Читать книгу The Law of the Land - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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Barca appeared to take no heed. As to Ralph, he could only stand there looking at the carpet as if he expected to see those telltale stains break out once more and help make his crime known to all the world. He tried to think that it was all a dream, that he was the victim of some terrible hallucination. He had heard of such things before; they had happened to highly-strung individuals cursed with the artistic temperament. But the vision had been too real, for that.

Besides, there was the weapon upstairs in Ralph's room, the blade of which he had carefully cleaned before he came down to breakfast. He could see the very place where Holt stood when the blade entered his throat.

Had he been mistaken? Had the blow been merely a flesh wound? Had Holt come to himself and vanished, hoping for some more complete vengeance later? Perhaps he had crawled away to die somewhere in the grounds.

But that seemed equally impossible. In such case the injured man must have left a red track behind him. There were none of the damning spots loading to the window, not a sign on the flagged terrace outside, for Ralph crossed over to the window to see, nothing but the dread specks on the tea roses in the bowl on the table. On the whole, this engrossing mystery was a greater trial to Ralph's nerves than the knowledge of his crime. He wondered how long his nerves would stand the strain.

He wondered, too, what Barca must be thinking of him. He felt his face was pale and ghastly, he was conscious of twitching lips and haggard eyes. And usually Barca was a man of the keenest observation. But this morning Barca was hovering over the breakfast table with the air of a connoisseur.

"Nothing like hard work to give one an appetite," he said, cheerfully. "I could have done with another meal after midnight. What are you waiting for, Kingsmill?"

"I beg your pardon," Ralph stammered. "I was thinking of something else. Glad to hear that you feel so hungry. Let us sit down at once."

Barca chatted as he ate. No dish came amiss to him. Strange that he should not notice anything wrong, Ralph thought. As for himself, he toyed with his food, the mere idea of eating filling him with a sense of nausea. He made wild and spasmodic efforts to reply to Barca's flow of conversation. To sit there and hear the other chatter was almost insufferable. Ralph felt that he could have cried aloud. He must get away without delay and solve the mystery, He must know what had become of the body of Stephen Holt. Every time anybody came into the room he started guiltily. When were the police coming for him? Could Holt but know it, he was already reaping a terrible revenge.

There was only one thing to do—to see Enid and make a full confession. Far better to be in gaol than suffering the agonies of the damned like this. And everything might have been avoided if Ralph had opened his heart to Enid. In that case he could have defied Holt to do his worst. This reflection was not the least painful part of Ralph's punishment. If Enid really loved him, she would have forgiven the past. And now there would be no future to atone for what had gone by. . . .

But Barca was talking again in the most light-hearted fashion! Good heavens! had the man suddenly lost his eyesight? Could he not see that his host was suffering excruciating torture? And the man of science was so shrewd as a rule.

"I daresay it is," Ralph blurted out. "I don't care for that kind of thing much."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Barca asked. "I don't believe you are listening to a single word I have been saying. I thought that you were fond of flowers?"

"So—so I am. Did you say anything about flowers, Barca?"

"Of course I did. I was admiring that glorious mass of tea roses on the table. Pity that so many of them are spotted. Little specks like dried blood all over them."

"It is." Ralph said mechanically. "You see—what am I talking about? I mean those specks do look like blood stains. I expect they are blighted."

"I prefer to stick to the blood-stain theory," Barca laughed gaily. "If I had the time to write stories, I could make a good plot out of those flowers. The nearest witnesses of a great crime! Can't you see what I mean? A great crime in committed here in the dead of night. No trace is left behind but the specks on those delicate blooms. I should mix up the scent of the flowers in some way with the story. You ought to thank me for the hint, Kingsmill. It sounds like one of your own romances."

