I got up and went to one of the southern windows. Looked out and saw the trees glittering in the lovely moonlight. The fragrance of leaves and earth came up strongly on the air. The casuarinas made silvery feathers against the sky, and somehow their mysterious wheezing rustle did not seem uncanny now. Their shadows lay upon the kitchen-garden, though here and there an eddoe leaf glimmered, caught in a probing shaft of blue-green light. In the south-west, Hackleton’s Cliff rose in umber majesty, stern but not jagged and forbidding as when the harsh light of day revealed its gnarled bulk. Now in this midnight moon-drenched atmosphere it had a velvety, mellow unrealness; it was impressive without being obstrusive; sombre rather than threatening.
I could have stood there indefinitely watching the moon weave intricate prongs and pointers through the trees, but behind me was Eltonsbrody—and I was brought back to actuality by a slight sound that seemed to come from the stairs.
I stood still, listening.
It did not come again, but my fears began to return. I moved to the door, opened it and looked out into the corridor.
The streak of light under Mrs. Scaife’s door had vanished. I could hear no sounds from within the room. Then I wrinkled my nostrils, certain I could smell blood. A fresh, rankish smell.
The sound came again on the stairs. A soft bump. Or it might have been down in the dining-room. As though something heavy had collided with the banister or with the sideboard.
I waited, listening hard.
I heard a murmur of voices. Downstairs in the dining-room.
I turned and darted back to the bed, snatched up my torch. I had intended rushing downstairs to investigate, but in my nervous excitement the torch in my hand flashed on accidentally. The beam shot across the corridor, and I saw that the door of Mrs. Scaife’s room was slightly ajar. Curiosity attacked me at once. Before going downstairs I must take a peep into the room. And there was the smell of blood. It was still strong. Perhaps it was coming from in there.
I moved quickly across and entered the room.
The rank smell of fresh blood assailed me in full force. The beam of my torch settled on something in the middle of the room. The old-fashioned flat-topped travelling-trunk, formerly under one of the two western windows, had been hauled into a position that brought it nearer to the bed and the door. It stood on the section of floor space between the bed and the chest of drawers, and a surgical sheet had been spread over it. This sheet had very recently been wiped clean, and wet stains darkened the floor round the bottom of the trunk.
I remembered the last time I had been in the room here, remembered the clean oblong patch I had seen on the floor just about where the trunk now stood. Suddenly I knew what had caused that clean patch. It was this trunk. And the stains round the patch had been caused by the fluid that had dripped off from this rubber sheet.
I flashed the beam round the room.
On the wash-stand I saw something that interested me. In an enamel surgical tray with water that looked pinkish-brown lay two scalpels, two surgical saws and a dissector.
The smell of blood persisted strongly.
I continued my search. The bed was still draped with cobwebs. The shifty beam of light made ghostly shadows flicker on the white cupboard as it passed through the dense network of cobwebs. I lowered my hand. The beam flashed upon something white under the bed. I took a pace forward, then drew back with an exclamation.
I was looking into a pail—a white enamel pail—and it was nearly two-thirds filled with thick, fresh clots of blood.
19
Even now the idea still lingered that I might be the object of a huge practical joke. As I hurried out of the room and into mine I asked myself why should it necessarily be human blood? Why couldn’t it be that they had been dissecting a goat or two or three rabbits for the purpose of getting that blood to fool me? And mightn’t she deliberately have left the scene set in there so that I could go in and come to alarming conclusions? The door had even been left ajar. She might have been keeping a check on my movements and had seen me peering out into the corridor and prowling about.
I began to pace about in the dark, smoking. I paused once at one of the two western windows and frowned out at the moonlight, my head in an ache of confusion.
From this window I could look down on the driveway and the front garden which the moonlight had converted into a real goblin-dell of shadows and uncertain splotches of colour. Simply to stand here and look at it soothed me and eased the throbbing in my head.
