NOT DEAD
Mayfield's face was grim and set; there was just a flash of contempt
in his eyes for Speed, who was breathing hard. The dramatic part of
the situation was lost on Mr. George Dashwood, who could think of
nothing else beyond the speculative possibilities that Mayfield had
been holding out to him.
"You don't seem to be any better," Mayfield said to Speed, "you look
ghastly. Anybody would think that you had been caught in some crime."
Behind the contemptuous words there was a note of warning to Speed.
Anybody less blind than George Dashwood would have noticed how
agitated he was. Speed caught just a glimpse of his own features in a
quaint old mirror over the fireplace. He could see that he was green
and grey by turns; he started at his own haggard face. Small wonder,
then, that Mayfield had given him a warning.
"I'm feeling like a corpse," he said. "It's agony for me to sit up any
longer. If you don't mind, I think I'll go to bed."
"Why not try the fresh air?" Dashwood suggested. "It is a cure
sometimes."
"Drizzling with rain," Speed replied. "Darnley turned up the collar of
his overcoat as he passed the window. I could see him from behind the
screen. On the whole, I should be far better between the sheets."
As he spoke Speed shot a questioning glance at Mayfield. The latter
nodded.
"Perhaps it would be as well," he said; "if you feel as seedy as that.
I must not be long, either, as I have to leave pretty early tomorrow.
I'll just finish my discussion with Mr. Dashwood over a cigar, and
then I'll follow your example. I suppose the butler comes around and
fastens up all the windows?"
"The rest of the house," Speed explained. "I generally fasten the
windows here myself. I'll leave you to do it tonight, Mayfield. Don't
forget. One never knows what sort of person is hanging about a house
like this."
Speed crept out of the room and across the hall, on the way to his
room. He was shaking from head to foot still and his legs were hardly
equal to his weight. He lighted a candle with a trembling hand, taking
several matches to do so. Out of the shadow came Slight, who watched
his master with a curious expression.
"Perhaps you will permit me to do that for you, sir?" he suggested
politely.
"Go away," Speed cried. "Go to bed. Think that I'm too drunk to light
a candle? Why do you follow me like this? Send my man to me. Gone to
Longtown for the night, has he? Oh, I recollect giving him permission
now."
Speed staggered up the stairs, and into his own room. Once there, he
opened a cupboard and produced therefrom a bottle of brandy. He poured
out half a tumbler and drank it greedily. He placed his hands over his
eyes as if to hide some horrible vision. He was free now to give way
to his feelings; he was no longer under observation. He would have
given ten years of his life to recall the last half hour.
He sat there, gazing into space and making no effort to remove his
clothes. An hour passed; then there was a tap on the door. Speed
started violently; he was half afraid that the arm of the law was
groping for him already. His face cleared a little as Mayfield came in
and closed the door very carefully.
"Well?" the latter said. "Are you getting over it? I'm more than sorry
I started this little business. If Dashwood had had any power of
observation he would have seen that there was something worse than
illness the matter with you tonight."
"It was awful," Speed groaned, "you would feel just the same if you'd
done it. All the time I was pretending to be ill behind the screen, I
was standing by the open window. I heard Darnley say goodnight to you.
I stood with the loaded stick in my hand. And as he passed by the
window under the veranda I struck him down. . . . He fell stone dead
without a single groan. He lay there absolutely still. And I would
have forfeited all I had to recall those last few moments. If you
could have seen his face----"
"Oh, never mind that," Mayfield said brutally. "The thing is done and
there is an end of it. And you know perfectly well that you would do
the same thing again tomorrow. So he lies there in the verandah, does
he? What about the stick?"
"The stick is hidden in the laurel bushes. We can burn that when there
is time."
"To-night. Our work is not finished. Darnley must not lie there. We
shall have to carry him as far as the drive. It is a bit risky, but
the thing must be done. Everybody has gone to bed now. Dashwood and
old Slight can testify that neither of us have been out of the house
since dinner time, so we are quite safe."
"Let him lie where he is," Speed whispered, with chattering teeth.
