# The Death-Doctor/06

CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH I OBLIGE A LADY
I EXPECT, my dear Laurence, that since our meeting, several years ago, before I came to Kensington, when you went on your sea-voyage, you have wondered at many things connected with me. You shall have your curiosity satisfied.
You remember, of course, my exodus from Okehampton, after my wife's death. You, among many other friends, followed my poor wife to the grave, but no one, not even you, guessed what a trial her illness was to me.
From some source, probably papers left by her father, she got an idea that something about his death was suspicious, and after that our married life was unhappy.
Well, she died, and my brother practitioner who attended her signed the death certificate without the slightest suspicion entering his mind as to any assistance she may have had in ​leaving this unhappy world. Then I migrated to London, having sold the Okehampton practice.
I bought a partnership in the West End, but I did not agree with my colleague very well, and it became necessary very shortly for one of us to go.
He went.
In a most inexplicable manner he contracted an attack of erysipelas, and this, instead of clearing up, as it should have done, became worse and ultimately killed him.
I had at the time a very severe case of erysipelas among my patients, and I cannot help thinking that he contracted his attack through me.
It was this way. I had taken some swabs of fluid, alive, of course, with the bacillus of erysipelas, and stupidly forgot to put them away.
The swabs were left in the surgery with some pins sticking in them, and he, knowing nothing about them, picked up the innocent-looking fragments of cotton-wool containing the poison—and the pins—and threw them away.
I fear that he pricked his finger badly while so doing, and consequently infected himself.
​And carefully as I tended and dressed him, he died.
Among my patients was Admiral App-Smith, who lived on Campden Hill, and through him I made a nice little sum and found a staunch friend. If I should die before him (I am still treating him) he occasionally will wonder greatly at his sudden recovery from the bad chronic dyspepsia which has troubled him for the past eight years.
"Confound you, d'Escombe," he would often say, "just as you have cured me, on it comes again. You doctor-fellows aren't much good, after all."
"That's all very well, Admiral," I would reply. "You are nearly eighty; be thankful you're alive."
The Admiral had a daughter, who was married to an utter scamp, well-connected—but a drunkard. In those days, I spent my evenings in the houses of friends who had home ties, and as the App-Smiths' house was close to my residence, I put in many odd hours there.
One day, the daughter, Mrs. Crosswell, came to Cromwell Road to see me, and I noticed, that she looked ill.
​She was a very pretty woman, tall and dark, with almost a Spanish cast of countenance.
"What brings you here to-day, Mrs. Crosswell?" I asked.
She sat down wearily. "I hardly know how to begin, Doctor," she replied; "but look here," and pulling up her sleeve, she showed me on her beautiful, round, white arm, two greenish-black discolorations—evidently bruises.
I started. "How on earth did you get hurt like that?"
"My husband's mark," she said.
"What? Mr. Crosswell did that? By accident."
"Done by intention, and with his fist. But this is nothing; see here," and tearing open the lace on her chest, she showed me just below the throat another mark more recent, more severe, and more extensive.
"He is brutal, and I cannot live with him any longer," she cried. "Not only does he strike me and hurt me in every way, but he suspects me of being untrue to him."
She sank back in the chair, her white, uncovered chest heaving, and tears starting to flow down her cheeks.
At this moment I heard an altercation outside my door, and the next moment in burst ​Crosswell himself. His face was flushed, his hat on the back of his head, and his clothes awry and dishevelled.
"So," he shouted, "she is here, and with the wonderful doctor who is such a friend of her family."
He swayed as he spoke, and clutched a chair.
"You infernal blackguard! Calling yourself a friend under the cloak of pill-mixing! I'll horse-whip you till you can't stand," he shouted. I made no reply to him, but seeing that the lady could now leave, I said to her: "Kindly wait in the hall, Mrs. Crosswell, while I have a word or two with—your husband."
"She'll do nothing of the kind," he said. "Stay here, Louise."
I opened the door and showed his wife out. Her husband started to intercept me, but tripped and fell headlong at his first step.
He picked himself up, however, and made a rush at me.
You know me, Lawrence; I am not a child, and when he got near me I just quietly sat him on a sofa with one of the simple little tricks of the wily Jap.
"Now, sir," I said. "you shall explain ​yourself, and a full explanation I shall want, followed by an apology."
He had evidently drunk a lot already that day, for even now his rage was disappearing and a sleepy, maudlin look was commencing to fill his previously bright eyes.
"You'll get no explan—explanation from me, or 'pology either, damn you!"
"What do you mean by following your wife and forcing your way into my house in the way you've done?" I demanded. "You're going to be ill, I can see, Mr. Crosswell. Sit still a minute until I come back."