The plumbagoes looked like pale blue coins of mist that might dissolve at any instant, and an arbour of bougainvillea was a foaming mass of shadowed crimson. The croton clumps, yellow and red and green and brown, glittered in the moonlight with a secret loveliness that seemed the mere superficial manifestation of richer wonders concealed within the core of their dense foliage. There were roses in tubs, and dahlias, beds of zinnias, a hedge of bell-shaped pink hibiscuses. In this scene I could find nothing that might suggest blood-curdling deeds.
I sighed, telling myself that the whole trouble lay in me myself—in my morbid imagination. Tomorrow morning, I decided solemnly, I would have to do something to recover my ‘face’. I would have to let the old lady know by some means that I had twigged her game, that I had seen through her little jokes. I would tell her that murderers did not advertise their premeditated acts in the way she had been trying to fool me she had been doing, that homicidal maniacs were not in the habit of revelling openly in their lust for butchering as she had been pretending to do. I would turn the laugh on her and make her feel a fool for a change.
As though in answer to these reflections, I heard a crunching sound on the driveway. I looked down.
Moving towards the gate was the huge, ungainly figure I had seen in the cemetery. Borkum. He was bearing on his shoulder a long, dark object which I recognised at once as a coffin. Behind him walked Mrs. Scaife. They must have left the house through the front door. That dull bump I had heard on the stairs a short while before must have been caused by the coffin. They must have been taking it down even as I had been hesitating whether to investigate downstairs or to go into the room across the corridor. What had they brought it upstairs for? What was in it now?
I felt an urge to hurry into my clothes, to go rushing after them and demand to be shown what was inside the coffin, demand an explanation of their actions. But this impulse passed almost in the same instant as it came alive. I could tell that it would be futile trying to go after them now. Long before I could catch up with them they would have got to the car waiting by the side of the road. The best policy would be to lie low and just watch things. And who could tell if this coffin business was not part of the practical joke? Perhaps she had guessed I would be looking out of my window to see Borkum take the coffin away.
I heard the car’s engine start up. It went droning off along the road.
The rest of the night was spent in spasmodic dozes, sudden awakenings, more investigations in the corridor, vigils at the window. Mrs. Scaife and Borkum returned at shortly after two o’clock—my watch said seven minutes past two when I saw them turn into the driveway—and this time Borkum’s arms were free. The coffin had been disposed of. Could they have sealed it up within one of the tombs they had been tampering with some hours ago? But surely that would be taking the joke too far!
I shrugged and went back to bed.
I got up finally at a quarter to six, changed into bathing trunks, my head heavy and throbbing, and went out and down to the sea.
After a refreshing bathe, I plodded up to Staden Hill again but did not enter the grounds of Eltonsbrody. I went past and headed for the cemetery. On my way I stopped to take a look at the old car parked under the branches of the sandbox tree. As on the evening before, there was nothing of interest inside it. I searched for blood-stains but failed to find anything that might resemble dried blood.
At the cemetery the shadows of crosses lay long and distorted amid the half-dry grass, and the early sunshine h
ad turned the tombs from drab grey-white to a mild yellow ochre. Dew glistened on them, and the scent of earth and grass and moisture swirled invigoratingly around me. A few black birds rose from between the tombs and fluttered low for a short distance before settling out of sight in another part of the cemetery. I could hear them tweeting and lisping softly amid the grass.
I began to search for the tomb that had been tampered with. Several in this section, I noted, were large mausolean structures. Big vaults like cottages. Each of them probably held eight or a dozen coffins. On three of them I read inscriptions involving the names of several persons. On one I read dates going back to 1819, 1823, 1829 and 1833. It was this one that seemed to me to have a suspicious look. It was of brick and at least ten feet high, the façade being divided into eight hollowed squares.
Looking closely, I was sure that the square at the upper right corner had been recently broached and then re-sealed. Whoever had removed the bricks and replaced them had done a very neat job, for at a distance of six feet or so no difference could be detected in relation to the other compartments. It was only because I had come here with the definite object of finding a tomb that had been tampered with that I noticed these minute traces of fresh cement in the spaces between the bricks. What seemed to confirm it was that at the base of the vault, in the grass, I saw one or two specks of cement dust.
