'I'm resigning as socialist parliamentary candidate,' he told Nancy that night. 'I can do far more good in medicine than a dozen MPs in Parliament. Personally, I suspect the Duke has done more for British workers than Marx and Engels and Rosa Luxembourg combined. And your father for American ones. Why, he can create a thousand jobs with half-an-hour's cleverness on Wall Street. Amazing.'
Nancy kissed him.
'Aren't you surprised at me?' he asked.
'No. Only at how long you've taken.'
'They threw the dynamite into the river,' Ruston told Eliot with his sarcastic smile. 'I had the strongest suspicion it was useless, anyway.'
That was seven years later, when they happened to meet as Ruston halted his company at a crossroads beyond Poperinge, the day before he was killed in the third battle of Ypres.
16
On the Friday morning of July 8, a girl wearing a black dress pushed into the surgery. Eliot vaguely recognised her. The 'Free Medicine Shop' was crammed as usual. The warmth of patients' praise lit hopes in others, who came far across London, on foot if they could not afford the tram. Eliot found himself playing Christ at the Pool of Bethesda. He cured where he could and comforted where he could not. He felt that his miraculous aura reflected poorly on the abilities of the rest of the profession.
_'Vous vous rappelez, docteur? Mademoiselle Valentine Lecoq.'_
_'Ah, oui! Vous кtes chez Crippen.'_
The _au pair_ had called with an envelope. It contained a letter of four pages, which Eliot opened in the consulting room.
_39 Hilldrop Crescent,_
Holloway,_
_July 8, 1910_
_Dear Dr Beckett,_
_I am sorry I was not at home when you called two months ago, because I always enjoy conversation with you, who are such a credit to our profession. I should like to see you very much at this moment, because of some troublesome affairs of a personal nature, on which I would welcome your advice.
My position has been made very difficult by Mrs Martinetti and Miss May and the other members of Belle's old committee. They always question me closely about Belle whenever we meet, and of course I cannot cut old friends easily, particularly when their office is so near mine at Albion House. Things came to a head last month when my son Otto in California replied to Miss May's letter enquiring about Belle's last hours etc in his home at Los Angeles, where I had informed her that she died. Otto replied that he had heard of his stepmother's death only through me, and that it occurred in San Francisco.
This caused Mrs Martinetti and Miss May to cross-question me about the place of Belle's death, and I explained that she died in fact in a little town near San Francisco with a Spanish name which slipped my memory. When they pressed me about the crematorium in which she was disposed, I said something about there being four crematoria in San Francisco, and that I had the ashes in my safe at Albion House, with the death certificate.
So far as I know, Belle did not die, but is still alive._
'Great God!' exclaimed Eliot, so loudly the patients outside the door looked up.
He continued reading.
_After our little dinner on January 31, my wife abused me for not taking Mr. Martinetti up to the lavatory. She said, 'This is the finish of it. I won't stand it any longer. I shall leave you tomorrow, and you will never hear of me again.'
She frequently threatened to go right out of my life, to the man better able to support her than I was. I took this to be Bruce Miller in Chicago. On this occasion, Belle did say one thing which she had never said before, viz, that I was to arrange to cover up any scandal with our mutual friends and the Guild the best way I could. When I went home between five and six p. m. that day, I found she had gone.
I sat down to think it over. I wrote a letter to the Guild saying she had gone away, which I also told several people. I afterwards realized that this would not be sufficient explanation of her not coming back. I told people she was ill with pneumonia, and afterwards I told them that she was dead from this ailment. I only put the advertisement in_ Era _as I thought this would prevent people asking a lot of questions.
The Music Hall Guild ladies seemed upset that I took Miss Le Neve to the Benevolent Fund Ball, with my wife's brooch and furs. Belle had so many clothes, I do not know what she took away. As for the jewellery, I had bought it all. Whenever Belle threatened to leave me, she told me she wanted to take nothing from me.
You know how I have looked upon Ethel as my wife these past three and a half years. Now she can take her rightful position in my home. But Belle's old friends do not care for this. They are treating me with such suspicion I am most uncomfortable. I am managing to conceal their unpleasantness from Ethel, who thinks like the rest of the world that Belle is dead.
As you can understand, my head is full of bees. I do not know where to turn. I shall, of course, do all I can to get in touch with Belle, so as to clear this matter up. I shall insert an advert in the Chicago papers, offering twenty-five dollars reward for information of her whereabouts.
I want nothing more than to discuss the whole unfortunate matter with a clear-headed professional man, none better than yourself. I am writing this before business-Ethel is not up. Will you take luncheon with me today in the Holborn Restaurant? I shall be in the foyer at one o'clock sharp. I shall be very pleased and graceful to find you there.
Yours sincerely,
Hawley Harvey Crippen._
Eliot's response was a laugh. 'Poor little man!' Crippen had covered his shameful abandonment and adultery with an elaborate piecrust of gentility, which crumbled to the prod. He wondered about the recipients of the black-edged envelopes. Anyone would anger at tears spilt over a corpse still enjoying life in Chicago, and liable to resurrection with a postcard.
He left Nancy to finish the surgery, found a passing hansom outside in Brecknock Road and arrived at the restaurant early. The elaborately-decorated foyer was busy as a railway-station with dark suited men and a few ladies, staring curiously at Eliot's Norfolk jacket and loose tie. He pulled out his watch. Dr Crippen was quarter of an hour late. Eliot looked up, to find his host approaching through the plate-glass doors. On one side was a burly, beef-faced man in his mid-forties with a heavy moustache, wearing a bowler hat and a blue serge suit. On the other, a younger, thinner pale one in a dark tweed suit with a cap.
Crippen smiled to them. 'This is the friend I was expecting-Dr Beckett, of Holloway. May I introduce Mr Walter Dew?'
The older man shook hands. 'Didn't I read about you in the papers, sir?'
'And Mr Mitchell.' Crippen continued politely. 'Both are from Scotland Yard.'
Eliot looked startled. Crippen continued in his affable way, 'They called this morning at Hilldrop Crescent, and Miss Le Neve brought them along to Albion House. We are all three trying to clear up the mystery of my wife's leaving home. It takes a deal of time, as everything must be written down and read over and signed-isn't that the case, Mr Dew? But we still need our lunch, before we go on. Perhaps we should eat alone, if you'd excuse me?' he apologized to Eliot.
'That would be best, Dr Crippen,' Dew agreed.
'I'll be glad when the whole business is cleared up for good and all. That's why I'm so pleased that Scotland Yard is taking a hand in it,' Crippen ended admiringly.
'I smell a rat,' remarked Nancy that evening. She was reading Crippen's letter.
'Why? He's living with his typist, exactly as I'm living with you. It shows a refreshing disrespect for middle-class convention.'
'The police wouldn't be interviewing him, if they didn't smell one, too.'
'The police don't take suspected criminals out to lunch.'