Beyond this place

by Cronin, A. J. (Archibald Joseph), 1896-1981

  "Wait, Catharine," he cried. "I must talk to you."

  She paused listlessly, her head drooping upon her soft and slender breast. Wrung by her attitude, by her extraordinary pallor, he hesitated, and instead of importuning her, he asked:

  "Where are the children?"

  "I sent them to Mother's. I thought you would wish them to miss the publicity of this . . . calamity."

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  He knew that she had acted wisely, that he himself had sanctioned this step, nevertheless, he longed for the warm and affectionate greeting of his daughters. After a brief silence, he stole a look at her.

  "This isn't a very gay homecoming for a man who's been badgered all day. Can't we cheer up, Catharine, and have some dinner together?"

  "I have ordered dinner for you, Matt. But you must excuse me. I don't feel well."

  Again, the blood rushed into his face, he glared at her with a red, dejected eye.

  "What the devil's wrong with you?"

  She answered brokenly:

  "Can't you guess?"

  "No, I can't. And I see no reason why in my own house I should be treated like a leper."

  She placed one hand on the balustrade of the staircase and half turned away.

  "Forgive me, Matt. I must go and lie down."

  "No," he almost shouted. "Not before you give me some explanation."

  There was a long pause; then, still supporting herself upon the banister with one foot on the lowest step, she lifted her head and gazed at him, like a wounded bird.

  "I thought . . . you might have understood . . . what a shock this has been to me. All these years when I overheard people running you down . . . saying things against you ... I simply laughed. I refused to believe it. I was your wife. I trusted you. But now . . . now I see . . . something of what they meant. Today, in court, Grahame was not throwing mud at you. He was telling the truth, Matt. You sentenced a man to death, and to worse than death, for your own ambition, simply to get yourself on." She passed her thin hand in anguish over her forehead. "Oh, how could you? How could you? It was horrible, just to look at that poor wretch and see what he had suffered."

  "Catharine," he exclaimed, coming nearer to her, "you don't know what you are saying. It's my duty to secure a conviction."

  "No, no," she cried. "It's your duty to see justice done."

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  "But, my dear," he persisted, thickly, "I am the instrument of justice. When a criminal is clearly guilty I am compelled to bring him to book."

  "Even at the cost of suppressing evidence?"

  "Presentation of the prisoner's case is incumbent on his counsel."

  "While you employ every means to entrap and condemn him. You are . . . you are what they call the devil's advocate."

  "Catharine! Because you are overwrought, you must not be unreasonable. You saw today what Mathry is."

  "I saw what he had become. And with it all, he did not look like a murderer. He looked ... he looked as though someone had murdered him."

  "Don't be hysterical," he said harshlv. "He has not been exonerated yet."

  "But he will be," she whispered.

  "That remains to be seen."

  Although her lips trembled, she gave him a long intense look.

  "Matt, you know — have you not always known? — that he is innocent."

  At that word "innocent," which he had heard so often from the dock, but which, now, uttered by his wife, assumed a terrifying significance, a sudden sweep of emotion flooded over him, a strange commingling of anger and desire, a wish to hurt, yet to console her, and through it all, an abject longing to lay his head upon her breast and weep. He came close to her and tried to put his arm about her waist, but with a nervous spasm she recoiled.

  "Don't touch me."

  The exclamation froze him; and in her face, ravaged as it was by grief and suffering, there was something he had never seen before, a look, almost of hostility, and what was worse, of fear. He watched her as she turned and went slowly up the stairs.

  The gong sounded for dinner.

  He went in alone to the dining room where the table was laid for one. In silence, the maid brought in the soup. It was his favourite dinner — oxtail soup, grilled sole, a tournedos of good

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  red meat, apple charlotte, and a savoury or Stilton cheese. But the food was tasteless in his mouth, he ate in grinding abstraction, a core of anger burning within the misery of his soul. Once or twice, as the service door swung open, he could hear from behind the draught screen the rustle of a newspaper and the murmur of voices in the kitchen. His temper flared suddenly, and in an overbearing tone he abused the elderly maid for serving him so ill.

