The Lacquered Club
There was a sort of self-consciousness in her brain, even though she
swooned; something which told her that this was the moment in all her
life in which it was most necessary that she should keep her wits about
her--and here she was losing them. They were willing to slip still
farther away; with comfort she could have remained, to all intents and
purposes, unconscious for quite a considerable length of time; but she
would not. So it came about that her faintness endured but for a
moment.
Major Reith's ideas as to what to do with a young lady who had fainted
were vague. His impulse was to return upstairs and alarm the household;
but before he could put his impulse into practice the lady relieved him
of his difficulties by sitting up and returning to life.
"Oh, Major Reith, I've hurt my foot."
He thought that he had never seen her looking prettier. He probably
never had; that dressing-gown became her.
"I'm very sorry." His tone was gravity itself. "Is it very bad? Let me
help you to get up."
He helped her; would have placed her on the chair on which was the
cushion and, underneath, the bag, but she managed to make him
understand that she preferred another. He was all sympathy.
"Can I do anything for it, or would you rather that I let the people
know?"
"Thank you, I would rather that you didn't. It is painful for the
moment, but I shall manage; it's the first twinge. Did you hear a
strange noise upstairs?"
"I did, and wondered what it was; it was that which brought me down."
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what had brought her down, but
he refrained. Where she was concerned he was a man of quick perception.
He was already conscious that there was something in the situation
which he did not understand, which, possibly, she would rather that he
did not understand.
"What did you hear?"
"I thought I heard someone in the hall just now, but I suppose it was
you."
"I expect it was. I heard something, and I came down to see what it
was, tripped on the stairs, and I've been behaving like a goose ever
since."
"As I came round the corner from my room I saw a light flashing down in
the hall. Was that you?"
"A light? What light?" She went on without giving him a chance to
answer the questions she asked: "Did you hear a sound as if someone was
quarrelling?"
"That's what roused me. First of all, I heard someone running up and
down my passage----"
"So did I."
"I looked out to see what was up, thinking that someone might be ill;
then I heard a din as if a free fight was taking place downstairs."
"Did you hear anyone call out?"
"I heard voices."
"More than one?"
"I should certainly say that there was more than one. I couldn't hear
what they said, but it seemed to me that two men were slanging each
other at the top of their voices for all they were worth. Then I heard
something which brought me down."
"What was it? I don't know; it's no good your looking at me as if you
thought I did. I've been able to get no farther than where you see me
now. Like you, I heard what seemed to me to be two men quarrelling, so
I came down hoping to prevent mischief being done."
"It was very plucky of you to come down all alone. And you don't know
what's happened?"
"No more than you. I'm not very well up in the geography of the house,
but I thought that the argument was taking place in one of the rooms on
the other side; but before I could get down it had stopped. It was the
sudden stopping I did not like."
"Nor I, to be frank. Shall I help you upstairs, or will you stay here
while I go and see? We may both of us be false alarmists; let's hope we
are."
She seemed to be considering.
"I think you had better leave me where I am, only--mind you're not
long. It's very silly of me, but I don't feel as if I'd care to be left
alone too long."
She watched his tall figure, shrouded in a long grey dressing-gown
which covered his pyjamas, across the hall. Directly he was out of
sight she rose from her chair; leaning on the back of it, standing on
one foot, she looked eagerly about the hall. The one electric light
illumined the spot on which she stood; it scarcely penetrated the
shadows beyond. She hesitated whether to switch on other lights, to
make sure that no hidden eyes were watching, but it was only with
difficulty that she could move; there was not time, the major might be
back at any moment. She took the bag from underneath the cushion;
considering it was only a small, brown, brief bag, it was curiously
heavy. All the time she had been talking to Major Reith she had been
wondering what would be the nearest convenient place in which to hide
it, if opportunity offered. Against the wall, within a few feet of
where she was standing, was an old oak chest, which was sometimes used
as a seat, which was covered with a piece of dark blue velvet,
embroidered almost as if it had been an altar cloth. Lady Cantyre had
told her that it was half-full of things, but she herself did not know
what they were; no one ever looked inside. If the lid was open, there
might be room for the bag; it would be the very place.