"Oh, it does," Ralph admitted hoarsely. Just for a moment it occurred to him that Barca knew everything, that the little man with the brown eyes was mocking him. Could Barca have overheard the quarrel and witnessed the fatal struggle? If so, why had he not spoken? Ralph's head was in too much of a whirl to follow out this reasoning. "But I am not going to write any more of that class of story. Something more pastoral in future."

"More Arcadian, in fact." Barca laughed as he took another egg. "My dear fellow, you are making a very poor show with your breakfast."

Ralph rose from the table muttering that he was not feeling quite himself. He was amazed that Barca had not noticed the same thing. And here was Barca going on cheerfully with his breakfast is if nothing whatever out of the common had happened. The latter finished presently, and lighted one of his choicest cigarettes.

"I think I'll go and finish my experiment," he said. "With any luck, I hope to be through by lunch time. And this evening I fear that I shall have to deprive myself of your company, for my presence is urgently needed in London."

Ralph drew a deep breath of relief. He could not help it. He durst not remain here any longer with the man who saw everything, whose perceptions were so wonderfully keen. He longed to be alone to try to work out the problem that was torturing him. He felt that his reason could not stand the strain much longer. He would hear presently that the body had been found, and then he would be easier in his mind. He would go out and look for the body of the murdered man himself.

He walked across the terrace in the direction of the shrubbery. A spaniel came from the stables, and fawned at Ralph's feet. It had belonged to the late owner of Abbey Close, and had taken a great fancy to Ralph. It looked up to him with its great amber eyes; there was trust and confidence in every look. Ralph fairly hugged the dog; here was something that loved him in spite of everything. The animal would have followed his master to the gallows.

"It's something," Ralph muttered. "Not much, but something. And Beltie will help me. Go and seek, good dog; hie in, fetch him out."

Beltie joined in the fun. He dashed into the undergrowth barking and frolicking. If there was anything loathsome lying there, the spaniel would find it. Beltie began to whine presently and cock his ears. Ralph wondered if he were on the verge of a discovery. But it was only a rabbit after all, there was no sign of the tragedy anywhere. Ralph looked in vain for bloodstains on the laurels; he could see nothing of the kind on the terrace. The mystery was getting more maddening than ever. Apparently Stephen Holt had vanished, leaving no trace behind. A fit of shivering took possession of Ralph and tears rose to his eyes. He felt utterly weak and helpless. He trembled for his brain.

Less things than this had driven men mad. And he was of the most highly-strung nervous temperament. How much longer could he stand this without telling somebody? And whom better could he have to confide in than Enid? When Enid knew everything she must forgive him. With the memory of her blue eyes before him, Ralph could not doubt it.

There was balm and consolation in the thought. Somebody should go to Charteris Park after breakfast and ask Enid to come over.

Ralph went back to the house feeling that he must do something. His impulse at the moment was to put all his feelings down on paper and write to Enid, telling her exactly what had happened. But, on the other hand, there was just the chance that the note might fall into another person's possession; it might even happen that Enid's father might open it. On the whole, when Ralph thought the matter over, he deemed it more prudent to do nothing of the kind. It would be much more sensible if he wrote to Dick Charteris a few lines in a commonplace way asking if he could spare half an hour to discuss an important matter of business.

Filled with this resolution, Ralph turned and retraced his footsteps to the house.

There was nobody in the library, so that Ralph was able to write his letters without interference on the part of Barca. He felt that Barca was the very last man in the world he wished to see at that moment. It was not easy to stand the scrutiny of anybody just now, but to endure the searching gleam of those dark brown eyes set Ralph trembling. Distracted and upset as he was, he did not fail to note that his handwriting was extremely shaky, and he made three copies of the letter before be was satisfied with it. Then, when it was written, he changed his mind and deemed that it would be better to ask Enid to come and see him. He smiled bitterly to himself as he marked his own indecision and fickleness of purpose. He did not know what to think or what to do. Finally, he decided to stick to his first resolution. It seemed all right now. Then, for no apparent reason whatever, he resolved to wait for an hour.

