FATE TAKES THE ODD TRICK.
Melville was on the point of leaving his rooms, his Inverness cape
hanging on his arm, when Jervis came into the room.
"A commissionaire, sir, has come and wants to see you."
"All right," said Melville casually; "send him up."
The man appeared and gave his message tersely; he was often sent on
errands such as this, but still was no adept in the art of breaking
bad news.
"There has been an accident, sir, and you are wanted at once."
"Who is hurt?" Melville asked.
"Lady Holt," the man replied.
"Lady Holt?" said Melville; "and she sent for me?"
"Yes, sir; the cabman's killed and the lady's dying, they say. Will
you come back with me? I have a cab at the door."
"Is it as bad as that?" said Melville.
"They're waiting to take her depositions, if they can," the messenger
said. "It was an awful sight."
"Go back and say I'll come in half a minute," Melville said. "I
shall be there as soon as you, if not sooner."
He controlled his agitation until the door closed upon the man, and
then, turning the key in the lock, threw his cape upon the couch. In
an instant he realised to the full what this meant. With incredible
swiftness he slipped off his dress clothes and changed into a dark
mourning suit, crammed some linen and a couple of suits into a
Gladstone bag, tipped the contents of his despatch box into it, and
took the banknotes from his writing-table drawer. In a wonderfully
short time his preparations were complete, and, grasping the bag, he
ran lightly down the staircase, and getting into the crowd in
Piccadilly Circus took a cab and drove to Charing Cross. Finding
that he still had some time to wait before the express left, he went
into one of the many small restaurants near the station and took a
hasty dinner, which he washed down with a plentiful supply of
spirits. Before suspicion at the hospital had definitely been turned
upon him, he was lying back against the cushions of an otherwise
empty carriage and speeding through Kent upon his way to Dover.
He did his utmost to concentrate his thoughts upon what was next to
be done, but, despite his endeavours, they would wander to the
hospital where Lavender was lying. If he had any sure information of
what was going on there, what the nature of the accident was, and who
was with her, the possible danger would have had less terror for him;
but it was still too early for any particulars to appear in the
papers, and he could only allow his overwrought imagination to supply
the details for him. The commissionaire had said that Lady Holt was
dying, and used the ill-omened word "depositions." That meant that
Lavender had acknowledged her identity either by accident or of
design, and was about to make a full statement of her knowledge of
the events which culminated in Sir Geoffrey's death. Doubtless, she
was being influenced by some smooth-cheeked, smooth-spoken parson to
confess her sins before passing away, and in the hysterical, neurotic
state in which she had been these last few weeks--to say nothing of
the state to which the accident might have reduced her--that task of
professional persuasion might be only too easy to fulfil. She had
tied the label of conviction round his neck by asking for him by
name, and while his flight would possibly only be regarded as
corroboration of her story, the alternative course of staying was
attended by too grave risks for any sane man to contemplate. No good
purpose could be served now by hoping for the best or by trying to
look upon the bright side of things. It was wiser to look the
probabilities squarely in the face, and they spelled hanging by the
neck for Melville Ashley.
As he sat there, rigid and impassive, he might have been taken for a
financier working out some vast calculation involving millions of
money, a statesman debating a point in international policy involving
issues of peace or war, a physician considering a new development of
disease involving life or death to his patient; no one would have
taken him for what he was, a murderer flying from the Nemesis that
was trailing close after him. But his cold face masked a heart
aflame already. As on his way home from Monte Carlo he cursed what
he called his luck, so now on his way from London to--he knew not
where--he cursed the greater thing he called his destiny.
Only once could he remember having made any mistake in the way he
played the cards dealt out to him by fate, and what added bitterness
to the memory now was the fact that he made the mistake with his eyes
open. He cursed himself for having once been persuaded into doing a
thing which at the time he knew was imprudent. That once was when he
agreed to take Lavender with him by boat to Fairbridge Manor. But
for that he would not now be in this parlous plight. Even supposing
he had still committed the murder--which actually was never in his
mind when he set out--he still would not have been seen and been
rendered subject to the mercies of an emotional woman. Lavender
would never have suspected him, and he could have kept his own
counsel and had no fear of nerves.
It was impossible for him to keep his mind from memories and turn it
to the future. He could only think of what had been and what might
have been, not of what was to be. Never before had his thinking
powers played him false like this; will and foresight were
dispossessed by memory just at the moment when he needed them as he
had never needed them before. That was the most pregnant fact of
all, and he did not perceive it. If he thought of the present it was
only with some vague satisfaction that every moment was taking him
farther away from peril.
In the hospital the depositions were taken, and the grey man looked
across at the inspector of police and left the room with him. And
soon the inspector left the hospital and went to see his chiefs.
There was no evidence against any individual, for the name of the man
who rowed her up to Fairbridge had not escaped Lavender's lips, but
Melville had not obeyed the summons she had sent him, and the
inspector was not alone in wanting to know why. He went to Jermyn
Street and asked for Mr. Ashley.
"I don't think he's at home," the hall porter said, and the inspector
went upstairs. On the top landing he met Jervis coming from another
set of rooms. "I want to see Mr. Ashley," he said again.
"He's dining out," said Jervis.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite," said Jervis. "I saw him dress, and a commissionaire brought
him a message just as he was finished. I haven't been in his rooms
since, but I'm sure he's out."
"Show me," said the inspector, and something about him quelled
Jervis's usual breezy impertinence.
"Look for yourself, if you don't believe me," he said, unlocking the
door and flinging it wide open. "Perhaps you will believe your own
eyes."
The room bore unmistakable evidence of Melville's flight. His dress
clothes were flung upon the sofa, his despatch box stood open on the
table, his writing-table drawers were unlocked. Jervis's face of
surprise only confirmed the inspector's previous idea.
