John Carr - He Who Whispers

“No, sir. Let me repeat that I don't like Count Cagliostro; I dislike his swagger as I dislike any man's swagger. But I will concede that he had a notion of doing things handsomely. England too, that home of quacks and imposters, has a great claim on him.”

Miles Hammond, professionally interested in spite of himself, interjected a protest.

“England?” Miles repeated. “Did you say England?”

“I did.”

“If I remember correctly, Cagliostro dis visit London on two occasions. They were very unfortunate occasions for him . . .”

“Ah!” agreed Dr. Fell. “But it was in London that he was initiated into the secret society which gave him the idea for his own secret society later. The present-day Magic Circle ought to go round to Gerrard Street, to what used to be the king's Head Tavern; and put up a plaque. Gerrard Street! Oh, ah! Yes! Very close, by the way, to Beltring's Restaurant where we were to meet two night ago, and Miss Barbara Morell said . . .”

Suddenly Dr. Fell paused.

His hands went to his forehead. The meerschaum pipe dropped unheeded out of his mouth, bounced against his knee, and rolled to the floor. Afterwards he seemed to congeal into a figure so motionless that not even a wheeze of breath could be hear.

“Pray forgive me,” he said presently, and took his hands away from his forehead. “Absence of mind has some use in this world after all. I think I've got it.”

“Got what?” Miles shouted.

“I know what frightened your sister.--Let me alone for a moment!” Dr. Fell pleaded, with a wild look and an almost piteous voice. “Her body was relaxed! Completely relaxed! We saw it for ourselves! And yet at the same time . . .”

“Well? What about it?”

“Done by design,” Dr. Fell said. “Done by deliberate, brutal design.” He looked startled. “And that must mean, God help us, that--!”

Again realization came into his mind, realization of something else, this time slowly, like an exploring light from room to room. It was as though Miles could follow the workings of his brain, read the moving eyes (for Dr. Fell has not a poker face) without seeing quite past that last nightmarish door to what lay beyond.

“Let's go upstairs,” Dr. Fell said at length, “and see if there is any proof that I'm right.”

Miles nodded. In silence he followed Dr. Fell, who now leaned heavily on his crutch-handled stick, up to Marion's bedroom. From the doctor radiated a shaggy glow of certainty, a fiery energy, which made Miles sure that a barrier had been passed. Henceforward, Miles felt, there was danger. Henceforward they were racing towards trouble. Here's a malignant force, and Dr. Fell knows what it is; we'll kill it, or it will kill us, but look to yourself!--because the game has begun.

Dr. Fell tapped at the bedroom door, which was opened by a youngish nurse in uniform.

Inside the room was dim and a little stuffy, despite sunlight and clean air. The thin blue, gold-figured curtains had been drawn across both sets of windows; and with black-out curtains removed weeks ago, a faint dazzle of sun showed beyond. Marion asleep, lay tidily in a tidy bed and room which showed already the touch of the professional nurse. The nurse herself carrying a hand wash-basin, moved back from opening the door. Stephen Curtis, a pitiable man, stood with hunched shoulders by the chest-of-drawers. And Dr. Garvice, who was just on the point of leaving after his examination, looked round in surprise.

Dr. Fell walked up to him.

“Sir,” he began in a voice which arrested the attention of everyone there, “last night you did me the honour to say you were familiar with my name.”

The other bowed, faintly inquiring.

“I am not,” said Dr. Fell, “a physician; nor have I any medical knowledge beyond that which might be possessed by any man in the street. You may refuse the request I am about to make. You would have every right to do so. But I should like to examine your patient.”

And now showed the inner, troubled state of Dr. Laurence Garvice's mind. He glanced towards the bed.

“Examine the patient?” Dr Garvice repeated.

“I should like to examine her neck and her teeth.”

Pause.

“But, my dear sir!” protested the physician, his voice going up loudly before he checked it. “There isn't a wound or a mark anywhere on the lady's body!”

“Sir,” replied Dr. Fell, “I am aware of that.”

“And if you're thinking of a drug, or something like that . . .!”

“I know,” announced Dr. Fell carefully, “that Miss Hammond was not physically hurt. I know that no question arises of a drug or any king of toxic agent. I know her condition is caused by fear and nothing else. But still I should like to examined the neck and teeth.”

The physician made a half-helpless gesture with his bowler hat.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Miss Peters! You might open the curtains just a little. Please excuse me. I'm off to look in on Miss Seton downstairs.”

Yet he lingered in the doorway as Dr. Fell approached the bed. It was Stephen Curtis after glancing in bewilderment at Miles an receiving only a shrug for reply, who twitched back a few inches one of the curtains on the south windows. A little light ran lengthways across the bed. Otherwise they stood in a bluish-coloured dusk, motionless, with birds bickering outside, while Dr. Fell bent over.

Miles couldn't see what he was doing. His broad back hid all that was visible of Marion above the blanket and the neat fold of the top sheet. Nor was there any sign of movement from Marion.

Somebody's watch—in fact, Dr. Garvice's wrist-watch—could be heard ticking distinctly.

“Well?” Dr. Garvice prompted. He stirred with impatience in the doorway. “Have you found anything?”

“No!” said Dr. Fell despairingly, and straightened up and put his hand on the crutch-handled stick propped against the bed. He turned round. He began, muttering to himself and holding fast his eyeglasses with his left hand, to peer at the carpet round the edges of the bed.

“No,” he added, “I haven't found anything.” He stared straight ahead of him. “Stop a bit, though! There is a test! I can't remember the name of it offhand; but, by thunder, there is a test! It will prove definitely . . .”

“Prove what?”

“The presence of an evil spirit,” said Dr. Fell.

There was a slight rattle as Nurse Peters handled the wash-basin. Dr. Garvice kept his composure.

“You're joking, of course. And in any case”--his voice became brisk—“I'm afraid I can't allow you to disturb the patient any longer. You'd better come along too, Mr. Curtis!”

And he stood to one side like a shepherd while Dr. Fell, Miles, and Stephen filed out. Then he closed the door.

“Sir,” sad Dr. Fell, impressively lifting his crutch-handled stick and tapping it against the air, “the whole joke in that I am not joking. I believe—harrumph--you said you were on your way down to see Miss Fay Seton. She isn't by any chance ill, is she?”

“Oh, no. The lady was a bit nervy early this morning and I gave her a sedative.”

“Then I wonder if you will ask Miss Seton, at her convenience to come and join us here in the upstairs hall? Where,” said Dr. Fell, “we had a very interesting talk last night. Will you convey that message?”

Dr. Garvice studied him from under grizzled eyebrows.

“I don't understand what's going on here,” he stated slowly. He hesitated. “Maybe it's just as well I don't understand.” He hesitated again. “I'll convey your message. Good day.”

Miles watched him go at his unhurried pace down the hall. Then Miles shook the arm of Stephen Curtis.

“Hang it all, Steve!” he said to a man who was standing against the wall hump-shouldered, like an object hung on a hat-peg, “you've got to brace up! There's no sense in taking this so hard as all that! You must have heard the doctor say Marion's in no danger! After all, she's my sister!”