Barbara’s Message
The routine of modern life creates the habit of dividing the day into
a series of definite phases which we feel impelled to recognize even
in circumstances to which they have no real application. Normally, the
day is brought formally to an end by retirement to bed, a process
that—also normally—leads to a lapse into unconsciousness the emergence
from which marks the beginning of another day. So, in mere obedience
to the call of habit, I had gone to bed, though, in spite of bodily
fatigue, there had been no hint of any tendency to sleep. But I might
have saved myself the trouble. True, my tired limbs stretched
themselves out restfully and mere muscular fatigue slowly wore off;
but my brain continued, uselessly and chaotically to pursue its
activities only the more feverishly when the darkness and the silence
closed the avenues of impressions from without.
Hour after hour crept by with incredible slowness, marked at each
quarter by the gentle undertone of the Treasury clock, voicing its
announcement, as it seemed, in polite protest (surely there was never
a clock that hinted so delicately and unobtrusively at the passage of
the irrevocable minutes “that perish for us and are reckoned”). Other
sound there was none to break the weary silence of the night; but by
the soft, mellow chime I was kept informed of the birth of another day
and the progress of its infancy, which crawled so tardily in the wake
of my impatience.
At last, when half-past four had struck, I threw back the bed-clothes,
and, stepping out, switched on the light and put a match to the gas
under the kettle. I had no occasion to hurry, but rather sought to
make my preparations with studied deliberation; in spite of which I
had shaved, washed and dressed and was sitting down to my frugal
breakfast when the alarm clock startled me by blurting out with
preposterous urgency its unnecessary reminder.
It had just turned a quarter past five when I set forth to take my way
on foot towards Kensington. No conveyance was necessary, nor would it
have been acceptable; for though throughout the wearisome hours that I
had spent in bed my thoughts had never ceased to revolve around the
problem that Thorndyke had set, I still seemed to have the whole
matter to debate afresh.
What should I say to Barbara? How should I break to her the news that
my own appointed agent had made an undissembled accusation and was
holding over her an unconcealed menace? I knew well enough what her
attitude would be. She would hold me blameless and she would confront
the threat against her reputation—even against her liberty—calmly and
unafraid. I had no fear for her either of panic or recrimination. But
how could I excuse myself? What could I say in extenuation of
Thorndyke’s secret, hostile manœuvre?
The hands of the church clock were approaching half-past six when I
turned the corner and came in sight of the entrance to her flat. And
at the same moment I was made to realize the imminence and the
actuality of the danger which threatened her. In a narrow street
nearly opposite to the flat, a closed car was drawn up in such a
position that it could move out into the main road either to the right
or left without turning round; and a glance at the alert driver and a
watchful figure inside—both of whom looked at me attentively as I
passed—at once aroused my suspicions. And when, as I crossed to the
flat, I observed a tall man perambulating the pavement, those
suspicions were confirmed. For this was no brown-hatted neophyte. The
hard, athletic figure and the calm, observant face were unmistakable.
I had seen too many plain-clothes policemen to miss the professional
characteristics. And this man also took unobtrusive note of me as my
destination became apparent.
The church clock was chiming half-past six as I pressed the button of
the electric bell by Barbara’s front door. In the silence that still
wrapped the building, I could hear the bell ring noisily, though far
away, and I listened intently for some sounds of movement within. The
maid would not arrive for another half hour, but I knew that Barbara
was usually up at this hour. But I could hear no sign of any one
stirring in the flat. Then I rang again, and yet again; and as there
was still no sound from within, a vague uneasiness began to creep over
me. Could Barbara be away from home? That might be as well in some
respects. It might give time for the discovery of the error and save
some unpleasantness. On the other hand—but at this moment I made a
singular discovery myself. The latch-key was in the door! That was a
most remarkable circumstance. It was so very unlike the methodical,
self-possessed Barbara. But probably it had been left there by the
maid. At any rate, there it was; and as I had now rung four times
without result, I turned the key, pushed open the door and entered.
When I had closed the door behind me, I stood for some seconds in the
dark hall, listening. There was not a sound. I was astonished that the
noise of the bell had not aroused Barbara; indeed, I was surprised
that she was not already up and about. Still vaguely uneasy, I felt
for the light-switch, and when I had turned it on, stole along the
hall and peered into the sitting room. Of course there was no one in
it; nor was there any one in the kitchen, or in the spare bedroom.
Finally, I went to Barbara’s bedroom and knocked loudly, at the same
time calling her by name. But still there was no response or sound of
movement.
