A NIGHT OF TRAGEDY
IT TOOK all Jean’s courage to go with Edith when the time came. She had
had a not altogether comforting talk with her mother, in which, knowing
that it was unwise to tell Mrs. Millicent too much, she only said that
Edith wanted her to dine at Beech Lodge and that she might be able to
help Derrick in his self-imposed task. Her mother assented, with a
curious glance that suggested that it was not altogether the task that
took her daughter to her old home. Jean, realizing the futility of
fuller explanation, said little more.
It was something of a help that Edith understood so much and yet, in a
way, understood so little. Her sanity, her cheerful hope that the
tableau would frighten Martin into saying something that would settle
the matter, and the growing affection in her manner, all combined to act
like a much needed tonic. Jean found herself talking more freely than
she ever imagined she could talk. She realized that this was because
Edith was aware what was in her heart, and could perceive love, though
the occult was beyond her. And the difference between the two girls did
much to cement their friendship.
The affair of that night was tacitly avoided, Edith talking for the most
part about that which lay nearest her heart. This was Derrick. She did
not grudge him, wanting only his happiness, and the generosity of her
nature touched Jean enormously. Edith took it for granted that whether
the _tableau vivant_, as she put it, was successful or not, the next
important event would be of a brighter character, and her contented
assumption of this had an intriguing effect. It was strange to be
regarded as a sister-in-law before the word was spoken. She was still
talking about her brother, his art, his ambition, and the unexpectedness
of him that she loved so much, when they came in sight of the gates of
the Lodge.
Jean fell silent as they passed the cottage, again untenanted, and the
rose-trees that bore the marks of Martin’s skill. She recalled her last
visit here, and marveled at its outcome. These familiar windows, this
well-known door, and most of all that she would soon meet the blank eyes
of Perkins, all moved her profoundly. She came to the house again not as
a visitor, or to revive memories of the past, but actually to rebuild
that past in such a way as to drag into the open the secret of so many
years. It was a crusade on behalf of the dead, a high mission that
involved putting aside all else till it be performed. Though the wound
in her own heart ached, it must ache till the mission be discharged. And
behind that was the whisper of love. It was this thought that enabled
her to meet Derrick with a glance of high resolution that he found
infinitely inspiring.
Looking back at it afterward, she always wondered whether dinner was not
the greatest test of that memorable night. In spite of their combined
efforts, it was very voiceless. Perkins, who glanced less at Jean than
at her mistress, moved silent-footed as ever, blank to everything except
her duties, and even these were carried out with a sort of subconscious
detachment. She both cooked and served the meal, and with the same
unaltered perfection. Nothing in her had changed, and as of old she made
no lost motions. She knew that Martin was in jail, charged with
complicity in the murder of her former master, yet no sign of it
appeared on her ageless face.
But from her emanated something that made the usual conversation well
nigh impossible. Had she shown her knowledge, the tension had been less.
As it was, Jean pictured her father and mother in the chairs occupied by
Derrick and Edith, heard the tones of a remembered voice, saw the same
trim, straight figure moving with the same soundless precision—and
could hardly forbear to cry out. When, a little later, she entered that
other room of grim significance, it was with a feeling that almost
amounted to relief. There was no Perkins here.
Derrick, whose eyes were unusually bright, waited till the maid had
disappeared with the coffee-cups, then turned swiftly to Jean.
“Now we must act. Edith has given Perkins enough to keep her busy till
half-past nine. That’s an hour. It was not safe to do anything here
before this, so we must move things ourselves, and if possible without
making a sound. One thing I want to ask: was your father dressed as in
that picture?” He made a gesture toward the portrait.
“Yes, he always put on that coat after dinner.”
Derrick nodded, opened a drawer in the bottom of the desk, and produced
a velveteen smoking-jacket.
“I thought that might be, so rooted out this old one of mine. Now we
must shift the desk; then you can arrange the things on it. In a general
way, are the contents of the room just the same?”
“Exactly, I think,” said the girl, after a swift scrutiny.
“And that French window, was it locked?”
“Yes, always before dinner at this time of year.”
