A sniff assured Cazalet that he was neither alone at the moment nor yet the only one awake; he pulled back the swaying curtain, which he had taken to keeping drawn at night; and there on the settee, with the thinnest of cigarettes between his muscular fingers, sat a man with a strong blue chin and the quizzical solemnity of an animated sphinx.
It was his cabin companion, an American named Hilton Toye, and Cazalet addressed him with nervous familiarity.
“I say! Have I been talking in my sleep?”
“Why, yes!” replied Hilton Toye, and broke into a smile that made a human being of him.
Cazalet forced a responsive grin, as he reached for his own cigarettes. “What did I say?” he asked, with an amused curiosity at variance with his shaking hand and shining forehead.
Toye took him in from crown to fingertips, with something deep behind his kindly smile. “I judge,” said he, “you were dreaming of some drama you’ve been seeing ashore, Mr. Cazalet.”
“Dreaming!” said Cazalet, wiping his face. “It was a nightmare! I must have turned in too soon after dinner. But I should like to know what I said.”
“I can tell you word for word. You said, ‘Henry Craven — dead!’ and then you said, ‘Dead — dead — Henry Craven!’ as if you’d got to have it both ways to make sure.”
“It’s true,” said Cazalet, shuddering. “I saw him lying dead, in my dream.”
Hilton Toye took a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Thirteen minutes to one in the morning,” he said, “and now it’s September eighteenth. Take a note of that, Mr. Cazalet. It may be another case of second sight for your psychical research society.”
“I don’t care if it is.” Cazalet was smoking furiously.
“Meaning it was no great friend you dreamed was dead?”
“No friend at all, dead or alive!”
“I’m kind of wondering,” said Toye, winding his watch up slowly, “if he’s by way of being a friend of mine. I know a Henry Craven over in England. Lives along the river, down Kingston way, in a big house.”
“Called Uplands?”
“Yes, sir! That’s the man. Little world, isn’t it?”
The man in the upper berth had to hold on as his curtains swung clear; the man tilted back on the settee, all attention all the time, was more than ever an effective foil to him. Without the kindly smile that went as quickly as it came, Hilton Toye was somber, subtle and demure. Cazalet, on the other hand, was of sanguine complexion and impetuous looks. He was tanned a rich bronze about the middle of the face, but it broke off across his forehead like the coloring of a meerschaum pipe. Both men were in their early prime, and each stood roughly for his race and type: the traveled American who knows the world, and the elemental Britisher who has made some one loose end of it his own.
“I thought of my Henry Craven,” continued Toye, “as soon as ever you came out with yours. But it seemed a kind of ordinary name. I might have known it was the same if I’d recollected the name of his firm. Isn’t it Craven & Cazalet, the stockbrokers, down in Tokenhouse Yard?”
“That’s it,” said Cazalet bitterly. “But there have been none of us in it since my father died ten years ago.”
“But you’re Henry Craven’s old partner’s son?”
“I’m his only son.”
“Then no wonder you dream about Henry Craven,” cried Toye, “and no wonder it wouldn’t break your heart if your dream came true.”
“It wouldn’t,” said Cazalet through his teeth. “He wasn’t a white man to me or mine — whatever you may have found him.”
“Oh! I don’t claim to like him a lot,” said Toye.
“But you seem to know a good deal about him?”
“I had a little place near his one summer. I know only what I heard down there.”
“What did you hear?” asked Cazalet. “I’ve been away ten years, ever since the crash that ruined everybody but the man at the bottom of the whole thing. It would be a kindness to tell me what you heard.”
“Well, I guess you’ve said it yourself right now. That man seems to have beggared everybody all around except himself; that’s how I make it out,” said Hilton Toye.
“He did worse,” said Cazalet through his teeth. “He killed my poor father; he banished me to the wilds of Australia; and he sent a better man than himself to prison for fourteen years!”
Toye opened his dark eyes for once. “Is that so? No. I never heard that,” said he.