She managed to get as far as the chest, hopping, for the most part, on
one foot. The lid was open. She raised it. Pressing back the velvet
cover, she saw that there was room. She thrust in the bag, lowered the
lid, and returned to where the major had left her. She would have liked
to sink into the chair, only to relieve her foot; something stopped
her. She might have been guilty of some crime, her bearing was so
strange. She pressed her hand to her side, as if to calm the beating of
her heart. She endeavoured to peer into all the shadowy places in the
great hall; there were so many places in which, in that light, a spy
might be hidden. Suppose she had been seen?
Why was the major so long? She had expressly requested him to be quick;
it seemed to her to be a frightful time since he had gone. What could
be keeping him? She would have liked to call to him, but she did not
dare. Something must be keeping him which perhaps she ought to know.
She was suddenly afraid of what the major might have learnt. She would
go and see what it was. She hobbled across the hall, ignoring the pain
which each movement gave her, bent on being stayed by nothing. She
passed into the room through whose door the major had vanished. It was
brightly lit. He had switched on the lights, but he was not there. She
listened. All was so still. He might be in the room beyond.
She had walked thirty miles with much greater ease than she traversed
those less than thirty feet. More than once she had to stop. It needed
all her self-control to keep from crying out; she was conscious that
beads of perspiration were on her brow, induced either by the effort or
the pain. When she came to the door leading to the other room she had
to lean against it on one foot, the agony of putting the other to the
ground had become so great. She turned the handle and, somehow, went
through.
That room was also lighted, the electrics serving to show that it was
in a state of singular confusion. The fine old furniture was all
anyhow; chairs, tables, ornaments were overturned; scarcely anything
seemed in its place. But she had found the major. He was on his knees
about the centre of the room, leaning over something which was
recumbent on the floor, something by which he was so engrossed that,
plainly, her entrance had gone unnoticed. His unconsciousness of her
presence affected her unpleasantly.
When he continued to ignore her, her heart stood still. She stole
closer towards him, again resolute to disregard her suffering foot. She
came to a point at which she could see what he was looking at--and she
saw.
On the floor, in the centre of a sort of circle formed by ill-used
articles of furniture, a man was lying--very quietly. It was Mr. Noel
Draycott.
"Is he dead?"
Although she asked the question in a whisper, it seemed to be more
audible than if she had shouted it. Major Reith looked up at her,
showing no signs of being startled or of being taken unawares. His eyes
met hers steadily.
"I'm afraid he is."
He could hardly have spoken in more even tones, yet one knew that it
was not because he was unmoved. There was silence. Her glance was
wandering round the room. What she saw was eloquent; its condition so
plainly showed what a scene of violence it had witnessed. She pressed
her hand again to her side. She tried to speak, but the words would not
come. He saw something of what she was enduring.
"You can do nothing. You are in pain. Let me take you to your room."
She shook her head. Then words came; she spoke as if her throat had all
at once grown dry and husky.
"How did it happen?"
"He was killed with this."
He picked up from the floor what looked like a lacquered Oriental club;
there was something gleaming on the end of it.
"Could it have been that I heard?"
"Who can say?"
"Was he like that when you came in?"
"He was lying a little more over on his face; I turned him over to see
if there were any signs of life left in him."
"You are sure--that no one else--was in the room?"
For some reason there was a perceptible interval before he answered;
they looked at each other, as if each were reading something which was
in the other's eyes; then his glance dropped, and he said:
"There was no one else in the room when I came in."
Somehow she felt that his words conveyed much more than was on the
surface; neither spoke; it was as if each were occupied with thoughts
which would not be denied.
All at once the stillness was broken in a manner which was sufficiently
startling; what sounded like the report of a firearm rang through the
silent room. The major sprang to his feet. Her face was turned in the
direction from which the sound had come.
"What was that?" she asked.
"That was a revolver--someone fired a revolver."
"Where?"
"I should say in the next room; it was certainly very close."
He started to move towards the adjoining apartment. She stopped him.
"Where are you going?" He turned to her.
"I'm going to see who fired that shot."
"Let me come with you; don't leave me here--with him. If you let me
lean upon your arm, I can get along quite well."
He stood eyeing her, as if in doubt what was the right thing for him to
do. His tone was stern, perhaps unconsciously so.
"You know you ought not to be here; this is no place for you--you ought
to be in bed."
