The Story of what Happened after
the Easter Ball
So far the only sounds heard in the billiard-room had been the
questions and the answers. The listeners had been so still;
particularly had this seemed to be the case with Violet Forster. She
gripped with her gloved hand the back of the chair as if from the very
intensity of the grip she derived moral support. She stood very
straight, with her lips tightly pressed together, and with a strained
look on her white face, as if with her every faculty she was bent on
following the words, without missing a syllable or an accent, and, if
possible, reading any hidden meaning which might lie behind them. Her
immobility was so continuous as to be almost unnatural.
But when Mr. Draycott made that reference to what had happened on the
occasion of the Easter ball at Avonham her whole being seemed to
undergo a sudden transformation. Her hands fell to her side; a faint
flush came into her cheeks; her lips parted; she moved a little forward
with an air of odd expectancy, as if she longed, and feared, to hear
what was coming.
Before Draycott was allowed to continue there was an interposition from
Anthony Dodwell, addressed directly to him.
"Let me warn you, Draycott, that for every lie you're going to
utter--and I can see from the look of you that you're going to tell
nothing else but lies--I'll call you to an account; and don't flatter
yourself that, however your friends may try to cover you, you'll escape
me."
As he answered, Draycott looked Anthony Dodwell very straight in the
face.
"I shall never be afraid of you again--never! Don't you suppose it!"
"Don't you be so sure. You were afraid of me once; and, when you and I
are again alone together, you'll be just as much afraid of me as you
ever were. Gentlemen of your habits of body are only courageous when
they know themselves to be in a position in which they are sure of
being protected by their friends."
"I don't think I ever was afraid of you, Dodwell; but you were a
mystery to me, I didn't understand you, and I was a fool. But now I do
understand you; if you were holding a revolver to my throat I shouldn't
be afraid of the kind of man you are. I know you."
Draycott turned to the girl.
"You remember, Miss Forster, that on the night of the Easter ball you
said something to me about that poker business?"
"I remember quite well."
"I'd been ashamed of myself a long time before that; but what you said
to me made my shame greater than I could bear. All along I had had a
feeling that if Beaton had gone under because of what had happened, of
what I had said, then I was directly responsible for his undoing;
although he had never done me a bad turn--I had done that to him. I
understood that nothing had been heard of him, that he had disappeared.
He might have committed suicide; I was haunted by a feeling that he
had. If so, his blood was on my head."
"From whom have you been learning all this fine language, Draycott?"
The question came from Dodwell; it went unanswered.
"I told myself, over and over again, that I would make a clean breast
of it, that I would let everybody know that Beaton was a man of honour,
and that I was not. But I had not found it easy, when it came to the
point; in the first place, there was Dodwell; and then there was my--I
suppose it was cowardice."
"In anything in which you were concerned one can always count on your
playing the coward."
"But that night, after what you had said to me, I made up my mind that
I could stand it no longer. I looked up Dodwell and I told him so. He
laughed, as he always did; then when he saw I was in earnest----"
"I saw you were drunk."
"When he saw I was in earnest, he said that if I would turn up after
the dance he would talk things over with me then."
"I warn you once more--look after that tongue of yours."
"I should advise you, Dodwell," struck in Clifford, "to begin by
looking after your own. You keep on talking about Draycott's cowardice,
while all the time you seem to be in mortal terror of what he is going
to say."
Noel Draycott continued as if he had not been interrupted.
"When the others went upstairs I stayed behind."
"But where were you?"
The question, eagerly asked, came from Violet Forster.
"At first I was in the conservatory."
"But weren't the lights out?"
"They had been; I turned some of them on again. Dodwell came to me. We
started quarrelling right away."
"You were quarrelling drunk." This was Dodwell.
"I told him that I meant to tell you, Miss Forster, the whole truth
about that poker business in the morning; I knew you were interested in
Beaton, and that you had a right to be the first to hear. Afterwards, I
informed him, I should make it known in the regiment. When he saw that
I meant what I said, he threatened me."
"You miserable animal--threatened you!"
"When, in spite of his threats, I made it clear that nothing would keep
me from doing what I said, he got worse. He would not let me leave him.