“You hear it now. He did all that, indirectly, and I don’t care who hears me say so. I didn’t realize it at the time. I was too young, and the whole thing laid me out too flat; but I know it now, and I’ve known it long enough. It was worse than a crash. It was a scandal. That was what finished us off, all but Henry Craven! There’d been a gigantic swindle — special investments recommended by the firm, bogus certificates and all the rest of it. We were all to blame, of course. My poor father ought never to have been a business man at all; he should have been a poet. Even I — I was only a youngster in the office, but I ought to have known what was going on. But Henry Craven did know. He was in it up to the neck, though a fellow called Scruton did the actual job. Scruton got fourteen years — and Craven got our old house on the river!”
“And feathered it pretty well!” said Toye, nodding. “Yes, I did hear that. And I can tell you they don’t think any better of him, in the neighborhood, for going to live right there. But how did he stop the other man’s mouth, and — how do you know?”
“Never mind how I know,” said Cazalet. “Scruton was a friend of mine, though an older man; he was good to me, though he was a wrong ‘un himself. He paid for it — paid for two — that I can say! But he was engaged to Ethel Craven at the time, was going to be taken into partnership on their marriage, and you can put two and two together for yourself.”
“Did she wait for him?”
“About as long as you’d expect of the breed! She was her father’s daughter. I wonder you didn’t come across her and her husband!”
“I didn’t see so much of the Craven crowd,” replied Hilton Toye. “I wasn’t stuck on them either. Say, Cazalet, I wouldn’t be that old man when Scruton comes out, would you?”
But Cazalet showed that he could hold his tongue when he liked, and his grim look was not so legible as some that had come and gone before. This one stuck until Toye produced a big flask from his grip, and the talk shifted to less painful ground. It was the last night in the Bay of Biscay, and Cazalet told how he had been in it a fortnight on his way out by sailing-vessel. He even told it with considerable humor, and hit off sundry passengers of ten years ago as though they had been aboard the German boat that night; for he had gifts of anecdote and verbal portraiture, and in their unpremeditated cups Toye drew him out about the bush until the shadows passed for minutes from the red-brick face with the white-brick forehead.
“I remember thinking I would dig for gold,” said Cazalet. “That’s all I knew about Australia; that and bushrangers and dust-storms and bush-fires! But you can have adventures of sorts if you go far enough up-country for ‘em; it still pays you to know how to use your fists out there. I didn’t, but I was picking it up before I’d been out three months, and in six I was as ready as anybody to take off my coat. I remember once at a bush shanty they dished up such fruity chops that I said I’d fight the cook if they’d send him up; and I’m blowed if it wasn’t a fellow I’d been at school with and worshiped as no end of a swell at games! Potts his name was, old Venus Potts, the best looking chap in the school among other things; and there he was, cooking carrion at twenty-five bob a week! Instead of fighting we joined forces, got a burr-cutting job on a good station, then a better one over shearing, and after that I wormed my way in as bookkeeper, and my pal became one of the head overseers. Now we’re our own bosses with a share in the show, and the owner comes up only once a year to see how things are looking.”
“I hope he had a daughter,” said Toye, “and that you’re going to marry her, if you ha
ven’t yet?”
Cazalet laughed, but the shadow had returned. “No. I left that to my pal,” he said. “He did that all right!”
“Then I advise you to go and do likewise,” rejoined his new friend with a geniality impossible to take amiss. “I shouldn’t wonder, now, if there’s some girl you left behind you.”
Cazalet shook his head. “None who would look on herself in that light,” he interrupted. It was all he said, but once more Toye was regarding him as shrewdly as when the night was younger, and the littleness of the world had not yet made them confidant and boon companion.
Eight bells actually struck before their great talk ended and Cazalet swore that he missed the “watches aft, sir!” of the sailing-vessel ten years before; and recalled how they had never changed watch without putting the ship about, his last time in the bay.
