Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

“I perceive, sir, that you are the cause of Miss Merwood’s refusal to grace the company with her participation,” a young nobleman informed him between pinches of snuff. “It cannot answer, sir. We are not all confined to wheels to cross the floor, y’know. Have pity and instruct her to honor me with her assent!”

Treviscoe smiled. “He’s quite right, Miss Merwood,” he said. “No harm shall come to me for watching you dance, but au contraire, the sight of it shall afford me great pleasure.”

“The patient’s judgment should never be allowed to supplant that of his nurse,” she replied. “I must refuse.”

“I shall not be in this Bath chair forever,” said Treviscoe, “and when I am out of it, I shall beg the honor of being your partner myself. In the meantime both of us should forget every step to the minuet unless you practice enough to instruct me when the time comes.”

The young nobleman clearly disliked being cast in the role of Treviscoe’s substitute, but manners forbade withdrawing now. Elizabeth dropped her fan and stood, accepting the nobleman’s hand, and he led her out onto the floor.

Another well-dressed man, his waistcoat ornately embroidered with Italianate floral designs, approached them. “Good to see you so well, Treviscoe!”

“I do not believe I’ve had the honor, sir.”

“ ’Course you have. Lloyd’s, you know. Jervase Barkway, shipowner. Did some business with your friend Josiah Barron.”

“Ah yes. Forgive my short memory.”

“Cost me a pretty penny, sir, when you pulled out of it. Still, ’t’s one bet I’m glad to have lost. You’d be sore missed at Lloyd’s, I must say, had your illness claimed you.”

Treviscoe looked up at him in shock.

“Got to push off now. Just paying my respects and all.”

Treviscoe recovered quickly.

“Good evening to you, Mr. Barkway.”

“They make a most handsome couple, do they not?” asked Charlotte, who’d ignored Treviscoe’s exchange with Barkway, a man of business and therefore beneath her notice. She was looking at Elizabeth and her partner. At another time, this comment would have been waspish, but Treviscoe knew from her tone that Charlotte was trying to be pleasant. He could tell she was vexed at being compelled to be amiable and polite to him on account of his condition. This delighted him no end, and he was careful to appear as fragile as possible.

“I’m sure they must do,” he said with a falsely plaintive note.

“Look — there is Mr. Labbett,” she said, indicating with her fan.

The surgeon staggered through the dancers, interrupting the flow of the stately procession, drawing objections and a few curses from the participants. He approached them, but before he drew next to them, he was heralded by the reek of gin.

“Mr. Trevishcoe. Madam.” He attempted to bow, but could not keep his feet under him and spilled onto the floor. Liveried attendants appeared from nowhere and lifted him by the arms. From the opposite end of the gallery the ball’s host approached, his face darkened with disapprobation.

“I’m afraid we will not have the pleasure of your company for very long, Mr. Labbett,” said Treviscoe. “Was there something you meant to say to me?”

“Please, sir. Dr. Tindle no longer—” his lips bulged with a suppressed belch “—no longer calls upon me,” he said. “My practishe — practice — is ruined. They say I killed ’em, the patients, I mean! How now, what? Ain’t it prep — preposh — damn’d unfair?”

The servants began to drag him away. “Look at ye!” he bellowed. “You’re well enough! Will you not call upon the doctor? Explain it’s all some ghastly mistake?”

He was indecorously ejected from the assembly.

Charlotte waved her fan so violently that it mimicked a hummingbird’s wing. Her lips were pursed, her eyebrows arched, and her cheeks flushed. Treviscoe scarcely noticed.

“Aye, call on him I will,” he said pensively, “and soon.”

The next day he refused the chair and accepted the loan of Dr. Merwood’s walking stick to keep him stable. Hero buckled his swordbelt around his waist.

Elizabeth and Sally were in a flurry. “I cannot approve,” Elizabeth’s voice was pitched low with passion. “That man was nearly the death of you.”

“That he wanted me dead I certainly cannot deny,” he replied, “but ’t’s of the highest necessity that I proceed with my indagation. There are more lives than mine in the balance, and I mean to see the scale tipped in the favor of justice.”

“Elizabeth,” said her father mildly, “you may as well ask a hound not to hunt.”

Treviscoe smiled at this back-handed compliment and placed his tricorn squarely on his head. Earlier that morning his dark brown hair had been dressed most handsomely by Hero, almost making up for the wanness of his face, and now, in spite of the lingering weakness, he felt more like himself than he had in days.

Hero entered the room, a fine sweat covering his brow. “I have just returned from Mr. Barkway, sir, per your instructions,” he said breathlessly. “It is as you suspected.”

“I thank you, Hero. Let us keep to our plan.”

“Very good, sir.”