"I know, but what's the use of talking like that? You're not going to
leave me here--alone? You shall take me with you. Give me your arm; I
don't believe I can move without it, or I would; give me your arm."
He did as she asked, crossing the open space in which Mr. Noel Draycott
lay to do it. Not only did he give her his arm, he put it round her, so
that she was supported rather by his shoulder. Together they made what
haste they could.
This was a suite of rooms opening one into the other; they passed into
the next. It was in darkness.
"I fancy the switches are against the wall by the door here."
The surmise was correct, he switched the light on. When he had done so,
they were conscious of two things; one was an open window, the other
was the smell of powder.
"It was in here that the shot was fired."
"But by whom? The room is empty; who fired it? And why?"
"Whoever fired it may have gone through the open window. Sit down on
that chair; I must look into this."
He withdrew the support of his arm, but she did not sit down on the
chair, she leaned on the back of it; perhaps she feared that if she sat
she would not be able to rise unaided. He advanced towards the open
window, then gave an exclamation, stooping as he did so.
"Here, at least, is the revolver." He held up the weapon for her to
see, and examined it. "One of the chambers has been discharged, that
was the shot we heard; the others are still loaded."
He seemed to be about to say something else, but all at once, stopping,
he stood at attention. It was she who spoke.
"You heard?"
"Wasn't that someone moving?"
"It was someone in the next room--there's someone in there
now--listen!"
"Good gracious!"
There unmistakably was someone--a woman's scream rang out. There still
seemed to be another room beyond, or, at any rate, there was another
door. The major dashed towards it; this time he was through before the
girl had a chance of stopping him.
She was left alone--to listen. And, clinging to the chair, she stood on
one foot, and she listened. She never forgot those few moments. There
was the dead man behind her; some strange thing had happened where she
was; what was taking place in front? Her helplessness rendered her
position so much worse than it need have been. She tried to move, but
she had done too much of that already; the moment she put her injured
foot to the floor a shock went all over her which made her shut her
eyes, and the room swam round. She could not even get to a bell to
summon assistance if it were needed; all she could do was to stand--and
wait.
She was aware that she was in that state of mind and body in
which it was quite possible that her imagination might play her tricks.
Was it her imagination which made her fancy that such strange things
were going on about her; which made her think, as she glanced towards
it, that a face had been looking through the open window, which had
been quickly withdrawn as she turned her head? The sounds she
heard--were none of them real? The footsteps outside the window; the
mutterings--surely they were mutterings--was that not someone speaking
in whispers? She felt sure that they were footsteps, that someone was
speaking. The horror of it--but she was too incapable of movement to
make sure.
And then, in the room behind her, where he lay, with the lacquered club
beside him, amid the broken furniture--was this another trick her
imagination played her? Were those not real movements which she heard;
was it only that she fancied that voices were speaking? Again she felt
convinced that it was not imagination only; there was something going
on which it behoved her to see--in the room behind her, outside the
window--she knew not where besides. What was Major Reith doing? Had he
not found the woman who had screamed? He pretended to be her friend, to
care for her--did he not understand what she must be enduring, in that
room, helpless, alone?
If he was much longer, she would have to scream, as that woman had
screamed. Flesh and blood has its limits; she had really reached them.
She would either have to scream, or go mad--or something would happen
to her; she had never felt like that before, never.
In the nick of time, when it seemed to her that something would have to
go, that she must break down, Major Reith returned.
"I am very sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but I can't help
thinking that someone has been playing tricks with me."
"Haven't you found her--the woman who screamed?"
It sounded so strangely in her ears that she did not know her own
voice.
"I found no one. I believe my attention has been diverted with some
ulterior purpose. Have you heard nothing?"
"What haven't I heard? I believe there has been someone in the next
room."
"We will soon see about that--come. I'm going to take you into that
room on the road to bed; and I shall have to rouse the house, but first
I shall see you safe to your own chamber."
Only with the greatest difficulty, even with his support, could she
return to the adjoining apartment. The instant the door was opened they
made a discovery.
"You see," she cried, "it wasn't only imagination, someone has been
here--the lights are out."
What she said was correct; the room, which they had left lighted, was
in pitch darkness. There appeared to be switches by every door, and it
took Reith but an instant to have the room as radiant as before. Both
their glances travelled in the same direction. This time it was the
major who exclaimed:
"Good God! Draycott's gone!"