Dick Charteris was at home, and he could come along. He would be quite happy in the library as long as he had some logical problems to grapple with. He loved nothing better than the run of a library and an interesting volume.

Ralph, staggered back into the dining-room to find that Barca was scribbling a telegram there. The little man's face was flushed and angry; the brown eyes gleamed behind the spectacles. He tried to hide his chagrin with a smile as Ralph entered.

"I shall have to leave you sooner than I had intended," he explained. "I must get to London by the 2.5 train; it is imperative. And it is all the more annoying because I am in the midst of an experiment that bids fair to revolutionise the whole theory of germ diseases. Would you mind if I locked my bedroom and took the key with me? I may get back to-night and I could finish in the morning. To disturb this work of mine now would be to upset the labour of months."

Barca seemed to ask the question in a tone of genuine anxiety. Ralph had hoped to be rid of the man for good and all to-day. Yet his good-nature could not permit him to refuse. Who was he to stand in the way of a discovery that might be a lasting blessing to mankind?

"By all means," he said. "Take the key with you, and I will explain to the servants. If you would like some lunch before you go—"

Baron was understood to say that he had just time for that. All through the meal he was just as quiet and gloomy as his host. He rose at length with a sigh of relief. He declined the offer of a dogcart to the station; he wanted exercise and would walk; besides, he had plenty of time. Would Ralph excuse him while he went to pack? Ralph could have listened to no more welcome a proposal. He sat in a big chair moodily and fixed his eyes on the carpet. . . . There Holt had fallen; that was the spot where his life's blood had oozed out and stained the priceless fabric. And yet there was not a sign of it now on the dainty warp and woof of the alternate pattern. The pattern looked different, too, the same and yet not the same. Perhaps somebody had changed it, had procured another?

Ralph laughed aloud at the absurdity of his fancy. That carpet was unique; it had come from the palace of a Shah where it had reposed for three centuries; there was nothing like it outside of the greatest collections. It was true that no nails defiled the precious fabric, but still—then as Ralph looked a great round patch of dull red appeared before his eyes; he could see it glistening in the sun. Shuddering, he stooped to wipe it away with his handkerchief; his hands were messy with the horrid stuff. The whole room seemed to be filled with it. Ralph writhed frantically to get rid of it. And then the whole fantasy vanished; the white handkerchief was spotless as before.

"A delusion," Ralph muttered. "A poor delusion, a kind of delirium tremens. God help me, I am going mad over this business—another day like this and I shall lay violent hands on myself. If I am to save my reason I must tell somebody. I'll get Joicey to go as far as Charteris Park for me without delay. OK, Lord, there is that red stuff coming back again. Only, only yesterday.. . . ."

Ralph walked into the garden, his hands clenched behind his back so tenaciously that the nails of one hand cut into the palm of the other. He had worked himself up into such a condition now, that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Like Eugene Aram in the poem, he felt that he must take somebody into his confidence, even if it were only old Joicey. Here were the gardeners going about their work; the head man touched his cap to Ralph and asked him some question. He might have been talking to a person absolutely deaf for any practical effect of his words. Ralph passed on wrapped in his own terrible thoughts; indeed, it was doubtful if he knew that he had been spoken to at all. The head gardener winked solemnly at an assistant, and suggested that the new master had been doing himself rather too well.

"Looks as if he was ill," the subordinate said. "But ill or not, I'd like to change place with him."

As the last few words came to Ralph's ears he laughed none the less bitterly because his mirth was silent. The fresh air was doing him good, the blood ceased to ring and beat in his head, he was getting himself in hand again. He felt a little ashamed of himself, too; there was humiliation in the thought that those servants of his were pitying him. His step was firmer as he walked towards the house, once more full of the determination he had made earlier in the day. At any rate, it was good to know that Barca was not by to watch him.

"I must play the man," he murmured. "I must not give way now, and yet, the mere thought of it! . . ."