Heyton slept badly that night and came down to breakfast after Lord
Sutcombe and Miriam had finished theirs and gone out. He was in a bad
temper, cursed the footman who waited on him, and when he had drunk a
cup of coffee and made pretence of eating a piece of toast, mixed
himself a glass of soda and whisky and went out.
He wandered about the park, and did not come in to lunch, but when he
appeared at dinner, he was more than usually cheerful and talked to
Miriam and his father in the aimless and futile way with which a man
talks when he is engaged in the unaccustomed task of making himself
agreeable. Both Miriam and his father noticed that he was more sparing
of the wine than usual, and Lord Sutcombe, who thought that Miriam had
given Percy a hint, glanced at her gratefully.
"Where have you been all day, Percy?" asked Miriam, masking her
indifference with a show of curiosity.
"Oh, I've been mouching about," he said. "Looking round the estate
generally." He fingered his glass and glanced across at the Marquess.
"They seem to look after the preserves pretty well," he said; "but I
noticed that there was a gipsy encampment down by the pool. Unpleasant
sort of characters to have about you. I should clear them away, father."
"I know the gipsy encampment you mean," said the Marquess; "but they are
pitched on that piece of common land; it is just outside the estate, and
we have no power to remove them. Besides," he added, "I've a kind of
liking for them; they do no harm; and they are, well, picturesque, don't
you think, Miriam?"
"That's all very well," said Heyton, with a forced laugh; "but I don't
know about their doing no harm. They're most of them thieves, I should
say."
"We can spare a fowl or two," said the Marquess, with a smile. "And a
broken hedge is soon mended."
"Oh, if it were only the fowls," said Heyton. "But I daresay some of
them would fly higher than hen-roosts. For instance, nothing would be
easier than to break into the house here; and there's plenty to tempt
them--plenty of silver, I mean," he added, hastily and with a furtive
glance at the Marquess.
"I don't think gipsies commit burglaries," said the Marquess, in his
precise way. "They would find some difficulty in getting away with their
booty. It would be easy to trace them."
"All the same, I'd try to get rid of them," said Heyton, doggedly. "I
saw one or two of them, evil-looking chaps, lurking about the
plantation."
"Looking for wood for their fires, no doubt," said the Marquess. "But
I'll speak to the steward, if you wish it; though, as I say, they are on
common land and it will not be easy to turn them off."
"Well, don't blame me when it's too late," said Percy, with a shrug of
his shoulders.
Departing from his usual custom, he went into the drawing-room with his
father and sat there, listening to Miriam's playing and singing; and it
was he who suggested bed.
"I'm a bit tired; had a long tramp to-day," he said, yawning and
stretching his arms.
"You ought to walk more, Percy," remarked the Marquess. "If you'll allow
me to say so, I don't think you take enough exercise. You ought to ride;
but perhaps you will when the hunting begins."
"Can't afford to hunt," retorted Heyton, with an unpleasant laugh.
"Horses cost money."
"You shall have some hunters," said the Marquess, with a contraction of
his brow. "I had thought of speaking to you about it. We will discuss it
later on."
"All right," said Heyton, ungraciously. "Well, I'm off."
He went upstairs, and Miriam and the Marquess followed him soon after.
Just as she was ready for bed, Heyton opened his dressing-room door and,
looking in, said:
"I'm going to sleep in here to-night, Miriam."
He had often occupied the bed in his dressing-room; generally on nights
when, if the truth must be told, he had drunk too much and was ashamed
that Miriam should see him.
"Very well," she said, indifferently.
He closed the door and turned the key softly, took off his things and
put on a thick dressing-gown over his pyjamas; then he sat down in a
chair, with his hands thrust in the dressing-gown pockets, his head sunk
on his breast, his teeth gnawing his lip. He was listening intently.
Presently he got up, went to the bed and disarranged the clothes, giving
them the appearance of having been slept in; then he went back to his
chair and sat and listened again.
The faint noises of a big household retiring to rest grew less by
degrees and then ceased; and presently all was perfectly still. He sat
motionless, still listening, for another hour, two; then he rose and,
opening the outer door stealthily, stopped, with craned head, still
listening. The silence was unbroken, and with noiseless tread, he passed
along the corridor to his father's door and, with his ear to the
keyhole, listened again. He could hear his father's steady, long-drawn
breathing, the breathing of a man in a deep sleep.
