Devils' Spawn

by Charles Birkin

  “Stop.” Hugh’s voice was frenzied.

  It seemed to his horrified gaze that the girl had two mouths—two red smiling mouths. And the lower one was in her throat. With a little sigh she sank to the floor, and he saw the blood gushing over her thin regulation nightgown.

  “Nora——” he stood spellbound, petrified. It seemed to him that there was blood everywhere—on the floor, the bed, on his hands. His one thought now was to get away. No one had seen him leave his dispensary; if he could get back to his study with the scalpel, perhaps, when the tragedy was discovered, he could “find” an ordinary table knife—the explanation would be that Nora had hidden it herself, had planned suicide.

  He turned to the door, and only at that moment did he realise the terror of the situation. The key was on the outside—he himself had closed the door, and he was a prisoner until the morning. He glanced at the bloody heap on the floor. He must keep his head, he told himself. He took a step towards the window, and his foot slithered. Blood—blood everywhere. He crept to the window, but the iron bars mocked him. Desperately he tore at them with the terrific force of his giant muscles. He must keep calm . . . he mustn’t lose his nerve. It depended on himself alone. He stumbled back to the bed and sat there, his head in his hands, staring unseeingly before him.

  Outside the clock struck three. Three o’clock! He must hurry, the night nurse went her rounds at half-past three.

  The figure on the floor moved . . . he could swear that he saw it move.

  “Keep your head . . . keep your head. She didn’t suffer—no, of course not, because there is no pain.”

  He wondered who that was he could hear talking. Of course, it was his own voice. You can’t be frightened of your own voice. “It’s only in your imagination. There is no pain. There is no pain—oh, let me out! God help me, let me out!” He was screaming, screaming with the full force of his lungs. “There is no pain, I tell you—it only exists in the imagination. I’ve proved it. Proved it. Proved it. Let me out!”

  He flung himself against the door, battering upon it until his hands bled, his great strength impotent. He could hear voices in the corridor, frightened whisperings. Then a man’s urgent tones. That must be Patterson, Hugh thought. Then more voices—the warders.

  “Let me out—I’ve proved it. I was right . . . right. Pain is an illusion!”

  Cautiously the key was turned. Framed in the door was a group of men, behind them the frightened faces of the nurses.

  “Morris!” Patterson was wide-eyed with horror.

  “I’ve proved it, Patterson—there is no pain.” Hugh was laughing wildly, triumphantly. “Do you realise what it means? I’ve won. I’ve conquered pain.”

  AN EYE FOR AN EYE

  The dining-room was lit by the shaded glow of four candles set in old glass candlesticks, leaving the corners of the room indistinct with wavering shadows.

  Jimmy Clinton looked at his guests. On his right sat Miss Geraldine Victor. She was a distinguished looking woman dressed in deep wine-coloured velvet, that set off the raven beauty of her hair, parted severely in the middle, and drawn into a knot on her neck. She had reached the middle thirties, and was one of the most successful of the “precious” novelists.

  Next to her was Jimmy’s wife, Naomi. Fair and tiny, she made a perfect foil to the other’s dark beauty. She leaned forward in her chair, the fingers of her left hand drumming on the highly-polished surface of the table.

  “But, Jimmy—if the police know who’s done it, why can’t they arrest the man?”

  “Because, darling, the evidence is inconclusive.”

  “You see, Mrs. Clinton,” Sir Henry Mathews broke in, “a man can only be tried once for any murder, and the police are reasonably certain that sooner or later he will give himself away.”

  “Or that the missing link in the chain will be filled in,” Jimmy concluded.

  “Exactly.” Sir Henry poured himself a second glass of port.

  “Anyway, I’m sure the chauffeur did it, and I think it is scandalous that he should get off scot free,” Naomi repeated obstinately.

  “Of course he did it. I wish I had the power of deciding the sentence,” Geraldine added with malice.

  Sir Henry smiled at Jimmy. “And they say that women are the gentler sex. . . .”

