The Dark Water

by David Pirie

  The crying became him, of course, the head held upright, the eyes wide open and sad. It was the noble melancholy of Byron and of ‘Childe Harold’, of the tragedian rather than the afflicted. But beneath his delicate features, I sensed a tiredness. I could not see his clothes for he wore a dark full-length coat but it was by no means dry, so he had been outside in much of this weather.

  ‘You are probably thinking, Doyle,’ he said softly, and I saw he was reading my letter to Mrs Jefford, ‘that I cry because I have failed or out of remorse for my misdeeds.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ I replied, ‘I have no view on anything you do.’ I was aware now of the smell of something in the room, a chemical smell. And oddly I saw he had stripped some of the clothes from the bed.

  Of course I could have run out, but what would be the point? No help was at hand and he would have disappeared either through the door or the window long before I returned with it. The candelabra on the table a few feet in front of me was heavy, with five lighted candles. If I could reach it before him, and wield it effectively, there might be a chance. In a flash, I thought of bringing the heel of it down on his skull.

  ‘Come, come,’ he said and turned to me a little, smiling, more his old self again now. And I was sure I could see him take in the candle holder, calculating quickly any other potential weapons I might have, eyeing my condition. For his part, seeing him full on, he looked as fit and sleek as a panther, his build a little thinner but robust. How much his animal good looks repelled me now. I quailed to think of the university days when I had drunk and laughed in his company.

  ‘You must do better than that,’ he continued. ‘No, my crying has nothing to do with such things, though I was touched by your kind expression here of sympathy to myself.’ He waved the letter.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You extend your utmost sympathy to Charlotte’s suitor who faces such terrible loss. You want him to hear of the sheer delight and excitement you saw in her when she spoke to you of her engagement. That is kind, Doyle. I am flattered. She is lost to me now. It is another thing we have in common.’

  I stared at him. ‘Oh yes,’ he went on, ‘I met her through Jefford. Even he did not know of our romance, for I swore her to secrecy. We would meet each other in all kinds of places and here I pretended I was secretly searching for her brother. It was very sweet. But then it became a burden. So I conjured a rhyme.

  ‘“First I proposed

  Then I disposed.”’

  Of course, I should have seen it at once, Charlotte Jefford was so flushed and secretive that night, with all the animation of someone who had met with a lover. Little wonder she stayed on and was sometimes mysteriously absent. She thought she had a secret ally and protector. How could she know her brother’s charming friend was in truth the one man who had tortured and killed him?

  Bell must have guessed as much after her death too, for it was referred to obliquely in his note. But where was Bell?

  Cream tossed the letter aside. ‘But as I say, that is not why I weep. It is another death which concerns me. Someone I greatly admired,’ he went on. Again his eyes filled with tears. And I dreaded to hear the name that would come forth.

  My stomach started to tighten into a knot. ‘Who?’ I said, hating to give him the satisfaction of the question.

  ‘You must remember,’ he said incongruously. And he sprang up in one great movement.

  I recoiled slightly but he had moved in the opposite direction from the candelabra into the space by the wall. This gave me a better chance of seizing the implement, but he was out of immediate striking distance and now he began to sing in a sweet voice.

  Jesse James was a man

  Who killed many a man.

  He robbed the Glendale train.

  The song had a pretty tune but I felt as if he were trying to drive me mad. His feet moved a little, as if in a minute dance. When I knocked Cream unconscious with the candelabra I would, I was thinking, try to set him alight. Or perhaps I would bring the holder down on his head repeatedly until there was not the slightest chance of his ever getting up.

  ‘I told you of Jesse James so often,’ he said. ‘I have been travelling a great deal and only heard of his death recently in a newspaper. It is a case for mourning. He is the only one to understand the glory of the killing that began in our civil war. Rapid-firing pistols were uncommon before in our country, Doyle. Now the war has brought them to millions; Jesse killed for glory. And would to God he were alive today to make a righteous butchery of more.’

