The Secrets of Dr. Taverner (12 page)

Mona Cailey, Taverner, and myself were on the doorstep to
bid goodbye to Howson when his fiancee called to take him
away. He thanked us both with evident feeling for what we had
done for him, but Taverner waved a disclaiming hand towards
the girl at his elbow.

"You have had nothing from me but board and lodging," he
said. "There is your psychologist."

Howson took Mona's hand in both his. She stood absolutely
passive, but not with her usual limp inertia; it was the
motionlessness of extreme tension.

"Poor little Mona!" he said. "You are a lot better than you
used to be. Go on getting better, and one of these days you may
be a real girl and have a good time," and he kissed her lightly as
one would kiss a child.

What memories that kiss awakened I cannot say, but I saw
him change colour and look at her sharply. Had one glimmer of
response lightened those dark eyes, the old love would have
returned, but there was no change in the masklike countenance
of the woman who was paying her debt. He shivered. Perhaps
some cold breath from the torturers' dungeon touched him. He
got into the car beside the woman he was to marry, and she
drove away.

"How will that marriage turn out?" I asked as the sounds of
the car died in the distance.

"Like a good many others where only the emotions are
mated. They will be in love for a year, then will come
disillusionment, and after they have bumped through the crisis,
held together by the pressure of social opinion, they will settle
down to the mutual toleration which passes for

a successful marriage. But when he comes to die, he will
remember this Mona Cailey and call for her, and as he crosses
the threshold she will claim him, for they have made restitution,
and the way is clear."

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The Scented Poppies

I

"Mr. Gregory Polson," said Taverner, reading the card that
had been brought to him. "Evidently a junior member of the
firm. Lincoln's Inn is where they have their abode, so they are
probably solicitors. Let us have a look at him."

A man's work generally puts its mark on him, and our visitor,
although a comparatively young man, already showed the stamp
of the legal profession.

"I want to consult you," he began, "about a very curious
matter--I cannot call it a case. It seems to me, however, that you
are the only man who can deal with it and therefore--although it
may not be strictly in your line--I should be exceedingly
grateful to you if you would look into it."

Taverner nodded his acquiescence, and our visitor took up
the burden of his story.

"I daresay you have heard of old Benjamin Burmister, who
made such an enormous fortune during the War? We--that is,
my father's firm--are his solicitors and are also personal friends
of the family, or, to be exact, his brothers' families, for old Mr.
Burmister is unmarried. My sister and I have grown up with the
two sets of Burmister cousins as if we were all one big
household; in fact, my sister is at present engaged to one of
David Burmister's boys--an awfully nice chap, my particular
friend, in fact. We are very pleased about the engagement, for
the Burmisters are nice people, although the other two brothers
were not wealthy. Well, to make a long story short, after Edith
and Tim had been engaged about six months, my people were a
lot more pleased about the engagement (but I can't say that I am,
however), for old Benjamin Burmister made a new will leaving
his money to Tim."

"Why should you regard this as a disadvantage?"

"Because the people he has left his money to have an
unfortunate knack of committing suicide."

"Indeed?"

"Yes," said our visitor, "it has happened upon no fewer than
three occasions. The will I have just completed in favour of Tim
is his fourth. Murray, Tim's eldest brother, who was the last one
Mr. Burmister had chosen to be his heir, jumped off a cliff near
Brighton about a month ago."

"You say that each time Mr. Burmister makes a will, the
principal beneficiary commits suicide?" said Taverner. "Can you
tell me the conditions of the will?"

"They are rather unfair in my opinion," said Gregory Polson.
"Instead of dividing the money among his nephews and nieces,
who are none too well off, he insists upon leaving the bulk of it
to one nephew. His idea seems to be that he will found a kind of
dynasty--he has already purchased the country seat--and that
he will make one Burmister an influential man, instead of
making about a dozen of them comfortable."

"1 see," said Taverner, "and as soon as the will is made the
principal beneficiary commits suicide."

"That is it," said Polson; "they have had three suicides in two
years."

"Tut, tut," said Taverner, "as many as that? It certainly does
not look like chance. Now who has benefited by these deaths?"

"Only the next heir, who speedily commits suicide himself."

"What determines your client in his choice of an heir?"

"He picks the nephew whom he thinks is most likely to do
him credit."

"He does not follow any rule of birth?"

"None whatever. He chooses according to his estimate of
their character, picking the more forceful natures first. Tim is a
much quieter, more retiring kind of fellow than his cousins--I
was rather surprised to see old Burmister's selection fall on
him--but there is not much choice now; there are only three
boys left after these ghastly tragedies."

