"How?" Egerton began.
"I--I was playing the fool ... pretended I was going to kiss her, you
know ... the little fool thought I meant it ... got frightened ... then
something ... I don't know what happened exactly ... she bumped her
head.... Oh, damn it, there's no time to explain ... we've got to get
her away somehow ... and I want you to help ... Margery ..."
"Get her away?" said John; "but the police ... you can't ..."
John Egerton was still far from grasping the full enormity of the
position. He had been badly shocked by the sight of the body. He was
shocked by his friend's incoherent confession of some vulgar piece of
foolery with a servant. He was amazed that a man like Stephen should
even "pretend" that he was going to kiss a servant. That kind of thing
was not done in The Chase, and Stephen was not that kind of man, he
thought. No doubt he had had a little too much wine, flung out some
stupid compliment or other; there had been a scuffle, and then some
accident, a fall or something--the girl probably had a weak heart;
fleshy people often did: it was all very horrible and regrettable, but
not criminal. Nothing to be kept from the police.
But it was damnably awkward, of course, with Mrs. Byrne in that
condition. Stephen's spluttering mention of her name had suddenly
reminded him of that. There would be policemen, fusses, inquests, and
things. She would be upset. John had a great regard for Mrs. Byrne. She
oughtn't to be upset just now. But it couldn't be helped.
Stephen Byrne was pouring out port again--a full glass. He lifted and
drank it with an impatient urgency, leaning back his black head. Some of
the wine spilled out as he drank, and flowed stickily down his chin.
Three drops fell on his crumpled shirt-front and swelled slowly into
pear-shaped stains.
His friend's failure to understand was clearly revealed to him, and
filled him with an unreasonable irritation. It was his own fault of
course. He should have told him the whole truth. But somehow he
couldn't--even now--though every moment was precious. Even now he could
not look at John and tell him simply what he had done. He took a napkin
from the sideboard drawer and rubbed it foolishly across his
shirt-front, as he spoke. He said:
"Oh, for God's sake, John ... don't you understand ... I ... I believe
I ... I've killed her ... myself ... I don't know." He looked quickly at
John and away again. John's honest mouth was opening. His grey eyes were
wide and horrified. When Stephen saw that, he hurried on, "I may be
wrong ... but anyhow Margery mustn't know anything about it ... you
_must_ see that ... it would probably kill her ... and she'll be back
any moment now. Oh, _come_ on, for God's sake." A sudden vision of his
wife walking through the front door on to that horrible thing in the
hall spurred him to the door.
John Egerton stood still by the solid table, his hands gripping the edge
of it behind him. He understood now.
"Good God!" he said quickly, as if to himself, and again, "Good God!"
Then starting up, "But, Stephen, it's ... it's ... you mean ..."
Suddenly the word "murder" had flashed into his thoughts, and that word
seemed to light up the whole ghastly business, made it immediately more
hideous. "It's _murder_," he had been going to say, but some fantastic
sense of delicacy stopped him.
Stephen halted at the door. A wild rage came over him. There was a
strange kind of fierce resolution about him then which his friend had
never seen before.
"Oh, for God's sake, don't stand dithering there, John," he flung back.
"Are you going to help me or not? If not, clear out ... if you are, come
on ... quick, before Margery comes." He went into the hall.
John Egerton said no more, but followed. That illuminating unspoken word
"murder," which had shown him the whole awfulness of this affair had
shown him also the urgency of the present moment, the necessity of
helping Stephen to "get her away." For Margery Byrne's sake. Just how he
felt towards Stephen at that moment, what he would have done if Stephen
had been a bachelor, he had had not time to consider. And it did not
matter. For Mrs. Byrne's--for Margery's--sake, something must be done,
as Stephen said. And he, John Egerton, must help.
"What are you going to do?" he said.
Stephen was crouched on his haunches, busily tidying Emily's
night-dress, pulling it about.
"The river," he said shortly. "It's high tide--Thank God!" he added.
John Egerton looked shrinkingly at the torn and ineffective night-dress,
at the wide spaces of pink flesh showing through the rents. He could not
imagine himself picking up that body. He said, "What?--like--like
_that_?"
Stephen looked up. "Yes," he said; "why not?" But he knew very well why
not. Because of a certain insane sense of decency which governs even a
murderer in the presence of death. Emily Gaunt must not be "got away"
like that! Besides, it would be dangerous. He thought for a moment.
Then, "No," he said. "Wait a minute," and clattered down the basement
stairs.
When he came back he was trailing behind him a long and capacious sack,
which had hung on a nail in the scullery for the receipt of waste paper
and bottles and odds and ends of domestic refuse. The sack, fortunately,
had been only half full. All its contents he had tumbled recklessly on
the scullery floor. But as he came up the stairs he was curiously
disturbed by the thought of that refuse. What was to be done with it?
What would Margery say? The scullery had been recently cleaned out, he
knew. And the sack? How could he explain its disappearance? These damned
details.
"Here you are," he said. "This will do," and he laid the sack on the
floor.
He began to put Emily into the sack. He drew the mouth of the sack over
her feet. They were already cold. John Egerton stood stiffly under the
light, in a kind of paralysis of disgust. He felt "I must help!... I
must help!" but somehow he could not move a finger.
The sack was over the knees now. It was strangely difficult. The toes
kept catching.
But Stephen was fantastically preoccupied with the refuse on the
scullery floor, with coming explanations about the sack. "There'll be an
awful row," he said ... "the hell of a mess down there ... what shall I
say about the sack?" Then, suddenly, "What shall I say, John?... Think
of something, for God's sake!"
John Egerton jumped. The wild incongruity of Stephen's question scarcely
occurred to him. He tried solemnly to think of something to say about
the sack. He would be helpful here, surely. But no thought came. His
mind was a confused muddle of night-dresses and inquests and naked legs
and Margery Byrne--Margery Byrne arriving quietly on the
doorstep--Margery Byrne scandalized, agonized, hideously, fatally ill.
"I don't know, Stephen," he said feebly--"I don't know ... say
you ... oh, anything."
He was fascinated now by the progress of the sack, which had nearly
covered the legs. He saw clearly that a moment was coming when he would
_have_ to help, when one of them would have to lift Emily and one of
them manipulate the sack. Already Stephen was cursing and in
difficulties. The night-dress kept rucking up and had to be pulled
back, and when that was done the sack lost ground again.
"Oh, hell!" he said, with a note of final exasperation, "lend a hand,
John--lift her a bit," and then as John still hesitated, sick with
reluctance, "Oh, _lift_ her, can't you?"
John stooped down. The moment had come. He put his hands under the small
of Emily's back, shuddering as he touched her. With an effort he lifted
her an inch or two. With a great heave Stephen advanced the sack six
inches. Then it caught again in those maddening toes. With a guttural
exclamation of rage he turned back towards the feet and tugged furiously
at the sack. When it was free John Egerton had relaxed his hold. Emily
was lying heavy on the slack of the sack. He was gazing with a kind of
helpless horror at the purple inflammation of Emily's throat, realizing
for the first time just how brutal and violent her end had been.