And Garth also jumped to his feet, now almost as pale as she was.
“I beg you, madame, refrain from saying I preach. You are not ‘evil’; let us leave such talk to those who have never been human. You have only the cruelty of the very young, the child who lashes out for what it must have, and fails, and then must call on all the adult world to be protected. If that fails too, you are willing to use any easy weapon at your disposal—seduction, for instance—as you were and are ready to use it with me.”
“You dare!”
“Stop acting, Marion. I tell you the truth.”
“Aunt Blanche…”
“Yes. We must not forget her or what she said to you. Like other children, Marion, you can see facts about yourself when you want to see them. If Mrs. Montague had called you a whore and no more than that, you would not have been frightened enough to attack her. There was something else. What was it?”
In a different voice Marion said, “Somebody’s listening at the door.”
Silence struck at them like a fist.
Both windows were closed. The candle-flame stood steady in windless air. Under these black beams, over the hollows of an ancient floor, it was all but impossible to move without noise. Garth reached the door; he eased back the bolt; very softly he lifted the latch.
Only the moon entered, through a bottle-glass window at the end of the passage.
That window, as he peered out, was on his left past the bedroom door. Towards his right the passage stretched away some fifteen or twenty feet to a steep stair-head and the inn-parlour below. A smell of old wood and stone, of scoured grates and brass-polish, filled the passage like a smell of the past itself. Distantly, through another open window, there was a multitudinous whispering of trees.
Someone might well have crept up to that door, unless this were another trick of the elusive Marion. And yet, as he discovered when he closed the door and turned back, all Marion’s pretence had gone. She had dropped sideways into the ladderback, in a convulsion of anguish all the more real because she felt it as so unfair.
“David, what am I to do? Help me! I don’t ask much, but I do ask that. Don’t stand there like a bump on a log; help me! Oh, dear God, what am I to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was out there? Was it…?”
“Nobody! Nobody was out there! If you don’t lower your voice, though, you’ll rouse the whole house after all.” He waited, hot and cold all over. “Do you appreciate even now, Marion, that you might have committed murder? That you might have killed a woman who has never been anything but kind to you?”
“Oh, what’s the good of talking like that? I had to do it, hadn’t I?”
Garth looked at her.
“Well, hadn’t I? I wish I hadn’t, but what else was there to do? You said you weren’t going to go on at me!”
“I am not going to go on at you. Do you imagine you’re the first person who ever told lies?” Then he caught himself up. “No. No, according to your lights, I suppose you couldn’t have acted in any other way. The point is—”
On the large round table there was a wooden box half full of Sullivan cigarettes. He had left them there on Friday, forgetting to fill his case. Taking a cigarette out of the box now, he lifted the candle to light it and was astonished to find his arm shaking uncontrollably until with an effort he steadied both arm and candle-holder. Marion, her eyes smeary with tears, glared up at him sideways as though this lighting of the cigarette were the worst act of treachery he had done.
“Now pay attention,” he said. “How could you describe what Glynis Stukeley was wearing on Friday night?”
“Oh, what does it matter?”
“Answer me!”
“I saw her. She was there.”
“She was where?”
“She was sitting in the side road past Uncle Sel’s house. I saw her when I got there on foot, though I pretended not to see her. She was waiting.”
“Well?”
“I think Aunt Blanche asked her to come there at the same time I was asked. I think that horrible woman guessed there was danger; I think she smelled danger; I think she was afraid of being caught in some way. So she waited. But I knew she’d never be able to prove she wasn’t in the house if I swore she was; they wouldn’t believe the cabby, either. I might not be able to get her hanged, but at least I could get her put in prison for life.”
“Marion, for God’s sake!”
“You want me to tell the truth, don’t you? What do you want?”
“Then you had seen or met Glynis Stukeley before?”
“Yes! You know I had!”
“Where had you seen her?”
“When I was in Paris with…when I was in Paris.”
“Was she blackmailing you?”
“She didn’t get the chance. But she wanted to.”
“Why? What did she know about you? Was it…?”
And then, on the edge of victory, Garth hesitated. Marion’s eyes brimmed over.
If there were good reasons why he hesitated, and these reasons had nothing to do with delicacy or consideration now, he cursed himself none the less. Behind the screen of Marion’s words lurked another person whose violence had not stopped short as hers had done, and who might not stop again at killing if a certain position in life were threatened.
But Garth hesitated. Marion (always alert, always with antennae to catch the mood of any man) saw it at once. She was on her feet, appealing.
“I know what you’re going to ask. I’ll die before I tell you. I’m not going to have people say…well! what they will say if they learn. Knowing what you must know, David, in the name of pity or mercy can you ask me to degrade myself by admitting that? And how long it’s been happening with that particular one?”
Garth looked at the cigarette. He dropped it on the floor, grinding his heel on it. He turned away from her, and then back again.
“You can’t, David. You know you can’t. It’ll be bad enough whatever happens. What am I going to do?”
“And I tell you again, I don’t know! It’s not so much your fault, perhaps. There are lies and subterfuges in all our lives, God knows. And Vince loves you; that’s the main consideration. If only there were some means of hushing this up while still keeping the police away from Betty…”
“Isn’t there some means? Isn’t there?”