"Then it is one of these three men who will ultimately benefit
if another suicide takes place?"

"That is so. But one can hardly conceive a criminal cold
blooded enough to kill off an entire family on the off-chance that
the final choice might fall upon himself!"

`What manner of men are these three remaining cousins?"

"Henry is an engineer, doing quite well and engaged to be
married. He will never set the Thames on fire, but he is a decent
chap. He is Tim's younger brother. Bob, Tim's cousin, is a bit of
a ne'er-do-well. We have had to extricate him from a breach of
promise and one or two other unpleasantness, but I should say he
was a good-hearted, irresponsible lad, his own worst enemy. The
last of the family is Irving, Bob's brother, a harmless enough
chap, but not fond of honest work. Joseph Burmister's boys
never did as well as David's; they inclined to the artistic rather
than the practical, and that type never makes money.

"Joseph's wife, however, had a fair amount, and each of her
children has about a hundred and fifty a year of his own; not
affluence, but it keeps them out of the workhouse. Bob does
odds and ends to supplement his means; he is secretary of a Golf
Club at present, but Irving is the family genius and has set out to
be an artist, though I don't think he has ever produced anything.
His sole occupation, so far as I know, is to write a monthly art
criticism for a paper that thinks publicity is sufficient payment."

"He will not get very fat at that rate," said Taverner. "How
does he manage to exist on his hundred and fifty?"

"He lives in a single room studio and eats out of a frying pan.
It is not so unattractive as it sounds, however; he has
extraordinarily good taste, and has got his little place quite
charming."

"So these are the people who might possibly benefit under
the will--a steady-going engineer, a good-natured scatterbrain,
and an artistic Bohemian."

"There were originally seven possible beneficiaries,
providing old Benjamin adhered to his policy. Three are dead by
their own hand, one is at present under sentence of death--"

`What do you mean by that?" interrupted Taverner quickly.

"Ah!" said Polson, "that is the thing that gave me a nasty
turn, and made me come to you. The three men who are dead all
committed suicide in the same way by flinging themselves from
a height. Tim was in my office yesterday; our chambers are at
the top of the building, a considerable height up. He leant out of
the window for quite a while, and when I asked him what he was
looking at he said: `I wonder what it would feel like to take a
header on to the pavement.' I told him to come in and not play
the fool but it gave me a nasty shock, coming on top of the other
suicides, so I came to you."

"Why to me?" asked Taverner.

"I have read something of occultism and something of
psychology and heard how you work the two systems in
combination," said Polson, "and it seemed to me that this was a
case for you"

"There is more in this than you have told me," said Taverner.
"What is it that you suspect?"

"I have no evidence whatever; in fact, it is the lack of
evidence that has made me seek an explanation outside the
normal. Why should these men, perfectly healthy average
individuals, take their own lives for no reason whatsoever? One
cannot account for it on any of the accepted theories, but if one
admits the feasibility of thought transference, and pretty nearly
everybody does nowadays, then it seems to me that it would be
possible to give mental suggestion to these men to commit
suicide."

"It is not only possible," said Taverner, "but in less extreme
forms this exercise of secret pressure is exceedingly common. I
could tell you some curious stories in connection with the Great
War in this line. Not all the men who were `got at' were reached
through their pockets; many were approached by the channel of
their subconscious minds. But continue. There is someone whom
you are watching, subconsciously, if not consciously?"

"I have given you all the facts that could possibly be admitted
as evidence. I haven't got a clue that would hang a cat, but I
suspect Irving."

"On what grounds?"

"On none whatever; chiefly on the principle of `I do not like
you, Dr. Fell.'"

"Give me your unbowdlerized impressions of him."

"He is not straight, sir. I have never once caught him out, but
I should never trust him. Then he is in with a set I don't like the
look of: they play about with hashish and cocaine and each
other's wives. They are not wholesome. I prefer Bob's wildcat
company promoters to Irving's longhaired soul-mates.

"Thirdly, Irving is the last one old Benjamin would be likely
to leave his money to. I think he would leave it to Irving before
he left it outside the family, for he is terribly proud of the
Burmister name, but he is not at all fond of the fellow. They
never got on together; Benjamin is a rough, downright old chap,
and Irving is a bit of an old maid. Fourthly, if you knew Bob and
Henry, you would know that it was out of the question that they
should do such a thing, but Irving might--when a man fools
with drugs he may do anything. Besides, he has read along the
same lines as I have; in fact it was he who first put me on to
them."

"Have you any reason to believe that Irving is a trained
occultist?"