The Goddess: a Demon
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 5: A Curious Case
I had only just returned to my own rooms when Mrs. Peddar appeared.
“The young lady is up, sir, and wishes to see you, if it would be quite convenient.”
Her words, her tone, her manner, told me that the housekeeper had not yet heard of what had happened to the occupant of No. 64. Atkins had explained that he had experienced some difficulty in finding a constable, and, apparently, had said nothing of his errand to any one upon the way. The story of Edwin Lawrence’s ending had not yet been told. I was not disposed to be the first to inform Mrs. Peddar.
“How is the young lady?” I asked.
“Well, sir, she seems all right, bodily, if I may say so, and she certainly has slept sound, and looks better than ever; but that there’s something the matter with her mind, I feel sure.”
“Have you found out her name, or anything about her?”
“No, sir, not a word. I looked at her linen when she was in bed, and it’s marked ‘E.M.’”
“‘E.M.’?”
“Yes, sir, ‘E.M.’ And there’s a purse in her pocket with eighteen shillings; but that’s all—no cards or anything. I was wondering if you wouldn’t like Dr. Hume to see her. He’s a clever gentleman, and might find out what’s wrong with her; because, as I’ve said, that there’s something wrong I’m sure.”
I turned my back, being unwilling to let the woman see how strongly her reference to Hume had moved me. The idea that that man should have an opportunity to play any of the pranks, which he pretended were experiments, made in the interests of science, upon that helpless girl, made my blood boil.
“I don’t think we will trouble Dr. Hume just yet, Mrs. Peddar.”
“Very good, sir. I don’t believe myself in doctors—not as a general rule; it’s their bill they’re thinking of, and not you, most of the time; but the young lady’s seems such a curious case, and Dr. Hume has the reputation of being so clever, that I thought I’d just mention it.”
“It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Peddar. I cannot tell you how obliged I am to you for the interest you are taking in the matter; but then I know your good heart. Will you inform the young lady that I will come to her as soon as I have finished dressing?”
When I entered Mrs. Peddar’s rooms the girl was standing by the window. As she turned to greet me I was positively startled by her loveliness. It filled me with a curious sense of exhilaration. Her face was illumined by that radiant smile which had struck me overnight as being one of her most striking characteristics. She extended both her hands.
“So it’s you at last. I thought you were never coming.”
“I have been detained, or I would have been here before. I hope you slept well, and that Mrs. Peddar’s bed was as comfortable as she predicted.”
“Slept! I seem to have slept all my cares away. Do you know, I think that something must have happened to me last night.”
“What do you think it was?”
“That’s just it—I can’t think. I wonder if anything’s the matter with my head.”
“Perhaps you had some kind of a shock; try to remember.”
She shook her head.
“I can’t remember. And yet—I don’t know. There’s something in my head like a blot. It makes me feel so stupid.”
“Can’t you even remember your name?”
“No. I don’t believe I have a name. Yet I suppose I ought to have a name, everybody does have a name; doesn’t everybody have a name?”
She put this question with a little air of hesitation, as if she propounded a doubtful proposition.
“I should say so, as a general rule. It is rather an uncomfortable position for a young lady to be in—not to know her own name, nor the whereabouts of her home, nor who her friends are.”
“Do you think so? Does it make me seem—silly?” She looked at me with a wistful expression, like a puzzled child. “I seem to remember people shouting; they were shouting at me. And clapping their hands—I can see them clapping their hands; then something happened.”
“Where were the people—and why did they shout at you?”
“I can’t think. I believe it’s in my head somewhere, if I only knew where to find it; but I don’t know where it is.”
“Can’t you remember what happened to you, and where you were just before you came to my room?”
“I remember coming through your window; I remember that quite well.” A faint flush came to her cheeks. “But that is all. Everything seems to have begun then; nothing seems to have happened before.”
I took a pair of white kid gloves out of my coat pocket.
“Are these your gloves?”
She eyed them askance.
“I don’t know—are they? Where did you get them from?”
I did not care to tell her that I found them on a chair in the room in which Edwin Lawrence lay dead.
“You should know better than I, if they are yours.”
“They may be—I can’t tell. I’ll try them on and see if they fit.” She did try them on, and they did fit—to perfection. She held out her gloved hands. “They look as if they were mine—they must be; don’t you think they are?”
“I have not a doubt that they are yours.”
I turned my face away. A weight had become suddenly attached to my heart. There was a choking something in my throat. She was quick to perceive the alteration in my demeanour.
“Why do you turn your face away from me? Have I said or done anything wrong? Aren’t the gloves mine?”
I replied to her with another question.
“Do you know any one named Lawrence?”
“Lawrence? Lawrence? I can’t remember. Is it a woman’s name?”
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