THE BODY COMES TO TOWN
1
And after all he slept, slept dreamlessly. He woke to the comfortable
accustomed voices of Mrs. Ridge, his bedmaker, and Miss Annett, her
assistant. It was a cold frosty morning; the sky showed through the
window a cloudless blue.
He could hear the deep base voice of Mrs. Ridge in her favourite phrase:
"Well, I _don't_ think, Miss Annett. You won't get over me," and Miss
Annett's mildly submissive, "I should think _not_ indeed, Mrs. Ridge."
Lying back in bed he surveyed with a mild wonder the fact that he had
thus, easily, slept. He felt, moreover, that that body had already, in
the division of to-day from yesterday, lost much of its haunting power.
In the clean freshness of the day, in the comfort of the casual
voices of the two women in the other room, in the smell of the coffee,
yesterday's melodrama seemed incredible. It had never happened; soon he
would see from his window Carfax's hulking body cross the court. No,
it was real enough, only it did not concern him. He watched it, as a
spectator, indifferent, callous. There _was_ a change in his life, but
it was a change of another kind. In the strange consciousness that he
now had of some vast and vital Presence, the temporal fact of the thing
that he had done lost all importance. There was something that he had
got to find, to discover. If--and the possibility seemed large now in
the air of this brilliant morning--he were, after all, to escape,
he would not rest until he had made his discovery. Some new life was
stirring within him. He wanted now to fling himself amongst men; he
would play football, he would take his place in the college, he would
test everything--leave no stone unturned. No longer a cynical observer,
he would be an adventurer . . . if they would let him alone.
He got out of bed, stripped, and stood over his bath. The cold air beat
upon his skin; he rejoiced in the sense of his fitness, in the movement
of his muscles, in the splendid condition of his body. If this were to
be the last day of his freedom, it should at any rate be a splendid day.
He had his bath, flung on a shirt and trousers and went into his
sitting-room, bright now with the morning sun, so that the blue bowls
and the red tiles shone, and even the dark face of Aegidius was lighted
with the gleam.
Mrs. Ridge was short and stout, with white hair, a black bonnet, and the
deepest of voices. Her eagerness to deliver herself of all the things
that she wanted to say prevented full-stops and commas from being of any
use to her. Miss Annett was admirably suited as a companion, being long,
thin and silent, and intended by nature to be subservient to the more
masterful of her sex. With any man she was able easily to hold her own;
with Mrs. Ridge she was bending, bowed, humility.
Mrs. Ridge grinned like a dog at the appearance of Olva. "Good mornin',
sir, and a nice frosty cold sort o' day it is with Miss Annett just
breakin' one of your cups, sir, 'er 'ands bein' that cold and a cup
bein' an easy thing to slip out of the 'and as you must admit yourself,
sir. Pore Miss Annett is _that_ distressed."
Miss Annett did indeed look downcast. "I can't think---" she began.
"It's quite all right, Miss Annett," said Olva. "I think it's wonderful
that you break the things as seldom as you do. The china was of no kind
of value."
It was known in the college that Mr. Dune was the only gentleman of
whom Mrs. Ridge could be said to be afraid; she was proud of him and
frightened of him. She said to Miss Annett, when that lady made her
first appearance--
"And I can tell _you_, Miss Annett, that you need never 'ave no fear of
bein' introjuced to Royalty one of these days after bein' with that Mr.
Dune, because it puts you in practice, I can tell you, and a nice spoken
gentleman 'e is and _quiet_--never does a thing 'e shouldn't, but wicked
under it all I'll be bound. 'E's no chicken, you take it from me. Born
yesterday? I _don't_ think. . . ."
The women faded away, and he was left to himself. After breakfast he
thought that he would write to his father and give him an account of
the thing that he had done; if he escaped suspicion he would tear it up.
Also he was determined on two things: one was that if he were accused
of the crime, he would at once admit everything; the other was that he
would do his utmost, until he was accused, to lead his life exactly as
though he were in no way concerned. He had now an odd assurance that it
was not by his public condemnation that he was intended to work out the
results of his act. Why was he so assured of that? What was it that was
now so strangely moving him? He faced the world, armed, resolved. It
seemed to him that it was important for him, now, to live. This was
the first moment of his life that existence had appeared to be of any
moment. He wanted time to continue his search.
