The Lunatic at Large

J >> J. Storer Clouston >> The Lunatic at Large

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

_A NOVEL_

BY
J. STORER CLOUSTON

AUTHORIZED EDITION

BRENTANO'S
NEW YORK
1915

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
PART II.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
PART III.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
PART IV.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
ERRATA.

THE LUNATIC AT LARGE.

INTRODUCTORY.

Into the history of Mr Francis Beveridge, as supplied by the obliging
candour of the Baron von Blitzenberg and the notes of Dr Escott, Dr
Twiddel and his friend Robert Welsh make a kind of explanatory entry. They
most effectually set the ball a-rolling, and so the story starts in a
small room looking out on a very uninteresting London street.

It was about three o'clock on a November afternoon, that season of fogs
and rains and mud, when towns-people long for fresh air and hillsides, and
country-folk think wistfully of the warmth and lights of a city, when
nobody is satisfied, and everybody has a cold. Outside the window of the
room there were a few feet of earth adorned with a low bush or two, a line
of railings, a stone-paved street, and on the other side a long row of
uniform yellow brick houses. The apartment itself was a modest chamber,
containing a minimum of rented furniture and a flickering gas-stove. By a
small caseful of medical treatises and a conspicuous stethoscope, the
least experienced could see that it was labelled consulting-room.

Dr Twiddel was enjoying one of those moments of repose that occur even in
the youngest practitioner's existence. For the purposes of this narrative
he may briefly be described as an amiable-looking young man, with a little
bit of fair moustache and still less chin, no practice to speak of, and a
considerable quantity of unpaid bills. A man of such features and in such
circumstances invites temptation. At the present moment, though his
waistcoat was unbuttoned and his feet rested on the mantelpiece, his mind
seemed not quite at ease. He looked back upon a number of fortunate events
that had not occurred, and forward to various unpleasant things that might
occur, and then he took a letter from his pocket and read it abstractedly.

"I can't afford to refuse," he reflected, lugubriously; "and yet, hang it!
I must say I don't fancy the job."

When metal is molten it can be poured into any vessel; and at that moment
a certain deep receptacle stood on the very doorstep.

The doctor heard the bell, sat up briskly, stuffed the letter back into
his pocket, and buttoned his waistcoat.

"A patient at last!" and instantly there arose a vision of a simple
operation, a fabulous fee, and twelve sickly millionaires an hour ever
after. The door opened, and a loud voice hailed him familiarly.

"Only Welsh," he sighed, and the vision went the way of all the others.

The gentleman who swaggered in and clapped the doctor on the back, who
next threw himself into the easiest chair and his hat and coat over the
table, was in fact Mr Robert Welsh. From the moment he entered he pervaded
the room; the stethoscope seemed to grow less conspicuous, Dr Twiddel's
chin more diminutive, the apartment itself a mere background to this
guest. Why? It would be hard to say precisely. He was a black-moustached,
full-faced man, with an air of the most consummate assurance, and a person
by some deemed handsome. Yet somehow or other he inevitably recalled the
uncles of history. Perhaps this assurance alone gave him his atmosphere.
You could have felt his egotism in the dark.

He talked in a loud voice and with a great air of mastery over all the
contingencies of a life about town. You felt that here sat one who had
seen the world and gave things their proper proportions, who had learned
how meretricious was orthodoxy, and which bars could really be
recommended. He chaffed, patronised, and cheered the doctor. Patients had
been scarce, had they? Well, after all, there were many consolations. Did
Twiddle say he was hard up? Welsh himself in an even more evil case. He
narrated various unfortunate transactions connected with the turf and
other pursuits, with regret, no doubt, and yet with a fine rakish defiance
of destiny. Twiddel's face cleared, and he began to show something of the
same gallant spirit. He brought out a tall bottle with a Celtic
superscription; Welsh half filled his glass, poured in some water from a
dusty decanter, and proposed the toast of "Luck to the two most deserving
sinners in London!"

The doctor was fired, he drew the same letter from his pocket, and cried,
"By Jove, Welsh, I'd almost forgotten to tell you of a lucky offer that
came this morning."

This was not strictly true, for as a matter of fact the doctor had only
hesitated to tell of this offer lest he should be shamed to a decision.
But Welsh was infectious.

"Congratulations, old man!" said his friend. "What's it all about?"

"Here's a letter from an old friend of my people's--Dr Watson, by name. He
has a very good country practice, and he offers me this job."