  I was still measuring the distance and considering if I could take a pace forward. I did not care about his ‘man of destiny’, I wanted only to reach that candelabra and bring it down as hard as possible on his head.

  ‘You do not listen because you suppose I am a lone voice,’ he said with a smile. ‘But these words about “righteous butchery” are not mine. They were written by his greatest obituarist in one of my country’s newspapers. Already Jesse James is the legend. And not just for our nation. For the future.’

  Of course I had heard him talk like this before. At Edinburgh he had revelled in tales of robbery, slaughter and violently clashing causes in the new world. But the idea that murder itself should be considered heroic (for what was killing in the course of robbery but murder?) and written of in the way he described seemed to me beyond belief. I utterly refused to believe it was a future or to dignify his words with a reply.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but I bore you and you may wish to look at what is behind you there. I would like it to be something I give you at Christmas.’

  I did not know if this was some trick. I certainly did not wish to take my eyes off him. But he laughed and pointed. ‘No, it is all right, I assure you I will not pounce. Take a glance. I know you will find it of interest. See, I walk a pace back.’

  He did. I turned my head a fraction.

  A long object was lying there on the floor by the wall.

  It was Bell’s silver-topped cane.

  Slightly dulled from rain and vegetation but unmistakable, just as I had seen with him earlier. I turned back, trying to hold my expression.

  Cream laughed then, his old laugh. ‘So, Doyle, if you would not grieve with me over Jesse, I am sure we can still join in grieving for another death.’ I reacted, of course. I could not stop myself.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he continued. ‘Let me tell you something else Jesse James wrote. “A man who is a damned enough fool to refuse to open a safe or vault ought to die. If he resists or refuses to unlock, he gets killed.” Those are the published words of a fine man and I honour them. Jefford prevented me first, but today it was Bell. He stopped me from opening the Jefford vault by his meddling. But he paid the price. He came to the cliffs even though I am sure he knew the message was false. And of course he came with some heroic notion he could send me over, either alone or in his arms. I was not such a fool, it is not my way to be involved in a cumbersome wrestling match.

  ‘Therefore, I had a small blade and when he sprang, I went low and stabbed his lower leg so he had no balance.’ His face was visibly shining now with excited pleasure at the memory as he came forward a step. ‘I held the firm ground, he teetered and I used my head to butt him and he went over. Right to the bottom. He screamed too, Doyle. He is gone.’

  THE DEATH OF THE DOCTOR

  The words were horrific. I wanted to disbelieve them: surely this must be one of his tricks? Yet in my heart I knew with sickening certainty, not least from Cream’s sheer triumph, the words were true. Bell himself had certainly perceived the danger. And I had never known Cream to lie about death. When he claimed a kill, he had always killed, as I recalled to my great cost.

  So he had won. But it was intolerable that this man should stand here before me now, gloating, and I braced myself.

  He must have seen this in my eyes, for he sprang first. He had taken a step while he was talking and he was lithe and judged his move well.

  We both reached the table together but he
had the heavy candelabra before me and thrust it right into my face, forcing me to back away to the wall.

  ‘I wish,’ he said, ‘to burn you alive and make you a martyr for all your noble causes. Another detective martyr.’

  The flames were agonising on my face so I could only try to get my head away and back. Cream’s head was not far away now, madly illuminated by the candles, which were singeing my hair and eyebrows. I sank lower on the wall but he only increased the pressure and the pain. No doubt he could have hit down but the candles might have spluttered and he truly did want to burn me.

  I was blinded now, the pain was horrible and I knew I would catch fire but my hand, pressed uselessly back against the floor, came up against a long smooth object. It was Bell’s cane. I gripped it like a drowning man gripping rope. Swinging it would be impossible, but I knew the cane well and my hand was quite near the top. With one movement I jabbed the cane forward at my attacker with all my strength. Of course I struck in the direction of the pain and the cane knocked one of the candles half in his face so that he recoiled a few inches, alleviating my own agony.