With a gesture, as if he were controlling his nervousness, Heyton tried
the handle of the door; the door was not locked and he opened it and
went in. The house was lit by electricity, and a small lamp was burning
beside the Marquess's bed. Heyton stole across the room, in his felt
slippers, and looked down at the sleeping man for a moment; then his
furtive, bloodshot eyes went towards the small table beside the bed.
There was a carafe of water and a glass, the Marquess's ring and his
watch and chain on the table. The chain was an old-fashioned affair,
with an extra ring, and on this ring were two keys, the key of the safe
and a smaller one. Heyton knew that it was the key to the jewel-case.
His hand shook so much that, for a moment or two, he was afraid to touch
the chain, lest it should jingle and wake the Marquess; with an effort,
Heyton controlled the shaking hand, and, after some fumbling, took the
keys from the ring; as he did so, his eyes wandered apprehensively from
the things he was purloining to the face on the pillow; but in reality
his movements had been noiseless, and the Marquess had not awakened.
With the keys in his hand, Heyton stole into the dressing-room
adjoining, and closing the door softly, turned up the electric light. At
sight of the safe, his courage rose, his nerves grew more steady; he had
been careful to drink very little that night, and his brain was clear.
He unlocked the safe and looked inside it. There were bundles of papers
tied with tape and, at the back of them, a box covered with morocco
leather. Heyton's breath came fast and his eyes glistened; he had seen
that box once before, and knew that it contained the Sutcombe jewels. He
took it out of the safe, closed the door and had got half-way across the
room when he stopped suddenly; for it had occurred to him that, if he
took the box, the Marquis, if he chanced to go to the safe, would miss
it: it would be safer to empty the box of its precious contents and
replace it in the safe. As he had guessed, the smaller key fitted the
lock of the box; he opened it and, at sight of the diamonds and the
other gems, he caught his breath, his eyes dilated.
There is a mystic fascination in precious stones and, gazing at them,
Heyton yielded to that fascination and forgot for a moment, as his eyes
dwelt on their flashing beauty, the need which had compelled him to
steal them; but presently he released himself from the spell, thrust the
jewels into the capacious pockets of his dressing-gown, locked the box
and replaced it in the safe. As the safe door clanged softly to, he
heard, or fancied he heard, a slight noise in the adjoining bedroom; the
sound, actual or only fancied, struck a sudden terror to his craven
heart and he sprang towards the door leading on to the corridor. The
handle turned, but the door did not open: it was locked, and the key was
not in it.
The noise in the Marquess's bedroom grew more distinct, and it had now
resolved itself into the sound of footsteps. Livid with terror, with the
perspiration standing out on his forehead, Heyton leant against the door
as if powerless to move, powerless to stand upright. The door between
the dressing-room and the bedroom opened; instinctively, Heyton
stretched out his hand, found the switch, and extinguished the light.
"Who is there?" came the Marquess's voice. "What is it? Who is there?"
The voice came nearer; the Marquess was now in the dressing-room. Heyton
knew that his father was standing still; that, in another instant, he
would be calling for assistance. But the Marquess did not speak; he made
a movement, and Heyton guessed that his father was returning to the
bedroom to turn up all the lights there.
With a smothered oath, the wretched man stole forward, felt for the
fireplace with his foot, caught up the poker and, feeling his way round
the wall, reached the bedroom door. As he did so, the Marquess reached
it also and actually touched his son. Heyton drew back a pace, swung up
the poker and struck at the figure he could not see; there was a cry, a
choked groan, the sound of a body falling to the floor; then a
death-like silence.
Shaking in every limb, the poker still grasped in his hand, Heyton leant
against the wall, his other hand clinging to it, as if for support. The
clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick a thousand times as he crouched
there, staring, with protruding eyes, into the horrible darkness; then,
with a gasp, as if he were suffocating, he felt his way round to the
switch, and turned it on. The light fell on the figure of the Marquess,
lying on its back, where he had fallen; his arms were stretched out, he
was quite motionless, and a thin stream of blood was trickling from his
forehead; it had already reddened his face and made a small pool on the
carpet.
Heyton stood and gazed at this horrible sight, as if he were turned to
stone. He was like a man who has been suddenly struck by paralysis; it
seemed to him as if the whole of his legs and feet had been turned to
lead, and that he should never again be able to move them, that he would
be forced to remain there until the servants came and that--that
horrible thing lying at his feet were discovered.
