THE FIGURES ON THE BED
'At anyrate,' remarked Miss Bewicke, as, turning the key in the lock,
she shut herself and Miss Broad inside the dining-room, 'you can't get
at us for a time.'
The two girls stood and listened. They heard the handle tried; the
rapping at the panel.
'You may knock, and knock, but it won't be opened. He's gone. That was
Horace, dear. How beautifully you knocked him down!'
'What does he want?'
'It's pretty plain. Uncle George's ruby has the attractiveness of the
Holy Grail. This is another quest for it.'
'But they'll find it if we stop here.'
'And if we don't stop here, what do you propose to do? Fight them to
the death? Nothing else will be efficacious. They're not the persons,
and they're not in the mood, to stick at trifles.'
'What a wretch he is! I've heard Guy speak of him, but I'd no idea he
was as bad as this.'
'My dear Letty, when a bad man is in a bad hole, you've no notion how
bad that man can be. The question now is, Can we get out through the
kitchen door, or can they get through the kitchen door to us?'
'Where does that door lead to?'
'Into Louise Casata's bedroom. The beauty of the average flat is that
you can always pass from any one room into any other, which,
sometimes, is convenient and sometimes isn't. I'm wondering whether
Louise is responsible for Horace Burton's presence here, and also
where she is. I've reasons for believing that it was not her intention
to go out to-night.'
'I shouldn't keep such a woman about my place, if I were you.'
'I don't intend to any longer. All the same, you've no idea how useful
she has been. There have been times when I don't know what I should
have done without her. Still, I fancy that henceforth she and I part
company.' She opened the door which led into Miss Casata's room, then
gave utterance to a startled exclamation. 'Why! what is the matter?
Letty, keep back!'
Returning to the dining-room, she leaned against the door, which she
had pulled to after her, as if she needed its support. For one who
was, as a rule, so completely mistress of herself, she showed strange
emotion. Miss Broad stared at her askance.
'What has happened now? What's in there?'
'I don't know. Don't ask me. Let me get my breath and think, and I'll
tell you all about it.'
She pressed her hand against her side, as if to still the beating of
her heart. She seemed unhinged, thrown, in a second, completely off
her balance. Her agitation was infectious. Probably, without her
knowing it, Miss Broad's voice trembled and sank.
'Tell me--what it is.'
'Wait a minute, and I'll tell you--all.'
She made an evident effort to get the better of her infirmity. Bracing
herself up against the door, the little woman looked Miss Broad
straight in the face.
'Letty, something horrible has happened.'
'What is it?'
'I don't quite know myself; I didn't stop to look.'
'Let me go and see.'
'It's Miss Casata and--a man.'
'A man? What man?'
'I can't say; I only saw it was a man. They're lying on the bed--so
still. Oh, Letty!'
'May!'
Miss Broad was probably wholly unaware that she had called her
companion by her Christian name. The unknown horror in the other room
had laid its grip on her. She was overcome by frightful imaginings,
not knowing why. She gasped out an unfinished question.
'You don't mean--'
'I don't know what I mean. I only know that there's something there.'
The two girls had been speaking in whispers, as if they stood in a
presence which compelled hushed voices. Now, suddenly, Miss Bewicke
raised her tones, extending her small palm towards the door through
which they had entered.
'Oh! you wretches! wretches!'
She broke into a passion of tears.
'May, for goodness' sake, don't cry!'
'I'm not going to. I don't know why I am so silly, but, for the
moment, I couldn't help it.' Her sobs ceased almost as rapidly as they
came. She dried her eyes. 'Letty, let's go and see what's happened.
I'm afraid Miss Casata's--dead.'
'Dead?'
'Yes; and--the man.'
'The man?'
'They're so still. Let's go and see. Give me your hand.'
Miss Broad yielded her hand. Miss Bewicke opened the door. The two
peeped through.
