The Lunatic at Large

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

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Somehow or other the Rev. Mr Butler failed to display the hearty pleasure
at this announcement that the worthy Mrs Gabbon had naturally expected.

Aloud he merely said, "Indeed," politely, but with no unusual interest.

Within himself he reflected, "The deuce take Mr John Duggs! However, I
want the rooms, and a man must risk something."

As a precautionary measure he visited a second-hand bookseller on his way
back, and purchased a small assortment of the severest-looking works on
theology they kept in stock; and these, with his slender luggage, he
brought round to Mrs Gabbon's in the course of the afternoon.

He looked carefully out of his sitting-room window, but the doctor's
blinds were still down, and he saw no one coming or going about the house;
so he began his inquiries by calling up his landlady.

"I have been troubled with lumbago, Mrs Gabbon," he began.

"Dearie me, sir," said Mrs Gabbon, "I'm sorry to 'ear that; you that looks
so 'ealthy too! Well, one never knows what's be'ind a 'appy hexterior,
does one, sir?"

"No, Mrs Gabbon," replied Mr Bunker, solemnly; "one never knows what even
a clergyman's coat conceals."

"That's very true, sir. In the midst of life we are in----"

"Lumbago," interposed Mr Bunker.

Mrs Gabbon looked a trifle startled.

"Well," he continued with the same gravity, "I may unfortunately have
occasion to consult a doctor----"

"There's Dr Smith," interrupted Mrs Gabbon, her equanimity quite restored
by his ecclesiastical tone and the mention of ailments; "'e attended my
poor dear 'usband hall through his last illness; an huncommon clever
doctor, sir, as I ought to know, sir, bein'----"

"No doubt an excellent man, Mrs Gabbon; but I should like to know of one
as near at hand as possible. Now I see the name of a Dr Twiddel----"

"I wouldn't recommend 'im, sir," said Mrs Gabbon, pursing her mouth.

"Indeed? Why not?"

"'E attended Mrs Brown's servant-girl, sir,--she bein' the lady as has the
'ouse next door,--and what he give _'er_ didn't do no good. Mrs Brown tell
me 'erself."

"Still, in an emergency----"

"Besides which, he ain't at 'ome, sir."

"Where has he gone?"

"Abroad, they do say, sir; though I don't rightly know much about 'im."

"Has he been away long?"

Mrs Gabbon considered.

"It must 'ave bin before the middle of November he went, sir."

"Ha!" exclaimed Mr Bunker, keenly, though apparently more to himself than
his landlady.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"The middle of November, you say? That's a long holiday for a doctor to
take."

"'E 'avn't no practice to speak of,--not as I knows of, leastways."

"What sort of a man is he--young or old?"

"By my opinion, sir, 'e's too young. I don't 'old by them young doctors.
Now Dr Smith, sir----"

"Dr Twiddel is quite a young man, then?"

"What I'd call little better than a boy, sir. They tell me they lets 'em
loose very young nowadays."

"About twenty-five, say?"

"'E might be that, sir; but I don't know much about 'im, sir. Now Dr
Smith, sir, 'e's different."

In fact at this point Mrs Gabbon showed such a tendency to turn the
conversation back to the merits of Dr Smith and the precise nature of Mr
Bunker's ailment, that her lodger, in despair, requested her to bring up a
cup of tea as speedily as possible.

"Before the middle of November," he said to himself. "It is certainly a
curious coincidence."

To a gentleman of Mr Bunker's sociable habits and active mind, the
prospect of sitting day by day in the company of his theological treatises
and talkative landlady, and watching an apparently uninhabited house,
seemed at first sight even less entertaining than a return to Clankwood.
But, as he said of himself, he possessed a kind of easy workaday
philosophy, and, besides that, an apparently irresistible attraction for
the incidents of life.

He had barely finished his cup of tea, and was sitting over the fire
smoking one of the Baron's cigars and looking through one of the few books
he had brought that bore no relation to divinity, his feet high upon the
side of the mantelpiece, his ready-made costume perhaps a little more
unbuttoned than the strictest propriety might approve, and a stiff glass
of whisky-and-water at his elbow, when there came a rap at his door.

In response to his "Come in," a middle-aged gentleman, dressed in clerical
attire, entered. He had a broad, bearded face, a dull eye, and an
indescribably average aspect.

"The devil! Mr John Duggs himself," thought Mr Bunker, hastily adopting a
more conventional attitude and feeling for his button-holes.

"Ah--er--Mr Butler, I believe?" said the stranger, with an apologetic air.

"The same," replied Mr Bunker, smiling affably.

