up a staircase of. considerable size. The candle flickered in the draught and threw grotesque shadows on the walls. It was an eerie place, and though not particularly susceptible to such impressions, Grainger was glad enough when thev left the hall behind them and entered a bedroom.

It was a large, old-fashioned room, containing of all things, a four-post bed with curtains which had been drawn back, two or three chairs, a wardrobe, and a washing stand. A small lamp’ placed beside the bed threw a light on the patient, and he started in surprise; for the figure he saw was that of a young woman.

“I thought you told me that it was your mother?” he said, addressing the ghl. “ Oh, did I? ” she answered impatiently ; “my stepmother, I meant. I began to call her mother—at first as a j-ke—and afterwards I grew fond of her. What is the matter, doctor? Can anything be done?” Grainger looked at his patient. She was lying on the bed, restless and feverish, muttering certain sentences over and over again. Her eyes were dark with wide pupils, her fingers twitched. Now she laughed strangely. Grainger laid his hand on her heart and felt it thump strongly and irregularly against the chest wall. It was obvious that she was dangerously ill. He stood looking down at her, his mind working alertly. He was aroused by the girl’s voice. “Wb t is it, doctor ? ” she asked. “ Can you do nothing for her ? ” “ Has this been going on long ? ” “ She has not bean well for some days,” replied the girl, “but it is only in the last 48 hours that she has been like Jiis. She is very ill, is she not?” “ Very,” he answered; “ allow me to examine a moment.”

He had no stethoscope with him, but with a little patience he managed to examine the chest with 1 is ear. He stood up, looking grave. “ Nothing there to account for this,” he said, adding after a pause. “ You are very fond of her, I think ? ”

There was no doubt of the sincerity of her answer.

“ Has your father been married to her long? ” “ Nearly a year,” she answered. “It seems a strange marriage. There’s a considerable disparity in years, isn’t theie?”

“ Yes,” she answered. “ I was surprised myself. But my father can le very attractive when he wishes.” “ She didn’t marry him for his monev at anyrate,” said Grainger, “ for I understand she had money of her own.” “Yes—a good deal. At least, we have lived very differently since his marriage. It was with her money we took this house. My father said she wanted quiet—and sea air ”

“She has made a will, I suppose?” he sa .

“I don’ know,” replied the girl. “Father will tell you. I hope it isn't as bad as all that.”

“ Let us hope not,” he replied. “ I can do nothing without drugs. Let us go and talk to your father.” “ I think I had better stay here with her,” replied the girl. “Father will tell you anything you want to know. You can take the candle. I have the lamp.”

Grainger descended to the sitting room. Dr Haversham, who had been reading a book, looked up quickly and rose.

“ Well ? ” he said, “ serious, I’m afraid ? ”

“ Very,” answered Grainger. “I regard it as pericardial,” went on Haversham, “ a septic pericarditis. The heart’s action is very irregular.” “ Very,” agreed Grainger.

“To be frank with you,” went on his senior, “I don’t think there, is :auch hope.”

“You have given sedatives?” asked Grainger.

‘Bromide,” replie 1 the ola man. Io little purpose, I’m afraid.” I should *ike tc give .. . some more,” said Grainger. - Have you any by you ? ” J

‘Yon think her heart wi" stand it?” asked the old man. “ Well, well—as you wish. There is a small dispcnsaiy I keep for my own private use on. the opposite side of the hall. I daresay you will find’ what you require: I presume you will go up to your patient again I leave the ease entirely in your hands.” “Has she made a will? ” asked Grain-

“ I am not sure,” said Dr Haversham. 1 am not in her confidence in such matters.” •- - ■■ •

“Well, she is in no. state to make one now,” said Grainger. “ No, no. And it doesn’t matter,” answered Haversham testily. “ I trust you will direct your attention solely to her physical condition.” One again he returned to his book Grainger stared at him, then turned on his heel and went in search of the dispensary. Holding the candle high he crossed the hall and found a door. Opening it he found himself standing at the top of two steps led downwards into a small room. He went down them quickly, and immediately the door slammed to behind him.

