The Seven Secrets

The sleepy-eyed tea-blender of Mark Lane remained plunged in a deep reverie during the greater part of the journey to town, and on arrival at King’s Cross declined to allow me to accompany him. This disappointed me. I was eager to pursue the clue, but no amount of persuasion on my part would induce him to alter his decision.

“At present I must continue alone, old fellow,” he answered kindly. “It is best, after all. Later on I may want your help.”

“The facts I’ve told you are of importance, I suppose?”

“Of the greatest importance,” he responded. “I begin to see light through the veil. But if what I suspect is correct, then the affair will be found to be absolutely astounding.”

“Of that I’m certain,” I said. “When will you come in and spend an hour?”

“As soon as ever I can spare time,” he answered. “To-morrow, or next day, perhaps. At present I have a very difficult task before me. Good-bye for the present.” And hailing a hansom he jumped in and drove away, being careful not to give the address to the driver while within my hearing. Ambler Jevons had been born with the instincts of a detective. The keenness of his intellect was perfectly marvellous.

On leaving him I drove to Harley Street, where I found Sir Bernard busy with patients, and in rather an ill-temper, having been worried unusually by some smart woman who had been to consult him and had been pouring into his ear all her domestic woes.

“I do wish such women would go and consult somebody else,” he growled, after he had been explaining her case to me. “Same symptoms as all of them. Nerves—owing to indigestion, late hours, and an artificial life. Wants me to order her to Carlsbad or somewhere abroad—so that she can be rid of her husband for a month or so. I can see the reason plain enough. She’s got some little game to play. Faugh!” cried the old man, “such women only fill one with disgust.”

I went on to tell him of the verdict upon the death of Mrs. Courtenay, and his manner instantly changed to one of sympathy.

“Poor Henry!” he exclaimed. “Poor little woman! I wonder that nothing has transpired to give the police a clue. To my mind, Boyd, there was some mysterious element in Courtenay’s life that he entirely hid from his friends. In later years he lived in constant dread of assassination.”

“Yes, that has always struck me as strange,” I remarked.

“Has nothing yet been discovered?” asked my chief. “Didn’t the police follow that manservant Short?”

“Yes, but to no purpose. They proved to their own satisfaction that he was innocent.”

“And your friend Jevons—the tea-dealer who makes it a kind of hobby to assist the police. What of him? Has he continued his activity?”

“I believe so. He has, I understand, discovered a clue.”

“What has he found?” demanded the old man, bending forward in eagerness across the table. He had been devoted to his friend Courtenay, and was constantly inquiring of me whether the police had met with any success.

“At present he will tell me nothing,” I replied.

Sir Bernard gave vent to an exclamation of dissatisfaction, observing that he hoped Jevons’ efforts would meet with success, as it was scandalous that a double tragedy of that character could occur in a civilized community without the truth being revealed and the assassin arrested.

“There’s no doubt that the tragedy was a double one,” I observed. “Although the jury have returned a verdict of ‘Found Drowned’ in the widow’s case, the facts, even as far as at present known, point undoubtedly to murder.”

“To murder!” he cried. “Then is it believed that she’s been wilfully drowned?”

“That is the local surmise.”

“Why?” he asked, with an eager look upon his countenance, for he took the most intense interest in every feature of the affair.

“Well, because it is rumoured that she had been seen late one night walking along the river-bank, near the spot where she was found, accompanied by a strange man.”

“A strange man?” he echoed, his interest increased. “Did anyone see him sufficiently close to recognise him?”

“I believe not,” I answered, hesitating at that moment to tell him all I knew. “The local police are making active inquiries, I believe.”

“I wonder who it could have been?” Sir Bernard exclaimed reflectively. “Mrs. Courtenay was always so devoted to poor Henry, that the story of the stranger appears to me very like some invention of the villagers. Whenever a tragedy occurs in a rural district all kinds of absurd canards are started. Probably that’s one of them. It is only natural for the rustic mind to connect a lover with a pretty young widow.”

“Exactly. But I have certain reasons for believing the clandestine meeting to have taken place,” I said.