“There may be. I must try to think. It won’t be easy. And if any outsider heard and understood the conversation we are having at this minute—”
He broke off, swinging round.
Whatever Marion had heard before, there could be no doubt about what they heard now. The footstep in the passage outside was light and furtive. But a side of a shoe had brushed the skirting-board. Then there was no more sound.
PART III
THE DARKNESS
In England Sunday, as is well known, is observed as a day of rest and public worship. Shops, places of amusement, and the City restaurants are closed the whole day, while other restaurants are open from 1 to 3, and from 6 to 11 P.M. only. Many museums and galleries, however, are now open on Sun. (see p. 82).
—Baedeker’s London and Its Environs for 1908
12
THE WARMTH OF THAT Sunday afternoon, with a blaze of sunshine on water and parade and sea-front gardens, lent to Fairfield a strength of life and colour that might almost have been mistaken for abandon.
It is true that at just past three o’clock, with the tide high though on the ebb, the beach lay deserted. Bathing was not permitted on Sunday. It is true that full church-going costume was de rigeur for an afternoon stroll, so that the sun flashed on constantly lifted top-hats and the grave inclination of parasols from the Florence Nightingale Monument at the northern end of the parade to the Royal Albert Aquarium at the southern end.
But it remained a heartening sight.
Its two large hotels, the Palace and the Imperial, raised their turrets and awnings in Victoria Avenue behind and parallel with the sea-front g
ardens, with names in gilded letters two feet high. Motor-cars quivered along Victoria Avenue, though at a pace so decorous that only a honking of bulb-horns disturbed horses. In the gardens beds of scarlet geraniums and blue lobelias against white alison drew glowing circles and triangles round a rococo band-stand in which heavy brass was being massed, like artillery, for the first cumber of the usual Sunday afternoon concert.
Sunday, June 16. And we see our protagonist in formal morning-dress.
David Garth, approaching from the south past the side of the aquarium, glanced along the parade and then scanned the gardens. It was as though he were hoping to see someone; and yet, at the same time, avoid seeing someone else.
He went up the sandstone steps of the Royal Albert Aquarium. There he stood with his back to its elaborate ironwork façade, watching the few people who drifted in and out of the doors, and again scanning the gardens. He had consulted his watch only twice when he saw the approach of Cullingford Abbot, fresh gardenia in buttonhole and silk hat again glossy.
“But, my dear fellow,” said Abbot, going gingerly up the steps of the aquarium, “why here? Of all places, why here?” He put up his eyeglass to study the façade. “Do you know, it’s so aesthetically horrible that I honestly like it?”
Whereupon he got a close look at Garth.
“By the way, speaking of the aesthetically horrible—” he added.
“I had a bad night. I couldn’t sleep.”
“You look as though you hadn’t slept for a month. Bad as all that?”
“Almost. It was one of the reasons why I telephoned you.”
All about them passed a joy of blattering voices, even through stately Fairfield. Bicycle-bells rang in afternoon air. At one side of the aquarium’s doors a poster in red letters announced the opening of the new Brooklands Motor-Racing Track at Weybridge.
Nearly every public pronouncement, in this year, carried similar news of speed and progress; as when the Cunarder Mauretania won the Blue Ribband of the Atlantic with a record that would not be beaten for twenty-two years, and Signor Marconi spanned the same ocean with his ghostly signals. Yet no doubt the real concerns of every person on that promenade today were whittled down, like Garth’s, to some urgent private worry.
“Tell me,” he went on. “How much power have you got at the Criminal Investigation Department?”
“H’m. All I need, I suppose, if I care to take it.”
“Twigg has been put in charge of the Glynis Stukeley affair, I understand?”
“So I understand too.” Abbot’s expression sharpened. “Why?”
“Come inside,” said Garth.
From the bandstand in the gardens came an experimental whump and boom as instruments were tested. A crowd had begun to gather there. The inside of the Royal Albert Aquarium, despite its height was extraordinarily dark and damp. Water in an aquarium is confined; it is behind glass; it should not, you think, seem to soak the visitor himself to his very bones.
“One of the reasons I chose this place,” Garth continued, “is that Twigg isn’t likely to look for me here until I can establish some kind of defence.”
“Defence?”
“Yes. You’ve heard what the best form of defence is. Are you in the mood for any kind of bargain or negotiation?”
“That depends. What have you in mind?”
“Specifically, I want you to deal with Twigg. I want you to keep him from questioning Betty or Marion—either of them—for twenty-four hours. And I want you to refrain from questioning them yourself.”
They had begun to move round the echoing hall, deserted by those who had left for the band-concert. But they did not so much as look into the glass cases; they were watching each other. They stopped, and Abbot whistled.
“My dear chap! You don’t ask very much, do you?”
“I am asking very nearly the earth, let’s admit At the same time…”
“Oh, don’t let it trouble you.” Abbot’s moustache went up in a sardonic grimace. “I am no stickler for rules. In effect, though, you are inviting me to come over and join you in the enemy’s camp.”
“No, I am not! I spoke of a bargain.”