He paid little attention to this, seeing a shelf and some bottles before him. The room was a small one with a heavilybarred window, looking out upon a courtyard. He found the bromide, and turned to the door again. To his surprise it resisted all his efforts to open it. It ■was of stout oak, and seemed securely fastened. He was a prisoner. Somewhat annoyed at what he imagined was his own clumsiness, he knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again and again, without attracting attention. Monstrous suspicions crowded on his mind. He shouted. He tried the window. The bars were firm and substantial. He sat down on a small stool and began to consider. Dr Haversham must be in the sitting room. Surely he must have heard. The girl was upstairs. He would could not—connect her with treachery. He strove to think! And the patient upstairs!—pericarditis ! —hum ! But there were other possibilities. At last—after what seemed an hour—he got an answer. The door was opened and Edith Haversham looked in. Her face was wet with tears. “Oh!” she cried. •‘Were you here? I thought you had gone for medicines.” “How is she?” he asked quickly. “She is dead,” she sobbed. “ She died quickly. Father is up with her now.” Grainger went out into the hall. By the light of the candles which they both held in their hands,. Grainger saw the old gentleman descending the stairs, himself holding a candle. “My dear Dr Grainger,” he said. “ What happened to you ? I thought you were with your patient. I was greatly distressed to find that you were not there. Alas, I fear you could have done little. And now you can do nothing at all. . She is in a better world.” “ I was shut in,” answered Grainger. “I think you might have warned me about this infernal door. I shouted loud enough to wake the dead.” The old man led the way into the sitting room. “ Well,” he said, “ though the matter has turned out unfortunately, we are still much obliged to you for your good in:. -'.tions. We have had too little sleep, and there is much to be done in the morning. I hope you will accept our hospitality for the night. Edith will show you to your room. You will forgive me if I ask you to retire. I feel that I must be alone. This is a sad business. It has grieved me very much, Dr Grainger. I was greatly attached to my dear young wife.”

Grainger followed the girl. She led him up the stairs and to a room at a little distance from that which he had already seen. It was dark and cold, and she apologised. “ I am afraid you will not be very comfortable,” she said, “ but you will excuse us, I know.” Her voice was choked with tears. Grainger took her hand.

“ You at least have my sincere sympathy.”

He went to bed, but for a long time lay awake. At last he slept. He awoke about 9 in the morning, and for a moment lay still wondering where he was. Then the events of the previous evening came back to him with a rush, and he sprang out of bed, washed in mid n-ater. dressed and went downstairs. He found Dr Haversham in the sitting room. A. fire burned in the grate, and breakfast was spread on a table near the window. Grainger reflected that he had seen no servants the night before, and wondered who had ministered to the old gentleman’s comfort. He noticed also that the table was spread for two only, and that Haversham was. already seated with his back to the door,,and facing the window. At the young man’s entrance, he looked round at him over his shoulder. “ Good morning, doctor,” he said, with something suspiciously like cheerfulness. You will forgive my having begun breakfast before your' arrival; but I am an old man—l cannot go long without food. And there is much to be done! Much to be done! I shall have to start early to complete the necessary formalities. Sit down and eat.”

Before sitting down, Grainger glanced out of the window. A wide expanse of sea met his view, seen from a great height. There was no sign of the cliff. The window must actually project over it. Curious at such a position, he was

about to step into the recess, when the old man stopped him. “No, no!” he said. “Breakfast! You will have time to admire the view afterwards. It is worth seeing. But now, sit down! ”

He proceeded to help the young man to coffee, eggs, and bacon. “ My, daughter will not be here,” he went on. “ She has much to do. The fact is, we are for the moment without servants. They, left us two days ago. And Edith has to see after her poor old father.” He helped himself to another cup of coffee as he spoke, and took up a long paper-covered book which lay beside him. “ It is most fortunate you were here.” he continued. “ For you see, had it not been for your presence, there would have been disagreeable formalities—inquests, and all that sort of thing! As it is, I have a book of death certificates here, and no doubt you will sign one.” He pushed the book across as he spoke and produced a fountain pen. “ A mere formality,” he purred, “ but a necessary one.” J

I m afraid it is more than a formality,” replied Grainger. “ I saw so little of the patient. And I cannot take the responsibility of considering myself in attendance upon her.” “ Nonsense, my dear sir,” he replied. “ You have not had my experience. You have seen her alive. That is quite enough. The cause of death is pericarditis. What else could it possibly be ? ” .