“What causes you to give credence to the story?”

“Statements made to me,” I replied vaguely. “And further, all the evidence points to murder.”

“Then why did the jury return an open verdict?”

“It was the best thing they could do in the circumstances, as it leaves the police with a free hand.”

“But who could possibly have any motive for the poor little woman’s death?” he asked, with a puzzled, rather anxious expression upon his grey brow.

“The lover may have wished to get rid of her,” I suggested.

“You speak rather ungenerously, Boyd,” he protested. “Remember, we don’t know for certain that there was a lover in the case, and we should surely accept the rumours of country yokels with considerable hesitation.”

“I make no direct accusation,” I said. “I merely give as my opinion that she was murdered by the man she was evidently in the habit of meeting. That’s all.”

“Well, if that is so, then I hope the police will be successful in making an arrest,” declared the old physician. “Poor little woman! When is the funeral?”

“The day after to-morrow.”

“I must send a wreath. How sad it is! How very sad!” And he sighed sympathetically, and sat staring with fixed eyes at the dark green wall opposite.

“It’s time you caught your train,” I remarked, glancing at the clock.

“No,” he answered. “I’m dining at the House of Commons to-night with my friend Houston. I shall remain in town all night. I so very seldom allow myself any dissipation,” and he smiled rather sadly.

Truly he led an anchorite’s life, going to and fro with clockwork regularity, and denying himself all those diversions in Society which are ever at the command of a notable man. Very rarely did he accept an invitation to dine, and the fact that he lived down at Hove was in order to have a good excuse to evade people. He was a great man, with all a great man’s little eccentricities.

The two following days passed uneventfully. Each evening, about ten, Ambler Jevons came in to smoke and drink. He stayed an hour, apparently nervous, tired, and fidgety in a manner quite unusual; but to my inquiries regarding the success of his investigations he remained dumb.

“Have you discovered anything?” I asked, eagerly, on the occasion of his second visit.

He hesitated, at length answering——

“Yes—and no. I must see Ethelwynn without delay. Telegraph and ask her to meet you here. I want to ask her a question.”

“Do you still suspect her?”

He shrugged his shoulders with an air of distinct vagueness.

“Wire to her to-night,” he urged. “Your man can take the message down to the Charing Cross office, and she’ll get it at eight o’clock in the morning. The funeral is over, so there is nothing to prevent her coming to town.”

I was compelled to agree to his suggestion, although loth to again bring pain and annoyance to my love. I knew how she had suffered when, a few days ago, I had questioned her, and I felt convinced by her manner that, although she had refused to speak, she herself was innocent. Her lips were sealed by word of honour.

According to appointment Jevons met me when I had finished my next morning’s work at Guy’s, and we took a glass of sherry together in a neighbouring bar. Then at his invitation I accompanied him along the

Borough High Street and Newington Causeway to the London Road, until we came to a row of costermongers’ barrows drawn up beside the pavement. Before one of these, piled with vegetables ready for the Saturday-night market, he stopped, and was immediately recognised by the owner—a tall, consumptive-looking man, whose face struck me somehow as being familiar.

“Well, Lane?” my companion said. “Busy, eh?”

“Not very, sir,” was the answer, with the true cockney twang. “Trade ain’t very brisk. There’s too bloomin’ many of us ’ere nowadays.”

Leaving my side my companion advanced towards the man and whispered some confidential words that I could not catch, at the same time pulling something from his breast-pocket and showing it to him.

“Oh, yes, sir. No doubt abawt it!” I heard the man exclaim.

Then, in reply to a further question from Jevons, he said:

“’Arry ’Arding used to work at Curtis’s. So I fancy that ’ud be the place to find out somethink. I’m keepin’ my ears open, you bet,” and he winked knowingly.

Where I had seen the man before I could not remember. But his face was certainly familiar.

When we left him and continued along the busy thoroughfare of cheap shops and itinerant vendors I asked my friend who he was, to which he merely replied:

“Well, he’s a man who knows something of the affair. I’ll explain later. In the meantime come with

me to Gray’s Inn Road. I have to make a call there,” and he hailed a hansom, into which we mounted.

