Читать книгу The Law of the Land - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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Ralph dragged himself unwillingly away. He was a little disturbed by the tendency of Barca's suggestion. Why had the latter introduced the name of Kate Lingen at this particular moment? If it had not been for her and the thought of those letters, Ralph at that moment would have been sleeping the sleep of the just, perhaps dreaming of Enid.

He came at length to his own room, and closed the door. Every nerve in his body called out for a light, but he resolutely refused to listen. If he gave way to these nervous fears, where were they likely to end? He could not have a light; rather would he lie tossing and restless with that dreadful figure downstairs painted in the darkness like a vivid scene in vivid colours on a sheet of black velvet. Well, it would not be for very much longer now, the daylight was drawing near, and the crime would be discovered. But it was awful waiting all the same. Presently the saffron gleam of the dawn began to tint the sky, and one by one little objects in the room became visible.

Ralph could stand it no longer. He rose and went into the corridor. Perhaps Barca was still at work. But Barca's door was closed, and no light came from under it. The man of science was doubtless fast asleep. Ralph returned to his room, and once more flung himself on the bed. He would have liked to cry aloud; the dreadful torture of the mind was racking him incessantly. He would go mad if he did not have human companionship. He recollected there was a bell in his room that communicated with the bedroom of old Joicey, the butler. It had been put up by the late owner of Abbey Close in the latter years of his life. Ralph pulled the bell once or twice, and presently Joicey came. His manner was sympathetic and respectful. Could he do anything for his master—was the latter ill?

"Not exactly ill," Ralph explained confusedly. "More an attack of nerves than anything else. I—I came to bed too early, and I can't sleep, Joicey."

"I quite understand, sir," Joicey replied. "My poor old master was much the same. I'm told that it is a disease you writing gentlemen suffer from a great deal. What can I do for you, sir?"

Ralph hesitated just a moment. What he was suffering from now was the torture of suspense, the knowledge of what must happen before two hours had passed. And if he could be spared the agony of these one hundred and twenty damning minutes, so much the better. It lay in his hands to precipitate matters.

"I'm very sorry to give you all this trouble," he murmured, "but I should like something to drink. Will you go down into the dining-room and get me some soda from one of the syphons, and a little slice of lemon in it. Lemon frequently gives relief."

The thing was done now past recall. With an expression of deepest sympathy, Joicey took the candle that Ralph had lighted and picked his way down the stairs. Ralph could hear him as he opened the dining-room door, the blood was driving in his head as he sat up in bed waiting for the cry of fear and horror that must break from Joicey in a moment. He could hear the click of bottles and the fizz of the sodawater. But never a sound from Joicey's lips.

It seemed to Ralph as if his nerves could not stand the strain longer. His heart was thumping violently; the blood rushed through his brain like a mountain torrent after a storm. As he sat there he felt great beads of perspiration pouring down. One moment he was fiery hot, the next clammy and cold like death. He felt a desire to say something, as if it were useless or impossible to keep silent any longer.

"What is the matter, Joicey?" he called out. "Didn't I hear you shout? I hope nothing is wrong."

"Lor' bless you, no, sir," Joicey said cheerfully. "Only my eyesight is not quite so good as it used to be, and those maids they will put things away in all sorts of wrong places. But I won't be longer than I can help, sir."

The stumbling footsteps of the old man could be distinctly heard. He was actually humming a tune to himself as he went about his task. Surely he must have found the body by this time? Even a man of defective eyesight could not overlook anything so horrible and glaring. The impulse to rush downstairs and join the butler was almost more than Ralph could overcome, but he managed it.

It was growing lighter and lighter meanwhile, so that discovery must be at hand. Still, no sound came from the dining-room, except the air the old man was humming to himself, and Ralph wondered if the butler was ever coming upstairs again. He called once more, and Joicey replied that he was just putting everything on a tray.

A blind unreasoning rage set Ralph trembling in every limb. What was that old blockhead about? Was the man blind that he didn't see anything? The body lay by the side of the table. Ralph could see the dark head now as it lay pillowed on a patch of fantastic flowers in the warp of the carpet. If Joicey only turned his eyes away from the sideboard he must see it. And besides, one of the windows was open, and that would not fall to attract the old man's attention.

Joicey stumbled up against a chair, and the legs rattled on the border of polished oak round the carpet. Surely this was the supreme moment at last. . . .

Still not a sound of it, nothing but the footsteps of the butler as he made his way up the stairs. He came in, a little short of breath, but calm and collected and respectful as he always was.

"I've been a little time, sir," he said. "But the fact is I couldn't find a knife to cut the lemon. Going to be a most beautiful day, sir."

Ralph said nothing; he was too enraged to speak. But there was no pretence about the thirst that was parching him. His throat was hot and dry, and he seemed, to be swallowing nothing but hard fine dust. He made a clutch for the big glass in which the cool soda hissed and bubbled, and poured it down his throat.

"That's better," he said. "I was dying of thirst. Is it nearly light, Joicey?"

"Getting light very fast, sir," Joicey said. "And going to be a glorious day—sort of day that makes you glad to be alive."

