Читать книгу Inspector Furnival's Cases - Annie Haynes - Страница 7

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Judith stood as one petrified. What had happened? What was happening? She became conscious of a new sound—an odd gurgling sound. The darkness was peopled with horrible images, the gurgling died away into silence. What was it? she asked herself, her limbs trembling under her, a sweat of deadly terror breaking out upon her forehead. What had that ping, ping sounded like? Could it have been a revolver shot? If—if it were, who had fired it? And who had fallen on the floor?

Was it possible that the man who said he was her husband had shot himself by accident? He had not guessed that the revolver was loaded, and he had used it to frighten her.

As she stood there she told herself that she was a coward and a fool. He was hurt, perhaps dying. Summoning up all her courage, she managed to raise her voice.

"What is it? Where are you? Are you hurt, Cyril?" the old name seemed to come naturally to her lips.

There was no answer. But as she waited, her head bent forward to catch the least sound, she became aware that she was not alone in the room, that some one else was breathing softly close to her. It was not the man who had been pursuing her, she knew that instinctively. An agony of terror shook her, what did that veil of darkness cover? Who—what was stealthily passing her? It was very near her now—that thing with the horribly soft breath, very, very near her; putting out her hand, she would surely touch it. If it came one step nearer, assuredly it would knock against her.

Her overstrained nerves would bear no more. With a shriek of horror, she fled across the room, hitting herself against the chairs, finally running with outstretched hands against the locked door. It was locked still, but as she dashed herself helplessly against it, one hand touched the switch-board. With a cry she pulled the button down and glanced fearfully over her shoulder into the room. As she turned slowly further round, she caught sight of something protruding beyond the easy chair.

She moved round stealthily, fearfully. A man lay on the floor in a curious doubled-up heap, a man whose fair head and broad shoulders were very familiar. "Cyril! Cyril!" she said hoarsely, beneath her breath. There was no answer; she tottered across feebly. She felt no fear now of the thing on the carpet—only a great pity as she sank on her knees beside it.

A ghastly dark line had trickled down on the carpet, the florid face was white, the eyes sightless and staring. With a cry Judith tried to raise the heavy inert head, she took the nerveless hands in hers. "Cyril! Cyril!" she sobbed, as she felt the dead weight, as a dense mist gathered before her eyes.

Judith never knew how long she crouched there, on the floor beside the dead man. Strange thoughts buzzed through her brain, memories of the past, trifles that had no bearing on the present. But at last she awoke to a consciousness of her surroundings, of the danger in which she stood. People might come in at any moment. How could she explain her presence in the flat? How tell them of the dead man's insults, of the sudden darkness, and the unknown hand that had fired the fatal shot? They would not believe her. They might say it was she—she who had killed the man who lay there stark on the carpet before her.

The terror of that last thought pierced the thick cloud that had momentarily obscured her brain; she must get away, at all costs she must get away.

She started to her feet, shuddering as she saw the dark crimson stain that disfigured the front of her white bodice; she drew her cloak more closely round her, fastened down her veil. Then she turned and her lips moved silently as she looked down at the corpse; moved by some sudden impulse, she stooped and laid her hand for a moment on the cold forehead.

At the door of the room she paused again. What unseen danger might be lurking in the flat? At last she took her courage in both hands, and stepped out into the passage. All was apparently quiet; she could hear no sound, see no sign of the murderer. She opened the door of the flat with trembling fingers and pulled it to behind her. She was shaking from head to foot as she slowly made her way down the stairs.

As she neared the bottom of the first flight she heard some one coming up, whistling cheerfully. She saw that it was a man, a young man apparently; then she glanced away quickly, one hand holding down her veil. The man stood aside politely, then there was a sudden exclamation.

"Why, it is Judy! Judy, by all that is delightful! The very last person I expected to meet here."

It was a voice she had prayed she might never hear again on earth. The sound of it brought her to a sudden standstill. The man was blocking the way with outstretched hands—a man with a fair bronzed face, with smiling blue eyes and white teeth that gleamed beneath his drooping moustache.

"This is a surprise, Judy—a pleasant surprise!" he went on. "I had no idea that you and Cyril had made it up."

Judith's tortured eyes stared straight at him, her cold hand lay in his for an instant. Oh, why had she waited? she asked herself passionately; why had she not got away before this man,—who stood for so much that was evil in the past—saw and recognized her?

He did not seem to heed her silence; he turned and walked down the stairs.

"Cyril is looking fit, isn't he?" he said easily. "I half thought of going to him to-night, but I don't know whether I shall have time; as a matter of fact I have some business with another man in the next flat."

Judith made some inaudible reply. His bold, overfamiliar manner did not alter.

"You will have a taxi," he said as they reached the vestibule.

But Judith shook her head. "I am going by the Tube. Good-bye."

He laughed. "At any rate you must let me see you safely in for old times' sake."

"Oh, no, no!" Judith put out her hands. "You must not. Don't you see that I can't bear it; I must be alone."

The insolent laughter in the man's blue eyes deepened. "I see that you are not disposed to give your old friends a welcome, Judy," he said, mock reproach in his tone. "And there is so much I want to know. I want to hear all you have been doing since our last meeting. And how Cyril found you. Poor fellow, he has been half distracted to hear nothing of you for so long."

"He met me," Judith answered vaguely. "Goodbye."

