The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

“Then in that case, if he does die you’ll have had a hand in murdering him⁠—that’s all.”

The lady sniggered. “Of course Dr. Glossop, we all knows that you’ll always ’ave your joke.”

“You’ll find it a joke if you have to hang, as you ought to, you⁠—” The doctor said what he did say to himself, under his breath. I doubt if it was flattering to Mrs. Henderson. “Have you got any brandy in the house?”

“We’ve got everythink in the ’ouse for them as likes to pay for it⁠—everythink.” Then, suddenly remembering that the police were present, and that hers were not exactly licensed premises, “Leastways we can send out for it for them parties as gives us the money, being, as is well known, always willing to oblige.”

“Then send for some⁠—to the tap downstairs, if that’s the nearest! If this man dies before you’ve brought it I’ll have you locked up as sure as you’re a living woman.”

The arrival of the brandy was not long delayed⁠—but the man on the bed had regained consciousness before it came. Opening his eyes he looked up at the doctor bending over him.

“Hollo, my man! that’s more like the time of day! How are you feeling?”

The patient stared hazily up at the doctor, as if his sense of perception was not yet completely restored⁠—as if this big bearded man was something altogether strange. Atherton bent down beside the doctor.

“I’m glad to see you looking better, Mr. Holt. You know me don’t you? I’ve been running about after you all day long.”

“You are⁠—you are⁠—” The man’s eyes closed, as if the effort at recollection exhausted him. He kept them closed as he continued to speak.

“I know who you are. You are⁠—the gentleman.”

“Yes, that’s it, I’m the gentleman⁠—name of Atherton.⁠—Miss Lindon’s friend. And I daresay you’re feeling pretty well done up, and in want of something to eat and drink⁠—here’s some brandy for you.”

The doctor had some in a tumbler. He raised the patient’s head, allowing it to trickle down his throat. The man swallowed it mechanically, motionless, as if unconscious what it was that he was doing. His cheeks flushed, the passing glow of colour caused their condition of extraordinary, and, indeed, extravagant attentuation, to be more prominent than ever. The doctor laid him back upon the bed, feeling his pulse with one hand, while he stood and regarded him in silence.

Then, turning to the Inspector, he said to him in an undertone;

“If you want him to make a statement he’ll have to make it now, he’s going fast. You won’t be able to get much out of him⁠—he’s too far gone, and I shouldn’t bustle him, but get what you can.”

The Inspector came to the front, a notebook in his hand.

“I understand from this gentleman⁠—” signifying Atherton⁠—“that your name’s Robert Holt. I’m an Inspector of police, and I want you to tell me what has brought you into this condition. Has anyone been assaulting you?”

Holt, opening his eyes, glanced up at the speaker mistily, as if he could not see him clearly⁠—still less understand what it was that he was saying. Sydney, stooping over him, endeavoured to explain.

“The Inspector wants to know how you got here, has anyone been doing anything to you? Has anyone been hurting you?”

The man’s eyelids were partially closed. Then they opened wider and wider. His mouth opened too. On his skeleton features there came a look of panic fear. He was evidently struggling to speak. At last words came.

“The beetle!” He stopped. Then, after an effort, spoke again. “The beetle!”

“What’s he mean?” asked the Inspector.

“I think I understand,” Sydney answered; then turning again to the man in the bed. “Yes, I hear what you say⁠—the beetle. Well, has the beetle done anything to you?”

“It took me by the throat!”

“Is that the meaning of the marks upon your neck?”

“The beetle killed me.”

The lids closed. The man relapsed into a state of lethargy. The Inspector was puzzled;⁠—and said so.

“What’s he mean about a beetle?”

Atherton replied.

“I think I understand what he means⁠—and my friends do too. We’ll explain afterwards. In the meantime I think I’d better get as much out of him as I can⁠—while there’s time.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, his hand upon the patient’s pulse, “while there’s time. There isn’t much⁠—only seconds.”

Sydney endeavoured to rouse the man from his stupor.

“You’ve been with Miss Lindon all the afternoon and evening, haven’t you, Mr. Holt?”

Atherton had reached a chord in the man’s consciousness. His lips moved⁠—in painful articulation.

“Yes⁠—all the afternoon⁠—and evening⁠—God help me!”

“I hope God will help you my poor fellow; you’ve been in need of His help if ever man was. Miss Lindon is disguised in your old clothes, isn’t she?”

“Yes⁠—in my old clothes. My God!”

“And where is Miss Lindon now?”

The man had been speaking with his eyes closed. Now he opened them, wide; there came into them the former staring horror. He became possessed by uncontrollable agitation⁠—half raising himself in bed. Words came from his quivering lips as if they were only drawn from him by the force of his anguish.

“The beetle’s going to kill Miss Lindon.”

A momentary paroxysm seemed to shake the very foundations of his being. His whole frame quivered. He fell back on to the bed⁠—ominously. The doctor examined him in silence⁠—while we too were still.

“This time he’s gone for good, there’ll be no conjuring him back again.”

I felt a sudden pressure on my arm, and found that Lessingham was clutching me with probably unconscious violence. The muscles of his face were twitching. He trembled. I turned to the doctor.

“Doctor, if there is any of that brandy left will you let me have it for my friend?”

Lessingham disposed of the remainder of the “shillings worth.” I rather fancy it saved us from a scene.

The Inspector was speaking to the woman of the house.

“Now, Mrs. Henderson, perhaps you’ll tell us what all this means. Who is this man, and how did he come in here, and who came in with him, and what do you know about it altogether? If you’ve got anything to