Between the Dark and the Daylight

by Richard Marsh

  He cast a somewhat aggressive look upon his hearers—a look which could hardly be said to convey a flattering suggestion.

  "When I first came in I thought that the room was empty. It was only when I was half-way across that something caused me to look round. I saw that someone was kneeling on the floor. I looked to see who it was. It was Lanyon. 'Lanyon!' I cried. 'Whatever are you doing there?' He didn't answer. Wondering what was up with him and why he didn't speak, I went closer to where he was. When I got there I didn't like the look of him at all. I thought he was in some sort of a fit. I was hesitating whether to pick him up, or at once to summon assistance, when—"

  Mr. Jackson paused. He looked about him with an obvious shiver.

  "By George! when I think of it now, it makes me go quite creepy. Cathcart, would you mind ringing for another drop of brandy?"

  The brandy was rung for. Mr. Jackson went on.

  "All of a sudden, as I was stooping over Lanyon, someone touched me on the shoulder. You know, there hadn't been a sound—I hadn't heard the door open, not a thing which could suggest that anyone was approaching. Finding Lanyon like that had make me go quite queer, and when I felt that touch on my shoulder it so startled me that I fairly screeched. I jumped up to see who it was, And when I saw"—Mr. Jackson's bandanna came into play—"who it was, I thought my eyes would have started out of my head. It was Geoff Fleming."

  "Who?" came in chorus from his auditors.

  "It was Geoffrey Fleming. 'Good God!—Fleming!' I cried. 'Where did you come from? I never heard you. Anyhow, you're just in the nick of time. Lanyon's come to grief—lend me a hand with him.' I bent down, to take hold of one side of poor old Lanyon, meaning Fleming to take hold of the other. Before I had a chance of touching Lanyon, Fleming, catching me by the shoulder, whirled me round—I had had no idea the fellow was so strong, he gripped me like a vice. I was just going to ask what the dickens he meant by handling me like that, when, before I could say Jack Robinson, or even had time to get my mouth open, Fleming, darting his hand into my coat pocket, snatched my pocket-book clean out of it."

  He stopped, apparently to gasp for breath. "And, pray, what were you doing while Mr. Fleming behaved in this exceedingly peculiar way—even for Mr. Fleming?" inquired Mr. Cathcart.

  "Doing!" Mr. Jackson was indignant. "Don't I tell you I was doing nothing? There was no time to do anything—it all happened in a flash. I had just come from my bankers—there were a hundred and thirty pounds in that pocket-book. When I realised that the fellow had taken it, I made a grab at him. And"—again Mr. Jackson looked furtively about him, and once more the bandanna came into active play—"directly I did so, I don't know where he went to, but it seemed to me that he vanished into air—he was gone, like a flash of lightning. I told myself I was mad—stark mad! but when I felt for my pocketbook, and found that that was also gone, I ran yelling to the door."

  Chapter IV

  It was, as the old-time novelists used to phrase it, about three weeks after the events transpired which we have recorded in the previous chapter. Evening—after dinner. There was a goodly company assembled in the smoking room at the Climax Club. Conversation was general. They were talking of some of the curious circumstances which had attended the death of Colonel Lanyon. The medical evidence at the inquest had gone to shew that the Colonel had died of one of the numerous, and, indeed, almost innumerable, varieties of heart disease. The finding had been in accordance with the medical evidence. It seemed to be felt, by some of the speakers, that such a finding scarcely met the case.

  "It's all very well," observed Mr. Cathcart, who seemed disposed to side with the coroner's jury, "for you fellows to talk, but in such a case, you must bring in some sort of verdict—and what other verdict could they bring? There was not a trace of any mark of violence to be found upon the man.

  "It's my belief that he saw Fleming, and that Fleming frightened him to death."

  It was Mr. Jackson who said this. Mr. Cathcart smiled a rather provoking smile.

  "So far as I observed, you did not drop any hint of your belief when you were before the coroner."

  "No, because I didn't want to be treated as a laughing-stock by a lot of idiots."

  "Quite so; I can understand your natural objection to that, but still I don't see your line of argument. I should not have cared to question Lanyon's courage to Lanyon's face while he was living. Why should you suppose that such a man as Geoffrey Fleming was capable of such a thing as, as you put it, actually frightening him to death? I should say it was rather the other way about. I have seen Fleming turn green, with what looked very much like funk, at the sight of Lanyon."

