“So the last shall be first, and the first last.”--HOLY WRIT.
It was a dark room at that hour of six in the evening, when just the
single oil reading-lamp under its green shade let fall a dapple of
light over the Turkey carpet; over the covers of books taken out of the
bookshelves, and the open pages of the one selected; over the deep blue
and gold of the coffee service on the little old stool with its Oriental
embroidery. Very dark in the winter, with drawn curtains, many rows of
leather-bound volumes, oak-panelled walls and ceiling. So large, too,
that the lighted spot before the fire where he sat was just an oasis.
But that was what Keith Darrant liked, after his day's work--the hard
early morning study of his “cases,” the fret and strain of the day
in court; it was his rest, these two hours before dinner, with books,
coffee, a pipe, and sometimes a nap. In red Turkish slippers and his
old brown velvet coat, he was well suited to that framing of glow and
darkness. A painter would have seized avidly on his clear-cut, yellowish
face, with its black eyebrows twisting up over eyes--grey or brown, one
could hardly tell, and its dark grizzling hair still plentiful, in spite
of those daily hours of wig. He seldom thought of his work while he
sat there, throwing off with practised ease the strain of that long
attention to the multiple threads of argument and evidence to be
disentangled--work profoundly interesting, as a rule, to his clear
intellect, trained to almost instinctive rejection of all but the
essential, to selection of what was legally vital out of the mass
of confused tactical and human detail presented to his scrutiny; yet
sometimes tedious and wearing. As for instance to-day, when he had
suspected his client of perjury, and was almost convinced that he must
throw up his brief. He had disliked the weak-looking, white-faced fellow
from the first, and his nervous, shifty answers, his prominent startled
eyes--a type too common in these days of canting tolerations and weak
humanitarianism; no good, no good!
Of the three books he had taken down, a Volume of Voltaire--curious
fascination that Frenchman had, for all his destructive irony!--a
volume of Burton's travels, and Stevenson's “New Arabian Nights,” he
had pitched upon the last. He felt, that evening, the want of something
sedative, a desire to rest from thought of any kind. The court had
been crowded, stuffy; the air, as he walked home, soft, sou'-westerly,
charged with coming moisture, no quality of vigour in it; he felt
relaxed, tired, even nervy, and for once the loneliness of his house
seemed strange and comfortless.
Lowering the lamp, he turned his face towards the fire. Perhaps he would
get a sleep before that boring dinner at the Tellasson's. He wished it
were vacation, and Maisie back from school. A widower for many years, he
had lost the habit of a woman about him; yet to-night he had a positive
yearning for the society of his young daughter, with her quick ways, and
bright, dark eyes. Curious what perpetual need of a woman some men had!
His brother Laurence--wasted--all through women--atrophy of willpower! A
man on the edge of things; living from hand to mouth; his gifts all down
at heel! One would have thought the Scottish strain might have saved
him; and yet, when a Scotsman did begin to go downhill, who could
go faster? Curious that their mother's blood should have worked so
differently in her two sons. He himself had always felt he owed all his
success to it.
His thoughts went off at a tangent to a certain issue troubling
his legal conscience. He had not wavered in the usual assumption of
omniscience, but he was by no means sure that he had given right advice.
Well! Without that power to decide and hold to decision in spite of
misgiving, one would never have been fit for one's position at the Bar,
never have been fit for anything. The longer he lived, the more certain
he became of the prime necessity of virile and decisive action in all
the affairs of life. A word and a blow--and the blow first! Doubts,
hesitations, sentiment the muling and puking of this twilight age--!
And there welled up on his handsome face a smile that was almost
devilish--the tricks of firelight are so many! It faded again in sheer
drowsiness; he slept....
He woke with a start, having a feeling of something out beyond the
light, and without turning his head said: “What's that?” There came a
sound as if somebody had caught his breath. He turned up the lamp.
“Who's there?”
A voice over by the door answered:
“Only I--Larry.”
Something in the tone, or perhaps just being startled out of sleep like
this, made him shiver. He said:
“I was asleep. Come in!”
It was noticeable that he did not get up, or even turn his head, now
that he knew who it was, but waited, his half-closed eyes fixed on the
fire, for his brother to come forward. A visit from Laurence was not an
unmixed blessing. He could hear him breathing, and became conscious of
a scent of whisky. Why could not the fellow at least abstain when he was
coming here! It was so childish, so lacking in any sense of proportion
or of decency! And he said sharply:
“Well, Larry, what is it?”