At last, after one or two more trials, I turned the handle and opening
the door a few inches, looked in. The room was nearly dark, but the
cold, wan light of the early morning was beginning to show on the
blind; and in that dim twilight I could just make out a figure lying
on the bed. With a sudden thrill of alarm, I stepped into the room and
switched on the light. And then I stood, rooted to the spot, as if I
had been turned into stone.
She was there, lying half-dressed upon the bed and as still as a
bronze effigy upon a tomb. From where I stood I could see that her
right hand, resting on the bed, lightly held a hypodermic syringe, and
that her left sleeve was rolled up nearly to the shoulder. And when,
approaching stealthily on tip-toe, I drew near, I saw upon the bare
arm a plainly visible puncture and close by it a little blister-like
swelling.
The first glance had made plain the dreadful truth. I had realized
instantly that she was dead. Yet still, instinctively, I put my
fingers to her wrist in the forlorn hope of detecting some lingering
trace of life; and then any possible doubt was instantly dispelled;
for the surface was stone-cold and the arm as rigid as that of a
marble statue. Not only was she dead; she had been lying here dead
while I, in my bed in the Temple, had lain listening to the chimes and
waiting for the hour when I could come to her.
For quite a long time I stood by the bed looking down on her in utter
stupefaction. So overwhelming was the catastrophe that for the moment
my faculties seemed to be paralysed, my power of thought suspended. In
a trance of amazement I gazed at her, and, with the idle irrelevancy
of a dreamer, noted how young, how beautiful she looked; how lissom
and graceful was the pose of the figure, how into the waxen face with
its drowsy eyes and parted lips, there had come a something soft and
youthful, almost girlish, that had not been there during life. Dimly
and dreamily I wondered what the difference could be.
Suddenly my glance fell on the syringe that still rested in her hand.
And with that my faculties awoke. She had killed herself! But why?
Even as I asked myself the question, the terrible, the incredible
answer stole into my mind only to be indignantly cast out. But yet—I
lifted my eyes from the calm, pallid face, so familiar and yet so
strange, and cast a scared glance round the room; and then I observed
for the first time a small table near the bed on which beside a flat
candle-stick containing the remains of a burnt-out candle, lay two
unstamped letters. Stepping over to the table, I read their
superscriptions. One was addressed to me, the other to Superintendent
Miller, C.I.D., and both were in Barbara’s handwriting.
With a shaking hand I snatched up the one addressed to me, tore open
the envelope and drew out the letter; and this is what I read:—
“Thursday, 1 a.m.
My dearest Rupert,
This letter is to bid you farewell. When you receive it you will
curse and revile me, but I shall not hear those curses. Now, as I
write, you are my darling Rupert and I am your dear friend, Barbara.
With what will be when I am gone, I have no concern. It would be
futile to hope that any empty words of mine could win your
forgiveness. I have no such thought and do not even ask for pardon.
When you think of me in the future it will be with hatred and
loathing. It cannot be otherwise. But I have no part in the future.
In the present—which runs out with every word that I write—I love
you, and you, at least, are fond of me. And so it will be to the
end, which is now drawing near.
But though this which I write to you in love will be read by you in
hatred, yet I have a mind to let you know the whole truth. And that
truth can be summed up in three words. I love you. I have always
loved you, even when I was a little girl and you were a boy. My
desire for you has been the constant, consuming passion of my life,
and to possess you for my own has been the settled purpose from
which I have never deviated but once—when I married Harold.
As I grew up from girlhood to womanhood, my love grew from a girl’s
to a woman’s passion and my resolution became more fixed. I meant to
have you for my own. But there was Stella. I could see that you
worshipped her, and I knew that I should never have you while she
lived. I was fond of poor Stella. But she stood as an insuperable
obstacle between you and me. And—I suppose I am not quite as other
women. I am a woman of a single purpose. Stella stood in the way of
that purpose. It was a terrible necessity. But it had to be.
And after all, I seemed to have failed. When Stella was gone, you
went away and I thought I had lost you for ever. For I could not
follow you. I knew that you had understood me, at least partly, and
that you had fled from me.
Then I was in despair. It seemed that I had dismissed poor Stella to
no purpose. For once, I lost courage, and, in my loneliness,
committed myself to a marriage with poor Harold. It was a foolish
lapse. I ought to have kept my courage and lived in hope, as I
realized almost as soon as I had married him.
But when you came back, I could have killed myself. For I could see
that you were still the same old Rupert and my love flamed up more
intensely than ever. And once more I resolved that you should be my
own; and so you would have been in the end but for Dr. Thorndyke.
That was the fatal error that I fell into; the error of
under-valuing him. If I had only realized the subtlety of that man,
I would have made a serious effort to deal with him. He should have
had something very different from the frivolous make-believe that I
sent him.