The room was not a large one. On one side was an ordinary French
bedstead. A brass railing was on the head and foot. On this railing
were hung feminine odds and ends. These made it difficult for anyone
standing at the door to see clearly what was on the bed. Miss Broad
perceived that on the outer edge there lay a woman.
'Who's that?'
'That's Louise Casata.'
'Perhaps she's sleeping.'
'She wouldn't sleep through all the noise.'
'She may be ill; I'll go and look at her.'
'Don't you see--that there's a man?'
Miss Broad moved further into the room. She saw what the other alluded
to. As she did so, she gave utterance to that cry which Mr Horace
Burton heard, listening in the servants' room beyond--the cry in which
there was such a mingling of emotions as they welled up to the lips
from the woman's heart.
Miss Casata lay almost on the extreme edge of the bed fully clothed.
She was on her back. One arm dangled over the side; her head was a
little aslant upon the pillow, so that from a little distance it
looked as if her neck was broken. The whole pose was almost as
uncomfortable a one as a human being could choose; indeed, the
conviction was irresistibly borne in on the beholders that it was not
self-chosen, unless she had sunk on to the bed in a drunken stupor;
but Miss Bewicke knew that she was no drinker.
However, it was not Miss Casata's plight which had drawn from Miss
Broad that involuntary cry. Beside her, outlined beneath the
bedclothes, was a figure, stiff and rigid. With the exception of one
place, it was completely covered. Some one, curious, perhaps, to learn
what the thing might mean, had drawn aside sufficient of the
bedclothes to disclose a portion of the head and face. As a matter of
fact, the curious person was Mr Horace Burton. When relieving himself
of the burden of the lady who was once the object of his heart's
affection, he had been struck by the outlined form which lay so
curiously still, and had wondered what it was, and had seen; and
because of what he had seen, had gone back to his companions with the
fashion of his countenance so changed.
Now Miss Broad saw. The man beside Miss Casata on the bed was Mr
Holland--Guy Holland--her Guy. It was when she perceived that it was
he that her heart cried out. Miss Bewicke, who had only realised that
it was a man, without recognising what man it was, came to her side
trembling, wondering. When she also knew, she also cried aloud; but
there was a material difference between the quality of her exclamation
and Miss Broad's. Hers signified horror and amazement--perhaps
something of concern; Miss Broad's betokened so many other things
besides.
The two women went running to the bed; but when Miss Broad showed an
inclination to lean over and to touch the silent man, the other, as if
fearful of what actual contact might involve, caught her by the dress.
'No, no; take care!'
Even Miss Broad shrank a little back; for Miss Casata lay between.
'Move the bed!'
The suggestion was Miss Bewicke's. In a moment it had been put into
force. The bed was wheeled more into the centre of the room, so as to
permit of passage between it and the wall, and presently the girl was
at her lover's side. She knelt and looked, but still she did not touch
him. No tears were in her eyes; she seemed very calm; but her face was
white, and she was speechless. On her face there was a look which was
past wonder, past pain, past fear, as if she did not understand what
it was which was in front of her. Miss Bewicke stood at her side, also
looking; her dominant expression seemed sheer bewilderment.
He also lay on his back. The bedclothes were withdrawn, so that his
face was seen down to the chin. No marks of violence were visible. His
expression was one of complete quiescence. His eyes were closed, as if
he slept; but if he did, it was very soundly, for there was nothing to
show that he breathed.
Suddenly Miss Broad found her voice, or the ghost of it. Her lips did
not move, and the words came thinly from her throat.
'Is he dead?'
The other did not answer; but, leaning over, she drew the bedclothes
more from off him, and she whispered,--
'Guy!' They waited, but he did not answer. She called again, 'Guy!'
Yet no response. In that land of sleep in which he was, it was plain
that he heard no voices.