"People will think that he came back for something after we had gone
to bed, and that he had encounter with some prowling burglar. That's
just as good as your plan."
"No, it isn't," Mayfield said impatiently. "Mine is much more artistic
and reasonable. We have saved our own necks; now we want to put
suspicion upon somebody outside. We've got to carry the body of Ralph
Darnley as far as the avenue; we've got to turn out his pockets as if
he had been robbed. We can bury what he has on him and destroy the
loaded stick at the same time. Everybody has gone to bed. Come along."
Speed protested and groaned. But it was all the same to Mayfield. He
contemptuously indicated the brandy bottle, and suggested that Speed
should derive a little fleeting courage from it. Another strong dose
and Speed declared himself to be ready.
They crept down into the hall and from thence into the darkened
dining-room. In the hall Speed hastily snatched a big Inverness cape
from the stand. His intention was obvious. He wanted to throw this
over the body. . . . It lay there quite still under the shelter of the
verandah; outside the rain was gently pattering on the grass. With
half averted head, Speed flung the cloak over the still black form.
He was heedless of the rain; both were heedless of the rain by this
time. It was not a tiring work, for the night was warm, and Mayfield
had caught a little of Speed's nervous excitement. He did not notice
that it was raining at all. They staggered on for some five hundred
yards along the avenue. Speed declared that he could not go any
farther.
"This will do," he panted in a hoarse whisper. "Under the oak tree.
It's just the very spot where a man would stop to light a cigar. You
do the rest, Mayfield."
Mayfield did the rest cautiously enough. It was the dark before dawn;
the birds were not yet awake. A rabbit dashed across the road, and
Speed started. Mayfield was only at work a moment; it seemed like ages
to Speed. They stole quietly back to the house without meeting
anybody; they gained the dining room at length. It was just as they
had left it, nothing to show that anybody had been there. Then they
were back once more in Speed's bedroom.
"I must have some more brandy," he said. "I believe I could drink the
bottle. You are not looking quite so cool and self-possessed as usual,
Mayfield. Take a drop."
"I hate the stuff," Mayfield growled. "All the same, I don't mind
confessing that I am just a little bit shaky. I could do it with some
whisky. I suppose I could find a decanter of it on the sideboard?"
"Always there," Speed explained. "There must have been some rain when
we were out, for my coat is quite damp. So is yours. Better take it
off."
Mayfield peeled off his dress coat carelessly. He took the candle and
proceeded to make his way down the stairs once more. Surely enough the
big glass bottle of whisky stood on the sideboard. Mayfield helped
himself liberally, and filled up the glass with a spurt of soda from a
syphon. Somebody behind him coughed.
"It's only me, sir," the thin respectful voice of Slight said. "I've
got a touch of neuralgia, and couldn't sleep, sir. And just now it
seemed to me that I heard somebody about. Got the idea of burglars
into my head, sir."
"Oh, that's all right," Mayfield said with a suggestion of relief in
his tone. "I couldn't sleep either, so I came down for a drink."
Slight bowed respectfully. But his old eyes had not overlooked the
fact that little beads of wet glistened on Mayfield's trousers, and
that his dress shoes were spotted with mud. Very silently and
respectfully he crept away up the back stairs, and so to the room of
one of the menservants--a young protégé of his. He was sleeping
soundly enough as Slight laid a hand on his shoulder. He struggled to
a sitting posture.
"Mr. Slight," he said sleepily. "What is the matter? Is the house on
fire? Why you do look serious! What is the matter?"
"I don't know," Slight replied. "It may be murder for all I know. And
I thought that I was too clever for those two chaps. Get up and dress
yourself, Walters. As soon as ever it is light we've got something to
do. Don't sit there asking a lot of foolish questions. How did they
manage it when he went so early?"
Walters stared at the speaker, who pulled up abruptly.
"I dare say you think I am talking nonsense," he said. "Nothing of the
kind, my lad. Just put your clothes on and come as far as my room. If
anything has happened to that bonny lad of mine, I'll never forgive
myself."