Читать книгу In White Raiment - William Le Queux - Страница 9

“Then you make murder one of the conditions of payment?” I said, facing him.

“I have only said she must die before sunset,” he answered. “She cannot live, in any case, longer than a few hours. It is easy for you, a doctor, to render her agony brief.”

“To speak plainly,” I said, with rising indignation, “you wish me to kill her! You offer me twenty thousand pounds, not for marriage, but for the committal of the capital sin.”

His thin lips twitched nervously and his brows contracted.

“Ah!” he responded, still quite cool. “I think you view the matter in a wrong light. There are various grades of murder. Surely it is no great crime, but rather a humane action, to put a dying girl out of her agony.”

“To shorten her life a single minute would be a foul assassination,” I replied, regarding him with loathing. “And further, sir, you do not appear to fully realise your own position, or that it is a penal offence to attempt to bribe a person to take another’s life.”

He laughed a short, defiant laugh.

“No, no,” he said. “Please do not waste valuable time by idle chatter of that kind. I assure you that I have no fear whatever of the result of my action. There is no witness here, and if you endeavoured to bring me before a judge, who, pray, would believe you?” There was some truth in those defiant words, and I saw by his attitude that he was not to be trifled with.

“I take it that you have objects in both your propositions—in your daughter’s marriage, and in her death?” I said, in a more conciliatory tone, hoping to learn something further of the motive of his dastardly proposal.

“My object is my own affair,” he snapped.

“And my conscience is my own,” I said. “I certainly do not intend that it shall be burdened by the crime for which you offer me this payment.”

He fixed me with flaming eyes. “Then you refuse?” he cried.

“Most certainly I refuse,” I responded. “Moreover, I intend to visit your daughter upstairs, and strive, if possible, to save her.”

“Save her?” he echoed. “You can’t do that, unless you can perform miracles. But perhaps,” he added with a sneer, “such a virtuous person as yourself may be able to work marvels.”

“I may be able to save her from assassination,” I answered meaningly.

“You intend to oppose me?”

“I intend to prevent you from murdering your own daughter,” I said warmly. “Further, I forbid you to enter her room again. I am a medical man, and have been called in by you to attend her. Therefore, if you attempt to approach her I shall summon the police.”

“Rubbish!” he laughed, his sinister face now ashen pale. “You cannot prevent me from approaching her bedside.”

“I can, and I will,” I said. “You have expressed a desire that she should, for some mysterious reasons, die before sunset. You would kill her with your own hand, only you fear that when the doctor came to give his certificate he might discover evidence of foul play.”

“Exactly,” he responded with perfect coolness, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “It is because of that I offer you twenty thousand pounds. I am prepared to pay for your scientific knowledge.”

“And for a death certificate?”

“Of course.”

“Well, to speak plainly, I consider you an inhuman scoundrel,” I said. “If your daughter’s dying hour is not sacred to you, then no man’s honour or reputation is safe in your hands.”

“I thank you for your compliment,” he replied with a stiff bow. “But I might reply that you yourself are not very remarkable for honour, having in view the fact that, in the hope of gaining a sufficient price, you have married a woman upon whom you have never set eyes.”

“You tempted me!” I cried furiously. “You held the money before my gaze and fascinated me with it until I was helpless in your power. Fortunately, however, the spell is broken by this inhuman suggestion of yours, and I wash my hands clean of the whole affair.”

“Ah, my dear sir, that is not possible. Remember you are my daughter’s husband.”

“And yet you ask me to kill her.”

“Who has greater right to curtail her sufferings than her husband?”

“And who has greater right to endeavour to save her life?”

“But you cannot. It is impossible.”

“Why impossible?”

“She is doomed.”

“By you. You have resolved that she shall not live till morning,” I said, adding: “If, as you tell me, her mysterious illness must prove fatal, I see no reason why you should offer me a bribe to encompass her death. Surely a few hours more or less are of no consequence.”