  Mr. Jackson for some moments smoked in silence.

  "If you had seen Geoffrey Fleming under the circumstances in which I did, you would understand better what it is I mean."

  "But, my dear Jackson, if you will forgive my saying so, it seems to me that you don't shew to great advantage in your own story. Have you communicated the fact of your having been robbed to the police?"

  "I have."

  "And have you furnished them with the numbers of the notes which were taken?"

  "I have."

  "Then, in that case, I shouldn't be surprised if Mr. Fleming were brought to book any hour of any day. You'll find he has been lying close in London all the time—he soon had enough of Ceylon."

  A new comer joined the group of talkers—Frank Osborne. They noticed, as he seated himself, how much he seemed to have aged of late and how particularly shabby he seemed just then. The first remark which he made took them all aback.

  "Geoff Fleming's dead."

  "Dead!" cried Mr. Philpotts, who was sitting next to Mr. Osborne.

  "Yes—dead. I've heard from Deecie. He died three weeks ago."

  "Three weeks ago!"

  "On the day on which Lanyon died."

  Mr. Cathcart turned to Mr. Jackson, with a smile.

  "Then that knocks on the head your theory about his having frightened Lanyon to death; and how about your interview with him—eh Jackson?"

  Mr. Jackson did not answer. He suddenly went white. An intervention came from an unexpected quarter—from Mr. Philpotts.

  "It seems to me that you are rather taking things for granted, Cathcart. I take leave to inform you that I saw Geoffrey Fleming, perhaps less than half-an-hour before Jackson did."

  Mr. Cathcart stared.

  "You saw him!—Philpotts!"

  Then Mr. Bloxham arose and spoke.

  "Yes, and I saw him, too—didn't I, Philpott's?"

  Any tendency on the part of the auditors to smile was checked by the tone of exceeding bitterness in which Frank Osborne was also moved to testify.

  "And I—I saw him, too!—Geoff!—dear old boy!"

  "Deecie says that there were two strange things about Geoff's death. He was struck by a fit of apoplexy. He was dead within the hour. Soon after he died, the servant came running to say that the bed was empty on which the body had been lying. Deecie went to see. He says that, when he got into the room, Geoff was back again upon the bed, but it was plain enough that he had moved. His clothes and hair were in disorder, his fists were clenched, and there was a look upon his face which had not been there at the moment of his death, and which, Deecie says, seemed a look partly of rage and partly of triumph.

  "I have been calculating the difference between Cingalese and Greenwich time. It must have been between three and four o'clock when the servant went running to say that Geoff's body was not upon the bed—it was about that time that Lanyon died."

  He paused—and then continued—

  "The other strange thing that happened was this. Deecie says that the day after Geoff died a telegram came for him, which, of course, he opened. It was an Australian wire, and purported to come from the Melbourne sporting man of whom I told you." He turned to Mr. Philpotts. "It ran, 'Remittance to hand. It comes in rather a miscellaneous form. Thanks all the same.' Deecie can only suppose that Geoff had managed, in some way, to procu
re the four hundred pounds which he had lost and couldn't pay, and had also managed, in some way, to send it on to Melbourne."

  There was silence when Frank Osborne ceased to speak—silence which was broken in a somewhat startling fashion.

  "Who's that touched me?" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Cathcart, springing from his seat.

  They stared.

  "Touched you!" said someone. "No one's within half a mile of you. You're dreaming, my dear fellow."

  Considering the provocation was so slight, Mr. Cathcart seemed strangely moved.

  "Don't tell me that I'm dreaming—someone touched me on the shoulder!—What's that?"

  "That" was the sound of laughter proceeding from the, apparently, vacant seat. As if inspired by a common impulse, the listeners simultaneously moved back.

  "That's Fleming's chair," said Mr. Philpotts, beneath his breath.

  Nelly

  *

  Chapter I

  "Why!" Mr. Gibbs paused. He gave a little gasp. He bent still closer. Then the words came with a rush: "It's Nelly!"