Ralph could recall many such; would he ever know another? He would have to drag his burden on and on and on to the end. Perhaps time would dull the edge of his terror and remorse; perhaps he would go down to the grave full of years and respected of men. And perhaps he would talk it over in his sleep, and Enid would find him out. He had read a story like that some years before. No, there would never be any of the gladness of existence for him again. Thrice Joicey asked if he could do anything more before Ralph spoke.

"I don't think so, thank you," he said. "The nervous feeling is passing away. Are you thinking of going back to bed, Joicey?"

"Well, no, sir," Joicey replied. "It would be hardly worth while. Perhaps you would like me to pull up the blinds before I go. It's practically daylight now."

"Pull them up by all means," Ralph said, eagerly. "There is not the slightest chance of my going to sleep again. If you would not mind, perhaps, you will read a little of that book to me—the one in the green cover on the dressing-table."

All Ralph's nervous, petulant anger against Joicey had vanished. It was practically daylight now, but he had no wish to be alone—anything rather than that. At the same time his nerves could not stand the strain of conversation with Joicey. Still, the butler's stammering pronunciation and halting reading grated on the fastidious ears of the listener. And all the time the discovery of the tragedy was being delayed.

"That will do," Ralph said, presently. "You need not stay any longer, Joicey."

It was broad daylight, but the household would not be down for some time. Outside the birds were singing here, and there was the bleat of a lamb. The dread discovery must be hastened.

"One thing before you go," Ralph muttered. "There is another book you can get for me. It is on the couch in the dining-room between the windows. A little red book with gilt lettering on the back. Please to fetch me that, and I will not trouble you any more."

The business would be discovered this time, Ralph thought, for the dread thing lay just in front of the couch. There were only thin blinds to the dining-room windows, thin blinds with a lot of lace about them. If old Joicey had eyes at all he could not miss the discovery this time.

"Very good, sir," he said. "A little red book with gold. I saw it there just now when I was getting you the soda water, and—"

"You saw it then?" Ralph gasped. "When you were getting me the soda? And you mean to say you didn't notice at the same time........ My good Joicey, I feel the old sensation coming over me again. If you will wait here for me, I will get up, and we will go and find the body..... I mean that—what are you staring at me for?"

Joicey stammered out something. He was wondering, perhaps, whence came the ghastly expression on Ralph's wet face. And Ralph realised the need of caution.

"I wouldn't get up if I were you, sir," Joicey said. "What you want is a sleeping draught, if I know anything about it. Just stay where you are, sir, and I'll get the book."

Ralph murmured that perhaps the old man was right. Once more he passed through the old terrors and emotions. He could hear the old man in the dining-room. He could hear the sharp click of the springs as the blinds were pulled up.

And yet no cry from Joicey! Perhaps it was all a dream; perhaps there had been no murder. And when Joicey came again with the little red volume in his hand, he said never a word. Ralph had been torn to his soul for three hours now, and was getting played out and exhausted. The letters of the book danced before his eyes. He lay back with the lids closed, praying desperately for the sleep that he never expected to come to him again. And a moment later he was in a deep slumber.

He did not dream at all; no ugly visions disturbed his rest. It seemed as if existence itself had been blotted out so far as he was concerned. When he came to himself again the sun was shining high in the heavens and the world was full of noise and life and gaiety. He could hear a servant laughing in the corridor; down in the stables there was a clattering of hoofs; a groom whistled first one tune and then another with maddening persistency.

Surely, by this time the tragedy must have reached from one side of the country to the other, and yet, if it had, why this joyousness of life outside? Ralph rang his bell and Joicey came in. He hoped his master was better, he proceeded to pour out Ralph's bath water.

"Is—Is Dr. Barca down yet?" Ralph asked. "Not yet, sir. And it's past ten o'clock. Breakfast has been waiting for a long time. Shall I say that you will be down soon, sir?"

Ralph nodded, for he had no words to reply. The feeling that it was all a dream was very strong on him once more. And yet here by his bedside was the paper-cutter, the weapon with which he had committed the crime—the blood all red and sticky and set. And there was just one spot of red on the cuff of his evening shirt. No, it was no dream. And if it was no dream, then what diabolical thing had happened downstairs? Ralph hardly waited to finish his bath. He tumbled into clean linen and a flannel suit, and was breathlessly eager to be down in the dining-room and see for himself what had happened. He felt more than ever that he was the sport of Fate, the toy of Circumstance. . . . . .

He was down at last. Here was the dining-room—artistic, orderly, well-appointed, with the things on the table ready for breakfast. And there Stephen Holt had lain with his head in a pool of blood as large as the dining-table—thick life's blood that should have left an indelible stain on that priceless carpet.

Ralph rubbed his eyes with trembling fingers. The carpet was intact, there was not so much as a crumb on it. The beautiful cream and gold and blue smiled at him as they had smiled ever since they had left the loom. There was no evidence of the crime at all—only the red flocks on the heart of one of the tea roses on the table. Ralph had seen those flocks just as they had spurted from the throat of the dead man. They looked like insect marks now and did not suggest the tragedy of the night. . . .

"You have not breakfasted yet?" Barca said as he came in. "You are as late as I am. It is a good medicine that keeps me in bed. But you look as if you had found a ghost."

Ralph smiled unsteadily. With an effort he pulled himself together. He winced under the close scrutiny of those dark eyes.

"I have not found a ghost." he said. "On the contrary, I have lost one."