It was very evident to me that he was on the verge of delirium tremens. When I came back he was looking round in a stupid, dazed manner, and he took the draught of bromide I gave him without a word. I sent for a taxi, and we all got in and drove to their house.
During the journey I noticed that he was breaking out into that profuse sweat which is common to all alcoholic cases, but the dose I had given him was keeping him quiet.
Having reached our destination, I said to his still tearful wife, "I am going to see him in bed myself, and then we must send for a nurse; he's in for a bad time."
​"Will he talk much before the nurse?" she inquired.
"Don't trouble about that," I answered; "I will see to it that we have a discreet woman."
Her husband had by now gone to his room, and when I went up to him he was lying on the bed.
"What do you want here, you hound?" he growled. "Wait till I'm better. I'll show you up, and her too."
"You get up and I'll help you undress," I replied, but, calm as I appeared, his remarks bothered me. One word against a doctor's reputation and it is damned.
"You're not going to doctor me, don't you think it," growled the sick man. "I'll send for Lanner-Brown." He referred to you!
"All right, get to bed and we'll see," I answered, and he allowed me to help him—showing, of course, how unbalanced his mind was.
I went home, had a cigar and a large cocaine and soda—a strange drink, you say, old man, but as you very well know, a wonderful help at times, if you're used to it.
I had thought, and I decided. This man must not be allowed to cause trouble, and yet it ​would not be wisdom on my part to let him take a sudden and suspicious turn for the worse.
I gave him morphia that night.
When I visited him he was sitting up in bed, flushed, sweating, and laughing immoderately.
In the morning I had a long conversation with the Admiral, and took the opportunity of giving him a little arsenic in his whisky and soda.
I told him all the circumstances, and he was shocked.
"What on earth can we do, d'Escombe?" he said. "I'm sure he'll do what he says. Poor, poor Louise!"
"I don't know; I'm afraid I'm a ruined man," I replied; "but I would give anything to save her."
After seeing my patient, I sat down in Mrs. Crosswell's cosy little room and had a long talk. At the end of this conversation she made the remark:
"Well, Dr. d'Escombe, if that arrangement is carried out, I shall thank you and bless you all my days."
The case went on through the usual course of such attacks, but as the man rallied, a curious change seemed to take place in his character and general demeanour.
​He became almost childish—and his memory was not as good as it should be.
On the sixth night after his attack I paid my evening visit early. The nurse was asleep and Mrs. Crosswell was in charge. If you had watched me closely that evening you would have noticed a little hypodermic syringe in my left hand as I went to examine my patient.
He was half asleep, and as I felt his pulse I sent his wife into the next room for some small thing. While she was away the point of the syringe found its way into the arm of the semi-conscious man, and the syringe was emptied. He started up in bed, and his wife hurried back on hearing him shout.
"What is the matter?" she breathlessly exclaimed.
"It's nothing, my dear lady," I said calmly, although my heart was beating fast—too fast—and a sudden fear seemed to clutch it; if this woman found out, and told all she knew, there was risk—serious risk.
"He's stuck something into me. What is it—oh, what has he done?" moaned the invalid.
"Have you done anything, Dr. d'Escombe?"
"Simply ordinary treatment, my dear lady. ​Don't take any notice of his roarings," I said, unconcernedly.
That night Mr. Crosswell had an attack which resembled apoplexy at first, but which, later, developed into maniacal raving. I treated him in consultation with you, and he ultimately recovered.
The one sad result of the illness was total loss of memory.
Probably, my dear fellow, you have not that intimate knowledge of poisonous alkaloids that I have, and even now I have no doubt that you did not understand the way I managed it.
I had steadily during his illness given him small doses of hyoscyamine, one of the alkaloids of henbane, and on that last night I mention I gave him a big dose, and this drug, you may not know, if carefully administered, will cause insensibility, afterwards mania, and then, on recovery of bodily health, very frequently complete loss of memory.
The value of drugs is beyond description. Even you, most worthy friend, had at one time in my house enough cocaine in your coffee to enable me to win five pounds off you at bridge.
Perhaps you remember that night you got ​so excited. Hurrah for drugs, and bravo for the man who has the knowledge and pluck to use them!
The Crosswells live in Maida Vale now; he is very harmless, and his wife is very sad about him.
My agreement with her, of which I spoke, was to, if necessary, get him put under control, if he continued his statements.
I only did this to blind her as to my methods and to obtain the large cheque which was promised me both by father and daughter if I could save her from her husband.
They little knew the means adopted by me, not to save her, but to escape myself from the tongue of that drunken brute.