He gave a curious smile, “To-night I think we’ll leave it open.”
“How stupid, Jack!” interjected Edith, “and let the man escape.”
“He can’t, because he’ll be chained to the sergeant. It’s with another
object. Now are you ready?”
Jean sent him a quick glance. She guessed the object, and it made her
heart beat faster.
Gradually the room assumed its former appearance. Edith assisted with a
businesslike, good-humored alacrity, in the manner of a housekeeper who
helps to arrange a stage for young people’s tableaux. To her these were
chairs, tables, and rugs, nothing more. She wondered a good deal why a
practical man like Sergeant Burke should be willing to take part, a man
responsible for the custody of his prisoner, then reflected that it was
all rather queer, and there was no point in worrying about what one
didn’t understand. The consoling phase of it was her conviction that
this was the last act of the somewhat disconcerting drama of the past
few months, that it would soon be followed by the wedding of two of the
principals, and then her brother would settle down and get on with his
work. The thing that really most bothered her was the lease of Beech
Lodge. She knew that Jean would never live here again.
It was as well she took her present occupation so placidly, for to Jean
and Derrick, especially the former, the rearrangement of the study
brought with it an austere and growing significance. They moved in the
presence of what had been Millicent, recreating a poignantly familiar
scene, directed by the gesture of an unseen hand. They were automatons,
obeying they knew not what elusive instinct. And it seemed that as the
room took shape it throbbed once more with a medley of tiny voices, each
thrilling its own message in a fine, thin, vibrating tone. The chair
where the dead man used to sit, the desk over which he leaned, the
blurred stain that bore its cloudy witness to his passing; all these
became vocal, joining in a mysterious communication which announced that
nothing is ever utterly dissipated or lost, but in some form or quality
remains, an imperishable record for all time.
Nine o’clock struck, and Derrick glanced from the French window into the
darkness. The night was profound, and over the country-side rested a
great blanket of fog. Putting out his hand, he could hardly see it.
Beyond was the world, populous with life, lost and infinitely removed.
From the trees bordering the lawn came a slow, soft drip, sounding like
a vast, subdued weeping in this black obscurity. Anything might move
here and be undetected. All in a breath he became convinced that there
was something close by. But it did not move.
He pictured what must be going on now in Bamberley jail. Burke in his
shiny cape, tramping down the barred passage to Martin’s cell, handcuffs
dangling, grim, resolute, conscious of the desperate risk he ran, his
jaw like iron. How had Burke disposed of his constables, and what kind
of story had he told? Again Burke, with his dark-lantern at Martin’s
barrier, the glint of yellow light on the gardener’s sullen face, the
brief word of command, the click of metal that chained them together.
Did Martin ask questions? Was he surprised, or unwilling, or did he take
it all with his customary dogged silence? Then two burly figures
engulfed in the fog, the wet glimmer from Bamberley windows—if
Bamberley were not already asleep—the scrape of heavy feet on the
graveled road, this strangely assorted pair moving up the long hill
beneath trees that stretched ghostly arms overhead. What must Burke be
thinking now?
He turned abruptly, leaving the window ajar, and drawing the curtains
close. Crossing to the mantel, he beckoned to the two girls.
“Now I’m going to show you a part of the mystery of Beech Lodge.”
He touched the woodwork, a small panel fell forward, and inside gleamed
the jade god.
“Isn’t that clever?” said Edith cheerfully.
Jean did not stir. Her eyes, very wide open, were fixed on the image. It
was all very extraordinary—and very simple. Had her father found this
hidingplace, or had he made it during the long evenings he spent alone
after it became imperative to have some hidden shrine for his deadly
trophy? Here was the spot, so near and yet so safe, whence came the
mysterious authority that gave tongues to inanimate things. Yes, the
jade god was safe there. Again she looked at Derrick.
“I begin to understand now,” she said under her breath.
Edith moved close and peered in. “I’ll have that well scrubbed out
to-morrow. It’s dreadful!”
Derrick laughed. “Please wait till I ask it.” He took out the thing and
set it beside the lamp.
“It used to stand on the other side of him.” Jean’s voice was quiet and
steady.