  He glanced at the catalogue. "No. 259—'Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!'—Philip Bodenham." It was a small canvas, representing the interior of an ill-furnished apartment in which a woman sat, on a rickety chair, at a rickety table, sewing. The picture was an illustration of "The Song of the Shirt."

  Mr. Gibbs gazed at the woman's face depicted on the canvas, with gaping eyes.

  "It's Nelly!" he repeated. There was a catch in his voice. "Nelly!"

  He tore himself away as if he were loth to leave the woman who sat there sewing. He went to the price list which the Academicians keep in the lobby. He turned the leaves. The picture was unsold. The artist had appraised it at a modest figure. Mr. Gibbs bought it there and then. Then he turned to his catalogue to discover the artist's address. Mr. Bodenham lived in Manresa Road, Chelsea.

  Not many minutes after a cab drove up to the Manresa Studios. Mr. Gibbs knocked at a door on the panels of which was inscribed Mr. Bodenham's name.

  "Come in!" cried a voice.

  Mr. Gibbs entered. An artist stood at his easel.

  "Mr. Bodenham?"

  "I am Mr. Bodenham."

  "I am Mr. Gibbs. I have just purchased your picture at the Academy, 'Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!'" Mr. Bodenham bowed. "I—I wish to make a—a few inquiries about—about the picture."

  Mr. Gibbs was as nervous as a schoolboy. He stammered and he blushed. The artist seemed to be amused. He smiled.

  "You wish to make a few inquiries about the picture—yes?"

  "About the—about the subject of the picture. That is, about—about the model."

  Mr. Gibbs became a peony red. The artist's smile grew more pronounced.

  "About the model?"

  "Yes, about the model. Where does she live?"

  Although the day was comparatively cool, Mr. Gibbs was so hot that it became necessary for him to take out his handkerchief to wipe his brow. Mr. Bodenham was a sunny-faced young man. He looked at his visitor with laughter in his eyes.

  "You are aware, Mr. Gibbs, that yours is rather an unusual question. I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, and we artists are not in the habit of giving information about our models to perfect strangers. It would not do. Moreover, how do you know that I painted from a model? The faces in pictures are sometimes creations of the artist's imagination. Perhaps oftener than the public think."

  "I know the model in 'Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!'"

  "You know her? Then why do you come to me for information?"

  "I should have said that I knew her years ago."

  Mr. Gibbs looked round the room a little doubtfully. Then he laid his hand on the back of a chair, as if for the support, moral and physical, which it afforded him. He looked at the artist with his big, grave eyes.

  "As I say, Mr. Bodenham, I knew her years ago—and I loved her."

  There was a catch in his voice. The artist seemed to be growing more and more amused. Mr. Gibbs went on:

  "I was a younger man then. She was but a girl. We both of us were poor. We loved each other dearly. We agreed that I should go abroad and make my fortune. When I had made it, I was to come back to her."

  The big man paused. His listener was surprised to find how much his visitor's curious earnestness impressed him. "I had hard times of it at first. Now and then I heard from her. At last her letters ceased. About the time her letters ceased, my prospects bettered. Now I'm doing pretty well. So I've come to take her back with me to the other side. Mr. Bodenham, I've looked for her everywhere. As they say, high and low. I've been to her old home, and to mine—I've been just everywhere. But no one seems to know anything about her. She has just clean gone, vanished out of sight. I was thinking that I should have to go back, after all, without her, when I saw your picture in the Academy, and I knew the girl you had painted was Nelly. So I bought your picture—her picture. And now I want you to tell me where she lives."

  There was a momentary silence when the big man finished.

  "Yours is a very romantic story, Mr. Gibbs. Since you have done me the honour to make of me your confidant, I shall have pleasure in giving you the address of the original of my little picture—the address, that is, at which I last heard of her. I have reason to believe that her address is not infrequently changed. When I last heard of her, she was—what shall I say?—hard up."

  "Hard up, was she? Was she very hard up, Mr. Bodenham?"

  "I'm afraid, Mr. Gibbs, that she was as hard up as she could be—and live."

  Mr. Gibbs cleared his throat:

  "Thank you. Will you give me her address, Mr. Bodenham?"

  Mr. Bodenham wrote something on a slip of paper.