The further withdrawal of the bedclothes had revealed the fact that he
was fully dressed for dinner, as he was when Miss Bewicke had seen him
last, the night before. His black bow had come untied; the ends
strayed over his shirtfront, which was soiled and crumpled. His whole
attire was in disarray. There were stains of dirt upon his coat. Now
that they were so close, they perceived that traces of dry mud were on
his face, as if it had been in close contact with the ground. About
his whole appearance there was much which was ominous.
The fact that this was so seemed to make a fresh appeal to Miss
Broad's understanding; probably to something else in her as well.
'Guy!' she cried.
Her tone was penetrating, poignant. If it did not reach the
consciousness of him to whom she called, in another direction it had a
curious and unlooked-for effect. As if in response to an appeal which
had been made directly to herself, Miss Casata, on the opposite side
of the bed, sat up. The girls clung to each other in startled terror.
To them, for the moment, it was as if she had risen from the dead.
Although she had sat up, Miss Casata herself did not seem to know
exactly why. She seemed not only stupid, but a little stupefied, and
gasped for breath, her respirations resembling convulsions as she
struggled with the after-effects of the narcotic. The two girls
observed her with amazement, she, on her part, evidently not realising
their presence in the least.
It was Miss Bewicke who first attained to some dim comprehension of
the meaning of the lady's antics.
'She's been drugged; that's what it is. Louise!'
Miss Casata heard, although she did not turn her head, but continued
to open and shut her mouth in very ugly fashion as she fought for
breath.
'Yes; I'm coming. Who's calling?'
'I! Look at me! Do you hear? Louise!'
This time, if she heard, Miss Casata gave no sign, but, sinking back
on the bed, clutched at the counterpane, making a noise, as she gasped
for breath, as if the walls of her chest would burst.
'Letty, let me go! I must do something. She'll relapse, or worse, if
we don't take care.'
Miss Bewicke hastened to the wash-handstand. Emptying a jug of water
into a basin, she took the basin in her hands and dashed the contents,
with what force she could, into the lady's face.
The salutation was effectual. Miss Casata floundered, spluttering, on
to the floor, more like herself.
Miss Bewicke confronted her, the basin still in her hands.
'Who did that?'
'I did. Louise, wake up!'
Miss Casata seemed to be endeavouring her utmost to obey the other's
command.
'What's the matter?'
'That's what I want to know. In particular, I want to know what is the
meaning of Mr Guy Holland's presence in your room?'
'Holland?' She put her hand up to her head in an effort to collect her
thoughts. She spoke as if with an imperfect apprehension of what it
was she was saying. 'He was in the street--lying--on his face--so I
brought him here--before the policeman came.'
'Before the policeman came? What do you mean? How did you know that he
was lying in the street?'
'I saw--the Flyman--from the window--knock him down--he took the
ruby.'
'The Flyman? Who is he?'
'A man--Horace knows--I knew--Horace had set him on. I didn't want him
to get into trouble, so I brought him here. It was all I could do to
carry him up the stairs--he was so heavy.'
'And do you mean to say you've had Mr Holland hidden in your room all
day and night?'
'All day--and night. He's dead. The Flyman killed him. Horace will get
into trouble--when it's known.'
Miss Casata, in her condition of semi-consciousness, said more than
she had warrant for. Mr Holland was not dead. Even as she asserted
that he was, he showed that her assertion was an error. While the
still partly-stupefied woman struggled to get out of the darkness into
the light, there came a cry from the white-faced girl on the other
side of the bed.
'May, he moves!'
Startled into forgetfulness of what it was she held, Miss Bewicke
dropped the slippery basin from her hands. It broke into fragments
with a clatter. The noise of the shattered ware seemed actually to
penetrate to Mr Holland's consciousness. Miss Bewicke would always
have it that it was her breaking the basin which really brought him
back to life. In an instant Miss Broad was half beside herself in a
frenzy of excitement.
'May! May! he lives! Guy! Guy!'
Miss Bewicke, turning, saw that he was alive, but that, apparently,
when that was said, one had said all.