The Young Physician

by Francis Brett Young

In this purgatory of doubt and horror, he lived for the rest of the week. In the daytime the progress of the examination engrossed him, but at night he always found himself hanging about the darkness of Prince Albert’s Place, hoping against hope, that his suspicions were unfounded, not daring to put them to the test, lest they should be confirmed.

On Friday night, when the last of his medical ordeals was over, he went straight to Number Ten. It was a wonderful moment. Now, with a clear conscience he might see her again; now, once more, he could know the ecstasy of her kisses and forget the ungenerous nightmare in which he had lived through the later stages of the exam. He approached the dirty doorway with his heart beating wildly. At first his ring was unanswered, but a little later the landlady came to the door with a red, suspicious face, opening it jealously, as though she feared to let him in.

He inquired for Miss Beaucaire. Miss Beaucaire was out. Did the woman know when she was expected to return? She hadn’t the least idea. Was Mrs. Beaucaire in, then? Mrs. Beaucaire was in, but invisible. Mrs. Beaucaire had one of her headaches. Edwin suggested that he should wait in their room. Impossible. Mrs. Beaucaire was lying down there. He hung upon the doorstep as if he were waiting at the gates of paradise. At last the landlady took it upon herself to close the door.

She must have thought he was mad. Perhaps he was mad. . . .

For an hour or more he waited in the rain. It occurred to him that at least the woman was speaking the truth, for there was no light in either of the front rooms. The Grand Midland. . . . It was there that Widdup had seen them. He walked to Sackville Row at a great pace and straight into the hotel, where waiters and elderly commercial gentlemen stared at his wet clothes and his haggard face. He went into each of the dining-rooms and down the stairs to the Turkish lounge. Nowhere was Rosie or Griffin to be seen. A search of this kind was ridiculous, but every moment that the agony was extended made him more desperately anxious.

He walked back in the drizzle to Prince Albert’s Place and paced the pavement under the black walls of the warehouses. The road was deserted. There was no sound in it at all but the dripping of water from some neglected spout. He walked up and down in the shadow, and as he walked he became conscious of something like a personality in the faces of the long row of lodging-houses, something sinister, as though their shuttered windows concealed a wealth of obscene experience like the eyes of ancient street-walkers. The souls of those squat Victorian houses were languidly interested in him. Another victim. . . . That was what he must seem to them. And still the windows of Number Ten were unlighted.

He heard the clock in the Art Gallery chime eleven: a leisurely, placid chime muffled by gusty rain. Perhaps the woman had lied to him. Perhaps, at that very moment Rosie was sleeping peacefully in the unlighted upper story. He was overwrought with the strain of the examination on the top of this devastating passion. He had better go home.

He turned to go, and at that very moment he saw two figures approaching from the Halesby Road. The street lamp, at the corner, threw their shadows on the shining pavement. One of them was Rosie—he would have known her anywhere—and the other, beyond doubt, was Griffin. He was seized with the same blind passion that had swept over him in the big schoolroom at St. Luke’s ten years before, an impulse to murder that he could only control by digging his finger nails into his hands.

He stood there trembling in the shadow of the blank wall, huddling close to it for support and for protection. They passed him, and he heard Rosie’s quiet laugh. Her laugh was one of the things about her that he had loved most. They stopped at the door, and Rosie took out her latchkey. It was almost a repetition of the scene in which he had shared a week before. Now, perhaps, she would kiss him. He felt that if he saw her kissing Griffin he could have killed them both. Murderer’s Cross Road. . . . A hundred thoughts came swirling through his brain. They entered, and closed the door behind them. Griffin: the old Griffin: the human beast of St. Luke’s. The new Griffin: the gross North Bromwich womaniser: the Griffin of Dr. Harris’s surgery. . . . Edwin saw himself upon the edge of a ghastly, unthinkable tragedy. He must prevent it. At all costs. At the cost of life if needs be.

He crept quickly across the road. The houses watched him. The window of the lower room bloomed suddenly with a yellow light. He stood with his hands clutching the window-sill, listening. Once again he heard Rosie’s laugh, and a rumour of deeper speech that he knew to be the voice of Griffin. The shadow of Griffin’s shoulders swept the window, swelling gigantically as it passed. The light was turned down, but not extinguished. Rosie’s laugh again. He could have killed her for that laugh, for it mocked him. The faint shadow of the man’s shoulders retreated. He guessed that they were standing at the door. The door of the room closed softly. Now there was no sound except the heavy breathing that one hears in the neighbourhood of a pigsty at night. Was Griffin still there?