Well, Rupert, my darling, I have played my hand and I have lost. But
I have lost only by the merest mischance. As I sit here with the
ready-filled syringe on the table at my side, I am as confident as
ever that it was worth while. I regret nothing but the bad luck that
defeated skilful play, and the fact that you, my dear one, have had
to pay so large a proportion of my losings.
I will say no more. You know everything now; and it has been a
melancholy pleasure to me to have this little talk with you before
making my exit.
Your loving friend,
Barbara.
I have just slipped the key into the latch on the chance that you
may come to me early. From what Tony said and what I know of you, I
think it just possible. I hope you may. I like to think that we may
meet, for the last time, alone.”
To say that this astounding letter left me numb and stupefied with
amazement would be to express but feebly its effect on me. The whole
episode presented itself to me as a frightful dream from which I
should presently awaken and come back to understandable and believable
realities. For I know not how long I stood, dazed by the shock, with
my eyes riveted on that calm, comely figure on the bed, trying to
grasp the incredible truth that this dead woman was Barbara, that she
had killed herself and that she had murdered Stella—murdered her
callously, deliberately and with considered intent.
Suddenly, the deathly silence of the flat was broken by the sound of
an opening, and then of a closing door. Then a strong masculine voice
was borne to my ear saying, in a not unkindly tone, “Now, my girl, you
had better run off to the kitchen and shut yourself in.”
On this I roused, and, walking across to the door, which was still
ajar, went out into the hall, where I confronted Superintendent Miller
and Barbara’s maid. Both stared at me in astonishment and the maid
uttered a little cry of alarm as she turned and hurried into the
kitchen. The superintendent looked at me steadily and with obvious
suspicion, and, after a moment or two, asked, gruffly, nodding at the
bedroom door, “Is Mrs. Monkhouse in there?”
“Mrs. Monkhouse is dead,” I answered.
“Dead!” he repeated, incredulously. Then, pushing past me, he strode
into the room, and as I followed, I could hear him cursing furiously
in a not very low undertone. For a few moments he stood looking down
on the corpse, gently touching the bare arm and apparently becoming
aware of its rigidity. Suddenly he turned, and, glaring fiercely at
me, demanded:
“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Mayfield?”
“The meaning?” I repeated, looking at him inquiringly.
“Yes. How came you to let her do this—that is, if she did it herself?”
“I found her dead when I arrived here,” I explained.
“And when did you arrive here?”
“About half an hour ago.”
He shook his head and rejoined in an ominously quiet tone:
“That won’t do, Sir. The maid has only just come and the dead woman
couldn’t have let you in.”
I explained that I had found the key in the outer door but he made no
pretence of accepting the explanation.
“That is well enough,” said he, “if you can prove that the key was in
the door. Otherwise it is a mere statement which may or may not be
true. The actual position is that I have found you alone in this flat
with the body of a woman who has died a violent death. You will have
to account satisfactorily for your presence here at this time in the
morning, and for your movements up to the time of your arrival here.”
The very equivocal, not to say perilous, position in which I suddenly
found myself served to steady my wits. I realized instantly how
profoundly suspicious the appearances really were and that if I could
not produce evidence of my recent arrival I should quite probably have
to meet the charge of being an accessory to the suicide. And an
accessory to suicide is an accessory to murder. It was a very serious
position.
“Have you seen your man yet?” I asked. “The men, I mean, who were on
observation duty outside.”
“I have seen them, but I haven’t spoken to them. They are waiting out
on the landing now. Why do you ask?”
“Because I think they saw me come in here.”
“Ah, well, we can see about that presently. Is that letter that you
have in your hand from Mrs. Monkhouse? Because, if it is, I shall want
to see it.”
“I don’t want to show it unless it is necessary; and I don’t think it
will be. There is a letter addressed to you which will probably tell
you all that you need know.”
He snatched up the letter, and, tearing it open, glanced through it
rapidly. Then, without comment, he handed it to me. It was quite short
and ran as follows:—
“Thursday, 1.35 a.m.
Mr. Superintendent Miller, C.I. D.
This is to inform you that I alone am responsible for the death of
my late husband, Harold Monkhouse, and also for that of the late
Miss Stella Keene. I had no confidants or accomplices and no one was
aware of what I had done.
As my own death will occur in about ten minutes (from an injection
of morphine which I shall administer to myself) this statement may
be taken as my dying declaration.
I may add that no one is aware of my intention to take my life.
Yours very truly
Barbara Monkhouse.”