He wrote to his father---
MY DEAR FATHER,---
I have just been arrested on the charge of murdering an undergraduate
here called Carfax. It is quite true that I killed him. We met
yesterday, in the country, quarrelled, and I struck him, hitting him on
the chin. He fell instantly, breaking his neck. He was muck of the worst
kind. I had known him at Rugby; he was always a beast of the lowest
order. He was ruining a fellow here, taking his money, making him drink,
doing for him; also ruining a girl in a tobacconist's shop. All this was
no business of mine, but we had always loathed one another. I think when
I hit him I wanted to kill him. I am not, in any way, sorry, except that
suddenly I do not want to die. You are the only person in the world for
whom I care; you will understand. I have not disgraced the name; it was
killing a rat. I think that you had better not come to see me. I face it
better alone. We have gone along well together, you and I. I send you my
love. Good-bye, OLVA.
As he finished it, he wondered, Would this be sent? Would they come for
him? Perhaps, at this moment, they had found the body. He put the letter
carefully in the pocket of his shirt. Then, suddenly, he was confronted
with the risk. Suppose that he were to be taken ill, to faint, to forget
the thing. . . . No, the letter must wait. They would allow him to
write, if the time came.
He took the letter, flung it into the fire, watched it burn. He felt as
though, in the writing of it, he had communicated with his father. The
old man would understand.
2
About eleven o'clock Craven came to see him. Craven's father had been
a Fellow of Trinity and Professor of Chinese to the University. He had
died some five years ago and now the widow and young Craven's sister
lived in Cambridge. Craven had tried, during his first term, to make
a friend of Olva, but his happy, eager attitude to the whole world
had seemed crude and even priggish to Olva's reserve, and all Craven's
overtures had been refused, quietly, kindly, but firmly. Craven had not
resented the repulse; it was not his habit to resent anything, and as
the year had passed, Olva had realized that Craven's impetuous desire
for the friendship of the world was something in him perfectly natural
and unforced. Olva had discovered also that Craven's devotion to his
mother and sister was the boy's leading motive in life. Olva had only
seen the girl, Margaret, once; she had been finishing her education in
Dresden, and he remembered her as dark, reserved, aloof--opposite indeed
from her brother's cheerful good-fellowship. But for Rupert Craven this
girl was his world; she was obviously cleverer, more temperamental than
he, and he felt this and bowed to it.
These things Olva liked in him, and had the boy not been so intimate
with Cardillac and Carfax, Olva might have made advances, Craven took a
man of the Carfax type with extreme simplicity; he thought his geniality
and physical strength excused much coarseness and vulgarity. He was
still young enough to have the Public School code--the most amazing
thing in the history of the British nation--and because Carfax bruised
his way as a forward through many football matches, and fought a
policeman on Parker's Piece one summer evening, Rupert Craven thought
him a jolly good fellow. Carfax also had had probably, at the bottom of
his dirty, ignoble soul, more honest affection for Craven than for
any one in the world. He had tried to behave himself in that ingenuous
youth's company.
Now young Craven, disturbed, unhappy, anxious, stood in Olva's door.
"I say, Dune, I hope I'm not disturbing you?"
"Not a bit."
"It's a rotten time to come." Craven came in and sat down. "I'm awfully
worried."
"Worried?"
"Yes, about Carfax. No one knows what's happened to him. He may have
gone up to town, of course, but if he did he went without an exeat.
Thompson saw him go out about two-thirty yesterday afternoon---was
going to Grantchester, because he yelled it back to Cards, who asked him
where he was off to--not been heard or seen since."
"Oh, he's sure to be all right," Olva said easily.
"He's up in town!"
"Yes, I expect he is, but I don't know that that makes it any better.
There's some woman he's been getting in a mess with I know--didn't say
anything to me about it, but I heard of it from Cards."
"Well--" Olva slowly lit his pipe--"there's something else too. He was
always in with a lot of these roughs in the town--stable men and the
rest. He used to get tips from them, he always said, and he's had awful
rows with some of them before now. You know what a temper he's got,
especially when he's been drinking at all. I shouldn't wonder if he
hadn't a fight one fine day and got landed on the chin, or something,
and left."
"Oh! Carfax can look after himself all right. He's used to that kind of
company."
Olva gazed, through the smoke of his pipe, dreamily into the fire.
"You don't like him," Craven said suddenly.
Olva turned slowly in his chair and looked at him. "Why! What makes you
say that?"
