by Sapper
She paused, and I saw that Darrell was moistening his lips with his tongue, and that Jerningham’s face was white. There was something far more terrifying in this calm matter-of-fact voice than if she had ranted and raved.
“This fourth man,” she continued, “this bank clerk presented a conundrum. Believe me, sir,” she turned to me, “I have no enmity against you. It is a sheer misfortune that you should be here, but since you are, you’ve got to stay.”
“Please don’t apologise,” I said sarcastically. “Your treatment of your guest has left nothing to be desired.”
But she seemed to have forgotten my existence: her real audience consisted of the other three.
“The Friar’s Heel,” she remarked. “You solved that quicker than I thought you would. And here you are. This gentleman has doubtless already told you that these stones form a model of Stonehenge. And you wonder why I should have taken so much trouble. I will tell you.
“Revenge is sweet, but to taste of its joys to the utmost, to extract from it the last drop of satisfaction, it must be as carefully planned as any other entertainment. That is why I regret so bitterly that it was Drummond himself who died at the Mere. I like to think of him struggling in that room – struggling to breathe – and knowing all the time that it was I who had done it. But I would far sooner have had him here; because he has escaped the supreme thing I had planned for him.”
With one hand outstretched she stood facing the other three.
“He killed my man. You know it. You cannot deny it.”
“If by that you mean he killed Carl Peterson, I do not deny it,” said Darrell calmly. “And no man ever deserved death more richly.”
“Deserved death!” Her voice rose. “Who are you, you dogs, to pronounce judgment on such a man?”
With an effort she controlled herself.
“However, we will not bandy words. He killed my man – even as I shall shortly kill his woman.”
She fell silent for a while staring at the plaster cast, and I saw Darrell’s anxious eyes roving round the room. They met mine for a moment, and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. It was out now: there was no bluff about it. Death was in sight, and the manner of it seemed of but little account. Death – unless…
Feverishly I stared around. Death, unless Drummond intervened. I looked up at the roof, remembering the sailor of the night before – but this time it was empty. And all the time the man called Paul stood watching the woman with sombre eyes.
“It has not been very easy, Darrell.” She was speaking again. “My servants have blundered: mistakes have been made. But from the moment she fell into my hands the final issue has never been in doubt. I might have had to forego this. I might even have had to forego getting the lot of you. But her life has been forfeit since that moment: I have played with her at times, letting her think that she would be free if you found her, and she, stupid little fool, has believed me. Free!” She laughed. “There have been times when only the greatest restraint has prevented me killing her with my own hands. And now I am glad, for I would like you to see her die.”
“Carissima,” said the man called Paul, “is it wise to delay? All has gone so well up to now, and I fear something may happen.”
“What can happen?” she said calmly. “Who can interrupt us? The time has passed when there was danger of surprise. Your police, Darrell, are stickers. And although I did not think you would enlist their aid, there was the little matter of the blood in the ditch. I felicitated dear Phyllis on that: Paul tells me that she practically killed him with one blow of that heavy spanner – naughty girl.”
“For God’s sake get on with it, woman,” said Jerningham harshly.
“The essence of satisfactory revenge, my friend,” she remarked, “is not to hurry. The night is yet young.”
I closed my eyes. The powerful gleaming lights against the black made me drowsy. It was a dream all this – it must be. In a few moments I should awake, and see my own familiar room.
“What think you of the setting of my revenge?” From a great distance her voice came to me, and I forced myself back to reality again. “Stonehenge – in miniature. Theatrical – perhaps: but the story fascinates me. And because in this year of grace the real place cannot be used it was necessary to make a model.”
With brooding eyes she stared in front of her.
“We will rehearse it once, Paul. I am in the mood. Turn out the lights.”
“Carissima,” he protested, “is it wise?”
“Turn out the lights,” she said curtly, and with a muttered oath he obeyed.
“I am in a strange mood tonight.” Her voice – low and throbbing – came to us out of the darkness. “It is true that I have rehearsed it before, that I know exactly every effect – but I would postpone it awhile. Besides it may be that you, who will watch the real performance, can suggest something at the rehearsal. Think well, you watchers: use your imagination, for only thus will you appreciate my plan.
“Night. Darkness such as this. Around us on the grass a multitude who wait.”
I sat up stiffly: was it imagination or had something passed close to my chair?
“They wait in silence, whispering perhaps, amongst themselves of what is about to happen. They have seen it before – many times, but the mystery of what they are about to see and the wonder of it never palls.
“Darkness – and then in the east the faint light that comes before the dawn. Look!”
It was clever – damnably clever. How the lights had been arranged to give the effect I cannot say, but at the end of the room behind the Friar’s Heel there came a faint luminosity. It was more a general lessening of the darkness than anything else, and one could just see the outlines of the stones against it.
“A murmur like a wave beating on the shore – then silence once again. A gentle breeze, faint scented with the smell of country kisses their faces, and is gone, whilst all the time the dawn comes nearer: the tense expectancy increases.”