“But they are,” he protested quickly. “She must die before sundown, I tell you.”

“Not if I can prevent it.”

“Then you will forgo the money I have offered you,” he inquired seriously.

“I have no intention of touching a single farthing of it.”

“Until you are forced to.”

“Forced to!” I exclaimed. “I don’t understand your meaning.”

“You will understand one day,” he answered with a grin—“one day when it may, perhaps, be too late. It would be best for us to act in unison, I assure you.”

“For you, possibly; not for me.”

“No—for you,” he said, fixing his crafty, evil-looking eyes upon me. “You have taken one step towards the goal, and you cannot now draw back. You have already accepted your price—twenty thousand pounds.”

“Enough!” I cried indignantly. “If I were to give information to the police regarding this conversation, you would find yourself arrested within an hour.”

“As I have already told you, my dear sir, I am not at all afraid of such a contretemps; I am no blunderer, I assure you.”

“Neither am I,” I answered quickly, resolving to remain there no longer discussing such a subject. From the first moment of our meeting I had entertained a suspicion of him. Several facts were evident. He had some strong motive, first in marrying his daughter Beryl, secondly in encompassing her death before sundown, and thirdly in implicating me so deeply that I should be unable to extricate myself from the net which he set to entrap me.

A fourth fact, apparently small in itself, had caused me considerable reflection: the hand that I had held and on the finger of which I had placed the bond of matrimony, was in no sense chilly or clammy. It was not the wasted hand of a moribund invalid, but rather that of a healthy person. While I had held it I felt and counted the pulsations. The latter had told me that my mysterious bride was without fever, and was apparently in a normal state of health. It was curious that she should have walked and acted involuntarily, if only half-conscious of her surroundings.

The Tempter was endeavouring to deceive me in this particular. But it was in vain.

“Cannot we come to terms?” he asked in a low, earnest voice. “There is surely no object to be gained in our being enemies; rather let us act together in our mutual interests. Recollect that by your marriage you have become my son-in-law and heir.”

“Your heir!” I echoed. I had not thought of that before. His house betokened that he was wealthy. “You are very generous,” I added, not without some sarcasm. “But I do not feel inclined to accept any such responsibility from one whose name even I do not know.”

“Of course,” he said easily. “I was stupid not to introduce myself. In the excitement it quite slipped my memory. Pray forgive me. My name is Wynd—Wyndham Wynd.”

“Well, Mr. Wynd,” I said with some forced politeness, “I think we may as well conclude this interview. I wish to make the acquaintance of my wife.”

“Quite natural,” he answered, smiling good-humouredly. “Quite natural that you should wish to see her; only I beg you, doctor, to prepare for disappointment.”

“Your warning is unnecessary,” I responded as carelessly as I could.

My curiosity had been aroused by the healthfulness of that small, well-formed hand, and I intended to investigate for myself. That house was, I felt certain, a house of mystery.

I had turned towards the door, but in an instant he had reached it and stood facing me with his back to it resolutely, saying—

“You will go to her on one condition—the condition I have already explained.”

“That I take her life seriously, and give a certificate of death from natural causes,” I said. “No, Mr. Wynd, I am no murderer.”

“Not if we add to the sum an extra five thousand?”

“I will not harm her for an extra fifty thousand. Let me pass!” I cried with fierce resolution.

“When you have promised to accede to my request.”

“I will never promise that.”

“Then you will not enter her room again.”

Almost as the words left his lips there was a low tap at the door, and it opened, disclosing Davies, who announced—

“The Major, sir.”

“Show him in.”

The visitor, who entered jauntily with his silk hat still set at a slight angle on his head, was the well-groomed man who had led my bride up the aisle of the church. I judged him to be about forty-five, dark-complexioned, good-looking, but foppish in appearance, carrying his monocle with ease acquired by long practice.

“Well, Wynd,” he said, greeting his friend, cheerily, “all serene?”