  "There it is. It is a street behind Chelsea Hospital—about as unsavoury a neighbourhood as you will easily find."

  Mr. Gibbs found that the artist's words were justified by facts—it was an unsavoury neighbourhood into which the cabman found his way. No. 20 was the number which Mr. Bodenham had given him. The door of No. 20 stood wide open. Mr. Gibbs knocked with his stick. A dirty woman appeared from a room on the left.

  "Does Miss Brock live here?"

  "Never heard tell of no such name. Unless it's the young woman what lives at the top of the 'ouse—third floor back. Perhaps it's her you want. Is it a model that you're after? Because, that's what she is—leastways I've heard 'em saying so. Top o' the stairs, first door to your left."

  Mr. Gibbs started to ascend.

  "Take care of them stairs," cried the woman after him. "They wants knowing."

  Mr. Gibbs found that what the woman said was true—they did want knowing. Better light, too would have been an assistant to a better knowledge. He had to strike a match to enable him to ascertain if he had reached the top. A squalid top it was—it smelt! By the light of the flickering match he perceived that there was a door upon his left. He knocked. A voice cried to him, for the second time that day:

  "Come in!"

  But this voice was a woman's. At the sound of it, the heart in the man's great chest beat, in a sledge-hammer fashion, against his ribs. His hand trembled as he turned the handle, and when he had opened the door, and stood within the room, his heart, which had been beating so tumultuously a moment before, stood still.

  The room, which was nothing but a bare attic with raftered ceiling, was imperfectly lighted by a small skylight—a skylight which seemed as though it had not been cleaned for ages, so obscured was the glass by the accumulations of the years. By the light of this skylight Mr. Gibbs could see that a woman was standing in the centre of the room.

  "Nelly!" he cried.

  The woman shrank back with, as it were, a gesture of repulsion. Mr. Gibbs moved forward. "Nelly! Don't you know me? I am Tom."

  "Tom?"

  The woman's voice was but an echo.

  "Tom! Yes, my own, own darling, I am Tom."

  Mr. Gibbs advanced. He held out his arms. He was just in time to catch the woman, or she would have fallen to the floor.


  Chapter II

  "Nelly, don't you know me?" The woman was coming to.

  "Haven't you a light?" The woman faintly shook her head.

  "See, I have your portrait where you placed it; it has never left me all the time. But when I saw your picture I did not need your portrait to tell me it was you."

  "When you saw my picture?"

  "Your portrait in Mr. Bodenham's picture at Academy 'Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!'"

  "Mr. Bodenham's—I see."

  The woman's tone was curiously cold.

  "Nelly, you don't seem to be very glad to see me."

  "Have you got any money?"

  "Any money, Nelly?"

  "I am hungry."

  "Hungry!"

  The woman's words seemed to come to him with the force of revelation.

  "Hungry!" She turned her head away. "Oh, my God, Nelly." His voice trembled. "Wa-wait here, I—I sha'n't be a moment. I've a cab at the door."

  He was back almost as soon as he went. He brought with him half the contents of a shop—among other things, a packet of candles. These he lighted, standing them, on their own ends, here and there about the room. The woman ate shyly, as if, in spite of her confession of hunger, she had little taste for food. She was fingering the faded photograph of a girl which Mr. Gibbs had taken from his pocket-book.

  "Is this my portrait?"

  "Nelly! Don't you remember it?"

  "How long is it since it was taken?"

  "Why, it's more than seven years, isn't it?"

  "Do you think I've altered much?"

  Mr. Gibbs went to her. He studied her by the light of the candles.

  "Well, you might be plumper, and you might look happier, perhaps, but all that we'll quickly alter. For the rest, thank God, you're my old Nelly." He took her in his arms. As he did so she drew a long, deep breath. Holding her at arms-length, he studied her again. "Nelly, I'm afraid you haven't been having the best of times."

  She broke from him with sudden passion.

  "Don't speak of it! Don't speak of it! The life I've lived—" She paused. All at once her voice became curiously hard. "But through it all I've been good. I swear it. No one knows what the temptation is, to a woman who has lived the life I have, to go wrong. But I never went. Tom"—she laid her hand upon Mr. Gibb's arm as, with marked awkwardness, his name issued from her lips—"say that you believe that I've been good."