In moments of crisis the human mind can become extraordinarily
efficient. Before the bell was silent in the basement, the mind of
Stephen Byrne, kneeling in a sweat by the dead body of a housemaid, had
covered a vast field of circumstance and performed two or three distinct
logical processes. His first instinct was to put out the light. With
that person peering on the doorstep the light in the hall had better be
out. He felt exposed, naked, illuminated. On the other hand, one could
see practically nothing through the frosted glass from outside, only the
shadow of any one actually moving in the hall. That he knew from
experience. Probably the person--whoever it was--could see nothing that
was on the floor, nothing that was below the level of his or her
interfering eye. If Stephen stayed still as he was, the person might
never know he was there, might even go away in disgust. To put the light
out would be a gratuitous advertisement that somebody was in the house.
Besides, it would look so rude.
Stephen did not turn out the light. He knelt there on two knees and a
hand, staring like a snake at the front door. With his right hand he
was stealthily scratching his left armpit. It was itching intolerably.
And his dress-collar was sticking into his neck. He was intensely
conscious of these things.
But all the time the precipitate arguments were jostling in his brain.
What sort of person would peer through the glass? Surely a very familiar
thing to do. He could think of a few people who would do it--the
Whittakers--but they were away; his wife--but it was too early, and she
had a latch-key; John Egerton--but Stephen thought he was out. Or a
policeman, of course.
A policeman who had heard the screaming, or been told of the screaming,
might do it, or even a neighbouring busybody, if he had heard. But they
would have clattered up to the door, run up or stopped importantly on
the doorstep--probably hammered with the knocker. The person had not
done that. He had only rung that damnable bell.
The person's head disappeared. He gave a loud knock with the big brass
knocker which Stephen had bought in Jerusalem. Just one knock. Then the
whole world was silent. Stephen's heart thumped like a steam-engine
going at slow speed. He thought, "It's true what they say in the
books.... I can hear it."
The person shuffled its feet on the step.
"My God!" said Stephen again. "My God!"
In the hall there was an enormous silence. A tug hooted dismally on the
river. Stephen started scratching again. He was thinking of his wife
now, of Margery. He loved Margery--he loved her very truly and well. And
she was just going to have a baby. What would she--How would she--O God!
But she must not know. He would do something in a minute when the damned
fool had gone away. Why the hell didn't he go away, and leave a man
alone? It must be some kind of visitor--not a policeman, or a panicky
neighbour. They would have been more impatient. Why the hell didn't he
go? It was Whittaker, perhaps. Or that South American chap.
The person did not go away. For the person had only been on the doorstep
for thirty seconds in all, and the person was in no hurry.
Soon he would go away--he must go =away=, Stephen thought. The _hours_ he
had been out there. It must be a long time, because Stephen's knees were
so sore. And he did want to get on with doing something--he was not
clear what--but something. "God will provide," he thought.
And as he uttered that hideous blasphemy the person began to whistle. He
whistled gently an air from _I Pagliacci_, and to Stephen Byrne, it was
merciful music. For it was a favourite tune of John Egerton's, bowled
often by both of them at casual gatherings of the Hammerton Choir in
Mrs. Bryne's drawing-room. It must be John, after all, this person on
the doorstep; good old John--thank God! If it was John, he would let him
in; he would tell him the whole story. John must help him.
It was suddenly revealed to Stephen that he could not bear this burden
alone. It was too much. John was the man.
But one must be careful. One must make sure. A cunning look came into
his eyes. With elaborate stealth he crawled backwards from Emily's body
and so into Emily's bedroom, which looked over the street. Under the
blind he reconnoitred the front doorstep. The back of the person was
turned towards him, but it was clear to him that the person was John
Egerton, though he could only see part of the back and nothing of the
head. No two persons in Hammerton Chase, or probably in the world, wore
a shabby green coat like that. It was certainly John, come round for
some singing, no doubt. He walked back boldly into the hall. He was
cooler now, and his heart was working more deliberately. But he was
horribly afraid. He put out the lights.
Then he opened the front door, very grudgingly, and looked round the
corner.
"Hullo!" said Egerton.
"Hullo!" said Stephen. "Come in," and then, with a sudden
urgency--"_quick!_"
John Egerton came slowly in and stood still in the dark.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
Stephen said, "I'm in a hole," and turned on the light.
It was very badly managed. No doubt he should have hidden Emily away
before he opened the door; should have led up gradually to the ultimate
revelation; should have carefully prepared a man like Egerton for a
sight like the body of Emily Gaunt. For it was a coarse and terrible
sight. She lay on her back by the hat-stand, with her dark hair tumbled
on the floor, her face mottled and blue, her eyes gaping disgustingly,
her throat marked and inflamed with the fingers of her employer. The
coat of Cook was crumpled beneath her, and she had torn great rents in
her night-dress in her desperate resistance, so that she lay half-naked
in the cruel glare of the electric light. Her two plump legs were
crossed fantastically like the legs of a crusader, but so that the feet
were wide apart. Her pink flesh glistened and smelt powerfully of soap.
It was not the kind of thing to spring upon any man, least of all
should it have been sprung upon Egerton. For he was a highly sensitive
man and easily shocked. He had not been, like Stephen, to the war--being
a Civil Servant and imperfect in the chest--and in an age when the
majority of living young men have looked largely on, and become callous
about, death, John Egerton had never seen a dead body.
And he was a person of extraordinary modesty, in the sense in which most
women but few men possess modesty. He had a real chastity of thought
which few men ever achieve. John Egerton was no prig. Only he had this
natural purity of outlook which made him actually blush when indelicate
things were said on the stage or hinted at in private society.
And now he was suddenly confronted in the house of his best friend with
the dead and disgusting body of a half-naked female. He was
inexpressibly shocked.
When the light went on and he looked down at the floor, his mouth opened
suddenly, but he said no word; he only stared incredulously at the
sprawling flesh.
Then he began to blush. A faint flush travelled slowly over his rather
sallow face. He looked up then at Stephen, watching anxiously in the
corner.
"What the devil--" he said.
From the tone in which he spoke, Stephen realized suddenly the error he
had made. Pulling down a coat from a peg, he flung it over the body.
Only a few times had he heard John Egerton speak like that and look like
that, but he knew quite clearly what it meant. John should have been
kept out of this. Or he should have had it broken to him. Of course. But
there was no time--no time--that was the trouble. Stephen looked at his
watch. It was twenty to ten. At any moment his wife might be back.
Something must be done.
He opened the dining-room door. "Come in here," he said, and they went
in.
John Egerton stood by the sideboard looking very grim and perplexed. He
could not be called handsome, not at least beside Stephen Byrne. There
was less intellect but more character in his face, a kind of moral
refinement in the adequate jaw and steady grey eyes, set well apart
under indifferent eyebrows. His face was pale from too much office-work,
and he had the habit of a forward stoop, from peering nervously at new
people. These things gave him, somehow, a false air of primness, and a
little detracted from the kindliness, the humanity, which was the secret
of his character and his charm. For ultimately men were charmed by John,
though a deep-seated shyness concealed him from them at a first
meeting. His voice was soft and unassuming, his mouth humorous but
firm. He had slightly discoloured teeth, not often visible. Stephen's
teeth were admirable and flashed attractively when he smiled.
"What's it all mean?" John said. "Is she--"