For some minutes he remained in this condition of coma, stupor; but
presently, gradually, he recovered the use of his limbs, his brain began
to work again, and he asked himself whether there was any reason for the
terror which had obsessed him. Of compunction for the awful crime there
was nothing in his mind or heart. That the man he had struck down was
his own father, did not count; every fibre of his being was absorbed, to
the exclusion of everything else, in the desire for his own safety. So
gigantic was his selfishness, that the working of his mind was not
disturbed by the enormity of the crime he had committed; he saw now
that, as events had turned out, he had acted unwisely in taking the
jewels from their box; and, alertly and with something like calmness, he
unlocked the safe, replaced the jewels in the box and left the safe door
open; he was actually turning away, leaving the jewel-case in its place,
when his cupidity got the better of him and he took up the case, hid it
under his dressing-gown, and went towards the bedroom door.
As he reached it, he glanced over his shoulder at the silent,
blood-stained form lying on the floor; he wondered whether his father
were dead or only stunned. For a moment, he wished that the blow had
been fatal: he, Heyton, would be the Marquess; there would be plenty of
money ready to his hand, there would be no need to steal his own jewels,
he thought, with an hysterical giggle. But he could leave nothing to
chance now. With another glance at the motionless figure, he stole from
the room and reached his own.
The unnatural calm which had supported him during the last few minutes
had deserted him by this time, and, in closing the door, he did so
clumsily enough to make a sound; the sound, slight as it was, struck him
with renewed terror, and, in crossing the room, he stumbled against a
chair and overthrew it; and let the two keys slip from his fingers. The
sound of the falling chair was loud and distinct enough to fill him with
apprehension, and he stood breathless and listened, as if he expected
the whole household to awake.
There was a movement in Miriam's room, and he heard her voice calling to
him softly.
"Was that you, Percy?" she asked, in the tone of one just awakened from
sleep.
He was silent for a moment; it seemed hours to him--then he slipped into
the bed, and, with a yawn, as if she had roused him from sleep, he
replied,
"What is it?"
"I don't know," she said. "I thought I heard a noise."
"Oh, that!" he said, with another yawn. "I knocked over the chair by the
bed, reaching for a glass of water. For goodness' sake, go to sleep and
don't bother!"
Mentally cursing his wife, Heyton closed his eyes and tried to think.
Strangely enough, his lack of imagination helped him; the imaginative
man, in Heyton's position, would have conjured up all the terrible
possibilities which environed him; but Heyton's mind was dull and
narrow, and so he was able to concentrate on actual facts and actual
chances.
Up to the present, he told himself, there was absolutely nothing to
connect him with the robbery and the--murder, if murder it was. He felt
sure that the Marquess had not seen him in that brief moment, when the
old man stood in the doorway; if he had done so, he would certainly have
spoken Heyton's name; there was nothing to show that the blow had been
dealt by Heyton; with the selfishness of the baser kind of criminal, he
had refrained from examining the motionless figure, lest he should be
stained by the blood which flowed from the wound. No; the robbery would
be laid to the charge of the ordinary burglar.
Then suddenly his mind switched off with a jolt; he had forgotten that
the most damning proof of his guilt was in the cabinet opposite the bed,
where he had thrust it. At that very moment he was actually in
possession of the stolen goods; a minute search would be made, even his
own room would not be exempt. He must hide the jewel-case somewhere. But
where? Then he remembered having dropped the keys, and he hunted for
them; but he could not find them. He was getting confused, obfuscated:
he would search for the keys in the morning: perhaps, after all, he had
left them in the dressing-room.
Throughout the remaining hours of that awful night, he lay pondering the
momentous question, at one moment burning with fever, at another icy
cold. The dawn broke, the sun rose, the room grew hot; and the heat gave
him an idea. As the clock struck six, he rose, put on his boating
flannels, and, with his bath towel over his arm, opened the bedroom
door. He had actually forgotten the missing keys! Such lapses are common
to the criminal.
Miriam was a light sleeper--as her awaking at the noise of the falling
chair had proved--she became conscious of his presence and she opened
her eyes.
"Oh, what is it, Percy?" she asked, petulantly and a little nervously.
"I'm going down to the lake for a swim," he said; "it's precious hot
this morning. I left my white shoes in the room."
"No, you didn't," she said, impatiently. "I saw them with your other
boots in the dressing-room yesterday."
"Oh, right!" he said. "Awfully sorry to have disturbed you."