“I know, but that won’t matter this time, and,” he added thoughtfully,
“I want it to be visible from the window.”
He paused, then sent her a glance that gave her renewed fortitude. “Now
I’m going to get into position. Please don’t try and help me unless you
feel you must, and it can only last a few minutes. You and Edith stand
behind the screen, if you feel that staying there won’t be too much for
you, and above all don’t stir till I do. It will all turn on Martin’s
first words. If anything happens at the window, leave it to me. When
Perkins knocks do not answer on any account. Is the lamp right?”
Jean nodded.
He pressed her hand comfortingly, and again their eyes met in a gaze of
perfect understanding.
“Get behind the screen now,” he whispered, “and don’t look at me.”
He put on the velveteen jacket and took the dead man’s chair. Leaning
his head forward on the desk, the blurred stain was but a few inches
from his throat. The deadly creese was beside him. He could see the jade
god, its sardonic eyes bent on him, the cruel lips curved as though they
comprehended the grim irony of the moment. Under that scrutiny he felt
once more the mesmeric power evidenced here only the day before.
“Edith,” he murmured.
“Yes?”
“Twitch the curtains so that they are about an inch apart. Then get back
quickly.”
She did this without a sound. Derrick lay still, his eyes closed. He
knew that a narrow rib of light was streaming out over the sodden lawn
and that the one who hid there could view the strange scene inside. Then
silence fell. The tick of the clock sounded heavy and fateful. Shadows
danced on the oaken walls, as they had danced two years before, and the
flicker of fire cast an intermittent glow on Millicent’s face as it
looked down from its gilded frame. From a near-by covert came the soft
hooting of a barn-owl.
A faint whisper from the outer world reached Derrick, lying motionless
with the blood pounding in his temples. It was that of movement, not
sound; the merest fraction of movement, and transmitted by the most
delicate waves of air. His senses, tuned to the utmost pitch, caught
this, though it was no more than the suggestion that the atmosphere had
been displaced not far off. Close to him some one had changed position.
That was all he knew, and by the quality of this sensation he also
guessed that the change had been made stealthily.
In the midst of this, and while the air seemed to transmit a steady
singing monotone, came a sharp knock at the front door. He held his
breath for the click of the latch, presently catching Burke’s voice,
deep and husky. Followed a sound of heavy feet, and Perkins’s tap at the
study door. She waited a moment; Derrick felt a slight draft and knew
she was in the room with the two men behind her.
From Martin came a strange, throaty cry, and from the woman a choking
gasp. Derrick’s hair prickled, and all power seemed to leave him. Again
the gasp. Then flying feet crossed the floor with inconceivable
swiftness, and Perkins flung herself beside his chair. He felt the grip
of frenzied arms on his shoulders and heard tones of unutterable
anguish.
“Master, master, what is it? Speak to me, speak to me! You’re not dead!
I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know I did it. I was asleep; don’t you
understand? And when I woke your blood was on my hands. Speak to me,
master; for God’s sake, speak!”
For an instant Derrick was unable to move. Perkins crouched on the floor
beside him, her body shaking, her face buried in her arms. Another cry
from Martin, and he plunged, dragging Burke with him. He put his one
free hand on the woman’s head.
“Don’t you go on like that, lass. It’s only a plant. You didn’t do it.
I’ll swear you didn’t.”
Perkins staggered to her feet. Her eyes were glazed. She stared wildly
up at Martin, then at the sergeant as though she did not see him, then
at the French window. The curtains had parted, and in the gap crouched
the tense figure of Blunt, poised for a spring. At this last, her
features became distorted. All the suffering of the damned crowded into
them. With a motion of incredible swiftness, she grasped the creese and
plunged it into her heart. Simultaneously Blunt darted forward.
What happened in that instant happened in a flash. Martin fell on his
knees beside the woman. Burke, half dazed as he was, flung out his great
fist and caught Blunt on the temple. There came a cry from the two who
had been hidden behind the screen. Derrick leaped up. He saw Perkins,
her breast stained scarlet, with Martin beside her, rocking in an
abandonment of grief. Against the wall, as though it had been thrown
there like a rag, huddled the insensible figure of the peddler. Burke
was breathing hard and already fumbling at the lock of the handcuff that
bound him to the gardener. On one side stood Jean and Edith, their eyes
starting with horror.