"It is not good-bye," he assured her lightly. "I shall only say au revoir, Judy. We shall meet again."

Judith hurried away; some instinct made her look back as she reached the bottom of the steps. He was standing just as she had left him, but was it her fancy or was it some effect of the flickering light? It seemed to her that his face was distorted by a mocking, evil smile. With an inaudible sound of terror she turned and disappeared among the crowd.

As she hurried past the end of the street a man standing in a doorway opposite drew farther back in the shadow, then came out and turned after her. But Judith had not glanced at him. All her mind was intent on getting to the station at the earliest possible moment; the man following had some ado to keep up with her hurrying footsteps.

Sitting in the crowded carriage of the Tube, she clasped her hands together beneath her cloak. Oh, it was hard, terribly hard, she told herself passionately, that these two men should come into her life again. She had thought herself so safe, she had never dreamed that the dead past would rise again.

Then her mind went back shudderingly to that flat at Abbey Court and its ghastly secret. Who was it who had stolen in and shot Cyril Stanmore? Whose breathing was it she heard as she waited there in the darkness?

The dead man had made many enemies, she knew that some of them must have stolen in and taken this terrible revenge.

She let herself into the house in Grosvenor Square with the latch-key that she had taken care to provide herself with, and was conscious of a passing throb of surprise at finding none of the menservants in the hall.

She went into her room, where everything looked as she had left it. Evidently her absence had not been discovered. She took off her toque and threw it aside; she unfastened her cloak and tossed it back. Then, all alone as she was, she uttered a cry of horror, as she saw again the front of her white dress all splashed and stained with blood. Then there came a knock at the door, and Célestine's voice:

"Miladi, Sir Anthony, he tell me to bring you one little bottle of champagne, to make you eat one little piece of chicken."

Judith snatched up the couvre-pied, and drew it round her tightly. She shivered as she met the maid's gaze, her hands caught tightly at the cloth.

"Put the tray down," she said. "It—perhaps I may feel better presently—perhaps I will take something."

"I hope so, miladi, or Sir Anthony, he will be much distressed when he comes home," Célestine brought up a small table and put the tray upon it.

Judith, with her terrible guilty knowledge, cowered before the girl's eyes. In vain she told herself that there was nothing to be seen, that the couvre-pied hid both her hat and cloak as well as the front of her gown. Célestine's gaze told her that something had surprised her, that she had seen something unexpected.

Célestine was spreading out a dainty little supper, the wing of a chicken, some jelly, a small bottle of champagne; she brought the table a little nearer to her mistress.

Judith's eyes followed hers, then she made a quick involuntary gesture of concealment. Célestine's gaze was riveted on the hand that held the couvre-pied firmly over the tell-tale bodice. The delicate skin, the slender pink-tipped fingers were all blackened with ink.

"Miladi will take her supper." The maid's tone was perfectly respectful, but there was a subtle change in its quality.

Judith did not look up. After that first instinctive gesture she had not moved.

"That will do, Célestine, I will ring when I have finished," she said decidedly.

Left alone, she leaned forward and, taking up the wineglass, drank off the contents feverishly.

Then she stood up, a tall slim figure, with great terror-haunted eyes, burning in a white tragic face. Catching a glimpse of herself in the long pier glass, of the disfiguring stains on the front of her gown, she shuddered violently.

Then, she caught at her dress, she tore at the fastenings with her blackened fingers, and threw it from her on the floor. She gathered it up in a heap in her arms and, crossing the room to a small wardrobe that contained some of her oldest dresses and was seldom used, she thrust her bundle deep down in the well, dropped an old skirt over it, closed the door and locked it, and, after a moment's thought, put the key away in her jewel-case. Then she looked down at her ink-stained hands. Pumice stone removed the worst stains from her fingers themselves, but the ink had got under her delicate nails, and no effort of hers would move it.

She brushed on, mechanically. Her thoughts were back at the flat; what was happening there? she asked herself. Had the dead man been discovered?

What would the other man do—he who had met her on the stairs—when he heard what had happened in the flat that night? Would he denounce her, set the police to search for her?

Long fits of trembling shook her from head to foot. She tried to tell herself that it was impossible that anything should connect her with the dead man—that as Lady Carew she was safe, all links with the past destroyed; she felt that she was standing on a powder-mine, that at any moment the explosion might come, and this late-found happiness, at which she had snatched, be taken from her.

Presently there were sounds in Sir Anthony's dressing-room; she could hear him walking about, opening and shutting drawers. A passing wonder that he should be at home so early struck her—that he had not come in to ask how she was. Then a swift remembrance of the revolver she had taken from his room flashed across her mind. She had left it in the flat. Would he find out its loss? A sudden revelation that it must have been with this weapon the fatal shot was fired came to her! She recollected that it was on the table where it had been thrown when she groped for it. The murderer must have found it there, must have used it.

The horror of the thought drew her to the closed door. She tried it—it was locked.

"Anthony!" she said very softly. "Anthony!"

Apparently he did not hear her; there was no answer. She listened; he was still walking about the room. She heard him go to his wardrobe; she heard him give the little cough that was so familiar, the sound of his breathing. Suddenly she was reminded of the darkness of that room in Cyril Stanmore's flat, of the breathing she had heard as she waited and listened—the thought of it sickened her.

She turned and tottered back to her couch.