I couldn’t help it. I was fascinated in spite of myself. My reason told me that all these elaborate preparations were nothing more nor less than the preliminaries to cold-blooded murder. And yet, theatrical though they might be, and were, they were also artistically impressive. I remember that I found myself thinking what a marvellous stage effect it would be.
Gradually the light behind the Friar’s Heel increased, and then the woman began to sing. Her voice was small but true, and she sang in a tongue I did not know. It was a wild barbaric thing that sounded like one of those bizarre Magyar folk songs, and the effect was incredible. I found myself sweating with sheer excitement, all danger forgotten; and the others said after they had felt the same. The light grew brighter: her song wilder and more triumphant. And then suddenly she ceased.
“It comes,” she cried. “The God comes. And as the first rays fall on the slaughter stone, and the woman who lies there, the sacrifice is made.”
Out of the lessening darkness came a rim of golden light. It appeared behind the Friar’s Heel, and gradually grew larger and larger, even as the sun appears above the horizon. A yellow ball of electric light being raised slowly on a winding gear: so said reason. But imagination saw the scene of countless centuries ago.
“The shadows shorten,” she whispered. “Soon they will reach the slaughter stone and pass it by. This time there is no victim – but next… My God! What’s that?”
Her voice rose to a sudden shrill cry, and for a while we all stared stupidly. For now the slaughter stone was bathed in light, and on its smooth surface was a gruesome object. One end was red with dried up blood, and the other had a nail.
The man called Paul moved slowly towards it.
“It’s a man’s finger,” he muttered, and his voice was shaking.
“A man’s finger,” repeated the woman. “But how did it get there? How did it get there?” she screamed. “How did it get there, you fool?”
And Paul could give no answer.
“A man’s finger,
” she said once more, and glancing at her I saw that every drop of blood had drained from her face. “Where is Grant?”
“Grant,” said Paul stupidly. “Why do you want Grant?”
“Drummond shot his finger off,” she answered. “In the room below the Mere. Get him. Get him, you wretched fool, at once.”
“But will you be all right?” he began, and again from behind me came the throaty chuckle. “Great Scott! the butterfly man.”
I turned round. Sure enough there was Toby Sinclair, powerless in the hands of the Negro. The mystery of the finger was explained.
“Damn you!” he cried, “this is an outrage.”
“Put him in a seat, Pedro,” said the woman, and Toby was forced into the chair next to mine.
“If it isn’t Mr Seymour,” he fumed angrily. “Are these people mad? Is this place a lunatic asylum?”
He subsided into angry mutterings, and I said nothing. For now I was too excited to speak: it was evident that the game was beginning in grim earnest.
“Get Grant,” said the woman, and Paul left the room.
She stood motionless leaning against the altar stone whilst that damnable nigger shambled round the room and then disappeared again. Toby Sinclair still continued to curse audibly, and the other three stared in front of them with eyes bright with anticipation. What was going to happen next? Once Sinclair stole a glance at me and winked, and I must confess that wink heartened me considerably. Because even now I saw very little light in the darkness.
The door opened, and Paul came in followed by the man with the damaged hand.
“Grant,” said the woman quietly, “is that your finger?”
He gave a violent start: then he picked it up with a trembling hand.
“It is,” he muttered foolishly. “At least, I – I think it is, it must be.”
“Do you recognise any of these men?” she went on.
“I recognise those three,” he stammered, and Darrell nodded pleasantly.
“A little morning exercise by the waters of the Mere,” he remarked.
“And what of the others?” she said.
He looked at Toby and me, and shook his head.
“I’ve seen them,” he said. “At Amesbury. And I thought” – he looked sideways at Paul – “I thought. The boss,” he went on sullenly, “said that I was to say nothing about them.”
For a moment she stared at Paul, with a look of such concentrated cold fury that I almost felt sorry for the man. After all, swine though he was, he did love her, and had only embarked on this affair for her sake. But what she was going to say to him we shall never know, for at that moment there came a diversion.
The man with the damaged hand had suddenly come very close to me and was peering into my face. Then with a quick movement he seized my moustache and tore it off.
“God in Heaven!” he muttered, “it’s one of them. One of the three that were drowned.”
A dead silence settled on the room, which was at last broken by Toby.
“What about Opsiphanes syme?” he burbled genially.
Another dead silence, broken this time by the woman.
“So Drummond is not dead,” she said softly. “How very interesting.”
“I seem to recall,” drawled Jerningham pleasantly, “in those dear days of long ago, that our lamented friend whose repulsive visage adorns the altar had frequent necessity to remark the same thing.”
And then Paul spoke with sudden fear in his voice.
“It’s a trap. An obvious trap. He’s probably got the police with him.”
“There wasn’t a soul outside when I came in,” said Grant. “There hasn’t been a thing past the gate since eight o’clock.”
“Go out,” said the woman, “and mount guard again. Paul – fetch Phyllis.”
For a moment or two he seemed on the point of arguing with her: then he thought better of it and both of them left the room.