In a moment the sergeant got himself free with a clink of metal. He
glowered at the inert body of Blunt with a sort of animal satisfaction,
then, kneeling beside Perkins, stared at her hard, and finally put his
big head against that crimson heart. Martin did not move but gave one
long shuddering sigh. A moment thus, till Burke heaved up, his face very
grave, and made an unmistakable gesture. At that Edith put her arms
round Jean and held the girl close.
“I’ll take charge now, sir,” said Burke grimly. “These two men must come
to the station with me. As for this poor woman, we can’t do better than
take her to the cottage, if you don’t mind her being there till morning,
and I’ll send a man up there as soon as possible. And,” he added,
“perhaps I’d better take this knife for safe-keeping till the inquest.”
“No, no!” Martin turned his grief-stricken face, clutching at the
officer’s arm. “For God’s sake don’t do that. Let me stay with her,” he
implored hoarsely.
Burke stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t leave her in the cottage with any one but me. I’ll be there in
the morning. I won’t run away. I’ll do anything else you like, but for
God’s sake let me stay with her to-night!”
Burke shook his head. “You’ll do what you’re told, and do it now. What
is this woman to you?”
“My wife,” groaned Martin, and burst into throttling sobs.
Utter silence fell upon this room of death. Against the wall, Blunt gave
a slow shiver and raised his head, regarding the scene with a strange
calm, as though such tragedies were only passing incidents in a still
greater drama. He made no attempt to move but lay there, resting on one
elbow, part of it all, but infinitely removed. Derrick stared at the two
girls. Edith’s arms were still round Jean, but their eyes were fixed on
what lay on the floor. Jean looked at the man she loved. The terror was
leaving her face, being replaced by a vast incomprehensible wonder
mingled with a profound pity. In that moment she was his, and yet
unspeakably distant. It was like traversing a forest of dreadful shadows
and emerging, suddenly blinded, into the light, where one had to find
oneself before seeing anything else. A great pity enveloped her
altogether. She came quickly forward and knelt beside the still form.
“Jack, you must ask the sergeant to permit that. Don’t you understand?
One poor woman among all these men,” she whispered. “Oh, the poor, poor
soul!”
Burke nodded. “Perhaps that will be all right, miss,” he broke in with a
queer, deep gruffness. “We’ll let it go at that, but I’ll have to send a
man up to stay outside till morning. He won’t come into the cottage. Is
there anything you want to say, Mr. Derrick, before—”
Derrick shook his head. “I think it has all been said.”
The sergeant touched Martin’s shoulder. “Will you—” He glanced at the
body. “Blunt goes with me.”
Martin nodded speechlessly. With infinite tenderness he picked up his
wife as though she had been a child and, staring straight ahead with
unseeing eyes, strode through the door which her lifeless hand had so
recently opened for him. Then into the hall alone with his burden. The
others heard the front door open and close, and after that the sound of
slow feet on the gravel. This dwindled. Burke stepped across to where
the peddler lay on his side and snapped on a handcuff. At the ring of
metal, Derrick felt his eyes suddenly drawn to the jade god.
The thing still rested, the light soaking into its emerald depths, and
it seemed that on the tiny features rested a smile of sardonic
satisfaction, as though it had known it all, and all the time. What was
any individual tragedy, what was this minute portion of the great human
drama, with the pangs of a moment, to the profound acquaintanceship with
evil that lay hidden here? These actors were only discharging their
parts in an endless play that would continue with its constantly
changing scenes so long as humanity could feel passion and anger and
fear and revenge. Derrick stared at the image and vowed silently that,
come what might of his act, this reign of terror would soon end. But
here was neither the time nor the place. He made a gesture to Edith, and
the latter slipped her arm into that of Jean. When he knew they had
reached Edith’s room, Derrick turned to Burke.
“I want to speak to you a minute.”