  “But it was a ghastly crime. That poor girl. I was told that the details were too horrible to be printed. She was only sixteen, you know. Such men should be killed in some frightful way. Hanging is too good for them,” Geraldine insisted.

  “As it happens I’ve known Dr. Peters for many years,” Sir Henry’s quiet words were all the more arresting in contrast to Geraldine’s vehemence.

  “Did you know him well? And the girl? Oh, how thrilling!” Naomi was flushed with excitement.

  “I knew Angela, yes. No, I shouldn’t say very well. She was one of the loveliest little things I ever saw. I could hardly believe when I saw in the paper the dreadful thing that had happened. But when you get to my age, my dear young lady, you will be surprised at nothing.”

  “And don’t you think the chauffeur—Yarrow, wasn’t that his name?—did it?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Mathews replied. “But if the proof isn’t conclusive, there’s nothing you can do, my boy.”

  “I think it’s criminal to let him go free. He’ll only do it again. Those people always do,” Naomi said. “Somebody ought to put him away and no questions asked.”

  “You may be certain that the next time they will get him.”

  “I should hope so—but by then one more human life will have been sacrificed needlessly.”

  “Well, Naomi, what do you suggest I should do?”

  “I don’t suggest that you should do anything, but somebody should. The girl’s father, or brother or somebody.”

  “Angela was an only child.”

  “I say, Sir Henry, this fellow Peters isn’t the Doctor Peters, is he?” asked Jimmy.

  “He is.”

  “Not the man who has done such wonders with the thyroid experiments? Then why,” questioned Geraldine dramatically, “does he choose to live in Wimbledon?”

  Sir Henry laughed. “Because,” he said, “when one gets older one appreciates a little rest and quiet, Miss Victor.”

  “Yet it’s rather strange when one considers that if he hadn’t lived so near the Common his daughter might be alive to-day.”

  “As to that, there are many lonelier places within half the distance of Hyde Park Corner.”

  “Don’t let’s talk any more about murders,” Naomi shuddered. “If you’re ready, Geraldine, we’ll leave them to gloat over the ghastly details.”

  Jimmy rose to open the door for them. In the doorway Naomi turned back to fling a parting admonition, “And don’t be too long, Jimmy, with your ghoulish chatter—or we’ll be late for the play.”

  Left alone the two men sat silent for a moment, each thinking of the horrible tragedy that had held the public interest for the last few days.

  “Brandy?”

  “No, thanks—a little more of this excellent port if I may.”

  Jimmy poured himself a stiff brandy, and then turned to his guest.

  “And what do you think will happen to this man Yarrow, now? It’ll be damned difficult for him to get a job, won’t it?”

  “Extremely. He’ll most probably try for a new start in the colonies.”

  “Or change his name?”

  “It may not be necessary. If he really has done it, he won’t get off. Few murderers do, you know, when they have once been suspected. He’ll make a slip sometime.”

  “It was a filthy business.”

  “More filthy than you know, Jimmy. As Miss Victor said, the details were too disgusting for the public to know. And she was only sixteen. . . .”

  “Jimmy!” Naomi could be heard calling in the hall.

  “All right. Coming, darling!” Clinton called back. “Frightfully sorry to hurry you like this,” he continued to Sir Henry, “but I think Na
omi’s anxious to see the curtain go up.”

  George Yarrow sat on the edge of the bed in the little room he rented at No. 77, Elderton Road, Wimbledon. It was small and dreary, but the rent he paid was only eight shillings a week, and his landlady kept it tolerably clean. His brain still felt stunned after the ordeal he had just been through. The court had been hostile; and it was obvious that everyone had thought that he was guilty. And he was—it had been that fact that had given him such desperate courage. And his defence had been so weak. He had been for a walk in Hyde Park he had maintained—and yet they couldn’t disprove it. And an accused man was innocent until proved guilty in an English court. He had good reason to be glad of that. But at one moment things had looked pretty black. In the thirty years of his life Yarrow had never endured such hidden fear as he had felt as, one by one, damning items of evidence against him had been piled up.