Twenty minutes later we alighted before a dingy-looking barber’s shop and inquired for Mr. Harding—an assistant who was at that moment shaving a customer of the working class. It was a house where one could be shaved for a penny, but where the toilet accessories were somewhat primitive.

While I stood on the threshold Ambler Jevons asked the barber’s assistant if he had ever worked at Curtis’s, and if, while there, he knew a man whose photograph he showed him.

“Yes, sir,” answered the barber, without a moment’s hesitation. “That’s Mr. Slade. He was a very good customer, and Mr. Curtis used always to attend on him himself.”

“Slade, you say, is his name?” repeated my friend.

“Yes, sir.”

Then, thanking him, we re-entered the cab and drove to an address in a street off Shaftesbury Avenue.

“Slade! Slade!” repeated Ambler Jevons to himself as we drove along. “That’s the name I’ve been in search of for weeks. If I am successful I believe the Seven Secrets will resolve themselves into one of the most remarkable conspiracies of modern times. I must, however, make this call alone, Ralph. The presence of a second person may possibly prevent the man I’m going to see from making a full and straightforward statement. We must not risk failure in this inquiry, for I anticipate that it may give us the key to the whole situation. There’s a bar opposite the

Palace Theatre. I’ll set you down there, and you can wait for me. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all, if you’ll promise to explain the result of your investigations afterwards.”

“You shall know everything later,” he assured me, and a few minutes afterwards I alighted at the saloon bar he had indicated, a long lounge patronised a good deal by theatrical people.

He was absent nearly half-an-hour, and when he returned I saw from his face that he had obtained some information that was eminently satisfactory.

“I hope to learn something further this afternoon,” he said before we parted. “If I do I shall be with you at four.” Then he jumped into a hansom and disappeared. Jevons was a strange fellow. He rushed hither and thither, telling no one his business or his motives.

About the hour he had named he was ushered into my room. He had made a complete change in his appearance, wearing a tall hat and frock coat, with a black fancy waistcoat whereon white flowers were embroidered. By a few artistic touches he had altered the expression of his features too—adding nearly twenty years to his age. His countenance was one of those round, flexible ones that are so easily altered by a few dark lines.

“Well, Ambler?” I said anxiously, when we were alone. “What have you discovered?”

“Several rather remarkable facts,” was his philosophic response. “If you care to accompany me I can show you to-night something very interesting.”

“Care to accompany you?” I echoed. “I’m only too anxious.”

He glanced at his watch, then flinging himself into the chair opposite me, said, “We’ve an hour yet. Have you got a drop of brandy handy?”

Then for the first time I noticed that the fresh colour of his cheeks was artificial, and that in reality he was exhausted and white as death. The difficulty in speaking that I had attributed to excitement was really due to exhaustion.

Quickly I produced the brandy, and gave him a stiff peg, which he swallowed at a single gulp. His eyes were no longer sleepy-looking, but there was a quick fire in them which showed me that, although suppressed, there burned within his heart a fierce desire to get at the truth. Evidently he had learned something since I left him, but what it was I could not gather.

I looked at the clock, and saw it was twenty minutes past six. He noticed my action, and said:

“If we start in an hour we shall have sufficient time.”

Ambler Jevons was never communicative. But as he sat before me his brows were knit in deep thought, his hands chafed with suppressed agitation, and he took a second brandy-and-soda, an unusual indulgence, which betrayed an absent mind.

At length he rose, carefully brushed his silk hat, settled the hang of his frock-coat before the glass, tugged at his cravat, and then, putting on his light overcoat, announced his readiness to set out.

About half-an-hour later our cab set us down in Upper Street, Islington, close to the Agricultural Hall, and, proceeding on foot a short distance, we turned up a kind of court, over the entrance of which a lamp was burning, revealing the words “Lecture Hall.”

Jevons produced two tickets, whereupon we were admitted into a long, low room filled by a mixed audience consisting of men. Upon the platform at the further end was a man of middle age, with short fair beard, grey eyes, and an alert, resolute manner—a foreigner by his dress—and beside him an Englishman of spruce professional appearance—much older, slightly bent, with grey countenance and white hair.