The sergeant crooked a finger at Blunt and led him into the hall. Again
the clink of metal, and the peddler was anchored to a massive chair. The
big man came back, smiling grimly.
“That’s a useful dodge when you think of it. Now, what about this image?
Hadn’t I better take it to the station for the present?”
Derrick shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather keep it till it
happens to be needed.” There followed a little pause, while through both
their brains ran the swift wonder of the night. “I suppose,” he added,
“there’s no objection to that.”
Burke grinned. “No, sir; matter of fact, I’m not in love with the ugly
thing myself. It worked, didn’t it? that plan of yours,” he went on
respectfully, “but not just in the way either of us expected. Who would
ever have thought it? As for that poor woman, why, there’s only one
explanation.”
“What’s that?”
Burke put a significant finger to his forehead.
“Look here,” said Derrick suddenly, “I want to know something. What’s
the next move, now that the matter is in your hands?”
“There’s the inquest, perhaps to-morrow, but maybe the day after. It
depends on Dr. Henry.”
“And then?”
“The trial of Blunt and Martin, of course.”
“Just what will they be tried for?”
“Housebreaking, attempted theft, and possible complicity in the murder
of Mr. Millicent.”
“Then take Martin first. He did not break into this house. I sent for
him.”
“That may be true, sir, but you can’t say that for the other fellow, and
they seem to be in pretty close touch and to have worked together.”
Burke paused and looked puzzled. “I don’t very well see how they can be
separated in this affair, judging by what you’ve said yourself in the
last day or two.”
“Suppose, sergeant,” said Derrick thoughtfully, “that I should decide
not to lay any charge against Blunt after all.”
The big man blinked. “I don’t quite follow you, sir. What’s to be gained
by acting like that?”
“I can’t say yet, but do you honestly think there’s any chance of really
proving anything serious now against these two men?”
“There’s a good working chance, but I fancy a jury would be as much
puzzled as we’ve been, and probably more. You never can tell about a
jury.”
“Then I particularly ask that no charge be laid against either of them
till I have had a talk with both. I admit, and you’ve said it, too, that
all our suspicions were wrong and unfounded. We were working hard, but
only playing about on the edge of the truth. Now we have heard a
confession of the act from lips where we never expected to find it, and
the person who committed the murder has gone before another court. Our
discovery, which has led to this, was a matter of chance, and we were on
a false trail from the start.”
“I admit that, sir, but you did all the guessing. The only thing we had
in common was our suspicion of Martin.”
“That’s true, and I’ll shoulder whatever blame attaches to it. But,
officially, the net result is that you have cleared up the mystery of
the Millicent murder, and after every one else had failed. You mustn’t
forget, sergeant, that so far as any one else is concerned I’m merely an
onlooker. I congratulate you, Burke. It ought to mean promotion.”
The other man indulged in a broad smile. He had had no time to think
about promotion yet, but the prospect was distinctly rosy. “That’s very
good of you, sir, and this certainly ought to help.”
“So that now the matter of Blunt’s escape does not seem very serious?”
“Well, sir, Dr. Henry told me enough about that trick to show that it’s
fooled a good many wiser men than me. It has proved not to be important
after all, and I don’t think it will be brought up against me. Is there
anything you want me for now?”
“Yes, to make the following arrangement. I’ll be responsible for Martin
till morning, and he will then go with your man to the station.
Meantime, please understand that I lay no charge whatever against him.
As to Blunt, in that case also I lay no charge at present, but reserve
the right to do so to-morrow if I wish. Meantime, I’d like it
understood, if possible, that you are merely taking him at my request
because I found him in my house without my authority. I don’t know the
law in such matters but assume that you could not proceed against him
till I did actually lay the charge. As for the rest of it, I suppose
they will both be needed as witnesses to the confession and suicide.
With that, of course, I have nothing to do. Can the matter be left that
way for the next day or so?”
Burke pondered. He could not get much further at present than that the
Millicent mystery was solved, and his own reputation not only
reëstablished but enhanced, and there was solid satisfaction in the
thought. Already he could see the head-lines in the London papers.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I think we could leave it that way, sir. When
would you want to talk to these men?”