He handed the letter to Welsh, and then added, with a flutter of caution,
"I haven't made up my mind yet. There are drawbacks, as you'll see."

Welsh opened the letter and read:--

"DEAR TWIDDEL,--I am happy to tell you that I am at last able to put
something in your way. A gentleman in this neighbourhood, one of my most
esteemed patients, has lately suffered from a severe mental and physical
shock, followed by brain fever, and is still, I regret to say, in an
extremely unstable mental condition. I have strongly recommended quiet and
change of scene, and at my suggestion he is to be sent abroad under the
care of a medical attendant. I have now much pleasure in offering you the
post, if you would care to accept it. You will find your patient, Mr
Mandell-Essington, an extremely agreeable young man when in possession of
his proper faculties. He has large means and no near relatives; he comes
of one of the best families in the county; and though he has, I surmise,
sown his wild oats pretty freely, he was considered of unusual promise
previous to this unfortunate illness. He is of an amiable and pleasant
disposition, though at present, we fear, inclined to suicidal tendencies.
I have no particular reason to think he is at all homicidal; still, you
will see that he naturally requires most careful watching. It is possible
that you may hesitate to leave your practice (which I trust prospers); but
as the responsibility is considerable, the fee will be proportionately
generous--L500, and all expenses paid."

("Five hundred quid!" exclaimed Welsh.)

"I would suggest a trip on the Continent. The duration and the places to
be visited will be entirely at your discretion. It is of course hardly
necessary to say that you will seek quiet localities. Trusting to hear
from you at your very earliest convenience, believe me, yours sincerely,

TIMOTHY WATSON."

Welsh looked at his friend with the respect that prosperity naturally
excites. He smiled on him as an equal, and cried, heartily,
"Congratulations again! When do you start?"

Twiddel fidgeted uncomfortably, "I--er--well, you see--ah--I haven't _quite_
made up my mind yet."

"What's the matter?"

"Hang it, Welsh--er--the fact is I don't altogether like the job."

Scruples of any kind always surprised Welsh.

"Can't afford to leave the practice?" he asked with a laugh.

"That's--ah--partly the reason," replied Twiddel, uncomfortably.

"Rot, old man! There's a girl in the case. Out with it!"

"No, it isn't that. You see it's the very devil of a responsibility."

At this confession of weakness he looked guiltily at his heroic friend.
From the bottom of his heart he wished he had screwed up his courage in
private. Welsh had so little imagination.

"By Gad," exclaimed Welsh, "I'd manage a nunnery for L500!"

"I daresay you would, but a suicidal, and possibly homicidal, lunatic
isn't a nunnery."

Welsh looked at his friend with diminished respect.

"Then you are going to chuck up L500 and a free trip on the Continent?" he
said.

"Dr Watson himself admits the responsibility."

"With a--what is it?--agreeable young man?"

"Only when in possession of his proper faculties," said the doctor,
dismally.

"And an amiable disposition?"

"With suicidal tendencies, hang it!"

"I should have thought," said Welsh, with a laugh, "that they would only
matter to himself."

"But he is homicidal too--or at least it's doubtful. I want to know a
little more about that, thank you!"

"What is the man's name?"

"Mandell-Essington."

"Sounds aristocratic. He might come in useful afterwards, when he's
cured."

Welsh spoke with an air of reflection, which might have been entirely
disinterested.

"He'd probably commit suicide first," said Twiddel, "and of course I'd get
all the blame."

"Or homicide," replied Welsh, "When _he_ would."

"No, he wouldn't--that's the worst of it; I'd be blamed for having my own
throat cut."

"Twiddel," said his friend, deliberately, "it seems to me you're a fool."

"I'm at least alive," cried Twiddel, warming with sympathy for himself,
"which I probably wouldn't be for long in Mr Essington's company."

"I don't blame your nerves, dear boy," said Welsh, with a smile that
showed all his teeth, "only your head. Here are L500 going a-begging.
There must be some way----" He paused, deep in reflection. "How would it
do," he remarked in a minute, "if _I_ were to go in your place?"

Twiddel laughed and shook his head.

"Couldn't be managed?"

"Couldn't possibly, I'm afraid."

"No," said Welsh. "I foresee difficulties."

He fished a pipe out of his pocket, filled and lit it, and leaned back in
his chair gazing at the ceiling.