The wind lisped in the grass, and I heard the black birds. In the south, somewhere far beyond the rugged cliff like a giant’s shoulder under which I had stood the evening before, a dog was barking. Its earnest whoof-whoof somehow added to the peacefulness of the scene.
I decided to return to Eltonsbrody at once. I wanted to be in time to see Miss Linton off—if she had not left already.
Nearing the grounds, I heard the deep bark of a dog, and on going round the bend, I saw the slight figure of my hostess crossing a gully on my right. The two dogs on leash kept tugging her forward in their eagerness to advance. She reached the road just a few yards ahead of me, and waited for me to come up, smiling and greeting me: ‘Mr. Holmes on the rampage so early?’
‘Oh, I had a dip in the sea, then I went for a walk,’ I said uncomfortably, though I tried hard to seem unconcerned.
‘How far did you go? Anywhere near the cemetery?’
‘Yes, just about there,’ I said as we moved on along the road.
She made deprecatory sounds. ‘You should have had your breakfast before going to look for that coffin, my boy. Since I was a girl I’ve heard it said that it’s never healthy to go into a graveyard on an empty stomach.’
‘Are you really concerned about my health, Mrs. Scaife, or could you possibly be afraid I’m getting warm in my search for the coffin?’
She smiled. ‘My dear boy, fear is an emotion I haven’t known during the past two or three days. Since getting out of bed on Wednesday morning I knew there would be no more need for me to fear anything from this life.’
I glanced at her but made no comment.
‘That little incident I was alluding to the night before last when I came in to wish you a good night’s rest—you remember?’ She smiled, and I was struck by the kindly, even sad, light in her pale blue eyes. There was something very feminine in her at this moment—something fragile and weak. ‘On Tuesday night, just after dinner, it happened. And on Wednesday morning I was certain. I knew then it was no accident in the strict sense of the word.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘Oh, let’s not bother to discuss it, my boy. Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ She took a deep breath. ‘Air smells good. Enjoy it, Mr. Woodsley. Enjoy it. You’re young. Don’t enjoy it half-heartedly but with all the verve in you.’
As we were passing the car I remarked: ‘I see somebody has left a car here. Have you any idea whom it could belong to?’
She chuckled. ‘You’re not a good actor, my boy.’
‘Is Borkum spending the day at Eltonsbrody?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps in the cemetery. We never know what a sad, blighted soul like Borkum might not do. Poor fellow. Like myself, he has nothing to fear from life to-day—but he doesn’t know it, and I won’t tell him. It’s better that he remains in ignorance.’
‘Evidently you prefer me to remain in ignorance, too.’
‘Oh, you’re all right. You’ll piece things together for yourself before long. And it won’t be so long, either.’
As we were moving along the driveway I said: ‘Perhaps you may be interested to know that because of your practical jokes Miss Linton is returning to Bridgetown. She’s leaving by this morning’s bus.’
‘She is, is she? Oh, well, I daresay I can’t blame her. I’ve made myself an awful nuisance, I’m sure. I take it another nurse will be coming in her place? Did she mention?’
‘Yes. She phoned Doctor Dayton last night. I do hope this one will have the Mark so that she won’t incur your dislike.’
‘Let’s hope so, my boy. Let’s earnestly hope so. It’s never a long chance, you know. As I’ve mentioned before, about three people in every ten have it.’
A little later, on going up to my room, I was dismayed to see that the time was long after seven. Miss Linton must be on her way already. The bus left at seven. Or was it seven-thirty? I hurried down to the kitchen to inquire, and Tappin told me that some mornings it was seven and some mornings seven-thirty.
‘What’s it this morning? Seven or seven-thirty?’ I asked.
‘Half-past seven, sir,’ he said, ‘but it won’t pass here till about fifteen minutes after it leaves Martin’s Bay.’