“To-morrow morning?”
“All right, Mr. Derrick. I’ll get most of my work out of the way by ten
thirty and be ready for you, if that will suit. Nothing more I can do
for you here to-night?”
The young man breathed a long sigh of relief. “There’s nothing left to
go wrong now, and I’ll put this jade friend, or enemy, of ours back
where he belongs for the present. Good night, sergeant, and I’m glad
your luck has turned.”
Burke saluted and went out. There was the slight jingle of a chain, and
the front door closed. Derrick pushed back the oaken panel.
Involuntarily he glanced at the portrait. Millicent seemed satisfied. He
was avenged now.
Then over the young man began to creep sensations in which there was no
triumph, no pride, no self-congratulation. The blank-faced woman over
whom Martin was crouching in the silent cottage seemed to rise up and
point a thin accusing finger. Why had he done this thing? Her secret had
been torn from her, and her life with it. What had she ever done to
Derrick? His lips became dry at the thought, and he felt almost like a
murderer himself. What was wrong with his philosophy? Up-stairs was Jean
waiting for him. He would go to her across the body of another woman.
He struggled with this picture, but it would not down. By what trail had
he come to so unexpected a solution? Could it be that it was always thus
with those over whom the jade god held its malignant sway? Were their
lives at the mercy of undercurrents of whose very existence they were
ignorant? What did the image mean to Perkins, or any of them? She knew
now, perhaps for the first time, but would he himself ever know? Who was
Blunt in this deadly circle, and why should Martin and Perkins, being
man and wife, remain yet strangers to one another? Had the jade god come
in between? His brain rocked with hazardings like this, and at the end
of it all he felt guiltier and guiltier.
He went up-stairs and found Jean waiting for him in the hall. She had
watched Blunt, swinging one arm, disappear in the fog, walking close to
the sergeant. They had stopped at the cottage, where Burke peered in but
did not enter. He saw what he expected to see. Blunt did not attempt to
look. Then the two passed on through the white gates and were swallowed
up. Jean knew that Derrick would now come to her soon.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, “who ever could have dreamed of this?”
He made no answer, for there was none, but the look on his face gave her
a new throb of fear.
“What is it, Jack?”
“I don’t know,” he said wearily, “but if it were not for you I would
regret having done anything. As it is”—he made a helpless gesture—“see
what I have done!”
“Has anything else happened?” she asked timidly.
“No, there’s nothing more to happen now. I’m thinking of Perkins down in
the cottage, and that it was I who sent her there. I wish I hadn’t. God,
how I wish that!”
“Jack,” she said swiftly, “don’t think of it that way! Dear one, don’t!”
“I’ve done a woman to death,” he said in a half-whisper.
“No, no”—she was trembling with a great longing to comfort him—“no one
has. It was all written, and had to be. I am full of the horror of it,
too, but you and all of us were only pawns. Perkins’s life was utterly
unhappy, and her death, however terrible, can’t be more so. To me it all
seems like some law.”
“What law?” he asked dully.
“I can’t explain. She killed my father, we all know that now, but why we
don’t know. Nor did she really know why she should kill herself. You did
not bring her to her death.”
“But if I had not acted as I have she would be alive now.”
With that his arms went out, and he held her close. For a moment they
clung like children, moved by some common and half-understood impulse.
Surrounded by something, they knew not what, it was good to be like this
and touch each other in the shadows of life. It brought Derrick a throb
of divine comfort, strange and new. It was his turn to feel not so
utterly alone.
“To-morrow, and after that?” she asked.
He told her, and what he had arranged with Burke.
“I’m glad. Just think of Martin all these years, how he must have loved
her in spite of everything; what it must have cost him to go away as he
did, and under suspicion, just to save her. And all that hidden behind
his strange and threatening face. It could not have been anything he did
that killed her love for him. Jack, dear, I can only feel pity, all the
pity in the world, and you must feel only that, too. That poor woman
would not want to live it all over again. And, oh, it does make me want
to be understanding and merciful when I can to every one, always!”