IN THE CARRIAGE--ALONE
Graham Patterson, in the agony of that last convulsion, had nearly
slipped off the seat, so that, with a very little, he would be on the
floor. His nephew, who hitherto had not for a moment lost his presence
of mind, and who kept it then, was at a loss. Would such an attitude
be recognised as proper for a suicide? Would, that is, a doctor--any
doctor--be prepared to assert that a man who had killed himself with
potassium cyanide might, under the circumstances, quite conceivably
die in such an attitude, or assume it after death? To Rodney's
supernaturally keen vision there were trifles about his uncle's
appearance which scarcely marked this as inevitably a case of suicide.
The collar was a little crumpled; the tie a little disarranged; he
even fancied that there were prints of his fingers on the skin of
the throat. He was conscious that he had gripped him with great
force--perhaps a little clumsily; he certainly ought to have avoided
contact with the collar and the tie, but no doubt the prints would
wear off. Indeed, as he bent closer he was not sure that they did not
exist only in his imagination; the light was not good; he could not
be certain. With dexterous fingers he smoothed the collar, he
rearranged the tie--so deftly that he felt convinced that no one
would notice that anything had been wrong with him. He raised the
body a little, so that it was in what seemed to him to be a more
natural position, on the edge of the seat; he felt that it would
look better. He was surprised to find how heavy his uncle was--it
required quite an effort on his part to lift him.
He turned the contents of the silver box on to his hand. There were
seven tiny lozenges. He returned three to the box, and laid it on the
seat; the other four he placed beside it. Taking an envelope out of an
inner pocket of his jacket, he tore off a corner. In it he placed the
four tabloids, carefully folded it, and put it in his waistcoat
pocket. Then he balanced the cap of the box on the arm of the seat
beside his uncle; the box itself he placed between the fingers of his
uncle's left hand, with--in it--the other three tabloids. So tightly
were the fingers clenched that Rodney had to use force to open them
sufficiently to enable him to insert the box. Then, seating himself
opposite, he looked his uncle carefully over with an artist's eye for
detail. In his present attitude, with that open box with its tell-tale
contents held tightly between his stiffened fingers, it seemed to
Rodney that a coroner would be bound to instruct his jury that suicide
was the only possible explanation of Graham Patterson's death. Having
satisfied himself on which point, he withdrew to the opposite end of
the carriage, being, in spite of himself, conscious of a feeling that
the dead man's too immediate neighbourhood was not a thing to be
desired.
Seated in his original place, he took out his white cambric
handkerchief, and with it delicately wiped his fingers, having an
uncomfortable notion that something disagreeable had adhered to them
which it would be better to remove. Then he set himself to consider
the position. A great smoker of cigarettes, absent-mindedly and as a
matter of course he took out his case, and was about to light one when
it occurred to him that it might be a dangerous thing to do. It was
not a smoking carriage; if, when the discovery was made, it smelt
strongly of smoke--and nothing lingers like a cigarette--it might be
shown that his uncle had not been smoking, and the question might
arise--who had? He returned the case to his pocket. As he did so the
train rushed past a signal-box. He remembered reading of the strange
things which signalmen see in trains as they rushed past them. When
his uncle was found, exhaustive inquiries would be set on foot. Quite
conceivably some signalman had seen them struggling, or something
which had piqued his curiosity as it had caught his eye. His uncle
would be found alone. The signalman's story might suggest that at one
period of the journey someone had been in the carriage with him. What
had become of that someone? The mere question might start a hue and
cry. Rodney recalled, with quite a little sense of shock, that his
uncle had been partly pushed into the carriage by an official on the
Brighton platform. Graham Patterson was a noticeable-looking person;
he must have presented a striking spectacle as he had come hurrying
along the platform. When discovery came about, the official would
recollect the incident and recognise him beyond a doubt.
Had he noticed that somebody was already in the carriage when he was
thrusting the fat man in? Rodney was compelled to admit that the
probabilities were that he had. So far as he himself was concerned,
Rodney recalled the whole sequence of events. How he had rushed up to
the ticket inspector just as the Pullman was moving; how the man,
slamming the gate in his face, had informed him that another train was
due to start in ten minutes. The young gentleman had a suspicion that
the fellow had looked him up and down as he was explaining. There were
others about who might also have looked him up and down. Rodney had an
uneasy feeling that, in his way, he was perhaps as noticeable a figure
as his uncle--so tall, so upright, so well groomed, so handsome, with
something about his appearance which almost amounted to an air of
distinction. He had walked a few paces to another platform, as
directed; the man at the gate, in his turn, had looked him up and down
as he clipped his ticket; he had strolled leisurely along the
platform, which he had had almost entirely to himself; when he reached
a carriage which he thought would suit him, he stood for a second or
two at the open door--as he remembered, right in front of the official
who, later, had helped his uncle in.
