Bright and cheerful outside and with his friends, in the house he was
quiet and submissive. Milly had gone, and, if the service was poorer
and the rooms neglected, he gave no sign. If a bell remained unanswered
he made no complaint, and to studied insolence turned the other cheek
of politeness. When at this tribute to her power the woman smiled, he
smiled in return. A smile which, for all its disarming softness, left
her vaguely uneasy.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said once, with a menacing air.
“I hope not,” said Goddard in a slightly surprised voice.
“Some people might be, but I’m not,” she declared. “If anything
happened to me----”
“Nothing could happen to such a careful woman as you are,” he said,
smiling again. “You ought to live to ninety--with luck.”
It was clear to him that the situation was getting on his nerves.
Unremembered but terrible dreams haunted his sleep. Dreams in which
some great, inevitable disaster was always pressing upon him, although
he could never discover what it was. Each morning he awoke unrefreshed
to face another day of torment. He could not meet the woman’s eyes for
fear of revealing the threat that was in his own.
Delay was dangerous and foolish. He had thought out every move in that
contest of wits which was to remove the shadow of the rope from his own
neck and place it about that of the woman. There was a little risk, but
the stake was a big one. He had but to set the ball rolling and others
would keep it on its course. It was time to act.
He came in a little jaded from his afternoon walk, and left his tea
untouched. He ate but little dinner, and, sitting hunched up over the
fire, told the woman that he had taken a slight chill. Her concern, he
felt grimly, might have been greater if she had known the cause.
He was no better next day, and after lunch called in to consult his
doctor. He left with a clean bill of health except for a slight
digestive derangement, the remedy for which he took away with him in a
bottle. For two days he swallowed one tablespoonful three times a day
in water, without result, then he took to his bed.
“A day or two in bed won’t hurt you,” said the doctor. “Show me that
tongue of yours again.”
“But what is the matter with me, Roberts?” inquired the patient.
The doctor pondered. “Nothing to trouble about--nerves a bit
wrong--digestion a little bit impaired. You’ll be all right in a day
or two.”
Goddard nodded. So far, so good; Roberts had not outlived his
usefulness. He smiled grimly after the doctor had left at the
surprise he was preparing for him. A little rough on Roberts and his
professional reputation, perhaps, but these things could not be avoided.
He lay back and visualized the programme. A day or two longer, getting
gradually worse, then a little sickness. After that a nervous, somewhat
shamefaced patient hinting at things. His food had a queer taste--he
felt worse after taking it; he knew it was ridiculous, still--there was
some of his beef-tea he had put aside, perhaps the doctor would like to
examine it? and the medicine? Secretions, too; perhaps he would like to
see those?
Propped on his elbow, he stared fixedly at the wall. There would be a
trace--a faint trace--of arsenic in the secretions. There would be more
than a trace in the other things. An attempt to poison him would be
clearly indicated, and--his wife’s symptoms had resembled his own--let
Hannah get out of the web he was spinning if she could. As for the
letter she had threatened him with, let her produce it; it could only
recoil upon herself. Fifty letters could not save her from the doom he
was preparing for her. It was her life or his, and he would show no
mercy. For three days he doctored himself with sedulous care, watching
himself anxiously the while. His nerve was going and he knew it. Before
him was the strain of the discovery, the arrest, and the trial. The
gruesome business of his wife’s death. A long business. He would wait
no longer, and he would open the proceedings with dramatic suddenness.
It was between nine and ten o’clock at night when he rang his bell, and
it was not until he had rung four times that he heard the heavy steps
of Hannah mounting the stairs.
“What d’you want?” she demanded, standing in the doorway.
“I’m very ill,” he said, gasping. “Run for the doctor. Quick!”
The woman stared at him in genuine amazement. “What, at this time o’
night?” she exclaimed. “Not likely.”
“I’m dying!” said Goddard in a broken voice.
“Not you,” she said, roughly. “You’ll be better in the morning.”
“I’m dying,” he repeated. “Go--for--the--doctor.”
The woman hesitated. The rain beat in heavy squalls against the window,
and the doctor’s house was a mile distant on the lonely road. She
glanced at the figure on the bed.
“I should catch my death o’ cold,” she grumbled.
She stood sullenly regarding him. He certainly looked very ill, and his
death would by no means benefit her. She listened, scowling, to the
wind and the rain.