"Twiddel, my boy," he said at length, "will you give me a percentage of
the fee if I think of a safe dodge for getting the money and preserving
your throat?"

Twiddel laughed.

"Rather!" he said.

"I am perfectly serious," replied Welsh, keenly. "I'm certain the thing is
quite possible."

He half closed his eyes and ruminated in silence. The doctor watched
him--fascinated, afraid. Somehow or other he felt that he was already a
kind of Guy Fawkes. There was something so unlawful in Welsh's expression.

They sat there without speaking for about ten minutes, and then all of a
sudden Welsh sprang up with a shout of laughter, slapping first his own
leg and then the doctor's back.

"By Gad, I've got it!" he cried. "I have it!"

And he had; hence this tale.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

In a certain fertile and well-wooded county of England there stands a high
stone wall. On a sunny day the eye of the traveller passing through this
province is gratified by the sparkle of myriads of broken bottles arranged
closely and continuously along its coping-stone. Above these shining
facets the boughs of tall trees swing in the wind and throw their shadows
across the highway. The wall at last leaves the road and follows the park
round its entire extent. Its height never varies; the broken bottles
glitter perpetually; and only through two entrances, and that when the
gates are open, can one gain a single glimpse inside: for the gates are
solid, with no chinks for the curious.

The country all round is undulating, and here and there from the crest of
an eminence you can see a great space of well-timbered park land within
this wall; and in winter, when the leaves are off the trees, you may spy
an imposing red-brick mansion in the midst.

Any native will inform you, with a mixture of infectious awe and becoming
pride, that this is no less than the far-famed private asylum of
Clankwood.

This ideal institution bore the enviable reputation of containing the
best-bred lunatics in England. It was credibly reported that however well
marked their symptoms and however well developed their delusions, none but
ladies and gentlemen of the most unblemished descent were permitted to
enjoy its seclusion. The dances there were universally considered the most
agreeable functions in the county. The conversation of many of the inmates
was of the widest range and the most refreshing originality, and the
demeanour of all, even when most free from the conventional trammels of
outside society, bore evidence of an expensive, and in some cases of a
Christian, upbringing. This is scarcely to be wondered at, when beneath
one roof were assembled the heirs-presumptive to three dukedoms, two
suicidal marquises, an odd archbishop or so, and the flower of the
baronetage and clergy. As this list only includes a few of the celebrities
able or willing to be introduced to distinguished visitors, and makes no
mention of the uncorroborated dignities (such as the classical divinities
and Old Testament duplicates), the anxiety shown by some people to certify
their relations can easily be understood.

Dr Congleton, the proprietor and physician of Clankwood, was a gentleman
singularly well fitted to act as host on the occasion of asylum reunions.
No one could exceed him in the respect he showed to a coroneted head, even
when cracked; and a bishop under his charge was always secured, as far as
possible, from the least whisper of heretical conversation. He possessed
besides a pleasant rubicund countenance and an immaculate wardrobe. He was
further fortunate in having in his assistants, Dr Escott and Dr Sherlaw,
two young gentlemen whose medical knowledge was almost equal to the
affability of their manners and the excellence of their family
connections.

One November night these two were sitting over a comfortable fire in
Sherlaw's room. Twelve o'clock struck, Escott finished the remains of
something in a tumbler, rose, and yawned sleepily.

"Time to turn in, young man," said he.

"I suppose it is," replied Sherlaw, a very pleasant and boyish young
gentleman. "Hullo! What's that? A cab?"

They both listened, and some way off they could just pick out a sound like
wheels upon gravel.

"It's very late for any one to be coming in," said Escott.

The sound grew clearer and more unmistakably like a cab rattling quickly
up the drive.

"It is a cab," said Sherlaw.

They heard it draw up before the front door, and then there came a pause.

"Who the deuce can it be?" muttered Escott.

In a few minutes there came a knock at the door, and a servant entered.

"A new case, sir. Want's to see Dr Congleton particular."

"A man or a woman?"

"Man, sir."

"All right," growled Sherlaw. "I'll come, confound him."

"Bad luck, old man," laughed Escott. "I'll wait here in case by any chance
you want me."

He fell into his chair again, lit a cigarette, and sleepily turned over
the pages of a book. Dr Sherlaw was away for a little time, and when he
returned his cheerful face wore a somewhat mystified expression.

"Well?" asked Escott.

"Rather a rum case," said his colleague, thoughtfully.

"What's the matter?"

"Don't know."