I didn't want to have a row with him; I knew there would be more than
enough scandal anyhow; I was in a house in which I was a stranger. As
you know, the whole lot of us were asked to the dance, and I had no
acquaintance with either my host or hostess; but it was only after a
sort of rough and tumble that I managed to slip away."
He paused, as if to enable himself to recall quite clearly what had
occurred. Dodwell, seizing a billiard cue which rested against a chair,
glared at him as if he would have liked to continue the quarrel where
it had left off.
"He followed me; I don't know the geography of the house, but I know
that we came to what seemed to be a sort of drawing-room in which there
was a lot of gilded chairs and furniture."
"I know," said Miss Forster. She glanced at Major Reith. "You
remember?"
"Perfectly--am I ever likely to forget?"
Draycott went on.
"In the scrimmage we had we knocked the things all over the place. We
made such an awful din that I kept on wondering how it was that nobody
heard us."
"Someone did hear you--I did. And Major Reith heard you also."
This again was Miss Forster.
"He wouldn't let me leave the room until I'd promised that I wouldn't
say a word about what I said I would, and I wouldn't promise. I was no
match for him; he's a bigger and a stronger man than I am; he hammered
me a good deal, and I told him what I thought of him. There was a sort
of a club lying on a table; he sent me flying against the table, the
table went over, and I with it; the club fell on to the floor. I told
him again what I thought of him as I was going over. I suppose that
made him madder than ever. He picked up the club, and he struck at me
with it. I put up my left arm to ward off the blow, and he broke
it--just there."
Mr. Draycott held up his left arm, touching it between the wrist and
the elbow.
"I heard the bone snap. I was trying to get up from the floor when he
hit me a second time; that time I think it must have got me on the
head--down I went again, for good. Yet I was conscious that he kept on
hitting me as I lay motionless. What is still queerer--I can't explain
it, but I had an extraordinary feeling that Sydney Beaton had come into
the room, that he saw Dodwell raining blows down on me, that he said
something, that Dodwell gave a yell at the sight of him, and ran away.
That's all I can remember of what took place at Avonham."
"It seems to be a pretty good deal." This was Clifford. He turned to
Dodwell. "What do you think?"
"It's a farrago of lies."
"Somehow, Dodwell, you don't look as if it were a farrago of lies. I
don't want to prejudice the minds of the judge and jury before whom you
will possibly be brought, but if I were betting I should be inclined to
lay odds--against you. Do you deny that you did meet Draycott in the
conservatory after the rest of us had gone to bed?"
"What right have you to ask me questions?"
"I see; that's the tone you take! What right has anyone to ask you
questions? As I expected--you deny that you quarrelled with Draycott?"
"What have my private affairs to do with you?"
"Your private affairs? It has come to that! You call attempted murder
your private affair? Do you deny that you did strike Draycott as he
says?"
"I deny everything."
"I see--a general denial. You know, Dodwell, you should have started
denying at the first. When you tacitly admit that you did meet
Draycott, and that you did quarrel with him, you have already reached
the point at which a general denial only tells against you. What I
don't understand, Draycott, is, where have you been since that night? I
don't know if you are aware that the British public has been taking a
most lively interest in your private affairs, and that all sorts of
more or less interested persons have been searching for you high and
low. It's a good time ago, you know, since the Easter ball. The puzzle
is, in what unfindable place have you been hidden all this while?"
"I've been with Beaton."
"You've been--where? Pardon me, Miss Forster, you were going to speak."
"I--I was only going to ask him what he meant by--by saying that he has
been with Mr. Beaton."
"It is not altogether easy to explain; you will get a fuller
explanation from someone else; I can only tell you what I know. The
last thing I remembered at Avonham was, as I have told you, that
Dodwell was beating me about the head with a club as I lay on the
floor."
"You delightful person, Mr. Dodwell." The interruption came from Frank
Clifford. "Mixed up with it was the feeling that Beaton was in the
room. Then, I suppose, I lost consciousness. When I came to myself
again I couldn't make out what had happened, or where I was. Then by
degrees I began to understand that I was in bed, in a strange room, and
that Beaton was leaning over me. 'Why, Syd!' I said--it wasn't a very
brilliant remark to make, but I remember that I did make it. What he
said I don't know, I fancy I must have slipped back into
unconsciousness again. To make a long story short, when I did come
really to myself again, I found that I was in Beaton's rooms."