“All right,” she said at last, and went noisily from the room.
His face set in a mirthless smile, he heard her bustling about below.
The front-door slammed violently and he was alone.
He waited for a few moments and then, getting out of bed, put on his
dressing-gown and set about his preparations. With a steady hand he
added a little white powder to the remains of his beef-tea and to the
contents of his bottle of medicine. He stood listening a moment at some
faint sound from below, and, having satisfied himself, lit a candle and
made his way to Hannah’s room. For a space he stood irresolute, looking
about him. Then he opened one of the drawers and, placing the broken
packet of powder under a pile of clothing at the back, made his way
back to bed.
He was disturbed to find that he was trembling with excitement and
nervousness. He longed for tobacco, but that was impossible. To
reassure himself he began to rehearse his conversation with the doctor,
and again he thought over every possible complication. The scene with
the woman would be terrible; he would have to be too ill to take any
part in it. The less he said the better. Others would do all that was
necessary.
He lay for a long time listening to the sound of the wind and the rain.
Inside, the house seemed unusually quiet, and with an odd sensation
he suddenly realised that it was the first time he had been alone
in it since his wife’s death. He remembered that she would have to
be disturbed. The thought was unwelcome. He did not want her to be
disturbed. Let the dead sleep.
He sat up in bed and drew his watch from beneath the pillow. Hannah
ought to have been back before; in any case she could not be long now.
At any moment he might hear her key in the lock. He lay down again and
reminded himself that things were shaping well. He had shaped them, and
some of the satisfaction of the artist was his.
The silence was oppressive. The house seemed to be listening, waiting.
He looked at his watch again and wondered, with a curse, what had
happened to the woman. It was clear that the doctor must be out, but
that was no reason for her delay. It was close on midnight, and the
atmosphere of the house seemed in some strange fashion to be brooding
and hostile.
In a lull in the wind he thought he heard footsteps outside, and his
face cleared as he sat up listening for the sound of the key in the
door below. In another moment the woman would be in the house and the
fears engendered by a disordered fancy would have flown. The sound of
the steps had ceased, but he could hear no sound of entrance. Until all
hope had gone, he sat listening. He was certain he had heard footsteps.
Whose?
Trembling and haggard he sat waiting, assailed by a crowd of murmuring
fears. One whispered that he had failed and would have to pay the
penalty of failing; that he had gambled with Death and lost.
By a strong effort he fought down these fancies and, closing his eyes,
tried to compose himself to rest. It was evident now that the doctor
was out and that Hannah was waiting to return with him in his car. He
was frightening himself for nothing. At any moment he might hear the
sound of their arrival.
He heard something else, and, sitting up, suddenly, tried to think what
it was and what had caused it. It was a very faint sound--stealthy.
Holding his breath, he waited for it to be repeated. He heard it again,
the mere ghost of a sound--a whisper of a sound, but significant as
most whispers are.
He wiped his brow with his sleeve and told himself firmly that it
was nerves, and nothing but nerves; but, against his will, he still
listened. He fancied now that the sound came from his wife’s room, the
other side of the landing. It increased in loudness and became more
insistent, but with his eyes fixed on the door of his room he still
kept himself in hand, and tried to listen instead to the wind and the
rain.
For a time he heard nothing but that. Then there came a scraping,
scurrying noise from his wife’s room, and a sudden, terrific crash.
With a loud scream his nerve broke, and springing from the bed he sped
downstairs and, flinging open the front-door, dashed into the night.
The door, caught by the wind, slammed behind him.
With his hand holding the garden gate open, ready for further flight,
he stood sobbing for breath. His bare feet were bruised and the rain
was very cold, but he took no heed. Then he ran a little way along the
road and stood for some time, hoping and listening.
He came back slowly. The wind was bitter and he was soaked to the skin.
The garden was black and forbidding, and unspeakable horror might be
lurking in the bushes. He went up the road again, trembling with cold.
Then, in desperation, he passed through the terrors of the garden
to the house, only to find the door closed. The porch gave a little
protection from the icy rain, but none from the wind, and, shaking in
every limb, he leaned in abject misery against the door. He pulled
himself together after a time and stumbled round to the back-door.
Locked! And all the lower windows were shuttered. He made his way back
to the porch, and, crouching there in hopeless misery, waited for the
woman to return.