THE ESCAPE
IT HAD been a cold night, and frost still sparkled on the dank grass
when Derrick neared the Millicents’. He had spent sleepless hours
picturing this meeting, recounting all there was to be said, and casting
about as to how the story might be put so as to revive as little as
possible the poignant memories of two years ago. It was a strange
mission that carried him now to his girl, but she greeted him with a
calm suggesting that she was not altogether unprepared. Mrs. Millicent,
unmistakably agitated, pressed his hand with a nervous tremor.
“You have more news for us, Mr. Derrick? Jean has told me what you told
her yesterday. It is all utterly puzzling, and I wish I could help, but
I can’t.”
Derrick nodded sympathetically. There was no such fiber of courage here
as had been transmitted to her daughter. She was gentle and patient, and
her heart centered on Jean, but she was not the woman to grasp a
situation like the present one. He wondered how much Millicent had taken
her into his confidence, how much she actually comprehended of the real
man who sometimes seemed to look out of those painted eyes, then
concluded that this could only have been fractional. She might have
soothed his secret fears, but she could never understand them. Her mind
was too ordered, her horizon too defined. She loved as a mother, and
mourned as a wife. That was her existence. There could be no object
gained in probing this gentle breast.
But, with Jean, Derrick knew it was different. Hers were eyes that saw,
and a brain that pierced beyond the obvious. She had her mother’s charm
but her father’s imagination. Derrick knew, and it fortified him to know
it, that she could follow, pace by pace, wherever he led, and that her
vision might even be keener than his. She, like himself, responded to
whispers from the unknown and was also undismayed. So when he told his
story it was to her rather than her mother that the tale was recited.
Both listened in rapt attention, Mrs. Millicent in sheer wonder, Jean
with a keen and fascinated absorption. When he came to the finding of
the creese, the older woman shivered, but Jean, her eyes cloudy with
thought, did not stir. When he concluded, he felt that while Mrs.
Millicent’s heart was lacerated afresh, Jean was possessed of more
profound and vital emotions. And it was she who spoke first.
“It is very strange that the peddler should tell you something I meant
to tell you but forgot.”
“Yes?”
“It’s about the study. You remember, mother, how it always was?”
“Yes, dear.”
“The desk stood in the other corner, not where it is now, so that father
looked out of the window. The sofa was between the fireplace and the
window, and the screen between the door into the hall and the desk. Did
the peddler seem to know that?”
“He did not say so but appeared to notice that things were changed. I
asked Perkins about it then, and she told me what you have.”
“Don’t you think that in spite of what you found at the cottage he was
really the guilty man?”
“But why?”
“For one thing, he might easily have had that—that weapon in his pack
without you seeing it, and—”
She broke off, and stared at the bangle on her wrist, slowly drew it
off, and handed it to Derrick.
“Please, I can’t wear it now.”
He nodded understandingly, pinched at the twisted metal which was shaped
oddly like a serpent, and put it in his pocket. Jean breathed a little
faster.
“And, apart from that,” she went on, “doesn’t he seem to you to have
been the superior intelligence? Your description of him is not that of
an ordinary man, and he seems to have very nearly mesmerized those who
were there, including the sergeant. Don’t you see that perhaps Martin
and Perkins are, or were, only tools in his hands, and he represented to
them some power they had to obey without question. One could then
understand the look you say was on Martin’s face when the man died,
and,” she added, “it would also explain Perkins acting as she did after
dinner.”
“But Perkins was shaken beyond words.”
“Yes, because it meant that though the peddler was dead, the power
behind him still operated.”
Mrs. Millicent got up unsteadily. “Jean, dear, I’ll have to leave you to
talk the rest of this over alone. I’m sorry, darling, but—but—”
She went out hurriedly, and the girl was silent for a moment.
“Please don’t be upset about mother, and really it’s much better.” She
put her hand impulsively on his. “Do you begin to see what it has meant
to carry the mystery and the terror alone? She could not help me, and
I’m glad for her sake.” She looked in his eyes with such utter
confidence and appeal that he thought his heart would break.
“Oh, my dear, my dear,” he whispered, “you don’t know yet how well I
understand. It will take all my life to show you.”