"I," continued his visitor, advancing with more confidence, "am Mr Duggs.
I am dwelling at present in the apartment immediately above you, and
hearing of the arrival of a fellow-clergyman, through my worthy friend Mrs
Gabbon, I have taken the liberty of calling. She gave me to understand
that you were not undesirous of making my acquaintance, Mr Butler."

"The deuce, she did!" thought Mr Butler. Aloud he answered most politely,
"I am honoured, Mr Duggs. Won't you sit down?"

First casting a wary eye upon a chair, Mr Duggs seated himself carefully
on the edge of it.

"It is quite evident," thought Mr Bunker, "that he has spotted something
wrong. I believe a bobby would have been safer after all."

He assumed the longest face he could draw, and remarked sententiously,
"The weather has been unpleasantly cold of late, Mr Duggs."

He flattered himself that his guest seemed instantly more at his ease.
Certainly he replied with as much cordiality as a man with such a dull eye
could be supposed to display.

"It has, Mr Butler; in fact I have suffered from a chill for some weeks.
Ahem!"

"Have something to drink," suggested Mr Bunker, sympathetically. "I'm
trying a little whisky myself, as a cure for cold."

"I--ah--I am sorry. I do not touch spirits."

"I, on the contrary, am glad to hear it. Too few of our clergymen nowadays
support the cause of temperance by example."

Mr Bunker felt a little natural pride in this happily expressed sentiment,
but his visitor merely turned his cold eye on the whisky bottle, and
breathed heavily.

"Confound him!" he thought; "I'll give him something to snort at if he is
going to conduct himself like this."

"Have a cigar?" he asked aloud.

Mr Duggs seemed to regard the cigar-box a little less unkindly than the
whisky bottle; but after a careful look at it he replied, "I am afraid
they seem a little too strong for me. I am a light smoker, Mr Butler."

"Really," smiled Mr Bunker; "so many virtues in one room reminds me of the
virgins of Gomorrah."

"I beg your pardon? The what?" asked Mr Duggs, with a startled stare.

Mr Bunker suspected that he had made a slip in his biblical reminiscences,
but he continued to smile imperturbably, and inquired with a perfect air
of surprise, "Haven't you read the novel I referred to?"

Mr Duggs appeared a little relieved, but he answered blankly enough,
"I--ah--have not. What is the book you refer to?"

"Oh, don't you know? To tell the truth, I forget the title. It's by a
somewhat well-known lady writer of religious fiction. A Miss--her name
escapes me at this moment."

In fact, as Mr Bunker had no idea how long his friend might be dwelling in
the apartment immediately above him, he thought it more prudent to make no
statement that could possibly be checked.

"I am no great admirer of religious fiction of any kind," replied Mr
Duggs, "particularly that written by emotional females."

"No," said Mr Bunker, pleasantly; "I should imagine your own doctrines
were not apt to err on the sentimental side."

"I am not aware that I have said anything to you about my--doctrines, as
you call them, Mr Butler."

"Still, don't you think one can generally tell a man's creed from his
coat, and his sympathies from the way he cocks his hat?"

"I think," replied Mr Duggs, "that our ideas of our vocation are somewhat
different."

"Mine is, I admit," said Mr Bunker, who had come to the conclusion that
the strain of playing his part was really too great, and was now being
happily carried along by his tongue.

Mr Duggs for a moment was evidently disposed to give battle, but thinking
better of it, he contented himself with frowning at his younger opponent,
and abruptly changed the subject.

"May I ask what position you hold in the church, Mr Butler?"

"Why," began Mr Bunker, lightly: it was on the tip of his tongue to say "a
clergyman, of course," when he suddenly recollected that he might be
anything from the rank of curate up to the people who wear gaiters (and
who these were precisely he didn't know). An ingenious solution suggested
itself. He replied with a preliminary inquiry, "Have you ever been in the
East, Mr Duggs?"

"I regret to say I have not hitherto had the opportunity."

"Thank the Lord for that," thought Mr Bunker. "I have been a missionary,"
he said quietly, and looked dreamily into the fire.

It was a happy move. Mr Duggs was visibly impressed.

"Ah?" he said. "Indeed? I am much interested to learn this, Mr Butler.
It--ah--gives me perhaps a somewhat different view of your--ah--opinions.
Where did your work lie?"

"China," replied Mr Bunker, thinking it best to keep as far abroad as
possible.