He returned to the dressing-room, arranged the long bath towel over the
jewel-case, and went downstairs. He was too early, as he knew, for any
of the servants to be about, and he went through the lower hall and was
unbolting the outer door when he chanced to glance at the window nearest
it; it was closed by a common hasp, and was without bars. With a little
nod of satisfaction, he opened the window noiselessly; then went out by
the door.
He was about to go through the shrubbery, towards the little wood, at
the bottom of which lay the lake, but it occurred to him that some of
the servants might be getting up and that any movement of his should be
open and free from secrecy. So he went straight across the lawn in the
sauntering fashion of a man going for a bath and enjoying the fresh,
warm air; but when he entered the wood, which was enchanted ground for
Derrick and Celia, he looked round him cautiously; for it was just
possible that one of the gamekeepers might be about; but there was no
sight or sound of anyone, and when he had gained the centre of the wood,
he stopped and looked around him, and presently, after waiting a minute
or two listening intently, he hid the box under a bush and covered it
with the leaves of last autumn. Then, with a sense of relief, for, light
as it was, the jewel-case had weighed upon him like a leaden thing, he
went to the lake, slipped off his things and had his swim.
He felt better after it; more of a man, as the poor fool told himself.
There was nothing to connect him with the robbery, he had got rid of the
jewel-case; it was well-nigh impossible that anyone should discover it;
he could remove it when the fuss was over; indeed, perhaps there would
be no need to deal with the jewels; the old man might be----
It was all very plausible; but he had forgotten to take into account
that long arm of coincidence which so often upsets the plans of the most
astute criminal. And yet, in this case, the arm was not so very long.
For Derrick had acquired a habit of early rising during the experiences
in South America; the circus people were always up soon after sunrise,
and at the ranch most of the people were stirring at dawn, when the air
was cool and fresh. That morning, Derrick, who had slept soundly, as
your happy lover should sleep, rose and, leaving the inn, had sauntered
along the road until he came to the gate where Lady Gridborough had seen
him and Celia. Naturally enough, he passed into the wood; of course,
taking the path on which he had walked with Celia. He was thinking of
her, thinking of the future, of the joy that awaited him, and in that
clear, sunlit air, with the song of the birds in his ears, the
difficulties with which he was beset seemed very light and unimportant.
The girl he had loved was going to be his; that thought was quite enough
for such a morning. He had nearly reached the centre of the wood, when
he stopped to take out his pipe and pouch, and he was about to strike a
match, when he saw something white passing between the trees at a little
distance from him.
At first he thought it was Celia, and, with a leap of the lover's heart,
he took a step forward; then he stopped short; the figure was that of a
man in flannels; and a moment or two afterwards, he had recognised
Heyton. The disappointment was great; he had no desire to meet Heyton;
the sight of him recalled the bitter past; and Derrick stood, frowning
as he watched Heyton on his way to the lake. He saw Heyton stop and look
round him, and then he lost sight of him, for Heyton was bending down in
the act of hiding the jewel-case. When he rose, Derrick got a clear
sight of the man's face, and something in its expression impressed
Derrick curiously, painfully.
Nothing stops still in this world of ours; and men must go up or down.
It was evident to Derrick that Heyton had gone very much down since he
had last seen him. Heyton's face had coarsened, his lips had grown
looser and more sensual, there were bags under his eyes; but it was not
these grosser changes which struck Derrick so much, as the expression of
the man's face; it was that of one burdened by some oppression of mind
or body; it seemed to Derrick that the light, prominent eyes had in them
a look of fear, the look a man wears when he is hunted and driven.
And why, just before he had disappeared, had Heyton looked round him,
secretively, cautiously, as if he did not wish to be seen? It was
ridiculous, Derrick told himself; but it seemed to him as if Heyton were
hiding something. Half-unconsciously, he made a mental note of the spot
at which Heyton had made that curious pause in his progress. But Derrick
did not go to it; he wanted particularly to avoid Heyton--and Miriam,
everyone connected with that wretched past which still hung over him
like a cloud. So he returned to the road and went straight back to the
inn.
Awaiting him, he found a letter from the engineers concerning matters
which needed his immediate presence in London. He had just time to
snatch a hasty breakfast, left word with the landlord for Reggie that
he, Derrick, was obliged to go to London but would return by the night
train, and reached the station just as the train came in. He was hot
and, no doubt, looked rather worried; for there was no means of letting
Celia know that he had gone, or of making an appointment with her. Of
course, he pictured her wandering about the wood in the hope of seeing
him, and acutely imagined her disappointment.