“Well,” said Miller, as I returned the letter to him, “that supports
your statement, and if my men saw you enter the flat, that will
dispose of the matter so far as the suicide is concerned. But there is
another question. It is evident that she knew that a discovery had
been made. Now, who told her? Was it you, Mr. Mayfield?”
“No,” I replied, “it was not. I found her dead when I arrived, as I
have told you.”
“Do you know who did tell her?”
“I do not; and I am not disposed to make any guesses.”
“No, it’s no use guessing. Still, you know, Mr. Mayfield, you knew,
and you came here to tell her; and you know who knew besides yourself.
But there,” he added, as we moved out into the hall, “it is no use
going into that now. I’ve acted like a fool—too punctilious by half. I
oughtn’t to have let her slip through my fingers. I should have acted
at once on Dr. Thorndyke’s hint without waiting for confirmation.”
He was still speaking in an angry, reproachful tone; but suddenly his
manner changed. Looking at me critically but with something of kindly
sympathy, he said: “It has been a trying business for you, Mr.
Mayfield—the whole scandalous affair; and this must have given you a
frightful shock, though I expect you would rather have it as it is
than as it ought to have been. But you don’t look any the better for
it.”
He escorted me politely but definitely to the outer door, and when he
opened it I saw his two subordinates waiting on the landing; to both
of whom collectively Miller addressed the inquiry: “Did you see Mr.
Mayfield enter this flat?”
“Yes, Sir,” was the reply of one, confirmed by the other. “He went up
the stairs at exactly half-past six.”
Miller nodded, and wishing me “good morning,” beckoned to the two
officers; and as I turned to descend the stairs, I saw the three enter
and heard the door shut.
Once more in the outer world, walking the grey, half-lighted streets,
to which the yet unextinguished lamps seemed only to impart an added
chill, my confused thoughts took up the tangled threads at the point
at which the superintendent’s appearance had broken them off. But I
could not get my ideas arranged into any intelligible form. Each
aspect of the complex tragedy conflicted with all the others. The
pitiful figure that I had left lying on the bed made its appeal in
spite of the protest of reason; for the friendship of a lifetime
cannot easily be extinguished in a moment. I knew now that she was a
wretch, a monster; and when I reminded myself of what she had done, I
grudged the easy, painless death by which she had slipped away so
quietly from the wreckage that her incredible wickedness had created.
When I contrasted that death—a more gentle lapsing into oblivion—with
the long, cheerfully endured sufferings of brave, innocent little
Stella, I could have cursed the faithful friendship of Wallingford
which had let her escape from the payment to the uttermost farthing of
her hideous debt. And yet the face that haunted me—the calm, peaceful,
waxen face—was the face of Barbara, my friend, almost my sister, who
had been so much to me, who had loved me with that strange, tenacious,
terrible passion.
It was very confusing. And the same inconsistency pervaded my thoughts
of Thorndyke. Unreasonably, I found myself thinking of him with a
certain repulsion, almost of dislike, as the cause of this
catastrophe. Yet my reason told me that he had acted with the highest
motives of justice; that he had but sought retribution for Stella’s
sufferings and death and those of poor, harmless Harold Monkhouse;
that as a barrister, even as a citizen, he could do no less than
denounce the wrong-doer. But my feelings were too lacerated, my
emotions too excited to allow my reason to deal with the conflicting
elements of this tragedy.
In this confused state of mind, I walked on, hardly conscious of
direction, until I found myself at the entry of my chambers. I went in
and made a futile attempt to do some work. Then I paced the room for
an hour or more, alternately raging against Barbara and recalling the
lonely figure that I had seen in the twilight of that darkened room,
until my unrest drove me forth again to wander through the streets,
away into the squalid east, among the docks and the rookeries from
Whitechapel to Limehouse.
It was evening when, once more, I dragged myself up my stairs, and,
spent with fatigue and exhausted by lack of food—for during the whole
day I had taken but a few cups of tea, hastily snatched in the course
of my wanderings—re-entered my chamber. As I closed the door, I
noticed a letter in the box, and taking it out, listlessly opened the
envelope. It was from Thorndyke; a short note, but very cordially
worded, begging me “like a good fellow” to go round to have a talk
with him.
I flung the note down impatiently on the table, with an immediate
resurgence of my unreasonable sense of resentment. But in a few
minutes I experienced a sudden revulsion of feeling. A sense of
profound loneliness came upon me; a yearning for human companionship,
and especially for the companionship of Thorndyke, from whom I had no
secrets, and who knew the whole dreadful story even to its final
culmination.
Once more, foot-sore as I was, I descended my stairs and a couple of
minutes later was ascending the “pair” that led up to Thorndyke’s
chambers.