"Who was it?"

"Don't know that either."

Escott opened his eyes.

"What happened, then?"

"Well," said Sherlaw, drawing his chair up to the fire again, "I'll tell
you just what did happen, and you can make what you can out of it. Of
course, I suppose it's all right, really, but--well, the proceedings were a
little unusual, don't you know.

"I went down to the door, and there I found a four-wheeler with a man
standing beside it. The door of the cab was shut, and there seemed to be
two more men inside. This chap who'd got out--a youngish man--hailed me at
once as though he'd bought the whole place.

" 'You Dr Congleton?'

" 'Damn your impertinence!' I said to myself, 'ringing people up at this
hour, and talking like a bally drill-sergeant.'

"I told him politely I wasn't old Congers, but that I'd make a good enough
substitute for the likes of him.

" 'I tell you what it is,' said the Johnnie, 'I've brought a patient for
Dr Congleton, a cousin of mine, and I've got a doctor here, too. I want to
see Dr Congleton.'

" 'He's probably in bed,' I said, 'but I'll do just as well. I suppose
he's certified, and all that.'

" 'Oh, it's all right,' said the man, rather as though he expected me to
say that it wasn't. He looked a little doubtful what to do, and then I
heard some one inside the cab call him. He stuck his head in the window
and they confabbed for a minute, and then he turned to me and said, with
the most magnificent air you ever saw, like a chap buying a set of diamond
studs, 'My friend here is a great personal friend of Dr Congleton, and
it's a damned---- I mean it's an uncommonly delicate matter. We must see
him.'

" 'Well, if you insist, I'll see if I can get him,' I said; 'but you'd
better come in and wait.'

"So the Johnnie opened the door of the cab, and there was a great hauling
and pushing, my friend pulling an arm from the outside, and the doctor
shoving from within, and at last they fetched out their patient. He was a
tall man, in a very smart-looking, long, light top-coat, and a cap with a
large peak shoved over his eyes, and he seemed very unsteady on his pins.

" 'Drunk, by George!' I said to myself at first.

"The doctor--another young-looking man--hopped out after him, and they each
took an arm, lugged their patient into the waiting-room, and popped him
into an armchair. There he collapsed, and sat with his head hanging down
as limp as a sucked orange.

"I asked them if anything was the matter with him.

" 'Only tired,--just a little sleepy,' said the cousin.

"And do you know, Escott, what I'd stake my best boots was the matter with
him?"

"What?"

"The man was drugged!"

Escott looked at the fire thoughtfully.

"Well," he said, "it's quite possible; he might have been too violent to
manage."

"Why couldn't they have said so, then?"

"H'm. Not knowing, can't say. What happened next?"

"Next thing was, I asked the doctor what name I should give. He answered
in a kind of nervous way, 'No name; you needn't give any name. I know Dr
Congleton personally. Ask him to come, please.' So off I tooled, and found
old Congers just thinking of turning in.

" 'My clients are sometimes unnecessarily discreet', he remarked in his
pompous way when I told him about the arrival, and of course he added his
usual platitude about our reputation for discretion.

"I went back with him to the waiting-room, and just stood at the door long
enough to see him hail the doctor chap very cordially and be introduced to
the patient's cousin, and then I came away. Rather rum, isn't it?"

"You've certainly made the best of the yarn," said Escott with a laugh.

"By George, if you'd been there you'd have thought it funny too."

"Well, good-night, I'm off. We'll probably hear to-morrow what it's all
about."

But in the morning there was little more to be learned about the
new-comer's history and antecedents. Dr Congleton spoke of the matter to
the two young men, with the pompous cough that signified extreme
discretion.

"Brought by an old friend of mine," he said. "A curious story, Escott, but
quite intelligible. There seem to be the best reasons for answering no
questions about him; you understand?"

"Certainly, sir," said the two assistants, with the more assurance as they
had no information to give.

"I am perfectly satisfied, mind you--perfectly satisfied," added their
chief.

"By the way, sir," Sherlaw ventured to remark, "hadn't they given him
something in the way of a sleeping-draught?"

"Eh? Indeed? I hardly think so, Sherlaw, I hardly think so. Case of
reaction entirely. Good morning."

"Congleton seems satisfied," remarked Escott.

"I'll tell you what," said the junior, profoundly. "Old Congers is a very
good chap, and all that, but he's not what I should call extra sharp. _I_
should feel uncommon suspicious."