He sat up very straight as that little fact came back to him. He
remembered very well eyeing the man, whom, certainly, he would know
again anywhere. No doubt the man had eyed him, and had his likeness in
his mind's eye. The fellow had seen him enter the compartment and shut
the door; a few minutes later he had opened the door again to admit
his uncle, well knowing that he was already within. The accident might
prove very awkward for the nephew later on; no one could have
appreciated the possibilities of the position more clearly than he
did.
As he pondered the matter he was inclined to think that he had made a
mistake in doing what he had done. Such a fuss is made about a thing
of that sort that, in any event, one runs a risk. Had he had more time
to appreciate exactly what would be the nature of the risk in his own
case he might have--hesitated. If he had he would have been deposed
from his cousin's good graces, and--to adopt her sire's rather
melodramatic language--have been "branded as a felon," so that he
would not have been much better off. Looking at it philosophically the
result of what he had done was this: that whereas, if he had let his
uncle have his own way, ruin was certain, as things were he had at
least a fighting chance of postponing the evil day--perhaps to an
indefinite period. More; in the meanwhile he could have a rattling
good time. And he would have it. He smiled as he made himself that
promise.
All the same, though he smiled, he realised that if he proposed to
have a good time he must not continue to take his ease where he
was--with his uncle on the seat at the other end. If he seriously
wished the world to take it for granted that Graham Patterson had
committed suicide, he must not be found in the same compartment. That
was sure. He had been told by someone, or had read somewhere, that
every express train, though assumed to be "non-stopping," stopped at
least once, because a signal was against it, or at least slowed down
sufficiently to enable an agile passenger, with safety, to alight. So
far that train had neither stopped nor slowed. His watch told him
that it was about twenty to ten--ten minutes ago his uncle had been
alive. It seemed longer ago than that. He had a fair knowledge of
the line by daylight; it was different at night. Objects--even
stations--were difficult to distinguish. He peered through the open
window without thrusting out his head. They seemed to be running
through open country, possibly on the top of the ballast. He could
make out lights, though they were few and far between; they seemed to
be passing a number of trees, with a big building beyond. They
crashed through a station--it was Earlswood; they had just passed
Earlswood Asylum. Immediately they would be on the new part of the
line, which avoids the South-Eastern station at Redhill. There was no
station between this and Purley. He might leave the train anywhere
with comparative safety if it would only slow a little. To attempt to
alight while it was moving at that rate through the darkness would be
equivalent to committing suicide. At the best he could not hope to
avoid serious injury. He must wait--till it slowed.
The whistle on the engine sounded; the train began to slow. Instantly
he was leaning forward, his fingers on the handle, which was inside
the door. The train slowed still more; it entered a tunnel, slowing
all the while; in the heart of the tunnel it stopped--dead. The gods
were on his side. Yet not for an instant did he lose his presence of
mind. The signal was against them--that was why they had stopped. Was
it on the left or the right? On the signal side the guard would
possibly have his head out of the carriage with an eye for it;
possibly some of the passengers might be observing it also. It would
be fatal to get out on that side; his door would be seen opening; he
might be seen to alight; he would be jumping out of the frying-pan
into the fire; all sorts of consequences might accrue. He looked out
of his own window; there was no signal in front or behind. Then it was
on the other side, on the left, against the wall of the tunnel. He
looked on to the six-foot way. He could see the whole length of the
train; not a sign of a head at any of the windows. He had already
turned the handle, opening the door just wide enough he stepped on to
the footboard, closed the door, and dropped on to the permanent way.
He had left his uncle to continue his journey alone. Lest his
upstanding figure might be visible to someone, he crouched as close as
he could to the ground. The train began to move very slowly. The door
of the compartment next to that which he had just left was opened, a
figure came on to the footboard, closed the door, sprang on to the
ballast while the train was already in motion. For a moment Rodney was
the victim of a gruesome delusion; to him it was as if the door of his
own compartment had been opened; as if Graham Patterson had alighted
at his side. He pressed the tips of his fingers into his palms to keep
himself from exclaiming.