The Hound of Death - Agatha Christie [18]
‘You have a lot of patients with “nerves”, I suppose,’ the Canon remarked disparagingly. His own nerves were excellent.
‘Ah! and what do you mean by that?’ The other swung round on him, quick as a flash. ‘Nerves! People use that word and laugh after it, just as you did. “Nothing the matter with so and so,” they say. “Just nerves.” But, good God, man, you’ve got the crux of everything there! You can get at a mere bodily ailment and heal it. But at this day we know very little more about the obscure causes of the hundred and one forms of nervous disease than we did in–well, the reign of Queen Elizabeth!’
‘Dear me,’ said Canon Parfitt, a little bewildered by this onslaught. ‘Is that so?’
‘Mind you, it’s a sign of grace,’ Dr Campbell Clark went on. ‘In the old days we considered man a simple animal, body and soul–with stress laid on the former.’
‘Body, soul and spirit,’ corrected the clergyman mildly.
‘Spirit?’ The doctor smiled oddly. ‘What do you parsons mean exactly by spirit? You’ve never been very clear about it, you know. All down the ages you’ve funked an exact definition.’
The Canon cleared his throat in preparation for speech, but to his chagrin he was given no opportunity. The doctor went on.
‘Are we even sure the word is spirit–might it not be spirits?’
‘Spirits?’ Sir George Durand questioned, his eyebrows raised quizzically.
‘Yes.’ Campbell Clark’s gaze transferred itself to him. He leaned forward and tapped the other man lightly on the breast. ‘Are you so sure,’ he said gravely, ‘that there is only one occupant of this structure–for that is all it is, you know–this desirable residence to be let furnished–for seven, twenty-one, forty-one, seventy-one–whatever it may be!–years? And in the end the tenant moves his things out–little by little–and then goes out of the house altogether–and down comes the house, a mass of ruin and decay. You’re the master of the house–we’ll admit that, but aren’t you ever conscious of the presence of others–soft-footed servants, hardly noticed, except for the work they do–work that you’re not conscious of having done? Or friends–moods that take hold of you and make you, for the time being, a “different man” as the saying goes? You’re the king of the castle, right enough, but be very sure the “dirty rascal” is there too.’
‘My dear Clark,’ drawled the lawyer. ‘You make me positively uncomfortable. Is my mind really a battleground of conflicting personalities? Is that Science’s latest?’
It was the doctor’s turn to shrug his shoulders.
‘Your body is,’ he said drily. ‘If the body, why not the mind?’
‘Very interesting,’ said Canon Parfitt. ‘Ah! Wonderful science–wonderful science.’
And inwardly he thought to himself: ‘I can get a most interesting sermon out of that idea.’
But Dr Campbell Clark had leant back in his seat, his momentary excitement spent.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he remarked in a dry professional manner, ‘it is a case of dual personality that takes me to Newcastle tonight. Very interesting case. Neurotic subject, of course. But quite genuine.’
‘Dual personality,’ said Sir George Durand thoughtfully. ‘It’s not so very rare, I believe. There’s loss of memory as well, isn’t there? I know the matter cropped up in a case in the Probate Court the other day.’
Dr Clark nodded.
‘The classic case, of course,’ he said, ‘was that of Felicie Bault. You may remember hearing of it?’
‘Of course,’ said Canon Parfitt. ‘I remember reading about it in the papers–but quite a long time ago–seven years at least.’
Dr Campbell Clark nodded.
‘That girl became one of the most famous figures in France. Scientists from