‘Oh, you mean it leaves Martin’s Bay at half-past seven?’
‘Yes, sir. Mr. Woodsley, you going back to Bridgetown dis morning?’
‘Me? No. But Nurse Linton is. She hasn’t passed out yet, has she?’
‘No, sir. Oi ain’ see her pass out.’
‘She must still be upstairs, then.’
Going upstairs again, I tapped on her door, but got no reply, so assumed she must be having a bath. I moved on to my room and got dressed in shorts and shirt, my usual attire since I had come to this part of the island. On my way downstairs I tapped again, but she had not yet come up, so I decided that the best thing would be to go down and wait in the sitting-room until she appeared.
The servants came into the dining-room for Prayers. Mrs. Scaife, in her olive-green dressing-gown, had just come down, Bible in hand.
I noticed that the glances they gave her were rather troubled, but she behaved as though unaware of anything unusual in their manner.
She smiled round in her old benevolent way.
After the Lessons, instead of proceeding to the Lord’s Prayer as customary, she raised her hand and announced: ‘Let us bow our heads in prayer.’
The servants seemed surprised, but not greatly so. They had the look as though prepared for anything odd this morning. They bowed their heads, and Mrs. Scaife cleared her throat and began to pray. For me, it was more a piece of poetry than a prayer. Perhaps that is why I remember it so clearly.
‘Oh, gracious Father on high, to-day Thursday we find ourselves once again with the breath and pulse of this life which Thou in Thy great goodness and benevolence hast seen fit to bestow upon us. We thank Thee, oh Lord. We thank Thee for permitting us to open our eyes and focus our senses upon another of Thy kindly days. More than ever to-day we somehow feel deeply grateful to Thee for Thy sunshine and for Thy cooling winds and the greenness of Thy trees and the soft clouds against the blue of Thy infinite space. The sight of black birds flitting on the rocks and on the highway, the sight of the canefields and of the distant sea, oh Creator, comes upon us this day with a freshness and a yearning nostalgia that send our spirits back to the times of our humble youth. Keep alive in us this day the appreciation of these things. Teach us to value them to the last iota of their worth, for our time to tarry may not be long. Yea, the shadow of death may be dense upon our mortal forms, and the final trumpet b
last may even at this moment be sounding. So let us breathe and live and revel in the unlimited sweetness of every second of every minute of every hour of this new day that is before us. Grant this to us, oh loving and kindly God. Grant this to us, we beseech Thee.’
On the last few words her voice fell to a murmur. She seemed to fall into a sad trance. There was a pause, then with a soft sigh she began: ‘Our Father . . .’ and the servants joined in the Lord’s Prayer.
It was not until a minute or two later when they were dispersing that I suddenly realised that I had seen nothing of Miss Linton. Surely by now, I told myself, she should have passed upstairs on her way from the bathroom. The bathroom was on the ground-floor, as I think I have mentioned before.
I rose and entered the narrow passage-way that led to the bathroom and toilet. I stopped outside the door of the bathroom and listened. But there were no sounds of water or of anyone moving inside. I called: ‘Miss Linton, are you in here?’ But there was no answer. I tried the door and it opened. The room was empty, and the tiled floor was dry. No one had used the shower this morning.
I hurried upstairs and knocked on her door. There was no reply, so I went in. But there was no one in the room but the patient.
I glanced about and saw that Miss Linton’s small suitcase, which had lain in the corner near the wash-stand, was missing—also the one or two garments she had had hanging behind the door on pegs. Her toilet things, too, had vanished from the dressing-table. This meant, I concluded, that she must have packed and left already. Rather odd, I thought. Surely she could have said hallo to me before rushing off. Not very flattering to my vanity.
After pottering about the room a bit, I went downstairs again. Went out to the kitchen and outside. Tappin was sharpening the blade of a cutlass at the foot of the steps.
I said: ‘Tappin, are you sure you didn’t see Nurse Linton go out?’
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