  When he had done, he flung away from the table and entered his study. Here, driven by necessity and the tortured condition of his nerves, he broke from his rule and mixed himself a large whiskey and water, then threw himself into his chair. The turmoil in his mind was something he had never experienced before, and yet, with it there was a kind of emptiness, a cruel vacuum in which he felt himself lost. He dreaded what might happen next day, yet he barely considered it. He was like a man brought down by a stroke of apoplexy — confused and muddled, striving unsuccessfully to find his bearings. All that he had sought for and achieved, his rich belongings which surrounded him, his finely bound books, his beautiful pictures, seemed suddenly to have no meaning. He could think of nothing but Catharine, and in the silent house he strained his ears for some sound of her upstairs.

  He took another drink and gradually his senses warmed, things looked altogether less dark. Catharine was a highly strung creature, a perfect thoroughbred, but she would get over this unlucky business. After all, had she not shared in his rise, his prosperity. He would go to her presently. Yes, more than ever he had need of her. His pulse beat faster as he dwelt upon her gentle, obedient, loving favours, her fastidiousness, her inveterate kindness to him.

  It was now eleven o'clock, the servants had crone to bed and the house was completely still. He got up, switched off the lights and softly tip-toed his way upstairs.

  Outside his wife's bedroom he paused with thudding heart, a fountain of desire, a craving for svmpathv welling within him. He placed his fingers on the handle of the door and gently

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  turned it. It was locked. Dismayed, he called to Catharine in a low voice . . . then louder. There was no answer. Again he tried and again, twisting the handle violently, with his shoulder pressed against the panels. But the door was firmly secured. For a moment his thick body drew together in a paroxysm, as though to batter down the barrier, then, gradually, grew slack. The prosecutor swung round and, with drooping lip, groped his way to his own room.

  CHAPTER XVII

  THAT same evening, as the long hours passed, a singular compulsion grew on Paul. His mother and Pastor Fleming had gone out to seek consolation at the eight-o'clock service in the nearby Gospel Hall, and although they had pressed him, he had flatly refused to accompany them. Ella, in a fit of sulks, had retired to her room. Matmy, under strict instructions from Dunn and McEvoy, was already in bed. Paul sat alone in the living room at the Windsor, quite alone, caught in the backwash of the day's emotions, a prey to a strange and complex despondency, and to a premonition he could not dismiss.

  Several newspapers lay scattered at his feet. Rumours of Oswald's involvement had multiplied rapidly and now the headlines proclaimed the latest sensation of the Mathry case. From his chair the black banner type was clearly visible.

  WHERE IS ENOCH OSWALD? MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF THE SILVER KING

  As, once again, he read these words, the impulse to act swelled within him, took stronger shape and form, until it proved irresistible. It was not yet nine o'clock. He rose from his chair, put on his coat and hat, and went out of the hotel. His premonition was now so intense it seemed a certainty.

  Earlier, a heavy dew had damped the pavements and this, in

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HIS PLACE

  turn, had yielded to a cold grey mist which, although it was not yet quite dark, swathed and blanketed the streets. He had turned his steps in the direction ot Eldon. And now it became apparent that his destination was Ushaw Terrace. Presently he entered number 52. As he began, a shadowy figure, to climb the stairs, passing Prusty's flat, the muffled stillness pressed upon his eardrums. With a calm forehead, but fast beating pulse, he mounted to the top landing, paused, then deliberately knocked upon the door of the fatal apartment.

  There was no answer. Could he have been mistaken? Impulsively, taking from his pocket the key which Prusty had given him, he inserted it in the lock. It turned easily. Then, at last, he was inside and had closed the door behind him.

  In a firm voice he said:

  "Is anyone there?"

  There was no reply.

  No lights were showing. He stood motionless in the tenebrous hallway, conscious of the surrounding silence, the deadened silence of the fog, making more complete the cold stillness of the unused flat. Yet the place did not seem neglected — there was neither mustiness nor smell of damp. He found a box of matches in his coat and cautiously struck a flare. The linoleum floor was clean, the solid mahogany hat-stand free of dust. As the match flickered he saw the open door leading to the living room. He took three paces forward and went in.