"Ha!" exclaimed Mr Duggs. "This is really extremely fortunate. I am at
present, Mr Butler, studying the religions and customs of China at the
British Museum, with a view to going out there myself very shortly. I
already feel I know almost as much about that most interesting country as
if I had lived there. I should like to talk with you at some length on the
subject."

Mr Bunker saw that it was time to put an end to this conversation, at
whatever minor risk of perturbing his visitor. He had been a little
alarmed, too, by noticing that Mr Duggs' dull eye had wandered frequently
to his theological library, which with his usual foresight he had strewn
conspicuously on the table, and that any expression it had was rather of
suspicious curiosity than gratification.

"I should like to hear some of your experiences," Mr Duggs continued. "In
what province did you work?"

"In Hung Hang Ho," replied Mr Bunker. His visitor looked puzzled, but he
continued boldly, "My experiences were somewhat unpleasant. I became
engaged to a mandarin's daughter--a charming girl. I was suspected,
however, of abetting an illicit traffic in Chinese lanterns. My companions
were manicured alive, and I only made my escape in a pagoda, or a junk--I
was in too much of a hurry to notice which--at the imminent peril of my
life. Don't go to China, Mr Duggs."

Mr Duggs rose.

"Young man," he said, sternly, "put away that fatal bottle. I can only
suppose that it is under the influence of drink that you have ventured to
tell me such an irreverent and impossible story."

"Sir," began Mr Bunker, warmly,--for he thought that an outburst of
indignation would probably be the safest way of concluding the
interview,--when he stopped abruptly and listened. All the time his ears
had been alive to anything going on outside, and now he heard a cab rattle
up and stop close by. It might be at Dr Twiddel's, he thought, and,
turning from his visitor, he sprang to the window.

Remarking distantly, "I hear a cab; it is possibly a friend I am
expecting," Mr Duggs stepped to the other window.

It was only, however, a hansom at the door of the next house, out of which
a very golden-haired young lady was stepping. "Aha," said Mr Bunker, quite
forgetting the indignant _role_ he had begun to play; "rather nice! Is
this your friend, Mr Duggs?"

Mr Duggs gave him one look of his dull eyes, and walked straight for the
door. As he went out he merely remarked, "Our acquaintance has been brief,
Mr Butler, but it has been quite sufficient."

"Quite," thought Mr Bunker.

CHAPTER III.

That was Mr Bunker's first and last meeting with the Rev. John Duggs, and
he took no small credit to himself for having so effectually incensed his
neighbour, without, at the same time, bringing suspicion on anything more
pertinent than his sobriety.

And yet sometimes in the course of the next three days he would have been
thankful to see him again, if only to have another passage-of-arms. The
time passed most wearily; the consulting-room blinds were never raised; no
cabs stopped before the doctor's door; nobody except the little servant
ever moved about the house.

He could think of no plan better than waiting; and so he waited, showing
himself seldom in the streets, and even sitting behind the curtain while
he watched at the window. After writing at some length to the Baron he had
no further correspondence that he could distract himself with; he was even
forced once or twice to dip into the theological works. Mrs Gabbon had
evidently "'eard sommat" from Mr Duggs, and treated him to little of her
society. The boredom became so excessive that he decided he must make a
move soon, however rash it was.

The only active step he took, and indeed the only step he saw his way to
take, was a call on Dr Twiddel's _locum_. But luck seemed to run dead
against him. Dr Billson had departed "on his holiday," he was informed,
and would not return for three weeks. So Mr Bunker was driven back to his
window and the Baron's cigars.

It was the evening of his fourth day in Mrs Gabbon's rooms. He had
finished a modest dinner and was dealing himself hands at piquet with an
old pack of cards, when he heard the rattle of a cab coming up the street.
The usual faint flicker of hope rose: the cab stopped below him, the
flicker burned brighter, and in an instant he was at the window. He opened
the slats of the blind, and the flicker was aflame. Before the doctor's
house a four-wheeled cab was standing laden with luggage, and two men were
going up the steps. He watched the luggage being taken in and the cab
drive away, and then he turned radiantly back to the fire.

"The curtain is up," he said to himself. "What's the first act to be?"

Presently he put on his wide-awake hat and went out for a stroll. He
walked slowly past the doctor's house, but there was nothing to be seen or
heard. Remembering the room at the back, he was not surprised to find no
chink of light about the front windows, and thinking it better not to run
the risk of being seen lingering there, he walked on. He was in such good
spirits, and had been cooped up so continually for the last few days, that
he went on and on, and it was not till about a couple of hours had passed
that he approached his rooms again. As he came down the street he was
surprised to see by the light of a lamp that another four-wheeler was
standing before the doctor's house, also laden with luggage.