"Something Carfax told me the other day. We were sitting one evening in
his room and he suddenly said to me, 'You know there _is_ one fellow in
this place who hates me like poison--always has hated me.' I asked him
who it was. He said it was you. I was immensely surprised, because I'd
always thought you very good friends--as good friends as you ever are
with any one, Dune. You don't exactly take any of us to your breast, you
know!"
Dune smiled. "No, I think I've made a mistake in keeping so much alone.
It looks as though I thought myself so damned superior. But I assure you
Carfax was--is--quite wrong. We've been friendly enough all our days."
"No," said Craven slowly, "I don't think you do like him. I've watched
you since. He's an awfully good fellow---really---at heart, you know.
I do hope things are all right. I sent off a wire to his uncle in town
half an hour ago to ask whether he were there. I don't know why I'm so
anxious. . . . It's all right, of course, but I'm uneasy."
"Well, you're quite wrong about my disliking Carfax," Olva went on. "And
I think, altogether, it's about time I came off my perch. For one thing
I'm going to take up Rugger properly."
"Oh, but that's splendid! Will you play against St. Martin's to-morrow?
It will relieve Lawrence like anything if you will. They've got Cards,
Worcester and Tundril, and they want a fourth Three badly. My word,
Dune, that would be splendid. We'll have you a Blue after all."
"A little late for that, I'm afraid."
"Not a bit of it. They keep on changing the Threes. Of course Cards is
having a good shot at it, but he isn't down against the Harlequins on
Saturday, and mighty sick he is about it." Craven got up to go. "Well,
I must be moving. Perhaps Carfax is back in his rooms. There may be word
of him anyway."
Olva's pipe was out. The matchbox on the mantelpiece was empty. He felt
in his pocket for the little silver box that he always carried. It was
a box, with the Dune arms stamped upon it, that his father had given to
him. He had it, he remembered, yesterday when he set out on his walk.
He felt in all his pockets. These were the clothes that he was wearing
yesterday. Perhaps it was in his bedroom. He went in to look, and Craven
meanwhile watched him from the door.
"What have you lost?"
"Nothing."
It was not in the bedroom. He felt in the overcoat that he had been
wearing. It was not there.
"Nothing. It's a matchbox of mine--must have dropped out of a pocket."
"Sorry. Daresay it will turn up. Well, see you later."
Craven vanished; then suddenly put his head in through the door.
"Oh, I say, Dune, come in to supper to-morrow night. Home I mean. My
sister's back from Dresden, and I'd like you to know her. I'm sure you'd
get on."
"Thanks very much, I'd like to come." Olva stood in the centre of the
room, his hands clenched, his face white. He must have dropped the box
in the wood. He had it on his walk, he had lit his pipe. . . . Of course
they would find it. Here then was the end. Now for the first time
the horror of death came upon him, filing the room, turning it black,
killing the fire, the colour. His body was frozen with horror--already
his throat was choking, his eyes burning. The room swung slowly round
him, turning, turning. "They shan't take me. . . . They shan't take
me." His face was cruel, his mouth twisted. He saw the little silver box
lying there, open, exposed, upon the grass, glittering against the dull
green. He turned to the window with desperate, hunted eyes. Already he
fancied that he heard their steps upon the stair. He stood, his body
flung back, his hands pressing upon the table. "They shan't take me.
. . . They shan't take me." The door turned, slowly opened. It was Mrs.
Ridge with a duster. He gave a little sigh and rolled over, tumbling
back against the chair, unconscious.
3
"There, sir, now I _do_ 'ope as you'll be all right. Too much book-work,
_that's_ what it is, but if a doctor----"
Olva was lying in his chair now, very pale, his eyes closed.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Ridge. It's all right now, thank you--quite all
right. Yes, I'm ready for lunch--very silly of me."
Mrs. Ridge departed to fetch the luncheon-dish from the College kitchens
and to tell the porter Thompson all about it on the way. "Pore young
gentleman, there 'e was as you might say white as a sheet all of a 'eap.
It gave me a turn _I_ can assure you, Mr. Thompson."
His lunch was untasted. It seemed to him that he had now lost all power
of control. He could only face the inevitable fact of his approaching
capture. The sudden discovery of the loss of the matchbox had clanged
the facts about his ears with the discordant scream of closing gates.
He was captured, caught irretrievably, like a rat in a trap. He did
not wish to be caught like a rat in a trap. This was a free world.