Jean turned pale, and from her parted lips came a little sigh of content
that, faint as it was, penetrated his very soul. Then she breathed
quickly, smiling at him as though she thanked him for a perfect
understanding, and for knowing her spirit so well that he could afford
not to say more.
“Is it not possible,” she continued quietly—“and of course it is
possible; we both realize it—that Martin was unconsciously guilty? I
mean that not till after it had happened did he realize what had taken
place. If Blunt could dominate him yesterday, why not then?”
“Stranger things have happened,” he admitted.
“Well, if that’s the case it also explains Martin’s helplessness and
Perkins’ silence. She knows that Martin did it while under this
influence, while they both know that, now Blunt is dead, the influence
cannot be proved. It would sound like a fairy-story in court.”
He nodded gravely. “All that may be. Does anything else occur to you in
this connection?”
“Nothing about the others at the moment, but Blunt sticks in my mind.
You say he was partly Oriental?”
“He had native blood. I’m sure of that.”
“Then he was probably occult. Father was, but I have never told mother
that. And death might not mean much to him, as after death he would
expect his soul to live on in some other body. The poison he took must
have been almost instantaneous, and—”
She looked up suddenly. The big figure of Sergeant Burke was coming
rapidly up the narrow brick walk that led to the porch. Hat off, he
mopped at his red brow. A bicycle stood against the gate.
“He seems very upset. Perhaps you’d better speak to him, Jack.”
She used the word before she knew it and bit her lip. Derrick hesitated
a moment, sent her a brilliant smile, and went out. The sergeant’s bulk
filled the doorway, and he breathed fast.
“I’m glad to find you, sir. Went to the Lodge first, and Miss Derrick
told me you were here.” He gulped in more air. “A very extraordinary
thing has happened.”
“What’s that?”
“Blunt, sir, has escaped!”
Derrick frowned a little. If this was a joke, it was a poor one; if not,
the man was mad.
“I don’t follow you.”
“It’s just as I say, sir. He’s got away.”
“A dead man! Who took him?”
“Damn it, Mr. Derrick, don’t you understand English? He’s not dead—he
never was,” exploded Burke chaotically; “he’s come to life again, and
escaped.”
Derrick blinked. It was ridiculous, absurd, and yet—Burke’s face was so
red, his eyes so strained, the whole great body of him labored under
such excitement, that his earnestness could not be doubted.
“Will you please tell me exactly what has happened?” he said with slow
and almost painful distinctness.
“I will. The body was taken to the jail at the same time as Martin, and
I sent for Dr. Henry, but he was away at Eversleigh on some serious
case. I put it in an empty room used as a morgue at the other end of the
building from Martin’s cell. I examined it before I turned in. It was
just the same, but colder, with the hands quite stiff, the face a sort
of blue gray, and no pulse. A little after midnight I got to bed,
knowing that Dr. Henry would come to me as soon as he arrived. He was
out all night and didn’t get back till time for breakfast, after which
he went straight to the station. I had been back for three hours then,
saw Martin, who was all right, but didn’t go into the morgue. When I
took Dr. Henry there it was empty—and that’s all.”
Burke concluded this remarkable statement with an eloquent and helpless
gesture, looking at Derrick with a sort of faint hopefulness that
perhaps the thing was not quite as baffling as it sounded. He was grimly
conscious that the Millicent case was reopened, but not in the manner
and with the prospects that a few days ago were so comforting. His
dreams of promotion had vanished. Why promote a man to escape from whom
it was only necessary to feign death? But all the signs of death had
been there. This and much more had jockeyed through his brain as he
pumped savagely up the long hill from Bamberley village. His attitude
now invited his amateur adviser to suggest the next move if he could.
The story would be all over England in a day or two. And Burke hated to
think of that.
“You’ve heard of cases of suspended animation?” asked Derrick after a
long pause.
“Yes, but I’ve never seen one before.”
“Nor I, but they’re not uncommon in the East. It’s evident that Blunt is
master of most of those tricks, but so far as my knowledge goes the
suspension is generally for much longer than a few hours. This, no
doubt, is the effect of what he put in his mouth when Peters caught
him.”