“Say!” exclaimed Hilton Toye, knitting his brows over some nebulous recollection of his own. “I seem to have heard of you and some of your yarns before. Didn’t you spend nights in a log-hut miles and miles from any other human being?”
It was as they were turning in at last, but the question spoiled a yawn for Cazalet.
“Sometimes, at one of our out-stations,” said he, looking puzzled.
“I’ve seen your photograph,” said Toye, regarding him with a more critical stare. “But it was with a beard.”
“I had it off when I was ashore the other day,” said Cazalet. “I always meant to, before the end of the voyage.”
“I see. It was a Miss Macnair showed me that photograph — Miss Blanche Macnair lives in a little house down there near your old home. I judge hers is another old home that’s been broken up since your day.”
“They’ve all got married,” said Cazalet.
“Except Miss Blanche. You write to her some, Mr. Cazalet?”
“Once a year — regularly. It was a promise. We were kids together,” he explained, as he climbed back into the upper berth.
“Guess you were a lucky kid,” said the voice below. “She’s one in a thousand, Miss Blanche Macnair!”
II. SECOND SIGHT
Southampton Water was an ornamental lake dotted with fairy lamps. The stars above seemed only a far-away reflex of those below; but in their turn they shimmered on the sleek silken arm of sleeping sea. It was a midsummer night, lagging a whole season behind its fellows. But already it was so late that the English passengers on the Kaiser Fritz had abandoned all thought of catching the last train up to London.
They tramped the deck in their noisy, shiny, shore-going boots; they manned the rail in lazy inarticulate appreciation of the nocturne in blue stippled with green and red and countless yellow lights. Some delivered themselves of the patriotic platitudes which become the homing tourist who has seen no foreign land to touch his own. But one who had seen more than sights and cities, one who had been ten years buried in the bush, one with such yarns to spin behind those outpost lights of England, was not even on deck to hail them back into his ken. Achilles in his tent was no more conspicuous absentee than Cazalet in his cabin as the Kaiser Fritz steamed sedately up Southampton Water.
He had finished packing; the stateroom floor was impassable with the baggage that Cazalet had wanted on the five-weeks’ voyage. There was scarcely room to sit down, but in what there was sat Cazalet like a soul in torment. All the vultures of the night before, of his dreadful dream, and of the poignant reminiscences to which his dream had led, might have been gnawing at his vitals as he sat there waiting to set foot once more in the land from which a bitter blow had driven him.
Yet the bitterness might have been allayed by the consciousness that he, at any rate, had turned it to account. It had been, indeed, the making of him; thanks to that stern incentive, even some of the sweets of a deserved success were already his. But there was no hint of complacency in Cazalet’s clouded face and heavy attitude. He looked as if he had not slept, after all, since his nightmare; almost as if he could not trust himself to sleep again. His face was pale, even in that torrid zone between the latitudes protected in the bush by beard and wide-awake. And he jumped to his feet as suddenly as the screw stopped for the first time; but that might have been just the curious shock which its cessation always causes after days at sea. Only the same thing happened again and yet again, as often as ever the engines paused before the end. Cazalet would spring up and watch his stateroom door with clenched fists and haunted eyes. But it was some long time before the door flew open, and then slammed behind Hilton Toye.
Toye was in a state of excitement even more abnormal than Cazalet’s nervous despondency, which indeed it prevented him from observing. It was instantaneously clear that Toye was astounded, thrilled, almost triumphant, but as yet just drawing the line at that. A newspaper fluttered in his hand.
“Second sight?” he ejaculated, as though it were the night before and Cazalet still shaken by his dream. “I guess you’ve got it in full measure, pressed down and running over, Mr. Cazalet!”
It was a sorry sample of his talk. Hilton Toye did not usually mix the ready metaphors that nevertheless had to satisfy an inner censor, of some austerity, before they were allowed to leave those deliberate lips. As a rule there was dignity in that deliberation; it never for a moment, or for any ordinary moment, suggested want of confidence, for example. It could even dignify some outworn modes of transatlantic speech which still preserved a perpetual freshness in the mouth of Hilton Toye. Yet now, in his strange excitement, word and tone alike were on the level of the stage American’s. It was not less than extraordinary.