“So you are Sinclair,” she said, coming over to Toby.
“Quite right, sweet girl of mine,” he answered. “And how have we been keeping since our last merry meeting?”
“All of you except Drummond.” She was talking half to herself. “Helpless: at my mercy.”
A triumphant smile was on her lips, and as it seemed to me with justice. It exactly expressed the situation, and now that the momentary excitement of the finger episode had worn off I began to feel gloomier than ever. It was all very well for the others to be flippant, but unless they were completely blind to obvious realities it could only be due to bravado. We were absolutely in this woman’s power: there was no other way of looking at it. That their mood might be due to a blind unquestioning faith in Drummond’s ability was also possible, but unless he came with four or five exceptionally powerful men to help him, this was going to be a case of the pitcher going to the well once too often. For what none of them seemed to realise was the fact that this woman was careless of her own life. There lay the incredible danger: discovery meant nothing to her provided her revenge had come first.
I came out of my reverie to find Darrell’s eyes fixed on me.
“Learnt that tune yet, Dixon?” he said.
Toby Sinclair was humming the Froth Blower’s anthem, and I nodded. I was free now to give Drummond away, but what earthly good it was going to be Heaven alone knew.
“A new recruit, dear Irma,” went on Darrell. “You will be pleased to know that it was he who solved most of your clues.”
She turned her strange brooding eyes on me. “How did you get out of the Mere?” she asked curiously.
“A little substitution,” I remarked. “The gentleman you left below arrived too soon, and then I sat on the water handle by mistake.”
“I am glad,” she said. “The audience will now be complete.”
“Think so,” said Jerningham mockingly. “One seat, and a rather important one, still remains to be occupied.”
“It is possible that it may remain unoccupied,” she said enigmatically. “Good evening, Phyllis. Your husband’s friends have all arrived, as you see.”
Mrs Drummond stared round with a wan little smile.
“Hullo! chaps,” she said. “Where’s Hugh?”
“The Lord knows, Phyllis,” answered Darrell. “We don’t.”
“He will come,” said Mrs Drummond calmly. “Don’t worry.”
“You think so,” answered Irma. “Good. And anyway why should you worry. Whether he comes, or whether he doesn’t the result as far as you are concerned will be the same. In fact I am not sure that my revenge would not be all the sweeter if he didn’t come – until too late.”
Once more she was leaning against the altar stone, with one hand resting on the bust of Carl Peterson.
“Imagine his feelings for the rest of his life if he arrived to find you all dead: knowing that at last he had failed you.”
“May I remind you once again of the number of times we have heard remarks of a similar nature from your late lamented – er – husband–” said Jerningham with a yawn.
“And may I remind you,” she answered, “of my original little verse to Drummond concerning the Female of the Species. I shall wait a little, and then we will proceed. Should he come in the interval, I shall be delighted for him to participate in our little ceremony: should he fail to appear he will not. He will merely find the results. And should he be so injudicious as not to come alone he will encounter two locked doors, doors which will take even him some time to knock down. He will hear you screaming for help inside here – and then–”
Her voice rose: her breast heaved: she was tasting of her triumph in advance.
“Bonzo’s meat cubes are highly recommended for preserving a placid disposition,” said Algy brightly. “You’ll split a stay lace, my angel woman, unless you’re careful.”
“Why do we delay, dear one?” said Paul anxiously. “Let us be done with it now, and leave him to find what he will find.”
But she shook her head.
“No: we
will give him half-an-hour. And if he is not here by then…”
I thought furiously: every moment gained might be an advantage.
“How is he to know anything about it?” I said. “If he is where I last saw him, he is in Amesbury. And it will take more than half-an-hour get a messenger to him, and for him to reach here.”
She looked at me thoughtfully.
“Is he also disguised like you and Sinclair?”
“He is,” I said shortly. “He has a large black beard…”
“You fool,” howled Sinclair. “You damned treacherous fool. My God! We’re done.”
I stared at him stupidly, and a sudden deadly sick feeling came over me.
“But,” I stammered, “I thought…”
I looked across helplessly at Darrell. What had I said? Surely the message was clear, to say who he was after I heard the anthem once.
“I could kill you where you sit, you cur,” went on Sinclair icily, “if only I had my hands free.”
“You seem to have said the wrong thing, Mr Dixon,” said Irma pleasantly. “So dear Hugh is disguised in a large black beard, is he? I don’t think I should like Hugh in a black beard. Well, well! I wonder what little amusement he has in store for us. We will certainly wait, Paul, until he arrives. I couldn’t bear to miss him in a black beard.”
“He had a scheme,” said Sinclair furiously to the other three. “An absolute winner. But everything depended on his disguise. You fool, Dixon: you fool.”
“Shut up, Toby,” said Mrs Drummond peremptorily. “I’m sure Mr Dixon didn’t mean to do any harm, and anyway” – she turned to me – “thank you a hundred times for all you’ve been through on my behalf.”