  It had been that atmosphere of antagonism and unrelenting hostility that had put the wind up him, that and the pitiless eyes that had searched his face, and the jeers of the crowd who had waited to see him leave the building.

  Two hysterical girls had called out “Bravo, George!”—he hadn’t known them. He wondered who they were—they had liked his looks perhaps. He smiled as he looked at his wide shoulders and athlete’s chest. He’d never lack for girls, that was quite certain.

  But he was still worried. He frowned as he remembered the hoots of the crowd.

  “Murderer.”

  “Dirty Swine.”

  “Lynch the ——”

  He had been hurried into the waiting motor car.

  There was one thing that surprised him. Old Peters taking him back. He wasn’t so sure that he wanted to go; he thought the best thing was to get right away, Canada or Australia—but again, that might look suspicious. No—he’d made up his mind to stay with the old man for a time at any rate. It would certainly be hard to get a job under his own name, and if he changed it some blasted busybody would be sure to make it his business to bring it to the notice “of whom it might concern.”

  He took off his shoes and swung his legs on to the bed and lay down, his hand fumbling for a packet of cigarettes. He lit one. He must think all this out—see what fresh danger, if any, must be thought of. God—but it had been a close thing. The gallows had seemed uncomfortably near. He looked at the window with narrowed eyes, through the cloud of cigarette smoke, his mind probing ceaselessly the events of that fatal evening.

  All through the questioning he had stood with his big red hands clenched, saying as little as possible, repeating his statement that he could throw no light on the case, that he had taken a walk in Hyde Park as it was his evening off, and that it wasn’t his fault if no one had seen him. He broke out into a sweat as he remembered how he had searched the crowded court room for Nelly’s face. But she hadn’t been there. He found that difficult to understand. Still, she was a good sort, Nelly, and had loved him once.

  After “it” had happened, his brain had cleared, and his one thought had been to get away. He had made for the nearest road on which the ’buses ran. As he was waiting in a small knot of people, he had seen Nelly coming. Hastily he had looked away. Nelly’s step quickened as she had seen George. It had been some weeks since they had met, and she wanted to talk to him—dreadfully. She went up to him, and put her hand on his sleeve. She thought how handsome he looked. He appeared startled to see her—anxious to get away.

  “George, I must speak to you.”

  “Well, what is it?” He was sullen, and there was panic in his heart.

  “Why are you so cruel to me?” She pronounced it “crool.” “Is it because you’ve got another girl? Because if that’s it, I’ve got the right to you, George.” Her eyes sharpened with suspicion.

  And then he had seen a ’bus coming; he didn’t care where it was going, brutally he shook her hand off his arm and jumped on to the platform.

  Nelly had stood looking after him, as the ’bus gathered speed. No—he shouldn’t get away from her like that. She’d show him. She ran a few steps into the road—heedless of the warning cry of a woman behind her. Then something hit her with the force of a battering ram—and she knew no more.

  Having gained the ’bus George gave no backward glance. Hell! Just his luck to have met Nelly at that time when he might want to prove he had been far away. He guessed he’d have to square her if any suspicion fell on him. Take her out of nights. He smiled as he anticipated her ready acceptance; she wasn’t a bad little thing really, with her big dark eyes and soft fluffy hair. And he reckoned now that she had done the square thing by him, saying nothing when all the newspapers had been publishing his description.

  Yarrow crushed out his cigarette. Yes—he’d have to see her and fix things—he thought he knew how.

  Old Peters had told him to report the following morning, but he thought it would look better if he went this evening. To show he was keen and appreciative like. Appreciative! If the old codger only knew. And he must change into his uniform.

  He rolled off the bed and unbuttoned his coat. Five minutes later, back in the dark blue coat and breeches of his service, he was bending down and fastening the shiny black gaiters round his thick legs—muscular as a footballer’s. He picked up his cap. Whew! It had been a near thing. He straightened his tie and with a final glance in the mirror swaggered out of the room.

