WITHOUT THOUGHT OF CONSEQUENCE
Everything was very quiet in the house where Mallalieu lay wide-awake
and watchful. It seemed to him that he had never known it so quiet
before. It was quiet at all times, both day and night, for Miss Pett had
a habit of going about like a cat, and Christopher was decidedly of the
soft-footed order, and stepped from one room to another as if he were
perpetually afraid of waking somebody or trusting his own weight on his
own toes. But on this particular night the silence seemed to be
unusual--and it was all the deeper because no sound, not even the faint
sighing of the wind in the firs and pines outside came to break it. And
Mallalieu's nerves, which had gradually become sharpened and irritated
by his recent adventures and his close confinement, became still more
irritable, still more set on edge, and it was with difficulty that he
forced himself to lie still and to listen. Moreover, he was feeling the
want of the stuff which had soothed him into such sound slumber every
night since he had been taken in charge by Miss Pett, and he knew very
well that though he had flung it away his whole system was crying out
for the lack of it.
What were those two devils after, he wondered as he lay there in the
darkness? No good--that was certain. Now that he came to reflect upon it
their conduct during the afternoon and evening had not been of a
reassuring sort. Christopher had kept entirely away from him; he had not
seen Christopher at all since the discussion of the afternoon, which
Miss Pett had terminated so abruptly. He had seen Miss Pett twice or
thrice--Miss Pett's attitude on each occasion had been that of injured
innocence. She had brought him his tea in silence, his supper with no
more than a word. It was a nice supper--she set it before him with an
expression which seemed to say that however badly she herself was
treated, she would do her duty by others. And Mallalieu, seeing that
expression, had not been able to refrain from one of his sneering
remarks.
"Think yourself very badly done to, don't you, missis!" he had exclaimed
with a laugh. "Think I'm a mean 'un, what?"
"I express no opinion, Mr. Mallalieu," replied Miss Pett, frigidly and
patiently. "I think it better for people to reflect. A night's
reflection," she continued as she made for the door, "oft brings wisdom,
even to them as doesn't usually cultivate it."
Mallalieu had no objection to the cultivation of wisdom--for his own
benefit, and he was striving to produce something from the process as he
lay there, waiting. But he said to himself that it was easy enough to be
wise after the event--and for him the event had happened. He was in the
power of these two, whom he had long since recognized as an
unscrupulous woman and a shifty man. They had nothing to do but hand
him over to the police if they liked: for anything he knew, Chris Pett
might already have played false and told the police of affairs at the
cottage. And yet on deeper reflection, he did not think that
possible--for it was evident that aunt and nephew were after all they
could get, and they would get nothing from the police authorities, while
they might get a good deal from him. But--what did they expect to get
from him? He had been a little perplexed by their attitude when he asked
them if they expected him to carry a lot of money on him--a fugitive.
Was it possible--the thought came to him like a thunderclap in the
darkness--that they knew, or had some idea, of what he really had on
him? That Miss Pett had drugged him every night he now felt sure--well,
then, in that case how did he know that she hadn't entered his room and
searched his belongings, and especially the precious waistcoat?
Mallalieu had deposited that waistcoat in the same place every night--on
a chair which stood at the head of his bed. He had laid it folded on the
chair, had deposited his other garments in layers upon it, had set his
candlestick and a box of matches on top of all. And everything had
always been there, just as he had placed things, every morning when he
opened his eyes. But--he had come to know Miss Pett's stealthiness by
that time, and ...
He put out a hand now and fingered the pile of garments which lay,
neatly folded, within a few inches of his head. It was all right, then,
of course, and his hand drew back--to the revolver, separated from his
cheek by no more than the thickness of the pillow. The touch of that
revolver made him begin speculating afresh. If Miss Pett or Christopher
had meddled with the waistcoat, the revolver, too, might have been
meddled with. Since he had entered the cottage, he had never examined
either waistcoat or revolver. Supposing the charges had been
drawn?--supposing he was defenceless, if a pinch came? He began to sweat
with fear at the mere thought, and in the darkness he fumbled with the
revolver in an effort to discover whether it was still loaded. And just
then came a sound--and Mallalieu grew chill with suspense.
It was a very small sound--so small that it might have been no more than
that caused by the scratch of the tiniest mouse in the wainscot. But in
that intense silence it was easily heard--and with it came the faint
glimmering of a light. The light widened--there was a little further
sound--and Mallalieu, peeping at things through his eyelashes became
aware that the door was open, that a tall, spare figure was outlined
between the bed and the light without. And in that light, outside the
door, well behind the thin form of Miss Pett, he saw Christopher Pett's
sharp face and the glint of his beady eyes.
Mallalieu was sharp enough of thought, and big man though he was, he had
always been quick of action. He knew what Miss Pett's objective was, and
he let her advance half-way across the room on her stealthy path to the
waistcoat. But silently as she came on with that cat-like tread,
Mallalieu had just as silently drawn the revolver from beneath his
pillow and turned its small muzzle on her. It had a highly polished
barrel, that revolver, and Miss Pett suddenly caught a tiny
scintillation of light on it--and she screamed. And as she screamed
Mallalieu fired, and the scream died down to a queer choking sound ...
and he fired again ... and where Christopher Pett's face had shown
itself a second before there was nothing--save another choking sound and
a fall in the entry where Christopher had stood and watched.
After that followed a silence so deep that Mallalieu felt the drums of
his ears aching intensely in the effort to catch any sound, however
small. But he heard nothing--not even a sigh. It was as if all the awful
silences that had ever been in the cavernous places of the world had
been crystallized into one terrible silence and put into that room.
He reached out at last and found his candle and the matches, and he got
more light and leaned forward in the bed, looking.
"Can't ha' got 'em both!" he muttered. "Both? But----"
He slowly lifted himself out of bed, huddled on some of the garments
that lay carefully folded on the chair, and then, holding the candle to
the floor, went forward to where the woman lay. She had collapsed
between the foot of the bed and the wall; her shoulders were propped
against the wall and the grotesque turban hung loosely down on one
shoulder. And Mallalieu knew in that quick glance that she was dead, and
he crept onward to the door and looked at the other still figure, lying
just as supinely in the passage that led to the living-room. He looked
longer at that ... and suddenly he turned back into his
parlour-bedchamber, and carefully avoiding the dead woman put on his
boots and began to dress with feverish haste.
And while he hurried on his clothes Mallalieu thought. He was not sure
that he had meant to kill these two. He would have delighted in killing
them certainly, hating them as he did, but he had an idea that when he
fired he only meant to frighten them. But that was neither here nor
there now. They were dead, but he was alive--and he must get out of
that, and at once. The moors--the hills--anywhere....
A sudden heavy knocking at the door at the back of the cottage set
Mallalieu shaking. He started for the front--to hear knocking there,
too. Then came voices demanding admittance, and loudly crying the dead
woman's name. He crept to a front window at that, and carefully drew a
corner of the blind and looked out, and saw many men in the garden. One
of them had a lantern, and as its glare glanced about Mallalieu set eyes
on Cotherstone.