"You are Mr. Ashley's servant?" he enquired.
"Yes," said Jervis.
"Well, perhaps you can describe him to me; fully, please. I only
want to make enquiries in case there has been an accident. You will
not be doing him any injury."
So Jervis gave an accurate description of his master, and found
several photographs of him to bear the description out. From a study
of the wardrobe he saw what clothes were missing, and suggested what
Melville might be wearing, and soon the inspector was satisfied.
"You will be very well advised to keep a still tongue in your head,"
he remarked. "If Mr. Ashley comes back, well and good, but if he
doesn't, see that nobody comes into these rooms unless I am with them
at the time," and, leaving Jervis dumbfounded, he walked away.
Thus it came about that when the train in which Melville was
travelling reached Dover, the police there, as at many another likely
spot for leaving England, were in possession of a close description
of him, and of instructions not to lose sight of him if they saw him.
His actual apprehension might be deferred with safety, it could be
accomplished at any moment; but just as it is a mistake to strike too
soon when playing a game fish, so it is often one to arrest a man
merely upon suspicion when a little delay may justify the event and
yet not prejudice its successful performance. Moreover, if Lady
Holt's statement were true, the police had made one gross blunder as
it was.
But while at Dover the detectives knew what Melville was like, and
had a clearly defined course of action in the event of his arriving
there and crossing the Channel, Melville had no idea of what they
might be like, and reached the end of this first stage in his journey
without devising any scheme for his next movements. He was so
persuaded that Lavender had betrayed him, and that already a warrant
must be out for his arrest, that his heart was broken ere the pursuit
was begun. What was the good of thirty pounds to a man for whom the
whole world held no sanctuary? Would it not have been wiser to
remain in London until he could raise enough money to take him, at
any rate, an appreciable distance away? There might be greater
difficulty in leaving the country a week hence, but the difficulty
would be more worth trying to overcome if afterwards he had money to
go on with. Thirty pounds was almost useless. Again he blasphemed
against his luck. If the accident had happened twenty-four hours
later he might have drawn a considerable sum from Lavender, and even
gone abroad. And it was just like his cursed ill-luck that the
cabman should be killed outright and Lavender live to speak once
more, whereas if the converse had happened he would have been out of
danger for ever, and nobody would have been a penny the worse except
his brother, whom everyone believed to be guilty, and who might hang
with pleasure so far as Melville was concerned.
He got furtively out of the carriage and scanned everybody about him;
in each face he fancied he detected the detectives whom he supposed
to be waiting for him, and even when he got aboard the packet
unobserved, as he believed, he stood cowering on one side, uncertain
whether to go below or linger to watch for the hand that surely must
be laid upon him soon. His nerve was utterly gone, and the only idea
clear in his mind was that if an attempt were made to arrest him ere
the packet started, he must jump overboard and endeavour not to relax
his grasp upon his Gladstone bag, so that he might be sure of not
rising to the surface. That much, at any rate, was certain: he must
not be taken alive.
The night was mild, but very dark, and Melville stood forward
watching every figure as it came aboard, and finding the really short
wait interminably long; but at last the boat began to move away from
the pier, and he felt that he had another respite. With a sudden
access of terror, however, he saw two men rush to the end of the pier
gesticulating wildly, and he waited, feeling absolutely sick, until
he saw they were too late and had missed the boat. None the less, it
accentuated his fear and stretched his power of endurance to breaking
point. In reality, they were two harmless travellers, one an
acquaintance of his own, who had tarried too long in the hotel and
lost the packet by mere carelessness. But Melville was convinced
that they were the men deputed to detain him, and while it was now
too late to draw back, it was fatal to go on. They would certainly
telegraph to the authorities at Calais, and freedom was his for
another bare hour and a half. How should he utilise it?
The coast line was lost in the darkness, and the lights grew smaller
and smaller. When the largest of them showed like pin-pricks,
Melville sighed and went below. He had something to do before the
pin-pricks should appear ahead and grow larger and larger until they
fell upon the deck of the boat at Calais. Going into the saloon he
opened his bag and sat down upon a couch. Taking a sheet of paper,
he wrote a pencil note.
"I do not know what Lavender Sinclair may have said. This much, at
any rate, is true. My brother Ralph is innocent of the crime imputed
to him. I declare this upon my solemn oath.--MELVILLE ASHLEY."
He put the note, with Ralph's letter asking for the loan on which so
much had turned, and Lavender's first letter from The Vale, and his
remaining paper money, into an envelope, and addressed it to Mr.
Tracy at Lincoln's Inn Fields. Then he strapped up the bag, which he
left unlocked, and went on deck again. This was the end of it all?
No god from a car could come to save him this time; the Furies had
reached their quarry and were going to pull him down. He found a
more or less deserted place upon the deck and stood, a dark figure,
against the rail; and so the moment came. With one last glance
around to make sure he was not observed, he got on to the outside of
the rail and dropped silently into the warm, dark water.
When he rose he was surprised to see how far behind he was left; he
had no idea the boat made such good speed. He stifled an impulse to
call out, but the natural instinct to swim was too strong to be
resisted, and, even managing to disengage himself from his thin
overcoat, he began with slow steady strokes to follow in the wake of
the boat. The black mass of her shape grew lower in the water, her
lights drew away from him with ever increasing speed, the salt burned
his eyelids and stung his face. His arms grew weaker with each more
painful stroke, until at length, with his eyes set upon the far
lights of the boat which represented man, of whom he was forsaken,
and never once upon the stars, above which was enthroned the God whom
he had rejected, Melville gave up the impossible task of living, and
the last mechanical effort ceased.