"But how on earth did you get there?" demanded Major Reith. "When I
last saw you I could have sworn that you were lying dead on the floor
of that room at Avonham. Directly my back was turned, did you get up
and walk to Beaton's rooms?"
"That's a part of the story with which I'm not very well posted. It
wasn't only imagination when, while Dodwell was clubbing me, I felt
that Beaton had come into the room; he had, and Dodwell had seen
him--and he saw what Dodwell was doing to me. He will be able to bear
witness to that part of my story, as Dodwell is probably aware."
Suddenly, it seemed, that Mr. Dodwell had decided to take up a new
position as regarded the last part of Noel Draycott's story.
"I don't deny that I did strike him, I never have denied it, but what I
did was only done in self-defence."
"While a man was lying on the floor you struck him, with a club, in
self-defence?"
"He had been threatening me, and telling all sorts of lies, and I was
half beside myself with rage, and I meant to give him the thrashing he
deserved, and if I went a little too far it was because I had been
drinking, as he had, and was mad with fury, and didn't know what I was
doing--and there you are."
"And all this time the world has been wondering what became of
Draycott, and you never so much as hinted that you knew."
"I didn't know; I was just as much in the dark as anyone--I wondered."
"You thought you had killed him?"
Dodwell was silent; Clifford went on. "You thought you had killed him,
and that was why you never said a word."
"I knew I hadn't killed him."
"How did you know?"
"If I had he'd have been where I left him; he wouldn't have got up and
walked away."
"It didn't occur to you that what you had done to him that night had
anything to do with his disappearance?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You didn't think it advisable, or necessary, to come forward and throw
some sort of light on what seemed an insoluble mystery by telling your
story of what took place that night?"
"I wished to avoid a scandal."
"What a thoughtful man you are, Mr. Dodwell! It did not occur to you, I
suppose, that if you did tell your story you'd be in the hands of the
police immediately after--that had nothing to do with your silence?"
Anthony Dodwell was silent. Clifford, who seemed to be taking on
himself the office of examiner-in-chief, put a question to Draycott:
"How came Beaton to be at Avonham that night? Was he an invited guest?"
"That I cannot tell you; I only know it was lucky for me that he was
there."
"You say he saw Dodwell clubbing you, and that when Dodwell saw
him he ran away. Why didn't Beaton, knowing that crime had been
committed--because you must have been in a pretty bad state, or Reith
wouldn't have thought you dead----?"
"I believe I was; I believe that for ever so long nobody thought I
should live; indeed, it's only by a miracle that I'm alive now, and
owing to Beaton's care of me."
"Then, as I was saying, knowing that a crime had been committed, why
ever didn't Beaton rouse the house?"
"That again I cannot tell you. I fancy that, as Dodwell put it, he also
wished to avoid causing a scandal."
"From, however, I presume, a different motive; he couldn't have been
afraid of the police. Then are we to understand that you have remained
in Beaton's quarters all this time?"
"Exactly; he did everything for me; I owe everything to him--life,
all."
"And what does he owe to you?"
"That's just it; what doesn't he owe to me? It's the consciousness of
what he owes that's driven me here to-night; which made me feel that I
must take the first chance that offered to clear him in the eyes of all
you fellows--and that I must do it, too, in the presence of Miss
Forster. That's why I arranged that she should be here; and now you
fellows will see why I wanted her to stay. Only recently I recovered
consciousness--what you could call consciousness--and since then I've
been hanging between life and death; I know I couldn't lift a finger. I
fancy that Dodwell must have hit me on some peculiar spot, because I
believe the doctor fellows never thought I should regain my reason; I
must have been a handful to Syd Beaton. I had done him the worst turn
possible, and he knew what I'd done, but he treated me as if I'd been
the best and truest friend that ever was. I'm convinced that if it
hadn't been for him I shouldn't be here talking to you now. A better, a
finer, a nobler fellow than he never lived--and that's what I want you
fellows to know. You may do what you like to me; I deserve any
punishment; but you ought to beg Sydney Beaton's pardon--and you've got
to do it, too."
"Have we? You rush your fences. And, pray, where is Mr. Beaton, if, as
you say, we have to beg his pardon?"
"I believe that, by now, he ought to be outside."