“That’s as I see it, but it doesn’t help matters.”
“What does Martin say?”
“Nothing; but I’m sure he knows.”
“Why?”
“There’s something in his face this morning, but I can’t read it. I’ve
an idea that Blunt must have seen and spoken to him on his way out.”
Derrick whistled softly. “That’s more than possible.”
“The point is,” went on Burke, with a desperation he took no pains to
conceal, “that if there’s anything to be done, it’s got to be done
quickly. If by to-night we can fasten on something that will prove
Martin’s guilt, the matter of Blunt’s escape won’t be quite so serious.
If not, I doubt whether the discovery of that knife will actually
convict him so long as Perkins sticks to the evidence she gave two years
ago. That’s how the matter stands now.”
“I’d like to think a little before saying anything. Are you going back
to the station?”
Burke nodded.
“Well, I’ll be there in, say, an hour and a half.”
The sergeant hesitated. “I might as well tell you, sir, that I’ve
already gone a good deal beyond my official limits in the matter, but
I’m ready to go further, which means risking my job, if you can see any
light. I’ll wait for you at the station.”
He moved off with no spring in his walk, swung a thick leg over his
wheel, and disappeared.
Derrick went back to Jean and by the tenseness of her face knew at once
that she had heard everything. They looked at each other for a moment
without speaking.
“Well,” he said slowly, “isn’t it extraordinary?”
“No,” she answered under her breath, “not so extraordinary.”
“Why?”
“It’s all part of the rest of it. Do you remember what I said about some
power operating behind?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it just means that you are dealing with things that can’t be
explained by any reason or argument or logic, and Sergeant Burke hasn’t
the right kind of experience for this. He’s fighting against things he
can’t see. He’s hoping now that Martin or Perkins will break down and
tell everything. They won’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“I can’t explain, though I’m sure of it. Does anything suggest itself to
you?”
“To be done now?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “Burke’s proposal seems to be all there is left.”
“I think perhaps there’s something else,” she said almost timidly. “Do
you remember what you told me some weeks ago about the picture that must
always be passing through a criminal’s mind?”
“Yes, distinctly.”
“And the strange impulse to return to the scene of his crime that he has
to fight against? Well, let us assume that Martin is the criminal and
has returned.”
“There’s no question of that,” he put in quickly.
“Perhaps not, but the picture he found was not the one he had been
carrying with him.”
“Why?”
“The study had been changed—I mean its arrangement; therefore the
possible effect that might have been produced if he had seen the picture
in actual existence did not take place.”
“Go on,” he said tensely.
“But if on the other hand, and without expecting it, Martin were brought
suddenly face to face with that picture, if the study were reset just as
it was before, and if”—here she trembled, and went on bravely—“if he
thought he saw father lying there as he did see him two years ago, don’t
you think that something real and truthful might be startled out of
him?”
“By Jove!” whispered Derrick. “Do you mean it?”
She nodded. “Yes, all of it. I don’t just know how I feel it, but I
know, here.” She touched her breast. “It’s the right thing to do.”
“Would you help?”
“Yes.”
“I hate to ask it. And if it’s attempted Perkins must know nothing about
it.”
“No, she mustn’t; and, Jack, there’s something else.” It seemed natural
now to call him Jack.
“Yes, Jean?” He lingered on the word. How near it brought him!
Her eyes told him that she, too, felt the nearness, but for the moment
her brain was working too swiftly to yield to aught else.
“There’s the peddler. One can’t tell where he is, but not far away. I’m
sure of that. He won’t finally go till he has that which he came for.
Where is it now?”
“Behind the panel.”
“But if you do what I suggest, and to-night, it should be on the desk
beside you.”
“Beside me?”
“Yes, if you—if you take the part of my father.”
He caught his breath at this supreme courage. “Would you come and
arrange the study?”
“Yes, when?”
“Let me settle that with Edith. I’ll see her at once and then go on to
Burke. She’ll probably come this afternoon and ask you to dinner. Will
that be all right?”
He longed to take her in his arms, but again it was only their eyes that
met—and spoke.