We arrived just at the moment of the opening of the proceedings. The Englishman, whom I set down to be a medical man, rose, and in introducing the lecturer beside him, said:

“I have the honour, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce to you Doctor Paul Deboutin—who, as most of you know, is one of the most celebrated medical men in Paris, professor at the Salpêtrière, and author of many works upon nervous disorders. The study of the latter is not, unfortunately, sufficiently taken up in this country, and it is in order to demonstrate the necessity of such study that my friends and myself have invited Doctor Deboutin to give this lecture before an audience of both medical men and the laity. The doctor asks me to apologise to you for his inability to express himself well in English,

but personally I have no fear that you will misunderstand him.”

Then he turned, introduced the lecturer, and re-seated himself.

I was quite unprepared for such a treat. Deboutin, as every medical man is aware, is the first authority on nervous disorders, and his lectures have won for him a world-wide reputation. I had read all his books, and being especially struck with “Névroses et Idées Fixes,” a most convincing work, had longed to be present at one of his demonstrations. Therefore, forgetful that I was there for some unknown reason, I settled myself to listen.

Rapidly and clearly he spoke in fairly good English, with a decision that showed him to be perfect master at once of his subject and of the phrases with which he intended to clothe his thoughts. He briefly outlined the progress of his experiments at the Salpêtrière, and at the hospitals of Lyons and Marseilles, then without long preliminary, proceeded to demonstrate a most interesting case.

A girl of about twenty-five, with a countenance only relieved from ugliness by a fine pair of bright dark eyes, was led in by an assistant and seated in a chair. She was of the usual type seen in the streets of Islington, poorly dressed with some attempt at faded finery—probably a workgirl in some city factory. She cast an uneasy glance upon the audience, and then turned towards the doctor, who drew his chair towards the patient so that her knees nearly touched his.

It was a case of nervous “Hémianopsie,” or one-eyed vision, he explained.

Now the existence of this has always been denied, therefore the experiment was of the most intense interest to every medical man present.

First the doctor, after ordering the patient to look him straight in the face, held a pencil on the left side of her head, and found that, in common with most of us, she was conscious of its presence without moving her eyes, even when it was almost at the level of her ear. Then he tried the same experiment on the right side of the face, when it was at once plain that the power of lateral vision had broken down—for she answered, “No, sir. No, no,” as he moved the pencil to and fro with the inquiry whether she could see it. Nevertheless he demonstrated that the power of seeing straight was quite unimpaired, and presently he gave to his assistant a kind of glass hemisphere, which he placed over the girl’s head, and by which he measured the exact point on its scale where the power of lateral vision ceased.

This being found and noted, Professor Deboutin placed his hand upon the patient’s eyes, and with a brief “You may sleep now, my girl,” in broken English, she was asleep in a few seconds.

Then came the lecture. He verbally dissected her, giving a full and lucid explanation of the nervous system, from the spinal marrow and its termination in the coccyx, up to the cortex of the brain, in which he was of opinion that there was in that case a lesion—probably curable—amply accounting for the

phenomenon present. So clear, indeed, were his remarks that even a layman could follow them.

At last the doctor awoke the patient, and was about to proceed with another experiment when his quick eye noticed a hardly-perceptible flutter of the eyelids. “Ah, you are tired,” he said. “It is enough.” And he conducted her to the little side door that gave exit from the platform.

The next case was one of the kind which is always the despair of doctors—hysteria. A girl, accompanied by her mother, a neatly-dressed, respectable-looking body, was led forward, but her hands were trembling, and her face working so nervously that the doctor had to reassure her. With a true cockney accent she said that she lived in Mile End, and worked at a pickle factory. Her symptoms were constant headache, sudden falls, and complete absence of sensation in her left hand, which greatly interfered with her work. Some of the questions were inconvenient—until, in answer to one regarding her father, she gave a cry that “Poor father died last year,” and broke into an agony of weeping. In a moment the doctor took up an anthropometric instrument from the table, and made a movement as though to touch her presumably insensible hand.

