The Man in Ratcatcher, and Other StoriesMcNeile, H. C. (Herman Cyril)
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The Man in Ratcatcher, and Other Stories
McNeile, H. C. (Herman Cyril)
Detective and mystery stories, English; English fiction -- 20th century
No doctor can disregard a call of such a sort, and though I had
certainly not come to Skye with the idea of attending to the local man’s
practice during his absence, I followed my small guide to a little house
some half a mile away. He left me at the door, and after a moment’s
hesitation I knocked. It was opened almost at once by a somewhat stern
and forbidding-looking woman, who stared at me suspiciously, and then
curtly inquired what I wanted.
"Nothing," I answered a little nettled by her tone. "But from the boy
who led me here I gathered you wanted a doctor."
"It was Doctor Lee I sent him for," she snapped.
"Well, Doctor Lee is out," I replied. "But doubtless he will be back
soon, so I’ll go away."
I turned away distinctly annoyed at my reception, and was on the point
of passing through the little gate when the woman overtook me.
"Are you a clever doctor?" she demanded.
"I have been told so," I remarked, suppressing a smile.
"Then come inside and see what you can do for my mistress."
"Is your mistress Mrs. MacDerry?"
"Aye," she nodded. "It’s herself." Without another word she turned and
led the way up the narrow path, apparently taking it for granted that I
would follow.
"What’s the matter with your mistress?" I asked as I reached the door.
"If you’re clever you’ll find out for yourself," she remarked tersely,
and again I suppressed a smile. An uncompromising handmaiden this....
She left me alone in the room which in such houses is generally alluded
to as the parlour, and while I waited I stared about me idly. And as I
stared my vague curiosity gave way to acute surprise. Generally the
furniture in such rooms must be seen to be believed: stuffed birds in
glass domes, and beaded ornaments of incredible design meet one at every
step. And should one lift one’s eyes in a moment of panic to the walls,
innumerable photographs of wedding groups leap at you in mute protest.
But there was nothing of that sort in this room....
Everything was in the most exquisite taste, from the bric-à-brac on a
beautiful inlaid table, to the baby Grand standing in the corner. I
glanced at some of the pictures, and my surprise changed to amazement.
Three at least were genuine Corots.... And the next thing that caught
my eye were half a dozen pieces of Sèvres....
"Will you come this way, please?" The woman’s harsh voice from the door
interrupted my inspection, and I followed her slowly up the stairs.
I found Mrs. MacDerry propped up in bed awaiting me. The bedroom, in
the quick glance I took around it, seemed in keeping with the room
below; then my attention centred on my patient. She was an old
lady—sweet and fragile-looking as her own Sèvres china—and it needed but
a glance to see that the fires were burning low. For Mrs. MacDerry the
harbour was almost reached.
"It is good of you to come, Doctor——" She paused inquiringly.
"Morton is my name," I answered gently, drawing up a chair beside the
bed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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