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112 pages

English

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Description

In this suspenseful tale geared for younger audiences, a London physician becomes obsessed with the prospect of creating an elixir that can promise eternal youth. Along the way, Fenn brings in an amusing cast of memorable minor characters, and a subplot pertaining to a mislaid treasure is introduced.

Sujets

Children's

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 décembre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776593330
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE BAG OF DIAMONDS
* * *
GEORGE MANVILLE FENN

*
The Bag of Diamonds First published in 1887 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-333-0 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-334-7 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter One - In a Fog Chapter Two - Going Backwards Chapter Three -The Doctor at Home Chapter Four -Public Opinion on Current Events Chapter Five -A Sister's Trial Chapter Six -The Surgery Imp Chapter Seven -Agony Point Chapter Eight -The Doctor's Guest Chapter Nine -The Strange Accident Chapter Ten -"Ay, Marry Is't; Crowner's Quest Law" Chapter Eleven -Mr Poynter Polishes His Hat Chapter Twelve -The Dreams of a Fever Chapter Thirteen -Janet is Haunted Chapter Fourteen -Mark Heath in the Dark Chapter Fifteen -A Physician Unhealed Chapter Sixteen -Bob is Explanatory Chapter Seventeen -A Jar Wrongly Labelled Chapter Eighteen -Knotting up Loose Threads
Chapter One - In a Fog
*
"Ugh! what a night! And I used to grumble about Hogley Marsh! Why,it's like living in a drain!"
Ramillies Street, W.C., was certainly not attractive at twelve o'clockon that December night, for it had been snowing in the early part of theevening; that snow was suffering from a fall of blacks: and as evilcommunications corrupt good manners, the evil communication of theLondon soot was corrupting the good manners of the heavenly snow, whichhad become smirched by the town's embrace, and was sorrowfully weepingitself away in tears beneath a sky—
No, there was not any sky. For four days there had not been a breath ofair to dissipate the heavy mist, and into this mist the smoke of amillion chimneys had rolled, mingled, and settled down in the streets inone horrible yellowish-black mirk.
There were gas lamps in Ramillies Street—here and there distinguishingthemselves by a faint glow overhead; but John Whyley, policeman on thebeat, was hardly aware of their existence till he laid his hand uponeach post.
"Now, only that Burglar Bill and Company aren't such fools as to comeout on such a night as this, here's their chance. Why, they mightburgle every house on one side of the street while the whole divisionwas on the other. Blest if I know hardly where I am!"
J.W. stopped and listened, but it seemed as if utter silence as well asutter darkness had descended upon the great city. But few people wereabout, and where a vehicle passed along a neighbouring street the patterof hoofs and roll of wheels was hushed by the thick snow.
"It is a puzzler," muttered the man. "Blind man's buff's nothing to it,and no pretty gals to catch. Now, whereabouts am I? I should say I'mjust close to the corner by the square, and—well, now, look at that!"
He uttered a low chuckle, and stared up from the curbstone at a dull,red glare that seemed like the eye of some fierce monster swimming inthe sea of fog, and watching the man upon his beat.
"And if I didn't think I was t'other side of the street! Ah, how you do'member me of old times," he continued, apostrophising the red glare;"seems like being back at Hogley, and looking off the station platformto see if you was burning all right after I'd been and lit you up. Redsignals for trains—red signals for them as wants help," he muttered as,with his hands within his belt, he stepped slowly up under an arch ofiron scroll-work rusting away, a piece of well-forged ornamentation,which had once borne an oil lamp, and at whose sides were ironextinguishers, into which, in the bygone days when Ramillies was afashionable street, footmen had thrust their smoking links. But fashionhad gone afar, and Ichabod was written metaphorically upon the door ofthat old Queen Anne house, while really there was a tarnished brassplate bearing the inscription "Dr Chartley," with blistered panelsabove and below. Arched over the doorstep was an architect's idea of agigantic shell, supported by two stout boys, whom a lively imaginationmight have thought to be suffering from the doctor's prescriptions, asthey glared wildly at the red bull's-eye in the centre of the fanlightabove the door.
"Nothing like a red signal to show you where you are," said John Whyley,stepping slowly back on to the pavement, to the very edge of thecurbstone, and then keeping to it as his guide for a few yards, till hehad passed a second door, also displaying the red light, and beneath it,in letters nearly rubbed away, though certainly not from cleaning, theword "Surgery."