“You don’t mean about—” Cazalet seemed to be swallowing.
“I do, sir!” cried Hilton Toye.
“ — about Henry Craven?”
“Sure.”
“Has — something or other — happened to him?”
“Yep.”
“You don’t mean to say he’s — dead?”
“Last Wednesday night!” Toye looked at his paper. “No, I guess I’m wrong. Seems it happened Wednesday, but he only passed away Sunday morning.”
Cazalet still sat staring at him — there was not room for two of them on their feet — but into his heavy stare there came a gleam of leaden wisdom. “This was Thursday morning,” he said, “so I didn’t dream of it when it happened, after all.”
“You dreamed you saw him lying dead, and so he was,” said Toye. “The funeral’s been to-day. I don’t know, but that seems to me just about the next nearest thing to seeing the crime perpetrated in a vision.”
“Crime!” cried Cazalet. “What crime?”
“Murder, sir!” said Hilton Toye. “Wilful, brutal, bloody murder! Here’s the paper; better read it for yourself. I’m glad he wasn’t a friend of yours, or mine either, but it’s a bad end even for your worst enemy.”
The paper fluttered in Cazalet’s clutch as it had done in Toye’s; but that was as natural as his puzzled frown over the cryptic allusions of a journal that had dealt fully with the ascertainable facts in previous issues. Some few emerged between the lines. Henry Craven had received his fatal injuries on the Wednesday of the previous week. The thing had happened in his library, at or about half past seven in the evening; but how a crime, which was apparently a profound mystery, had been timed to within a minute of its commission did not appear among the latest particulars. No arrest had been made. No clue was mentioned, beyond the statement that the police were still searching for a definite instrument with which it was evidently assumed that the deed had been committed. There was in fact a close description of an unusual weapon, a special constable’s very special truncheon. It had hung as a cherished trophy on the library wall, from which it was missing, while the very imprint of a silver shield, mounted on the thick end of the weapon, was stated to have been discovered on the scalp of the fractured skull. But that was a little bit of special reporting, typical of the enterprising sheet that Toye had procured. The inquest, merely opened on the Monday, had been adjourned to the day of issue.
“We
must get hold of an evening paper,” said Cazalet. “Fancy his own famous truncheon! He had it mounted and inscribed himself, so that it shouldn’t be forgotten how he’d fought for law and order at Trafalgar Square! That was the man all over!”
His voice and manner achieved the excessive indifference which the English type holds due from itself after any excess of feeling. Toye also was himself again, his alert mind working keenly yet darkly in his acute eyes.
“I wonder if it was a murder?” he speculated. “I bet it wasn’t a deliberate murder.”
“What else could it have been?”
“Kind of manslaughter. Deliberate murderers don’t trust to chance weapons hanging on their victims’ walls.”
“You forget,” said Cazalet, “that he was robbed as well.”
“Do they claim that?” said Hilton Toye. “I guess I skipped some. Where does it say anything about his being robbed?”
“Here!” Cazalet had scanned the paper eagerly; his finger drummed upon the place. “‘The police,’” he read out, in some sort of triumph, “‘have now been furnished with a full description of the missing watch and trinkets and the other articles believed to have been taken from the pockets of the deceased.’ What’s that but robbery?”
“You’re dead right,” said Toye. “I missed that somehow. Yet who in thunder tracks a man down to rob and murder him in his own home? But when you’ve brained a man, because you couldn’t keep your hands off him, you might deliberately do all the rest to make it seem like the work of thieves.”
Hilton Toye looked a judge of deliberation as he measured his irrefutable words. He looked something more. Cazalet could not tear his blue eyes from the penetrating pair that met them with a somber twinkle, an enlightened gusto, quite uncomfortably suggestive at such a moment.
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 369