“Ah, you’ll hurt me!” she said. Presently, while her attention was attracted in another direction, he touched the hand with the instrument, when she drew it back with a yell of pain, showing that the belief that her hand was insensible was entirely due to hysteria. He analysed her case just as he had done

the first, and declared that by a certain method of treatment, too technical to be here explained, a complete cure could be effected.

Another case of hysteria followed, and then a terrible exhibition of a wild-haired woman suffering from what the lecturer described as a “crise des nerfs,” which caused her at will to execute all manner of horrible contortions as though she were possessed. She threw herself on the floor on her back, with her body arched so that it rested only on her head and heels, while she delivered kicks at those in front of her, not with her toes, but with her heels. Meanwhile her face was so congested as to appear almost black.

The audience were, I think, relieved when the poor unfortunate woman, calmed by Deboutin’s method of suggestion, was led quietly away, and her place taken by a slim, red-haired girl of more refined appearance than the others, but with a strange stony stare as though unconscious of her surroundings. She was accompanied by a short, wizened-faced old lady, her grandmother.

At this juncture the chairman rose and said:

“This case is of great interest, inasmuch as it is a discovery made by my respected colleague, whom we all know by repute, Sir Bernard Eyton.”

The mention of my chief’s name was startling. I had no idea he had taken any interest in the French methods. Indeed, he had always declared to me that Charcot and his followers were a set of charlatans.

“We have the pleasure of welcoming Sir Bernard here this evening,” continued the chairman; “and I shall ask him to kindly explain the case.”

With apparent reluctance the well-known physician rose, after being cordially welcomed to the platform by the French savant, adjusted his old-fashioned glasses, and commenced to introduce the subject. His appearance there was certainly quite unexpected, but as I glanced at Ambler I saw a look of triumph in his face. We were sitting at the back of the hall, and I knew that Sir Bernard, being short-sighted, could not recognise us at the distance.

“I am here at Doctor Fulton’s invitation to meet our great master, Professor Deboutin, of whom for many years I have been a follower.” Then he went on to express the pleasure it gave him to demonstrate before them a case which he declared was not at all uncommon, although hitherto unsuspected by medical men.

Behind the chair of the new-comer stood the strange-looking old lady—who answered for her grand-daughter, the latter being mute. Her case was one, Sir Bernard explained, of absence of will. With a few quick questions he placed the history of the case before his hearers. There was a bad family history—a father who drank, and a mother who suffered from epilepsy. At thirteen the girl had received a sudden fright owing to a practical joke, and from that moment she gradually came under the influence of some hidden unknown terror so that she even refused to eat altogether. The strangest fact, however, was that she could still eat and speak in secret, although in public she was entirely dumb, and no amount of pleasure or pain would induce her to utter a sound.

“This,” explained Sir Bernard, “is one of the many cases of absence of will, partial or entire, which has recently come beneath my notice. My medical friends, and also Professor Deboutin, will agree that at the age the patient received her fright many girls are apt to tend towards what the Charcot School term ‘aboulie,’ or, in plain English, absence of will. Now one of the most extraordinary symptoms of this is terror. Terror,” he said, “of performing the simplest functions of nature; terror of movement, terror of eating—though sane in every other respect. Some there are, too, in whom this terror is developed upon one point only, and in such the inequality of mental balance can, as a rule, only be detected by one who has made deep research in this particular branch of nervous disorders.”

The French professor followed with a lengthy discourse, in which he bestowed the highest praise upon Sir Bernard for his long and patient experiments, which, he said, had up to the present been conducted in secret, because he feared that if it were known he had taken up that branch of medical science he might lose his reputation as a lady’s doctor.

Then, just as the meeting was being brought to a conclusion, Jevons touched me on the shoulder, and we both slipped out.

“Well,” he asked. “What do you think of it all?”

“I’ve been highly interested,” I replied. “But how does this further our inquiries, or throw any light on the tragedy?”

“Be patient,” was his response, as we walked together in the direction of the Angel. “Be patient, and I will show you.”