I m not satisfied,” answered Grainger, leaning forward. “It may be all right, as you say. But to be frank with you, I’ve seen symptoms like that in a case of poisoning.”

“ Poisoning! ” said the old man. “ AA hat sort of poisoning?” “ Cannabis Indica—lndian Hemp.” answered the young man. “ I don’t say it is so, but there’s sufficient ground for inquiry at any rate.” “Take care what you say,” replied Haversham with a flushed face. “ You have an inquiring mind. Take care that it does not lead you into trouble. With a sudden outburst of passion cried, “I am not to be insulted.” He placed both hands on the edge of the table. Grainger saw the door open behind him, and his daughter Edith enter the room. She stood still without speaking. Her father, ;■ las ’ • - : with his back to her, did not at first observe her.

“ Let me tell you where you stand—or sit,” he went on, addressing Grainger, with suppressed fury. “ You have a pen in your reach, anil certificates before you. Sign!—or I push this table forward! No—keep still! i - ward, and you fall into the window recess. Its timbers are rotten. You will go through like paper. There is a 200 ft drop beneath you and the rocks below. A regrettable accident. Now —sign! ”

There was no mistaking the insane purpose in his eyes. And whilst Grainger hesitated he saw the girl come swiftly forward, and, crossing the room, put her arms about her father and drag him violently back. At the same moment G' - ah get exerted himself, and with all his strength pushed the table inwards? towardss the room. The old man’s chair went over, and he fell full length on the floor. Edith just saved herself from falling, and sprang back. Grainger stood up. “You heard?” he said, addressing the girl. “ I believe he murder-'d your stepmother. I believe he meant to murder me.”

“No—no! ” she cried, shrinking back. Father, what is this?”

“ He asked me to sign a certificate,” said Grainger. “ I refused, and you heard how he threatened me. There must be an inquest; a full inquiry. I insist upon it.” The old man rose to his feet. His face was very pale, but his manner was jaunty. “ A little joke,” he said slowly. “ Our young friend here is easily taken in. He has an inquiring mind. I was endeavouring to sound the depths of his credulity. It is true that he made a most monstrous accusation against me. But I forgive him. As to inquests, I have a particular dislike to them, and I cannot/ake part in any such sordid proceedings. The balcony’is quite safe. I propose to demonstrate it. If, unfortunately, I am wrong, there may be an inquest, but it is one in which I shall merely take a passive part —one which I much prefer.”

Before either of the two young people could make a movement he han leaped upon the imbers of the balcony. There was a rending crash. Not only the window itself, but a part of the floor gave way i a cloud of dust and breaking beams. Grainger and the girl were left standing on the edge of a chasm, falling sheer to the sea. He snatched at her and pulled her sharply back, and they stood together, shuddering at the fate which they had escaped. “Oh, what has happened?” she gasped. “He is dead,” replied Grainger solemnly, “and I believe deliberated. We had better go to the village and report this to the police. When all this business is over I must take you to vour friends.” “Friends! I have no friends; I have no home.” He had his arm about her. A wave of tenderness passed over him. “ Lit me make one for you,” he said softly. “ Let me make a home for you —as my wife.” “Would you?” she stammered. “ After what you know ? ”

“ I know nothing of you that is not sweet and good,” he answered. “ I believe your father was mud. I want to believe it. But whatever it was it has nothing to do with you. His life is over. If you will have me ours is just beginning.” "Just beginning!” she murmured, her eyes shining.