Flask had not of course disappeared for good after his entry into the Perseus Cabinet. He might be physically untouched but he was the humiliated victim of a trick and he was very angry with Sebastian Marmont. Indeed, they had almost come to blows afterwards although, as during the session at Miss Howlett’s, the medium had restrained himself. He suspected that the Major would be capable of licking him with one hand tied behind his back. However, he had taken a kind of revenge on the magician and also had the pleasure of insulting his Indian assistant.
He spent at least an hour striding about the old town, feeding his fury against Marmont and contemplating further acts of retribution. It was not so far from midsummer and there was still a tinge of light in the west. Flask was now standing on Framwellgate Bridge looking down at the waters of the Wear. His heart was as dark as the river. Towering above him to his left were the silhouettes of the castle and the cathedral. It was close on midnight and perhaps not very safe for a nervous individual like Eustace Flask to be out and about alone. He started from his reverie when he heard footsteps on the cobbles behind him. He wheeled round. There were gaslights at each end of the bridge but he was standing in the middle in a pool of darkness.
A man was coming in his direction. Flask remembered the item which was tucked in one of his pockets. Too late to get it out now. He might have run but instead he was rooted to the spot, his back against the parapet of the bridge.
‘Don’t do it,’ said the man. ‘I have been watching you.’
Flask’s first reaction was one of relief. The man had an educated manner. He did not sound like a ruffian or a bludger.
‘Do what?’ he said, trying to control his voice.
‘Throw yourself into the river.’
‘It never crossed my mind,’ said Flask, truthfully. ‘I – I am out for a stroll.’
‘I wonder what it would be like to throw oneself from a bridge and plunge into the water,’ said the man. He was standing next to Flask by now. Then he turned about to stare down into the river. The medium could not make out much of the other’s appearance, except that he was clean-shaven and about Flask’s own height.
‘What passes through your mind as you plunge through the dark air? Regret or elation or despair? The fall would not last much more than a second. Is it a long second, I wonder?’
Eustace Flask had relaxed for an instant but now began to think that he might be in the presence of a lunatic.
‘No doubt you consider this as idle speculation, sir,’ said the man, as if he guessed Flask’s thoughts. ‘But I have had good cause recently to imagine the last plunge from a bridge – then the immersion in dirty, fast-flowing water – the instinctive struggle to survive – the inexorable way in which one’s garments become waterlogged and drag the wearer down. Even if you had willed yourself every step of the way thus far, do you think you would sink without a fight?’
‘Probably not,’ said Flask.
The man shivered, though whether from the chill of the evening or the thought of a watery death, Flask did not know. He made to move off but the man put out a hand to detain him.
‘Not so fast, my friend. I saw you at the theatre this evening.’
‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘You are not well disposed towards Major Marmont, I think?’
‘No.’
‘You would like revenge on him?’
Flask, normally so fluent, said nothing but that was answer enough for the man, ‘I could tell you things that might surprise you.’
The man might have been about to say more but they were interrupted by the sight of the beat constable at the eastern end of the bridge. He was standing under the gaslight, clearly visible and presumably a deterrent to any nefarious activity in the area.
‘But not now,’ said the man. ‘Meet me tomorrow morning and I shall tell you more.’
‘Where?’
‘Here. At ten.’
He spun on his heel and loped across to the western side of the bridge. He passed under the pool of light from the gas lantern on that side and, for an instant, Flask thought of a predatory beast; there was something so silent and purposeful in his movement. Still, there could be no harm in meeting him again, could there?
Something had fluttered to the ground as the other man walked away. Flask picked it up. It felt like a handkerchief. He held it to his nose and detected the faintest trace of a woman’s scent.
The Medium Departs
As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Eustace Flask came to light the next day. A band of workers were using saws and axes to cut up a fallen tree on the eastern bank of the river where it doubled back on the far side of the cathedral. Their overseer was alerted by the cries of a woman. With a couple of his companions, he followed the direction of the sounds. The three ran a couple of hundred yards or so along the bank and then up the wooded slope to a small clearing.
There lay the body of a man, face up. He had died violently and blood was welling from a deep wound on his neck. But, more shocking and surprising than this sight, was the presence of a woman standing close to the body. When she saw the men enter the clearing, her cries ceased and she began to shake. The woodman made to go towards her but one of his companions held him back. He said nothing but nodded towards the woman’s hands, which she was holding out stiffly in front of her. They were bloody.
The overseer despatched the man to get help while he and the other worker kept a wary watch over the woman. After a time she seemed to realize the oddness of her posture. She let her hands drop to her sides. She made no move to run away but neither did the men come any closer. After a time – which seemed a very long time – there was the sound of whistles and police rattles and a constable came red-faced and panting into the clearing. Within moments others arrived, including a superintendent. Two of them approached the woman warily as if closing in on a wild horse.
‘I think you had better come with us, Miss,’ said the superintendent.
‘It’s Mrs,’ said the woman. Her voice was high and unsteady.
‘You had still better to accompany us,’ said the officer. He spoke quite gently. As he and a constable led the woman away out of the clearing, the others clustered about the body which would very soon be identified as that of Mr Eustace Flask.
The workmen had not been the only people in the vicinity of Flask’s body. There were various other individuals on this eastern portion of the bank of the River Wear who had noted him (when alive), and responded in their various ways.
There was Septimus Sheridan, for example. He was not toiling away in the cathedral library this morning. Rather, he had been so wearied by dear Julia’s harping on the subject of Eustace Flask that he decided to get some fresh air before burying himself in his ever-open books. He loved Miss Howlett with an undeclared love but even he could take only so much of her agitation over the wretched medium who had disappeared the previous evening at the Assembly Rooms. Good riddance to him! But from Julia there was a stream of questions and queries. What should they do about poor Mr Flask? Should they go to the police, for instance?
Septimus Sheridan noticed that the nice young couple felt the same way. Helen had become almost impatient with her aunt while her lawyer husband had quit the breakfast table as soon as possible to do some work. Eventually Septimus could stand it no longer. He left the house in South Bailey and rather than go the few hundred yards to the cathedral precincts he walked several times that distance, crossing the Elvet Bridge and turning south towards Church Street.
As he sometimes did when he felt weary or dispirited he went to St Oswald’s Church which lay on a wooded bluff overlooking the river. It was not the church where Septimus had served as a curate during his time in Durham many years before but he liked St Oswald’s for its extreme antiquity and its slightly forlorn air. He did not always go inside the church but contented himself with wandering off the flagstone paths and into the quiet of the graveyard. This was an overgrown place especially towards its western, river-facing fringe and Sheridan felt the long grass brush his trousers as he ducked under tree boughs and skirted the graves which poked lopsidedly through the soil. There was a ragged line of palings marking the church boundary and an unlocked gate on to a steep path which led to the riverside walk.