In White Raiment

The presence in the house of that sinister woman in black, her mode of exit, and the startling fact that Beryl was missing, had, I think, unnerved me. As I stood reflecting I regretted that I had relied too much upon my own strategy, and had not aroused the household. In my constant efforts to preserve the secret of my well-beloved I had made a fatal mistake.

My mind had become confused by these constantly recurring mysteries. As a medical man I knew that all mental troubles involve diseases of the brain. The more complex troubles, such as my own at that moment, are still wrapped in obscurity. To the psychologist there are, of course, certain guiding principles through the maze of facts which constitute the science of the mind; but, after all, he knows practically nothing about the laws which govern the influence of mind over body. I had acted foolishly and impulsively. Both the women had fled.

I took the road down the hill to Wraxall, and thence, by a circular route by way of Ganbrook Farm and the old church at Atworth, back to the Hall. I hoped that they might take that road to Bath, but, although I walked for more than an hour, I met not a soul. A church clock chimed three as I came down the hill from Kingsdown, and it was already growing light ere I gained the terrace of the Hall again. I climbed back into Beryl’s room by the ladder still suspended there. Her absence was as yet undiscovered. Everything was just as I had left it an hour and a half before. I was undecided, at that moment, whether to alarm the household or to affect ignorance of the whole thing and await developments of the strange affair. Judged from all points the latter course seemed the best; therefore, still in indecision, I crept back to my room, and, entering there, closed the door.

I sank into a chair, exhausted after my walk, when a sudden pain shot through me from head to foot, causing me to utter an involuntary cry. The next instant the same sensation of being frozen crept over me, as it had done outside that room in Gloucester Square, and again on the previous night when dancing with my beloved. The same rigidity of my muscles, the same aphasia and amnesia, the same complex symptoms that I had before experienced, and so well remembered, were again upon me. My lower limbs seemed frozen and lifeless, my heart was beating so faintly that it seemed almost imperceptible, and my senses seemed so utterly dulled that I was unable either to cry out or to move.

If I had but a little of that curious liquid which Hoefer had injected! I blamed myself for not asking him to give me some in case of emergency. The unknown woman in black had left again behind her the curious unseen influence that so puzzled the greatest known medico-legist.

The sensation was much sharper, and of far longer duration, than that which had so suddenly fallen upon me when dancing. Reader, I can only describe it, even now, I sit recounting to you the curious story, as the icy touch of the grim Avenger. The hand of Death was actually upon me.

I think that the automatic processes of my brain must have ceased. Without entering into a long description, which the majority of the laity would not properly understand, it is but necessary to say that the lowest, or “third level” of the brain includes all the functions which the spinal cord and its upper termination, which we call the “medulla,” are able to perform alone – that is, without involving necessarily the activity of the nervous centres and brain areas which lie above them. The “third level” functions are those of life-sustaining processes generally – breathing, heart-beat and vaso-motor action – which secure the circulation of the blood. It was this portion of the brain, controlling the automatic processes, which had become paralysed. I needed, I knew, an artificial stimulation – some agent by which the physiological processes might be started again. What if they would not start again normally!

I sat in my chair, rigid as a corpse, unable to move or to utter a sound – cold, stiff, and as I well knew, resembling in every way a person lifeless. Slight consciousness remained to me, but, after a while, even that faded, and I knew not then what followed.

The period of blank unconsciousness appeared to me but a few minutes, but it must have been hours, for when I awoke the morning sun was high and was shining full in my face as I sat there. My limbs were cramped and my head was heavy, but there was no pain with my returning sensibility, as is generally the case after a period of insensibility. I rose with difficulty, and, staggering unevenly to the window, looked out. Upon the terrace two men were idly strolling as was the habit of those who came down early, awaiting the breakfast bell. I glanced at the timepiece and saw that it was about nine o’clock.

Had Beryl’s absence yet been discovered?

I glanced over to my bed, and then recollected that I had not undressed. Truly that night had been an eventful one. La Gioia had actually been in that room. In an instant, recollections of my midnight vigil and my chase crowded upon me. Surely, if that rope-ladder were still suspended from the window of the room occupied by my love, those two men strolling there must have noticed it!

I opened my own window and leaned out to look. No, it had been removed. My loved one’s absence had been discovered.

The breakfast bell rang and aroused me to a sense of responsibility. I knew of the secret visit of La Gioia, and it was my duty to reveal it so that the truth might be ascertained. Therefore, I shaved quickly, changed my clothes, and tossed about my bed so that the maids should not suspect my wakefulness.

There was merry chatter outside in the corridor as the guests descended, but, although I listened, I could hear no mention of Beryl’s disappearance. On completion of my toilet I opened my door and followed them down. Yet scarcely had I got to the head of the stairs when that same now-familiar sensation came upon me, like the touch of an icy hand. I gripped the old oaken banisters and stood cold and dumb. The same phenomena had occurred in my room as in that room of mystery at Gloucester Square. The thing utterly staggered belief.