“Entirely,” answered the other. And then, turning to me, introduced the new-comer as “Major Tattersett.”

“This, Major, is Dr. Colkirk, my new son-in-law,” he explained. “Permit me to present him.”

“Congratulate you, my dear sir,” he responded laughing good-humouredly, while the Tempter remarked—

“The Major is, of course, fully aware of the circumstances of your marriage. He is our nearest friend.”

“Marriage rather unconventional, eh?” the other remarked to me. “Poor Beryl! It is a thousand pities that she has been struck down like that. Six months ago down at Wyndhurst she was the very soul of the house-parties—and here to-day she is dying.”

“Extremely sad,” I remarked. “As a medical man I see too vividly the uncertainty of human life.”

“How is she now?” inquired the Major of her father. “The same, alas!” answered the Tempter with well-assumed sorrow. “She will, we fear, not live till midnight.”

“Poor girl! Poor girl!” the new-comer ejaculated with a sigh, while the Tempter, excusing himself for an instant left the room.

I would have risen and followed, but the Major, addressing me confidentially, said—

“This is a strange whim of my old friend’s, marrying his daughter in this manner. There seems no motive for it, as far as I can gather.”

“No, none,” I responded. “Mr. Wynd has struck me as being somewhat eccentric.”

“He’s a very good fellow—an excellent fellow. Entirely loyal to his friends. You are fortunate, my dear fellow, in having him as a father-in-law. He’s amazingly well off, and generosity itself.”

I recollected his dastardly suggestion that my wife should not live longer than sundown, and smiled within myself. This friend of his evidently did not know his real character.

Besides, being an observant man by nature, I noticed as I sat there one thing which filled me with curiosity. The tops of the Major’s fingers and thumb of his right hand were thick and slightly deformed, while the skin was hardened and the nails worn down to the quick.

While the left hand was of normal appearance, the other had undoubtedly performed hard manual labour. A major holding her Majesty’s commission does not usually bear such evident traces of toil. The hand was out of keeping with the fine diamond ring that flashed upon it.

“The incident of to-day,” I said, “has been to me most unusual. It hardly seems possible that I am a bridegroom, for, truth to tell, I fancied myself the most confirmed of bachelors. Early marriage always hampers the professional man.”

“But I don’t suppose you will have any cause for regret on that score,” he observed. “You will have been a bridegroom and a widower in a single day.”

I was silent. His words betrayed him. He knew of the plot conceived by his friend to bribe me to kill the woman to whom I had been so strangely wedded!

But successfully concealing my surprise at his incautious words, I answered—

“Yes, mine will certainly have been a unique experience.”

He courteously offered me a cigarette, and lighting one himself, held the match to me. Then we sat chatting, he telling me what a charming girl Beryl had been until stricken down by disease.

“What was her ailment?” I inquired.

“I am not aware of the name by which you doctors know it. It is, I believe, a complication of ailments. Half a dozen specialists have seen her, and all are agreed that her life cannot be saved. Wynd has spared no expense in the matter, for he is perfectly devoted to her.”

His words, hardly coincided with the truth, I reflected. So far from being devoted to her, he was anxious, for some mysterious reason, that she should not live after midnight.

“To lose her will, I suppose, be a great blow to him?” I observed, with feigned sympathy.

“Most certainly. She has been his constant friend and companion ever since his wife died, six years ago. I’m awfully sorry for both poor Beryl and Wynd.”

I was about to reply, but his words froze upon my lips, for at that instant there rang through the house a shrill scream—the agonised scream of a woman.

“Listen!” I cried. “What’s that?”

But my companion’s jaw had dropped, and he sat immovable, listening intently.

Again the scream rang out, but seemed stifled and weaker.

The Tempter was with his daughter whom he had determined should die. The thought decided me, and turning, without further word, I dashed from the room, and with quickly-beating heart ran up the wide thickly-carpeted staircase.