"That's where that young nipper of a buttons lives, him as took a sightat me when I ketched him standing on his head a-top of the dustbin downthe area. Hullo!"
John Whyley stood perfectly still and invisible in the fog, as thesurgery door was opened; there was a low scuffling noise, and a hurriedwhispering.
"Get your arm well under him. Hold hard? Shut the door. Mind he don'tslip down. It's dark as pitch. Now then, come on."
At that moment a bright light shone upon the scene in front of DrChartley's surgery door, for John Whyley gave a turn to the top of thebull's-eye lantern looped on to his belt, and threw up the figures ofthree men, two of whom were supporting on either side another, whosehead hung forward and sidewise, whose legs were bent, and his body in alimp, helpless state, which called forth all the strength of the othersto keep him from subsiding in a heap upon the snow. He seemed to beyoung, heavily bearded, and, as far as his costume could be seen in theyellow glare, he wore high boots and a pea-jacket; while his companions,one of whom was a keen-faced man, with clean-shaved face and a darkmoustache, the other rather French-looking from his shortly croppedbeard, wore ulsters and close travelling-caps.
As the light flashed upon the group, one of the men drew his breathsharply between his teeth, and for a space no one stirred.
"Acciden', gentlemen?" said John Whyley, giving a sniff as if he smelt awarm sixpence, but it was only caused by the soot-charged fog.
The constable's speech seemed to break the spell, and one of the menspoke out thickly:
"Axe'den', constable? Yes, it's all right. Hold him up, Smith. Wantsto lie down, constable. Thinks snow is clean sheets."
"Oh, that's it, is it, sir?" said John Whyley, examining each face inturn a little suspiciously. "Thought as it was a patient—"
"Yes," said the man with the moustache, speaking in a high-pitchedvoice, "doctor keeps some good stuff. Not all physic, policeman. Here,hold up." This last to the man he was supporting, and upon whose headhe now placed a soft felt hat, which he had held in his hand.
"Gent seems rather on, sir," said John Whyley, going up more closely.
"Ah!" said the first speaker, "you smelt his breath."
"'Nough to knock you down, sir," said the constable. "He'll want tocome and see the doctor again to-morrow morning."
There was a very strong odour of spirits, and in the gloom it did notoccur to the constable that the two men who seemed most intoxicated werevery bright-eyed, and yet ghastly pale. He merely drew back for thegroup to pass.
"Got to take him far, sir?"
"Far? No, constable. Let him lie down and go to sleep. Dishgustingthing man can't come to see friend without getting drunk. Look at me—and Shmith."
"Yes, sir; you're all right enough," said the constable. "Shall I lendyou a hand?"
"No," said the man with the moustache, "we're all right; get us a cab."
"Where, sir?" said the constable, with a grin; "don't believe such athing's to be got, sir, a night like this. All gone home."
At that moment from out of the fog there was a sudden jolt and the whishof a whip.
"Hullo?" shouted the policeman.
"Hullo!" came back in a husky voice, as if spoken through layers offlannel, "what street's this?"
"Ramillies. Here's a fare."
There was a muttering, then a bump, jolt, and jangle of a cab heard, anda huge figure slowly seemed to loom up out of the fog in a spectral way,leading a gigantic horse, beyond which was something dark.
"What's the row?" said the husky voice.
"These gents want a cab."
"Oh, but I can't drive nowheres to-night. I drove right into one pub,and then nearly down two areas. Where do you want to go."
"John's Hotel, Surrey Street, old man. Look sharp. Five bob."
"Five what, sir? Why, I wouldn't stir a step under ten. I'm just goingto get my old horse into the first mews, shove on his nosebag and thenget inside and go to sleep. I can't drive. I shall have to lead him."
"Give him ten," said the man with the sharp voice.
"All right. Here, hold up, old man," said the other. "Look sharp! Seenever I come out with him again."
"Yes, don't make a noise, or you'll bring out the doctor," said theother man, and the policeman went to the cab door.
The cab evidently objected to the fare, for the door stuck, and onlyyielded at last with a rattle, and so suddenly that John Whyley nearlywent on his back. But he recovered himself, and held his light so thatthe utterly helpless man, who seemed as if composed of jelly, was pulledby one of his companions, thrust by the other, into the cab, and forcedup on the back seat. "There y'are, const'ble," said the man with thethick voice, "there's something to get glass; but don't take too much—like that chap—my deares' frien', it's s'prising ain't it? Tell cabmanJohn's Hotel."
"All right, sir, he knows. Go ahead, cabby."
He took a few slow steps towards where the cabman stood by the horse'shead.
"Think they're all right?" said the cabman, in a husky whisper.
"Give me half-a-crown," said John Wh