  Dr. Peters sat in a deep armchair in front of the blazing fire in his study. He looked tired, and there was pathos in the stoop of his shoulders. The events of the last few weeks had aged him. Angela had been his only child. Even now he could scarcely realise that this horror had happened to him. Yarrow was guilty, of that he had no doubt. Therefore, he reasoned, it was best to have him under observation, where he could keep an eye on him. If only somebody could be found who had seen him near the scene of the crime, but reliable witnesses are wary of swearing away another’s life. His eyes dilated as he gazed into the glowing core of the fire.

  Yarrow’s life! He would crush it out with as little compunction as he would that of a poisonous insect. He had tried hard in the court to keep the hatred out of his face when he saw the brutal hulk of his chauffeur in front of him. Sometime, from someone, that missing link of evidence must come. Until that time he could only wait—and while waiting observe . . . and ponder.

  He got up and pressed a bell by the fireplace. A few moments later Smith, his butler for many years, entered.

  “You rang, sir?”

  “Yes. Bring me a whisky and soda, will you? And, Smith! Yarrow is returning to my service to-morrow.”

  “Yarrow, sir? But . . .”

  “The verdict was murder against a person or persons unknown, Smith. In that case Yarrow is innocent. That is all.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The butler’s face was impassive as he made his way back to the servants’ quarters. Whatever his own thoughts may have been, the lower servants would respect their master’s wishes. He would see to that.

  Dr. Peters smiled a little grimly into the fire. Here he was, perhaps the most miserable and pain-wracked of men, and yet he was envied by thousands of his fellow-beings. He was “a successful man”; he had reached the topmost peak of his profession. He knew perhaps more about the secrets of the human body—the intricate workings of the brain, and the functioning of the glands, than any other man living. His word was law to his admiring colleagues, his opinions were unquestioned, and he had had the opportunity of turning down a baronetage. For why should he want one? He had no son—only Angela. A flicker of pain crossed his face. He must not think of Angela.

  Nelly Torr opened her eyes. Where was she? Her head ached and she was unable to turn on her pillow to see where the sound of muffled voices came from, or who it was that was talking. She saw in front of her a strip of wall, white-washed, and without ornamentation, and she was lying in a narrow white bed. And then another blinding flash of pain seemed to cleave her head in two, and once more she relapsed into unconsciousness.


  It was dark when next she woke up, and there was silence in the room. Again she tried to turn her head, and again something impeded her. Then she heard a faint rustle by her bedside, and a nurse in a stiffly starched cap spoke to her.

  “Yes, my dear? And how are you feeling now?”

  “My head. It hurts something terrible! What happened? Where am I?”

  “Now don’t you worry, and don’t ask questions. Drink this and then have another nice sleep.” She held a glass containing some pinkish fluid to Nelly’s lips.

  Nelly suddenly found that she was very thirsty, and drank it gratefully. The last thing she remembered was the nurse’s efficient hand gently smoothing her pillow and arranging the sheets.

  She awoke the next morning feeling considerably refreshed in spirit, but extremely sore in body. She learnt that she had been knocked down by a motor car and had been brought to the hospital, where she had lain unconscious for two days. If she kept quiet and did what she was told, the nurse added, there was no reason why, in a week or two, she shouldn’t be as right as rain.

  “But it was a very nasty knock, dear, and more haste less speed, you know.”

  She smiled brightly and hurried from the room to a case in the next ward.

  Nelly occupied a private room, since she needed perfect rest and quiet. She found it very peaceful, and lay looking in front of her and thinking of what had happened. She remembered her meeting with George, his coldness to her and her jealousy. Well, she’d just show him—the big rotter.

  “Like a look at a paper, dear?” the nurse asked kindly one morning a few days later.

  “I don’t think so, thank you. What’s the news?”

  “Nothing very much. There’s a new Chevalier film coming on this week, some trouble in Bulgaria or some outlandish place—oh, and a horrible murder at Wimbledon.”

  “Wimbledon?—that’s where I come from. Who was it?” A guilty thrill of the possibility of knowing the murderer or the victim stirred in Nelly.

  “Some girl. The body was terribly injured, so it says.”