Nevertheless, almost as swiftly as the hand of Death touched me was it withdrawn, and, walking somewhat unsteadily, I went down and along the corridor to the breakfast room.

The chatter was general before I entered, but there was a sudden silence as I opened the door.

“Why, Doctor Colkirk?” cried a voice, “this isn’t like you to be late. You’re an awful sluggard this morning!”

I glanced quickly across at the speaker and held my breath in amazement. It was Beryl! She was sitting there, in her usual place looking fresh in her pale blue cotton blouse, the merriest and happiest of the party.

What response I made I have no idea; I only know that I saluted my hostess mechanically and then walked to my chair like a man in a dream.

Chapter Twenty Six

Husband and Wife

Personally, I am one of those who pay no tribute of grateful admiration to those who have oppressed mankind with the dubious blessings of the penny post. Just as no household, which is adorned with the presence of pen-propelling young ladies, is ever without its due quantity of morning letters, so no breakfast table is quite complete if the post-bag has been drawn blank. The urn may hiss, eggs may be boiled to the precise degree of solidity, frizzling strips of “home-cured” may smile upon you from dish of silver, or golden marmalade may strive to allure you with the richness of its hue, but if the morning letters are not present the picture is incomplete. They are the crowning glory of the British breakfast table.

For a good many days my correspondents had happily left me in the lurch, but as I sank into my seat I saw upon my plate a single letter, and took it up mechanically. As a rule the handwriting of the envelope betrayed the writer, but this possessed the additional attraction of unfamiliar penmanship. It had been addressed to Rowan Road, and Bob had forwarded it.

The communication was upon paper of pale straw-colour, headed “Metropolitan Police, T. Division, Brentford,” and signed “J. Rowling, sub-divisional inspector.” There were only two or three lines, asking whether I could make it convenient to appoint an hour when he could call upon me, as he wished to consult me upon “a matter of extreme importance.” The matter referred to was, of course, the tragedy at Whitton. Truth to tell, I was sick at heart of all this ever-increasing maze of circumstances, and placed the letter in my pocket with a resolve to allow the affair to rest until I returned to London on the conclusion of my visit.

The receipt of it, however, had served one purpose admirably: it had given me an opportunity to recover my surprise at discovering Beryl sitting there opposite me, bright and vivacious, as though nothing unusual had occurred. The letter which I had seen her writing in the study on the previous evening had been, I now felt convinced, to make an appointment which she had kept.

But with whom?

I glanced at my hostess, who was busily arranging with those near her at table for a driving party to visit the Haywards at Dodington Park, and wondered whether she could be aware of the strange midnight visitant. I contrived to have a brief chat with her after breakfast was finished, but she appeared in entire ignorance of what had transpired during the night. I lit a cigarette, and as usual strolled around for a morning visit to the kennels with Sir Henry. On returning I saw my well-beloved seated beneath one of the great trees near the house, reading a novel. The morning was hot, but in the shade it was delightful. As I crossed the grass to her she raised her head, and then, smiling gladly, exclaimed —

“Why, I thought you’d gone to Dodington with the others, Doctor Colkirk?”

“No,” I answered, taking a chair near her; “I’m really very lazy this hot weather.”

How charming she looked in her fresh cotton gown and large flop-hat of Leghorn straw trimmed with poppies.

“And I prefer quiet and an interesting book to driving in this sun. I wonder they didn’t start about three, and come home in the sunset. But Nora’s always so wilful.”

Though as merry as was her wont, I detected a tired look in her eyes. Where had she been during the long night – and with whom? The silence was only disturbed by the hum of the insects about us and the songs of the birds above. The morning was a perfect one.

“I found it very oppressive last night,” I said, carefully approaching the subject upon which I wanted to talk to her. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came out here into the park.”

“Into the park?” she echoed quickly, and I saw by her look that she was apprehensive.

“Yes. It was a beautiful night – cool, refreshing, and starlit.”

“You were alone?”

I hesitated. Then, looking her straight in the face, answered —

“No, I was not. I had yourself as company.”

The colour in an instant left her cheeks.

“Me?” she gasped.

“Yes,” I replied, in a low, earnest voice. “You were also in the park last night.”

She was silent.

“I did not see you,” she faltered. Then, as though recovering her self-possession, she added, with some hauteur, “And even if I chose to walk here after every one had gone to rest, I really don’t think that you have any right to question my actions.”

“Forgive me,” I said quickly. “I do not question you in the least; I have no right to do so. You are certainly free to do as you please, save where you neglect your own interests or place yourself in peril – as you did last night.”

“In peril of what?” she demanded defiantly.

“In peril of falling a victim to the vengeance of an enemy.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Then I will speak more frankly, Miss Wynd, in the hope that you will be equally frank with me,” I said, my eyes fixed upon her. “You were last night, or, rather, at an early hour this morning, with a person whom you have met on a previous occasion.”

“I admit that. It is, indeed, useless to deny it,” she answered.

“And yet, on the last occasion that you met, you nearly lost your life! Was it wise?”