“And what do you offer in exchange?”
“I think I can offer you the murderer. Wait!” he added. “Under ordinary circumstances, I know, a remark like that would be sheer nonsense. The amateur who believes he can match himself against the official police belongs in a book and nowhere else. This is the thousandth case, the different case. I might have invented it myself.”
“Quite so. Twigg thinks you did.”
“I might have invented it for a story, that is.”
“Yes. It’s almost the same thing.”
They continued to pace, past witless-looking fishes, with Garth’s harassed and desperate face reflected in the glass beside Abbot’s cynically amused one.
“Damme, man, I like your nerve! I mean that sincerely. Stop! I’m only wondering if it’s feasible, which I doubt. Twigg thinks you’re a wrong ’un; in his own phrase, a cross cove. By this time he’s not even sure of me.” Abbot hesitated. “Look here, what’s been happening since last night?”
“All merry blue blazes has been happening since last night! Do you know what it is to have two frantic women on your hands at the same time?”
“Now that remark, my dear fellow, is open to misconstruction.”
“Yes. All right.” Garth shut his eyes, opened them, and went on pacing. “I seem to have lost my sense of humour as well as any sense of proportion or of truth-telling. The trouble is that an explosion is likely at any minute. Twigg arrived at Ravensport from London quite early this morning. Incidentally, why do the Ravensport police appear so much in this? Why do you all make a headquarters there? Isn’t Betty’s house within the Fairfield area?”
“Technically, yes. But Fairfield’s police are rather too much like Fairfield’s inhabitants. Ravensport, mediaeval town or not, is more up-to-date. About Twigg: you were saying?”
“He has discovered something, or rather several things, about which he’ll do no more than hint to Betty. One thing has to do with her bicycle—”
“Oh?”
“The other concerns some lengths of white sash-cord which appear to have been left in the bedroom Glynis Stukeley never lived to use. I can’t establish the actual facts. If Twigg won’t do more than hint to Betty herself, it’s unlikely he’ll tell me.”
Abbot pondered.
“Garth,” he said, “suppose I agreed to your fantastic suggestion? Hold on!”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think it’s at all feasible, mind. Let’s allow it is. If I’m not to join in the hunt myself, or have the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Bostwick again soon…”
“It needn’t prevent you from seeing Marion. That’s a part of my plan.”
“Well confound it,” and Abbot turned a wintry, toothy smile, “you must give me a sporting run for my risk! What is this plan of yours?”
Not too distantly the Fairfield band, as though you could see all its members, sailed together into the opening bars of the Poet and Peasant Overture.
Abbot looked irritated as the music engulfed them. Since they were not far from the entrance, he deliberately walked back and with no by-your-leave to anyone pushed shut the big front doors of the Royal Albert Aquarium. All sounds were muted except a drip of water. He and Garth were alone in a place which seemed damper and gloomier. But hope surged up at last in David Garth.
“This morning after breakfast,” he answered, “I went to the Central Post Office at Ravensport. Just as you suggested.”
“Ah! To send a telegram to young Fielding?”
“I changed my mind about the telegram. It might not reach Michael in time; it might not reach him at all. There was a possibility he might be at Bart’s Hospital this morning. And he was. I spoke to him on the telephone.”
“Well?”
“Abbot, I’ve been very stupid in this affair. If an impressionable young innocent like Micha
el became involved with the late Glynis—or, to be exact, if she deliberately picked him up—it was no coincidence. Nothing has been coincidence. And if Michael can give us the answers to just two questions, it’s the first move towards forcing the murderer into a corner. But I can’t wait. Twigg is too close.”
“Granting that, you still haven’t told me this plan of attack! What is it?”
Garth took out his watch, consulted it, and put it back.
“Michael has taken a train due at Fairfield in just over twenty minutes. Betty is meeting the train. She’ll bring him in a cab to the Palace Hotel, your hotel. If I am standing outside the hotel at that time, it means you’ll give my scheme a chance; and they’ll stop. If I am not outside the hotel, they will meet me at another place.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Vince and Marion Bostwick meet us too. Abbot,” Garth added with desperate sincerity, “I apologize for putting you in a position like this. I apologize for what must seem to be vulgarity and melodrama—”
“My dear fellow,” interrupted Abbot, with an explosive little chuckle behind closed teeth, “never apologize for either vulgarity or melodrama of the sort I think you mean. This pleases me. By Jove, it does!”
A dozen feet inside the big doors, they faced each other in different moods. Their voices had a hollow reverberation under iron girders.
“The gathering of such a group, you know,” Abbot pursued, “should have stimulating results.”
“I am hoping it will.”
“Are Mr. and Mrs. Bostwick necessary to this conference?”
“Yes. They won’t like it; but then nobody will like it, especially Betty. Let me add a fact which will mean nothing to you at the moment, and yet it ought to be indicated for bitter irony’s sake. Marion Bostwick has not the faintest notion who the murderer really is.”
“Now why the devil should she have?”
“Forgive me.” Garth checked himself. “That should not have been said, and may never have to be said at all.”
“Look here, if you fail in this…?”
The Witch of the Low Tide Page 14