The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

A workman, with a bag of tools over his shoulder, answered me.

“There’s something wrong with someone. Policeman says he’s drunk, but he looks to me as if he was something worse.”

“Will you let me pass, please?”

When they saw I was a woman, they permitted me to reach the centre of the crowd.

A man was lying on his back, in the grease and dirt of the road. He was so plastered with mud, that it was difficult, at first, to be sure that he really was a man. His head and feet were bare. His body was partially covered by a long ragged cloak. It was obvious that that one wretched, dirt-stained, sopping wet rag was all the clothing he had on. A huge constable was holding his shoulders in his hands, and was regarding him as if he could not make him out at all. He seemed uncertain as to whether it was or was not a case of shamming.

He spoke to him as if he had been some refractory child.

“Come, my lad, this won’t do!⁠—Wake up!⁠—What’s the matter?”

But he neither woke up, nor explained what was the matter. I took hold of his hand. It was icy cold. Apparently the wrist was pulseless. Clearly this was no ordinary case of drunkenness.

“There is something seriously wrong, officer. Medical assistance ought to be had at once.”

“Do you think he’s in a fit, miss?”

“That a doctor should be able to tell you better than I can. There seems to be no pulse. I should not be surprised to find that he was⁠—”

The word “dead” was actually on my lips, when the stranger saved me from making a glaring exposure of my ignorance by snatching his wrist away from me, and sitting up in the mud. He held out his hands in front of him, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, in a loud, but painfully raucous tone of voice, as if he was suffering from a very bad cold,

“Paul Lessingham!”

I was so surprised that I all but sat down in the mud. To hear Paul⁠—my Paul!⁠—apostrophised by an individual of his appearance, in that fashion, was something which I had not expected. Directly the words were uttered, he closed his eyes again, sank backward, and seemingly relapsed into unconsciousness⁠—the constable gripping him by the shoulder just in time to prevent him banging the back of his head against the road.

The officer shook him⁠—scarcely gently.

“Now, my lad, it’s plain that you’re not dead!⁠—What’s the meaning of this?⁠—Move yourself!”

Looking round I found that Peter was close behind. Apparently he had been struck by the singularity of his mistress’ behaviour, and had followed to see that it did not meet with the reward which it deserved. I spoke to him.

“Peter, let someone go at once for Dr. Cotes!”

Dr. Cotes lives just round the corner, and since it was evident that the man’s lapse into consciousness had made the policeman sceptical as to his case being so serious as it seemed, I thought it might be advisable that a competent opinion should be obtained without delay.

Peter was starting, when again the stranger returned to consciousness⁠—that is, if it really was consciousness, as to which I was more than a little in doubt. He repeated his previous pantomime; sat up in the mud, stretched out his arms, opened his eyes unnaturally wide⁠—and yet they appeared unseeing!⁠—a sort of convulsion went all over him, and he shrieked⁠—it really amounted to shrieking⁠—as a man might shriek who was in mortal terror.

“Be warned, Paul Lessingham⁠—be warned!”

For my part, that settled it. There was a mystery here which needed to be unravelled. Twice had he called upon Paul’s name⁠—and in the strangest fashion! It was for me to learn the why and the wherefore; to ascertain what connection there was between this lifeless creature and Paul Lessingham. Providence might have cast him there before my door. I might be entertaining an angel unawares. My mind was made up on the instant.

“Peter, hasten for Dr. Cotes.” Peter passed the word, and immediately a footman started running as fast as his legs would carry him. “Officer, I will have this man taken into my father’s house.⁠—Will some of you men help to carry him?”

There were volunteers enough, and to spare. I spoke to Peter in the hall.

“Is papa down yet?”

“Mr. Lindon has sent down to say that you will please not wait for him for breakfast. He has issued instructions to have his breakfast conveyed to him upstairs.”

“That’s all right.” I nodded towards the poor wretch who was being carried through the hall. “You will say nothing to him about this unless he particularly asks. You understand?”

Peter bowed. He is discretion itself. He knows I have my vagaries, and it is not his fault if the savour of them travels to papa.

The doctor was in the house almost as soon as the stranger.

“Wants washing,” he remarked, directly he saw him.

And that certainly was true⁠—I never saw a man who stood more obviously in need of the good offices of soap and water. Then he went through the usual medical formula, I watching all the while. So far as I could see the man showed not the slightest sign of life.

“Is he dead?”

“He will be soon, if he doesn’t have something to eat. The fellow’s starving.”

The doctor asked the policeman what he knew of him.

That sagacious officer’s reply was vague. A boy had run up to him crying that a man was lying dead in the street. He had straightway followed the boy, and discovered the stranger. That was all he knew.

“What is the matter with the man?” I inquired of the doctor, when the constable had gone.

“Don’t know.⁠—It may be catalepsy, and it mayn’t.⁠—When I do know, you may ask again.”

Dr. Cotes’ manner was a trifle brusque⁠—particularly, I believe, to me. I remember that once he threatened to box my ears. When I was a small child I used to think nothing of boxing his.

Realising that no satisfaction was to be got out