  I jabbed harder then, finding his head and forcing him back, removing the flames from my face entirely. I just had time to stagger up before he came at me again but I had the cane now and moved along the wall away from him into the corner, preparing to swing it.

  To my amazement he did not follow, but went to the door, which was still ajar, and closed it. Then he bent down and touched the candles to the carpet.

  I was moving towards him, welcoming the chance to make a proper assault, but suddenly a great wall of fire sprang up before me. I had to step back, and beyond the shooting flames I could see him laughing. He turned and picked up some object, pouring liquid from it on to the rising flames and throwing the bedclothes I had seen on to them too. Now I knew what the chemical smell was, it was kerosene from the lamp by the window and the wall of fire was becoming denser. ‘Oh yes,’ he cried, ‘I had to work quickly while you were downstairs.’ I cowered back and saw Cream’s pleasure, he was exultant, almost dancing. ‘A martyr must have a pyre, Doyle. Like a witch.’

  I had only a short time before I was consumed. And in that moment I thought of the Doctor. He had attempted to give his life to get Cream out of the world. He had failed. Now was I going to die without even the attempt?

  Forced back into the corner of the room where the fire had not yet reached, there was only a chair and the coat I had slung over it when I returned from The Glebe. I seized it, got my arms half in the sleeves but only half so the shoulder and collar covered my head and most of my face. I thanked God in a silent prayer that it was still wet and lunged forward.

  The pain was excruciating. My legs felt as if they were being raked by red-hot wires but I knew only speed would save me. And then the pain was less, for I must have been through the worst of it. At once Cream was on me, for I felt a sideways blow from the lamp.

  He would have been better to desist. For I took a step back and the coat came off my head so I could see him. Now I had a chance to attempt the second part of my plan, which was inspired only by the thought of Bell’s fate. Cream was holding the kerosene lamp high, preparing to make a lethal blow but I was ahead of him, for I moved aside, grabbing his arm as it came down and pulled him towards the ring of flames.

  He was caught off-balance and in any case this was the last thing he expected. I got the other arm round him now and pulled with every once of strength. I hated to feel his body so close to me, I loathed the touch of him. But I had only one wish and that was to fulfil the mission in which the Doctor had failed. Cream was probably stronger than me but he was unprepared and I was driven by pain, hatred and desperation. And so we toppled down together on the edge of the widening flames.

  It was agony and I felt the searing pain for my head was no longer protected. But nor was Cream, who cursed. And, even through my own pain, I relished that sound. My arms were still clamped round him, that was the only thought left to me now even as my senses blurred. Then suddenly he gasped and I was unable to hold on any longer, for my hand on his coat was burning and as I withdrew I got my head up and saw what was happening: his coat, unlike mine, was going up in flames. He had spilt kerosene on it in his recklessness while he was spraying and now it was burning faster than anything else.

  His head was already further in the blaze than mine and I could see the skin under his nose almost seeming to liquefy, mottling his face, just as he had intended the candles to disfigure me. Meanwhile, my coat was singeing but still offered protection and my face and hair, though agony, were not yet alight.

  I felt joy at that moment. I had never succeeded in landing as much as a blow on him previously and here I saw ultimate pain. It was a new sensation to me, he was mortal and his face burnt.

  I could not breathe now, so instinct drove me back and I found almost to my surprise I was out of the worst flames. My body was still agony but I was able to breathe and I pushed myself further along.

  I could see the door and crawled on through the smoke, remembering my crawling in the cottage, then humiliated, now avenged. Finally I reached the door, aware that though I had burns I was not burning now. And I managed to pull myself up to my feet.

  Looking back, I could not see much but I could make out a shape writhing in the smoke and flames. I took the key and pulled the door open, closing it and turning the key in the lock. It was a death sentence, I knew, and I felt a thrill as I did so.