  Once more he called:

  "Is anyone there?"

  Again there was no answer. Perhaps, after all, he was alone in the flat.

  He lit the gas in the pink frosted globe. Up until that moment he had been moderately calm, his nerves congealed by the courage which had brought him here. But now, as he viewed the dreaded room wherein had taken place the tragedy which was to affect so many lives, his flesh seemed to melt upon his bones. The terrifying quality of the room, revealed by the faded gaslight, was its complete normality. There stood the round oak table beneath the brass chandelier. Two plush arm chairs flanked the hearth where, behind a paper fan, the fire was neatly laid.

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  The andirons and fender, the mirror and ornaments above the mantel, all were clean and polished, the clock indicated the correct time.

  All at once Paul sharply caught his breath. Suddenly, from the bedroom beyond, came the creaking or a board — a sound which, though faint, rang through the muted house like the crack of doom. He started, and his eyes darted towards the bedroom door. He had to summon all his manhood to fight down a desire to turn and bolt as, a moment later, he heard a dragging tread upon the floor. Although he had expected this, although it was the very reason of his coming, he stood rooted when, presently, the bedroom door opened and Enoch Oswald appeared, dressed in his usual sober black, but dishevelled, with his tie undone, his face pallid, his hair streaked upon his brow, his eyes hollow and heavy as though he had arisen from sleep. Like an apparition he came slowly towards Paul, stared deeply into his face.

  "It is you," he said at last. His voice was deep and weary, charged with a harsh resonance which matched his gaunt, ungainly frame. "I felt you might visit me. I knew you had the key."

  He lowered himself into a chair at the table and, with a measured gesture, indicated the place beside him.

  "I regret that I cannot offer you refreshment. I moved in here only yesterday, on an impulse, one might even say, a whim. So far I have not troubled about food." While he spoke Oswald's eyeballs rolled round their sockets in a blank survey of the room, then rested upon Paul. "Tell me . . . why you have come?"

  Paul felt his mouth go dry. How could he explain what was in his mind? He tried to find his voice, strove to keep it even.

  "I guessed you'd be here. I've come ... to tell you to clear out ... to get away at once."

  There was a strange pause. Through his lethargy, that leaden heaviness which lay upon him, Oswald beamed a sudden glance at Paul.

  "You surprise me, young man. You surprise me greatly. I am not unaware of your activities during these last months. I fancied you were not particularly . . . well-disposed . . . towards me."

  "I feel different now," Paul answered in a low voice. "What

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  I've been through, what I saw in court today, what I've learned of the machinery of the law . . . has changed my ideas. There's been enough suffering and wretchedness over this case. They gave my father fifteen years of misery. What good will it do if they start all over again on you? So go away, while you can. At the very earliest, they won't issue a warrant until tomorrow night. You have twenty-four hours to leave the country. At least it gives you a chance."

  "A chance," Oswald echoed in an indescribable tone. "A chance." He was in a kind of rapture, his long upper lip quivering, his ivory skin suffused with colour, his great eyes rolling, humidly, beneath their silver brows. "Young man," he cried suddenly, in a loud, fervent voice, "there is still hope for humanity. Oh, now I am sure . . . sure that my Redeemer liveth!"

  Unable to restrain himself, he got to his feet and began rapidly to pace the room, cracking the joints of his fingers, lifting up his head from time to time, as though in thanksgiving. At last, with an effort to master his emotion, he resumed his seat, and gripped Paul tightly by the arm.

  "My dear young man, besides my gratitude, I owe you an explanation. It is only your due that you should hear the whole tragic story."

  Still holding Paul in that iron grasp he stared into his eyes and, after a silence, hoarsely began, in a manner so archaic, so scriptural in tone, it crossed the borderline of reason.

  "Young man," he said, "I have all my life endured a visitation from above. From my earliest childhood, I have been an epileptic." He paused to draw a deep sigh, then went on. "My parents were elderly ... I was their only son. Under these circumstances I was brought up in a sheltered manner, plucked from the local school to be educated by a tutor, indulged in every way.

