THE DREAM
Despite all the precautions that Bill had taken, Betty Carew had
been interviewed twice by the police that afternoon--interviews which,
however, were completely unsatisfactory as she had not seen Brother
John before, and (in response to an urgent note that had come to her
from Bill when he discovered that he could not prevent a police visit)
she had said nothing about Laffin or the message.
In the evening Clive Lowbridge called for her with his big car, and
drove her into the country.
Clive was remarkably taciturn during the trip, and she was not sorry,
though she found herself ruminating upon his silence and seeking a
cause, for he had come to her that evening in his most cheerful mood.
“Yes… it is this infernal murder,” he said, when on the way home she
suggested a cause. “I hate your being even remotely mixed up in it.
What time did this happen?”
“About noon.”
“Thank heaven!--don’t look so shocked. I’m not thanking heaven for
this poor creature’s death, but for--well, I was with the doctor from
eleven till one o’clock.”
“But what has the doctor to do with it?” she demanded, aghast.
“Nothing; only he’s such a queer fellow, and the fact that Father
John--Brother John, was it?--mentioned him, set my mind working all
ways. I don’t understand Laffin, never did. Perhaps he’s mad. You
haven’t seen him to-day?”
“No, Clive.”
“I’ve had a long talk with him. He said nothing when I roasted him
about locking you up. You know his masterly silences? When he did
condescend to talk, it was to suggest that I should go to America and
look for a rich bride! He has the queerest ideas about American
people; thinks that heiresses line the quay waiting for eligible
lords! I tried to get it into his head that the modern American
father, unless he’s a hopelessly vulgar brute, thinks first of his
daughter’s happiness, and then looks round for a decent American boy.
Laffin has never lost the tutorial pose--his superiority is most
offensive.”
“Are you very poor, Clive?” she asked sympathetically.
“Miserably,” said he. “I keep a valet to tell creditors that I’m not
at home!” He laughed softly. “And I thought all my troubles were over
when I succeeded to this wretched title!”
He sent the car whizzing between two heavy lorries, and made it, with
a few inches to spare--Betty jumped in alarm.
They returned to town as the last light of day was lingering palely in
the sky, and stopped before the little house where she had her
lodging. The place was in darkness, and, after a brief tour of the
house, she returned to the sidewalk.
“I can’t ask you to come in,” she said; “my landlady is not at home.
Good-night, and thank you, Clive.”
She had a splitting headache, and was glad to carry the glass of milk
she found waiting for her in the hall to her room; doubly glad to
swallow the aspirin they had bought at a chemist on the outskirts of
London, gladdest of all to snuggle her head into the pillow and feel
herself sinking, sinking, into that delicious languor, which precedes
the oblivion of sleep.
She had dreams, fitful, aching dreams that changed with every throb of
head. Dreams of Clive and Dr. Laffin, and the still figure stretched
on the sidewalk. Fantastic dreams of an untidy reporter stroking her
face tenderly. She struggled to move her head… wondered if his fingers
were still ink-stained… felt hot lips pressing hers, and fought
somebody back. And over and through all her unhappy imaginings was a
low drone of sound and a queer vibration of movement.
Now she was back on Dartmoor and a cowled face was looking down into
hers. She saw it loom from the darkness, black against black, and the
glint of eyes.
She moaned in her sleep and tried to turn, but the bed had grown
unaccountably narrow and hard and sagged in the middle so that she was
imprisoned within its sides.
It was the queerest dream, for once she heard a long discussion about
what was and what was not the right road, and she saw the flash of a
lantern and heard a man cursing softly.
“The reporter and a man… came half an hour after…”
Somebody had telephoned--she could not catch the name.
After that she felt a cold hand touch hers, and the sharp prick of a
needle above her wrist. She struggled desperately to rouse herself
from her sleep, but the scream died in her throat, and then she slept
dreamlessly.
Her room was still pitch dark when she came to consciousness, but the
bed was bigger--wider than her own. Putting out her hand toward the
table where the candle was, she found nothing.
“I’m still dreaming,” she murmured, and lay for a long time debating
whether she should make an effort to wake or continue her sleep.
By the time she had decided, she was sitting in a high-backed chair,
looking stupidly from left to right.
She was in a chapel, high-roofed, dimly lit. Facing her was a white
altar. Two large candles glowed in golden sconces, and that, it
seemed, was all the light there was.
Flanking the altar were two lines of stalls, massively carved, and
above each stall was a banner, heavily embroidered with gold. She
caught the dull glitter of the bullion in the faint golden light of
the candle, and saw that the stalls were occupied. In each there sat a
black cowled figure, motionless but not silent.
She looked down; she was dressed in white--her feet were bare, and
across her knees was a crimson stole.
The cowled figures were chanting something, a drone of sound that
seemed to be tuneless, until she remembered. Years before she had
attended a recital of old English music, and had heard a quaint dirge
that the lecturer had told her was the Song of Triumph, composed in
honour of Henry’s victory at Agincourt. It was that they were singing…
the words were indistinguishable.
“O revealed!”
Midway between her and the altar was a man in a long violet gown, his
head and face covered, as were the others, by a hood. But she knew the
voice, could have sworn to it--the voice of the old man who had come
to her at the store. The Man of the Message!
“Into your hands I deliver The Law, divine Messenger of the Absolute!
Write, that the law shall be complete and the gap of the circle
filled!”
She heard a murmur by her side, and turned her throbbing head. Left
and right of her stood two black-gowned men.
Something heavy was laid on her knees. It was a thick brown book, and
instinctively she grasped it. Why, she did not know. Perhaps it was
slipping from her.
“Hold it… hold it to your breast!” hissed a voice in her ear, and
mechanically she obeyed.
The cowled men were filing out. She heard the swish and shuffle of
sandals on the stone floor and the deep-throated discordances of the
ancient hymn… And now she was alone--alone save for the two cowled
figures.
“Rise!” The order came sharply.
They took her by the arm, and slowly paced by her side. Through a
narrow doorway, along a cold passage. Rattle and clang of bars and
bolts, and another door opened.
They were in the open… the fresh night winds played against her cheek.
“I want to wake up!” she cried wildly, and remembered no more.
When she opened her eyes the first thing she saw was the drawn face of
Bill Holbrook. He was standing at the foot of her bed, and she noticed
that his waistcoat was buttoned in the wrong holes, giving him a
grotesquely lopsided appearance.
“Oh, you’re in it, too, are you?” she asked faintly. “But you mustn’t
kiss me. I don’t like people kissing me, Mr. Holbrook!”
A second man was bending over her, a grey-haired man who wore large
horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Headache?” he asked.
“A little--not much. Where am I now?”
“You’re in hospital now,” he said. “Do you feel strong enough to tell
us how you got to Clapham Common in the middle of last night?”
She opened her eyes wide. She was awake--her mind was very clear.
“What day is it?”
“Thursday,” was the reply.
It was on Tuesday night that she had gone to bed!