  As yet there was no alarm and I knew one would not come soon enough to save him. And then I heard the scream from inside, though not quite from the direction I expected. I relished that scream. I felt it was owed to all the victims, to the Doctor, and particularly to the women he had killed. For other murderers I had often felt different things: contempt, mercy, sadness, even sympathy. But never for him. He was beyond such emotions.

  As the sound faded, I moved quickly along the corridor to the staircase. The scream had alerted people on the landing below as had a smell of smoke and I heard the shout of fire.

  I came out of the inn without being seen and the rain and the wind were more welcome than any cooling balm. I suppose I must have looked a strange sight. My heavy coat had great burnt patches on it, my hair was singed, my face flushed and in places sore, but at least the coat had survived intact and now it covered the places below the knee where my trouser leg was burnt through. I was very grateful for the coat, it was certainly the only reason my burns were of a lesser kind.

  But my moment of exultation passed now as I thought of Bell. Once again I reviewed Cream’s words about the struggle on the cliff, searching for some chink. But I knew there was none. Cream would have had no pleasure in lying to me about such a thing even to achieve a temporary amusement. It was not his way. Bell had given everything and yet saw no satisfaction of victory, only humiliation, and my heart became heavier again as I moved quickly down the street.

  The tempest had barely abated, for I heard thunder and the rain sheeted in my face as I walked with occasional lightning to guide the way. Again I turned down the track to the sea and then mounted the coastal path into the trees. I knew the spot where I must look, though it was a dreadful place to visit on such a night.

  Finally, I came out into that great space where the noisy surf crashed far below and in front of me lay the broken arch and the graves, tottering at a mad angle. It was a miracle the storm had not dislodged them, though of course it was far from over. And it was a fool who would stand close to the cliff in such conditions, let alone engage in a struggle, but if the Doctor had taken the risk, so must I.

  I did not dare to walk to the edge in that wind, so I got down on all fours and crawled through the sodden grass towards it. In a lull I shouted the Doctor’s name aloud and it seemed to echo along the cliff before the wind drowned the call, but of course there was no reply.

  Finally, I was at the edge and held tight to a stray lump of masonry beside me, though I knew quite well it would not help me if the g
round gave way as I peered over.

  At first I could see little, but there was more light here from the sea. I could make out waves, though the tide was not now full, and stones and rocks. But nothing else.

  Suddenly there was a great flash of lightning which illuminated all starkly: the sand, the stones, the cliff. And in that moment I saw him. I saw his broken lifeless body stretched out far below me, twisted by the impact, covered in blood. And I wept.

  THE SOUND IN THE PASSAGE

  I did not and could not attempt to get down to him from here. There were some rocky outcrops below me but a climb of any kind would have been a horrific undertaking. I ran back along the path, for I knew I had seen a spot where the subsidence was so gradual you could climb down to the beach.

  I remembered roughly where it was and turned off the path through the trees until, by good luck, I found it almost at once. It was not a pleasant scramble in such weather but nor was it particularly dangerous as long as you avoided breaking an ankle on the slippery descent. Soon I was on the beach and I ran the relatively short distance back along it to the spot below the ruined church where I had seen Bell.

  I came round the head of the cliff and soon I thought I was at the spot, yet without the lightning I could see no sign of him. Had he been buried by some stone from above? For this was directly under the most dangerous part of the cliff and fallen masonry was all around us.

  I turned to the left and realised at once my mistake. For there was the outline of his shape, I could see the blood on his face and the twisted ungainly posture. I came beside him, hating to see the lifeless form and bent down to look at his body.

  It was as I had seen. Limbs twisted by the impact, copious blood on the face. I turned away, partly because I could not bear what was below me, but also to take off my coat to place it over his lifeless form.

  The voice behind me was frail but distinct. ‘You will forgive me, Doyle, for not greeting you more cheerfully but I had no wish to encounter anyone else in my present state.’