Air, light, colour were about him on every side. To die, fighting, on
a hill-top, in a battle-field, that was one thing. To see them crowding
into his room, to be dragged into a dark airless place, to be caught by
the neck and throttled. . . .
Mrs. Ridge cleared away the lunch with much shaking of the head. Olva
lay in his chair watching, with eyes that never closed nor stirred, the
crackling golden fire. Beyond the window the world was of blue steel. He
could fancy the still gleaming waters of the lake that stretched beyond
the grass lawns; he could fancy the red brick of the buildings that
clung like some frieze to the horizon. Along the stone courtyard rang
the heavy football boots of men going to the Upper Fields. He could
see their red and blue jerseys, their short blue trousers, their tight
stockings--the healthy swing of their bodies as they tramped. Men would
be going down to the river now--freshmen would be hearing reluctantly,
some of them with tears, the coarse and violent criticism of the
Third Year men who were tabbing them. All the world was moving. He was
surrounded, there in his silent room, with an amazing sense of life. He
seemed to realize, for the first time, what it was that Cambridge was
doing . . . all this physical life marching through the cold bright air,
strength, poetry, the great stir and enthusiasm of the Young Blood of
the world . . . and he, waiting for those steps on the stair, for those
grim faces in the open door. The world left him alone. As the afternoon
advanced, the tramp of the footballers was no longer heard, silence,
bound by the shining frost of the beautiful day, lay about the grey
buildings. Soon a melody of thrumming kettles would rise into the air,
in every glowing room tea would be preparing, the glorious luxury
of rest after stinging exercise would fill the courts with worship,
unconsciously driven, skywards, to the Powers of Health. And then, after
years of time, as it seemed, faintly through the closed windows at
last came the single note of St. Martin's bell. That meant that it was
quarter to five. Almost unconsciously he rose, put on his cap and gown
and passed through the twilit streets that were stealing now into a dim
glow under their misty lamps. The great chapel of St. Martin's, planted
like some couchant animal grey and mysterious against the blue of the
evening sky, flung through its windows the light of its many candles.
He found a seat at the back of the dark high-hanging ante-chapel. He
was alone there. Towards the inner chapel the white-robed choir moved
softly; for a moment the curtains were drawn aside revealing the misty
candle-light within; the white choir passed through--the curtains Fell
again, leaving Olva alone with the great golden trumpeting angels above
the organ for his company.
Then great peace came upon him. Some one had taken his soul, softly,
with gentle hands, and was caring for it. He was suddenly freed from
responsibility, and as the soothing comfort stole about him he knew that
now he had simply to wait to be shown what it was that he must do. This
was not the strange indifference of yesterday, nor the physical strength
of the morning . . . peace, such peace as he had never before known, had
come to him. From the heart of the darkness up into the glowing beauty
of the high roof the music rose. It was Wednesday afternoon and the
voices were un accompanied. Soon the _Insanae et Vanae_ climbed in wave
after wave of melody, was caught, held, lingered in the air, softly died
again.
Olva was detached--he saw his body beaten, imprisoned, tortured, killed.
But he was not there. He was riding heaven in quest of God.
4
At the gates of his college the news met him. He had been waiting for
it so long a time that now he had to act his horror. It seemed to him an
old, old story--this tale of a murder in Sannet Wood.
Groups of men were waiting in the cloisters, waiting for the doors to
open for "Hall." As Olva came towards the gates an undergraduate, white,
breathless, brushed past him and burst into the quiet, murmuring groups.
"My God, have you heard?"
Olva passed through the iron gates. The groups broke. He had the
impression of many men standing back--black in the dim light--waiting,
listening.
There was an instant's silence. Then, the man's voice breaking into a
shrill scream, the news came tumbling out. It seemed to flash a sudden
glare upon the blackness.
"It's Carfax--Carfax--he's been murdered."
The word was tossed, caught, flung against the stone pillars--
"Murdered! Murdered! Murdered!"
"They've just brought his body in now, found it in Sannet Wood
this evening; a working man found it. Been there two days. His neck
broken----"
The mysterious groups scattered into strange fantastic shapes. There was
a pause and then a hundred voices began at once. Some one spoke to Olva
and he answered; his voice low and stern. . . . On every side confusion.
But for himself, like steel armour encasing his body, was the strange
calm--aloof, unmoved, dispassionate--that had come to him half an hour
ago.
He was alone--like God.