  "I was late to develop, but since my tastes lay towards medicine I was sent at the age of nineteen to the university, thence to St. Mary's Hospital. Alas, my disorder interrupted, finally cut short my medical studies. I was forced to return home. Yet gradually, when I had passed my twenty-fifth year, my nervous attacks diminished and almost disappeared, and I was able to take my place in my father's extensive business and to assume the

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  manifold responsibilities to which I was heir. When I attained the age of thirty I became engaged to a lady of fine character whose family, of a standing equal to my own, consented that our marriage should take place if, after a probationary period, it was finally evident that my disability had been cured."

  Oswald paused, and another sigh racked his chest.

  "Unhappily, during this period, I became acquainted with the woman Spurring who, as you know, worked in a florist's into which, by sheer chance, I had gone to order some flowers for my fiancee. I shall not dwell upon the triviality of that first encounter, nor upon the insidious manner in which our liaison developed from it. I accept full blame for my weakness and sinfulness. Nevertheless, I can affirm that in my downfall I received every assistance from my paramour. Never, my young friend, allow yourself to become ensnared by a vain, demanding woman. Mona exacted everything from me — clothes, jewelry, money, an apartment — and when, in the last resort, I offered to make full provision for her and the child she was expecting, she refused, in the most offensive terms. Marriage alone would satisfy her.

  "At that precise moment my father died. Driven frantic by grief and worry, I experienced a sharp recurrence of my epileptic seizures. After one particularly violent fit I went by arrangement to interview the woman Spurling. Ah, my dear young man, you cannot realise how painful and dangerous is the post-epileptic state. After one rises from the ground, pale and livid, with bitten tongue and frothing lips, the mind remains in a deep narcosis, a sort of oblivion, but the passions, as though still convulsed, are violent and excited. It was in this condition that, goaded beyond endurance, I lost myself utterly, and did the murder."

  A long pause
followed and the wild disorder of Oswald's features altered to a pallid smile — a look so secret, so expressive of a warped and twisted mind, that Paul gripped the sides of his chair.

  "My immediate impulse was to give myself up. Then, for the first time, the Inner Voice spoke to me. One word. 'Refrain.' It was not that I feared the consequences of my crime, but simply that I perceived stretching before me, like a great and holy landscape, what I might do, in reparation and atonement, if I were

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  free." Oswald's manner suddenly grew lofty, suffused by dignity. "Thereupon, I dedicated my life to the service of mankind. Aloud I cried: 1 will care for the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind. And I shall be blessed, for recompense shall be made me at the resurrection of the just!'"

  "But what . . ." Paul interposed, "what about the man who was condemned?"

  "Ah!" breathed Oswald in a tone of profound regret. "That was the one flaw in my scheme of reclamation. But it was so ordained. I will not deny that, several times, I was tempted to surrender myself. But the Voice spoke again, and again, more imperiously, in the dark stillness of the night. 'What! Art thou like unto the man that began to build a house and was not able to finish? Give thyself up and, under the law, all thy goods will be forfeit to the state. Refrain!' Ah, yes, my dear young man, I was deeply contrite. Yet what could I do? We are all the instruments of a Higher Power. Suffering is our lot. The end justifies the means." Again that bleak and twisted smile spread, almost slyly, over Oswald's marbled face. "The Inner Voice even suggested steps, precautions to ensure my safety, so that my great work might go forward. There were those, as you know, who sought to profit by a vague suspicion of my guilt. Although I imposed my will upon them, took them into my house, moulded them as the potter does the clay, they remained a source of anxiety. Ah, do not imagine that my life was one of ease. On the contrary, I subjected myself, continually, to the most rigorous austerities. The nervous malady which had plagued me from my youth was now a constant affliction — in prostrating seizures twice and even three times a week I endured its crushing embrace. And, above all, this most oppressive and difficult of all my undertakings, was the constant guard I was obliged to keep upon myself, holding my inspired actions within the mundane limits of convention so that all those outside prying eyes might not read my secret."