Two men jumped in, one after another, and when he had come at his fastest
walk within twenty yards or so, the cabman whipped up and drove rapidly
away, luggage and men and all.

He looked up and down for a hansom, but there were none to be seen. For a
few yards he set off at a run in pursuit, and then, finding that the horse
was being driven at a great rate, and remembering the paucity of stray
cabs in the quiet streets and roads round about, he stopped and considered
the question.

"After all," he reflected, "it may not have been Dr Twiddel who drove
away; in fact, if it was he who arrived in the first cab, it's any odds
against it. Pooh! It can't be. Still, it's a curious thing if two cabs
loaded with luggage came to the house in the same evening, and one drove
away without unlading."

With his spirits a little damped in spite of his philosophy, he went back
to his rooms.

In the morning the consulting-room blinds were still down, and the house
looked as deserted as ever.

He waited till lunch, and then he went out boldly and pulled the doctor's
bell. The same little maid appeared, but she evidently did not recognise
the fashionable patient who disappeared so mysteriously in the
demure-looking clergyman at the door.

"Is Dr Twiddel at home?"

"No, sir, he ain't back yet."

"He hasn't been back?"

"No, sir."

Mr Bunker looked at her keenly, and then said to himself, "She is lying."

He thought he would try a chance shot.

"But he was expected home last night, I believe."

The maid looked a little staggered.

"He ain't been," she replied.

"I happen to have heard that he called here," he hazarded again.

This time she was evidently put about.

"He ain't been here--as I knows of."

He slipped half-a-crown into her hand.

"Think again," he said, in his most winning accents.

The poor little maid was obviously in a dilemma.

"Do you want him particular, sir?"

"Particularly."

She fidgeted a little.

"He told me," he pursued, "that he might look in at his rooms last night.
He left no message for me?"

"What name, sir?"

"Mr Butler."

"No, sir."

"Then, my dear," said Mr Bunker, with his most insinuating smile, "he was
here for a little, you can't deny?"

At the maid's embarrassed glance down his long coat, he suddenly realised
that there was perhaps a distinction between lay and clerical smiles.

"He might have just looked in, sir," she admitted.

"But he didn't want it known?"

"No, sir."

"Quite right, I advised him not to, and you did very well not to tell me
at first."

He smiled approvingly and made a pretence of turning away.

"Oh, by the way," he added, stopping as if struck by an after-thought, "Is
he still in town? He promised to leave word for me, but he has evidently
forgotten."

"I don't know, sir; 'e didn't say."

"What? He left _no_ word at all?"

"No, sir."

Mr Bunker held out another half-crown.

"It's truth, sir," said the maid, drawing back; "we don't know where 'e
is."

"Take it, all the same; you have been very discreet. You have no idea?"

The maid hesitated.

"I _did_ 'ear Mr Welsh say something about lookin' for rooms," she
allowed.

"In London?"

"I expect so, sir; but 'e didn't say no more."

"Mr Welsh is the friend who came with him, of course?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks," said Mr Bunker. "By the way, Dr Twiddel might not like your
telling this even to a friend, so you needn't say I called, I'll tell him
myself when I see him, and I won't give you away."

He smiled benignly, and the little maid thanked him quite gratefully.

"Evidently," he thought as he went away, "I was meant for something in the
detective line."

He returned to his rooms to meditate, and the longer he thought the more
puzzled he became, and yet the more convinced that he had taken up a
thread that must lead him somewhere.

"As for my plan of action," he considered, "I see nothing better for it
than staying where I am--and watching. This mysterious doctor must surely
steal back some night. Now and then I might go round the town and try a
cast in the likeliest bars--oh, hang me, though! I forgot I was a
clergyman."

That night he had a welcome distraction in the shape of a letter from the
Baron. It was written from Brierley Park, in the Baron's best pointed
German hand, and it ran thus--

"MY DEAR BUNKER,--I was greatly more delighted than I am able to express to
you from the amusing correspondence you addressed me. How glad I am, I can
assure you, that you are still in safety and comfort. Remember, my dear
friend, to call for me when need arises, although I do think you can guard
yourself as well as most alone.

"This leaves me happy and healthful, and in utmost prosperity with the
kind Sir Richard and his charming Lady. You English certainly know well
how to cause time to pass with mirth. About instruction I say less!