It was always something. He often wondered at the strength of that sense
of trusteeship, which kept him still tolerant of the troubles, amenable
to the petitions of this brother of his; or was it just “blood” feeling,
a Highland sense of loyalty to kith and kin; an old-time quality which
judgment and half his instincts told him was weakness but which, in
spite of all, bound him to the distressful fellow? Was he drunk now,
that he kept lurking out there by the door? And he said less sharply:
“Why don't you come and sit down?”
He was coming now, avoiding the light, skirting along the walls just
beyond the radiance of the lamp, his feet and legs to the waist brightly
lighted, but his face disintegrated in shadow, like the face of a dark
ghost.
“Are you ill, man?”
Still no answer, save a shake of that head, and the passing up of a
hand, out of the light, to the ghostly forehead under the dishevelled
hair. The scent of whisky was stronger now; and Keith thought:
'.e really is drunk. Nice thing for the new butler to see! If he can't
behave--'
The figure against the wall heaved a sigh--so truly from an overburdened
heart that Keith was conscious with a certain dismay of not having yet
fathomed the cause of this uncanny silence. He got up, and, back to the
fire, said with a brutality born of nerves rather than design:
“What is it, man? Have you committed a murder, that you stand there dumb
as a fish?”
For a second no answer at all, not even of breathing; then, just the
whisper:
“Yes.”
The sense of unreality which so helps one at moments of disaster enabled
Keith to say vigorously:
“By Jove! You have been drinking!”
But it passed at once into deadly apprehension.
“What do you mean? Come here, where I can see you. What's the matter
with you, Larry?”
With a sudden lurch and dive, his brother left the shelter of the
shadow, and sank into a chair in the circle of light. And another long,
broken sigh escaped him.
“There's nothing the matter with me, Keith! It's true!”
Keith stepped quickly forward, and stared down into his brother's face;
and instantly he saw that it was true. No one could have simulated the
look in those eyes--of horrified wonder, as if they would never again
get on terms with the face to which they belonged. To see them squeezed
the heart-only real misery could look like that. Then that sudden pity
became angry bewilderment.
“What in God's name is this nonsense?”
But it was significant that he lowered his voice; went over to the
door, too, to see if it were shut. Laurence had drawn his chair forward,
huddling over the fire--a thin figure, a worn, high-cheekboned face with
deep-sunk blue eyes, and wavy hair all ruffled, a face that still had a
certain beauty. Putting a hand on that lean shoulder, Keith said:
“Come, Larry! Pull yourself together, and drop exaggeration.”
“It's true; I tell you; I've killed a man.”
The noisy violence of that outburst acted like a douche. What was the
fellow about--shouting out such words! But suddenly Laurence lifted his
hands and wrung them. The gesture was so utterly painful that it drew a
quiver from Keith's face.
“Why did you come here,” he said, “and tell me this?”
Larry's face was really unearthly sometimes, such strange gleams passed
up on to it!
“Whom else should I tell? I came to know what I'm to do, Keith? Give
myself up, or what?”
At that sudden introduction of the practical Keith felt his heart
twitch. Was it then as real as all that? But he said, very quietly:
“Just tell me--How did it come about, this--affair?”
That question linked the dark, gruesome, fantastic nightmare on to
actuality.
“When did it happen?”
“Last night.”
In Larry's face there was--there had always been--something childishly
truthful. He would never stand a chance in court! And Keith said:
“How? Where? You'd better tell me quietly from the beginning. Drink this
coffee; it'll clear your head.”
Laurence took the little blue cup and drained it.
“Yes,” he said. “It's like this, Keith. There's a girl I've known for
some months now--”
Women! And Keith said between his teeth: “Well?”
“Her father was a Pole who died over here when she was sixteen, and left
her all alone. A man called Walenn, a mongrel American, living in the
same house, married her, or pretended to--she's very pretty, Keith--he
left her with a baby six months old, and another coming. That one died,
and she did nearly. Then she starved till another fellow took her on.
She lived with him two years; then Walenn turned up again, and made
her go back to him. The brute used to beat her black and blue, all for
nothing. Then he left her again. When I met her she'd lost her elder
child, too, and was taking anybody who came along.”
He suddenly looked up into Keith's face.
“But I've never met a sweeter woman, nor a truer, that I swear. Woman!
She's only twenty now! When I went to her last night, that brute--that
Walenn--had found her out again; and when he came for me, swaggering and
bullying--Look!”--he touched a dark mark on his forehead--“I took his
throat in my hands, and when I let go--”
“Yes?”
“Dead. I never knew till afterwards that she was hanging on to him
behind.”
Again he made that gesture-wringing his hands.