It was to Bamberley police station and not to Beech Lodge that Derrick
went first. He found the sergeant in the little office, his face a map
of uncertainty. He looked up inquiringly as the young man came in. The
last few hours had been bad ones for Burke. Then Derrick put the matter
without delay, told how the suggestion originated, added that he had
agreed that it was the next and best move, and waited for the sergeant
to speak. Presently the latter shook his head.
“I dare not, Mr. Derrick.”
“Why not?”
“Stop and think, sir. Here’s a man under arrest, and I myself have
charged him with complicity in murder. I’m responsible for him till the
authorities proceed. One suspect has already escaped. Now you propose
that I let the other man out of custody to try an experiment which is,
well, Mr. Derrick, fantastic any way you put it.”
“Exactly; but if you stop to think, sergeant, the whole affair has been
more or less fantastic ever since we started. We acted on possibilities,
not probabilities, and you must admit we’ve dug up a good deal that
didn’t come to light before.”
“Yes, I do admit it; also that ten to one we’ve got the man who killed
Mr. Millicent. But I’m frank to say that I don’t like what’s bound to
happen over Blunt’s escape. I’m only hoping that Martin’s evidence will
let me down with a good general average.”
“And if you don’t convict Martin?”
“Then I lose my job,” said Burke grimly.
“Would you have to advertise the fact if you did personally bring Martin
to Beech Lodge at, say nine thirty to-night?”
The big man stared at him. “No, but—”
“Then look here. I’m willing to see this last attempt through if you
are, but if you’re not, I step down and out. I can’t give you any
reasons for saying that I think it will have surprising results, but I
do feel that. Admitting that you risk your job, isn’t it worth while
taking the chance of producing both the criminal and the evidence? If
you decide otherwise, well and good. It’s going to be rather a thick
night,” he added, glancing out of the window.
Burke weighed the chances, his eyes half closed, pushing out his broad,
full lips and tapping on the bare table. Yes, the night promised to be
thick. He saw himself, the guardian of Bamberley, sneaking out of the
village in the fog, a criminal chained to his wrist, but himself the
more agitated of the two. Against this he was aware that ever since the
Millicent case had come to life things just as strange as this had been
going on. A man of order and law and precedent, knowing the police code
as a parson knows the Pentateuch, he shrank from outlawing himself by
doing as Derrick proposed. But here again the consciousness of something
beyond the ordinary that lay behind the Millicent case projected itself.
He could see the grin that would run through police circles from John
O’Groats to Land’s End when the Blunt story came out, and recoiled at
the mere thought of it. Without something, as for instance a conviction,
to counterbalance that escape, he was done. And he knew it. It was the
vision of that official grin that decided him.
“Will you tell me exactly what you suggest I should do?” he asked
heavily.
“First, say nothing to Martin. If you want to let Dr. Henry into this,
do so, but that’s for you to decide. Fetch Martin to Beech Lodge at
exactly nine thirty to-night. Perkins will bring you to the study door,
which will be closed. She will knock, and there will be no answer. Then
she will naturally open it, and you and she and Martin will see that
room just as it looked after the murder two years ago. I will be at the
desk in the position in which Millicent was found, and able to give
assistance if you want it. You must not speak. I anticipate that Martin,
or it may be Perkins, will break the silence, but it is sure to be
Martin. His very first words should tell us what we want to know. That’s
all.”
Burke listened with strained attention. “If I did bring Martin I
couldn’t bring any one else. I mean I couldn’t have any one on duty
outside. The two constables could not be allowed to know anything about
this.”
Derrick, realizing that the point had been carried, sent him a grave
smile. “I don’t think we need bother about the outside of the house
to-night, but that’s your end of it. All I ask for is you and Martin at
nine thirty. I’m not trying to persuade you into this, sergeant, so drop
it if you don’t think it’s good enough. But it’s the only program I can
suggest, and I’ve no alternative.”
Burke rose mountainously from his chair. “And I’ve tried to tell you
what it involves me in, which is the risk of twenty years’ record and my
present job.” He paused, then gave a determined grunt. “But I’ll do it.”
Derrick nodded. “I think you’re right, and sometimes a man moves further
ahead in ten minutes than in twenty years. Nine thirty, sergeant.”