"They have talked of you here. I laugh and keep my tongue when they wonder
who he is and whither gone away. Now that anger is passed and they see I
myself enjoy the joke, they say, and especially do the ladies, (You
humbug, Bunker!) 'How charming was the imitation, Baron!' You can indeed
win the hearts, if wishful so. The Lady Grillyer and her unexpressable
daughter I have often seen. To-day they come here for two nights. I did
suggest it to Lady Brierley, and I fear she did suspect the condition of
my heart; but she charmingly smiled, she asked them, and they come!

"The Countess, I fear, does not now love you much, my friend; but then she
knows not the truth. The Lady Alicia is strangely silent on the matter of
Mr Bunker, but in time she also doubtless will forgive. (At this Mr Bunker
smiled in some amusement.)

"When they leave Brierley I also shall take my departure on the following
day, that is in three days. Therefore write hastily, Bunker, and name the
place and hour where we shall meet again and dine festively. I expect a
most reverent clergyman and much instructive discourse. Ah, humbug!--Thine
always,

RUDOLPH VON BLITZENBERG."

"_P.S._--She is sometimes more kind and sometimes so distant. Ah, I know
not what to surmise! But to-morrow or the next my fate will be decided.
Give me of your prayers, my reverent friend!

R. VON B."

"Dear old Baron!" said Mr Bunker. "Well, I've at least a dinner to look
forward to."

CHAPTER IV.

Dr Twiddel, meanwhile, was no less anxious to make the Rev. Alexander
Butler's acquaintance than the Rev. Alexander Butler was to make his. Not
that he was aware of that gentleman's recent change of identity and
occupation; but most industrious endeavors to find a certain Mr Beveridge
were made in the course of the next few days. He and Welsh were living
modestly and obscurely in the neighbourhood of the Pentonville Road,
scouring the town by day, studying a map and laying the most ingenious
plans at night. Welsh's first effort, as soon as they were established in
their new quarters, was to induce his friend to go down to Clankwood and
make further inquiries, but this Twiddel absolutely declined to do.

"My dear chap," he answered, "supposing anything were found out, or even
suspected, what am I to say? Old Congleton knows me well, and for his own
sake doesn't want to make a fuss; but if he really spots that something is
wrong, he will be so afraid of his reputation that he'd give me away like
a shot."

"How are you going to give things away by going down and seeing him?"

"_If_ they have guessed anything, I'll give it away. I haven't your cheek,
you know, and tact, and that sort of thing; you'd much better go
yourself."

"_I?_ It isn't my business."

"You seem to be making it yours. Besides, Dr Congleton thinks it is. You
passed yourself off as the chap's cousin, and it is quite natural for you
to go and inquire."

Welsh pondered the point. "Hang it," he said at last, "it would do just as
well to write. Perhaps it's safer after all."

"Well, you write."

"Why should I, rather than you?"

"Because you're his cousin."

Welsh considered again. "Well, I don't suppose it matters much. I'll
write, if you're afraid."

It was these amiable little touches in his friend's conversation that
helped to make Twiddel's lot at this time so pleasant. In fact, the doctor
was learning a good deal about human nature in cloudy weather.

With great care Welsh composed a polite note of anxious inquiry, and by
return of post received the following reply:--

"MY DEAR SIR,--I regret to inform you that we have not so far recovered
your cousin Mr Beveridge. In all probability, however, this cannot be long
delayed now, as he was seen within the last week at a country house in
Dampshire, and is known to have fled to London immediately on his
recognition, but before he could be secured. He was then clean shaved, and
had been passing under the name of Francis Bunker. We are making strict
inquiries for him in London.

"Nobody can regret the unfortunate circumstance of his escape more than I,
and, in justice to myself and my institution, I can assure you that it was
only through the most unforeseen and remarkable ingenuity on your cousin's
part that it occurred.

"Trusting that I may soon be able to inform you of his recovery, I am,
yours very truly,

"ADOLPHUS S. CONGLETON.

Their ardour was, if possible, increased by Dr Congleton's letter. Mr
Beveridge was almost certainly in London, and they knew now that they must
look for a clean-shaved man. Two private inquiry detectives were at work;
and on their own account they had mapped the likeliest parts of London
into beats, visiting every bar and restaurant in turn, and occasionally
hanging about stations and the stopping-places for 'buses.

It was dreadfully hard work, and after four days of it, even Welsh began
to get a little sickened.

"Hang it," he said in the evening, "I haven't had a decent dinner since we
came back. Mr Bunker can go to the devil for to-night, I'm going to dine
decently. I'm sick of going round pubs, and not even stopping to have a
drink."

"So am I," replied Twiddel, cordially; "where shall we go?"

"The Cafe Maccarroni," suggested Welsh; "we can't afford a West-end place,
and they give one a very decent dinner there."

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