In a hard voice Keith said:
“What did you do then?”
“We sat by it a long time. Then I carried it on my back down the street,
round a corner to an archway.”
“How far?”
“About fifty yards.”
“Was anyone--did anyone see?”
“No.”
“What time?”
“Three.”
“And then?”
“Went back to her.”
“Why--in Heaven's name?”
“She was lonely and afraid; so was I, Keith.”
“Where is this place?”
“Forty-two, Borrow Street, Soho.”
“And the archway?”
“Corner of Glove Lane.”
“Good God! Why--I saw it in the paper!”
And seizing the journal that lay on his bureau, Keith read again that
paragraph: “The body of a man was found this morning under an archway in
Glove Lane, Soho. From marks about the throat grave suspicions of foul
play are entertained. The body had apparently been robbed, and nothing
was discovered leading to identification.”
It was real earnest, then. Murder! His own brother! He faced round and
said:
“You saw this in the paper, and dreamed it. Understand--you dreamed it!”
The wistful answer came:
“If only I had, Keith--if only I had!”
In his turn, Keith very nearly wrung his hands.
“Did you take anything from the--body?”
“This dropped while we were struggling.”
It was an empty envelope with a South American post-mark addressed:
“Patrick Walenn, Simon's Hotel, Farrier Street, London.” Again with that
twitching in his heart, Keith said:
“Put it in the fire.”
Then suddenly he stooped to pluck it out. By that command--he
had--identified himself with this--this--But he did not pluck it out. It
blackened, writhed, and vanished. And once more he said:
“What in God's name made you come here and tell me?”
“You know about these things. I didn't mean to kill him. I love the
girl. What shall I do, Keith?
“Simple! How simple! To ask what he was to do! It was like Larry! And he
said:
“You were not seen, you think?” “It's a dark street. There was no one
about.”
“When did you leave this girl the second time?”
“About seven o'clock.”
“Where did you go?”
“To my rooms.”
“In Fitzroy Street?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone see you come in?”
“No.”
“What have you done since?”
“Sat there.”
“Not been out?”
“No.”
“Not seen the girl?”
“No.”
“You don't know, then, what she's done since?”
“No.”
“Would she give you away?”
“Never.”
“Would she give herself away--hysteria?”
“No.”
“Who knows of your relations with her?”
“No one.”
“No one?”
“I don't know who should, Keith.”
“Did anyone see you going in last night, when you first went to her?”
“No. She lives on the ground floor. I've got keys.”
“Give them to me. What else have you that connects you with her?”
“Nothing.”
“In your rooms?”
“No.”
“No photographs. No letters?”
“No.”
“Be careful.”
“Nothing.”
“No one saw you going back to her the second time?”
“No.”
“No one saw you leave her in the morning?”
“No.”
“You were fortunate. Sit down again, man. I must think.”
Think! Think out this accursed thing--so beyond all thought, and all
belief. But he could not think. Not a coherent thought would come. And
he began again:
“Was it his first reappearance with her?”
“Yes.”
“She told you so?”
“Yes.”
“How did he find out where she was?”
“I don't know.”
“How drunk were you?”
“I was not drunk.”
“How much had you drunk?”
“About two bottles of claret--nothing.”
“You say you didn't mean to kill him?”
“No-God knows!”
“That's something.”
“What made you choose the arch?”
“It was the first dark place.”
“Did his face look as if he had been strangled?”
“Don't!”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“Very disfigured?”
“Yes.”
“Did you look to see if his clothes were marked?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? My God! If you had done it!”
“You say he was disfigured. Would he be recognisable?”
“I don't know.”
“When she lived with him last--where was that?”
“I don't know for certain. Pimlico, I think.”
“Not Soho?”
“No.”
“How long has she been at the Soho place?”
“Nearly a year.”
“Always the same rooms?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anyone living in that house or street who would be likely to
know her as his wife?”
“I don't think so.”
“What was he?”
“I should think he was a professional 'bully.'.
“I see. Spending most of his time abroad, then?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if he was known to the police?”
“I haven't heard of it.”
“Now, listen, Larry. When you leave here go straight home, and don't go
out till I come to you, to-morrow morning. Promise that!”
“I promise.”
“I've got a dinner engagement. I'll think this out. Don't drink. Don't
talk! Pull yourself together.”
“Don't keep me longer than you can help, Keith!”
That white face, those eyes, that shaking hand! With a twinge of pity
in the midst of all the turbulence of his revolt, and fear, and disgust
Keith put his hand on his brother's shoulder, and said:
“Courage!”