"H'm," replied Escott. "As you say, our worthy chief is not extra sharp.
But that's not our business, after all."

CHAPTER II.

"By the way," said Escott, a couple of days later, "how is your mysterious
man getting on? I haven't seen him myself yet."

Sherlaw laughed.

"He's turning out a regular sportsman, by George! For the first day he was
more or less in the same state in which he arrived. Then he began to wake
up and ask questions. 'What the devil is this place?' he said to me in the
evening. It may sound profane, but he was very polite, I assure you. I
told him, and he sort of raised his eyebrows, smiled, and thanked me like
a Prime Minister acknowledging an obligation. Since then he has steadily
developed sporting, not to say frisky, tastes. He went out this morning,
and in five minutes had his arm round one of the prettiest nurses' waist.
And she didn't seem to mind much either, by George!"

"He'll want a bit of looking after, I take it."

"Seems to me he is uncommonly capable of taking care of himself. The rest
of the establishment will want looking after, though."

From this time forth the mysterious gentleman began to regularly take the
air and to be remarked, and having once remarked him, people looked again.

Mr Francis Beveridge, for such it appeared was his name, was distinguished
even for Clankwood. Though his antecedents were involved in mystery, so
much confidence was placed in Dr Congleton's discrimination that the
unknown stranger was at once received on the most friendly terms by every
one; and, to tell the truth, it would have been hard to repulse him for
long. His manner was perfect, his conversation witty to the extremest
verge of propriety, and his clothes, fashionable in cut and of
unquestionable fit, bore on such of the buttons as were made of metal the
hall mark of a leading London firm. He wore the longest and most silky
moustaches ever seen, and beneath them a short well-tended beard completed
his resemblance--so the ladies declared--to King Charles of unhappy memory.
The melancholic Mr Jones (quondam author of 'Sunflowers--A Lyrical Medley')
declared, indeed, that for Mr Beveridge shaving was prohibited, and darkly
whispered "suicidal," but his opinion was held of little account.

It was upon a morning about a week after his arrival that Dr Escott, alone
in the billiard-room, saw him enter. Escott had by this time made his
acquaintance, and, like almost everybody else, had already succumbed to
the fascination of his address.

"Good morning, doctor," he said; "I wish you to do me a trifling favour, a
mere bending of your eyes."

Escott laughed.

"I shall be delighted. What is it?"

Mr Beveridge unbuttoned his waistcoat and displayed his shirt-front.

"I only want you to be good enough to read the inscription written here."

The doctor bent down.

" 'Francis Beveridge,' " he said. "That's all I see."

"And that's all I see," said Mr Beveridge. "Now what can you read here? I
am not troubling you?"

He held out his handkerchief as he spoke.

"Not a bit," laughed the doctor, "but I only see 'Francis Beveridge' here
too, I'm afraid."

"Everything has got it," said Mr Beveridge, shaking his head, it would be
hard to say whether humorously or sadly. " 'Francis Beveridge' on
everything. It follows, I suppose, that I am Francis Beveridge?"

"What else?" asked Escott, who was much amused.

"That's just it. What else?" said the other. He smiled a peculiarly
charming smile, thanked the doctor with exaggerated gratitude, and
strolled out again.

"He is a rum chap," reflected Escott.

And indeed in the outside world he might safely have been termed rather
rum, but here in this backwater, so full of the oddest flotsam, his
waywardness was rather less than the average. He had, for instance, a
diverting habit of modifying the time, and even the tune, of the hymns on
Sunday, and he confessed to having kissed all the nurses and housemaids
except three. But both Escott and Sherlaw declared they had never met a
more congenial spirit. Mr Beveridge's game of billiards was quite
remarkable even for Clankwood, where the enforced leisure of many of the
noblemen and gentlemen had made them highly proficient on the spot; he
showed every promise, on his rare opportunities, of being an unusually
entertaining small hour, whisky-and-soda _raconteur_; in fact, he was
evidently a man whose previous career, whatever it might have been (and
his own statements merely served to increase the mystery round this
point), had led him through many humorous by-paths, and left him with few
restrictive prejudices.

November became December, and to all appearances he had settled down in
his new residence with complete resignation, when that unknowable factor
that upsets so many calculations came upon the scene,--the factor, I mean,
that wears a petticoat.

Mr Beveridge strolled into Escott's room one morning to find the doctor
inspecting a mixed assortment of white kid gloves.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12