"We find," said the inquest, "that the deceased met his death as the result of―" The formal words had a habit of singing through Rampole's mind with thoughtless and irritating refrain. What they meant was that Herbert Starberth had killed his cousin Martin by throwing him from the balcony of the Governor's Room. Since the autopsy revealed blood in the nostrils and mouth, and a contusion at the base of the brain not explicable by the position in which he had fallen, it was pointed out by Dr. Markley that the deceased had in all likelihood been rendered insensible by a heavy blow before the actual murder took place. Martin's neck and right hip had been broken, and there were other pleasant details which had hung with cold ugliness in the stolid air of the inquest room.
It was over now. In the London press Chatterham's wonder had not even lasted nine days; it blossomed into pictures, speculations, and hectic news stories, and then sank back among the advertisements. There remained only a man-hunt, baying after Herbert, and Herbert had not been found. That enigmatic figure on the green bicycle slid through England as through a mist. He was seen, of course, in a dozen places, but it never turned out to be Herbert Starberth. Assuming that he had ridden in the direction of Lincoln to take a train, it had been so far found impossible to trace his movements, nor was there any trace of the green motor-bike. Scotland Yard moved so quietly that it was as invisible as the fugitive, but there was no word of capture from the grim building above Westminster Pier.
A week after the inquest, and Chatterham slept again. All day the rain fell, sheeting these lowlands, droning on the eaves, and sputtering in chimneys where fires had been lighted against the damp. The ancient rain of England, which brought out old odours like ghosts, so that blackletter books, and engravings on the wall, seemed more alive than real people. Rampole sat before a coal fire in the grate of Dr. Fell's study. But for its creakings, Yew Cottage was quiet. Dr. and Mrs. Fell had gone to Chatterham for the afternoon; their guest, alone in an easy chair by firelight, wanted no lamps. He could see the rain thickening beyond grey windows, and he could see things in the fire.
The arch of the grate, black-shining; the flames, and Dorothy Starberth's face at the inquest-never turned towards him. There were too many rumours. Chairs rasping on the sanded floor; the voices that struck across the inquest-room sharply, like voices inside a stone jug. She had gone home, afterwards, in an old car driven by Payne, with its side curtains down. He had watched the dust that followed its jolting passage, and he had seen faces peering out slyly from the windows of houses along the way. Gossip had been a sly postman tapping at every door. The damned fools, he thought, and suddenly felt very miserable.
But the rustle of the shower deepened, a few drops hissing in the fire. He stared at the paper across his knee — those inane verses he had copied from the paper she had shown him. He had mentioned them to Dr. Fell, but the old lexicographer had not seen them yet. Decently, in view of the turmoil and later the funeral, they had been able to drop the puzzle for the time being. Yet now Martin Starberth was tucked away, out there under the rain… Rampole shivered. Platitudes went through his brain; he knew them now to be terrifyingly true. And other words.
"Though worms destroy this body…the strong, calm words uttered under an empty sky. Again in his memory the earth fell upon the coffin, thrown as with the motion of a sower of grain. He saw the sodden willows tossing against a grey horizon, and the sing-song intonation of the service was as weirdly moving as when once-long ago, as a child — he had heard at twilight distant voices singing "Auld Lang Syne."
What was that? He had been almost hearing again things lost far back in childhood, when he knew that there had been a real noise. Somebody was knocking at the outer door of Yew Cottage.
He got up, kindled the lamp on the table beside him, and carried it to light his way out into the hall. Raindrops blew into his face as he opened the door, and he held the lamp high.
"I came to see Mrs. Fell," said the girl's voice. "I wondered if she would offer me tea."
She looked up seriously from under her sodden hat-brim. The lamplight brought her close out of the rain. She spoke with an innocent, apologetic glance past him into the hall.
"They're out," he said. "But please don't let that stop you from coming in. I–I don't know whether I can manage making tea the right way…
"I can," she told him.
All the stiffness vanished. She smiled. So presently the wet hat and coat were hanging in the hall, and she was hurrying about the kitchen in a highly practical manner while he tried to give a decent appearance of being busy. There is never, he reflected, such a guilty feeling as standing in the middle of a kitchen during the preparation of food; it is like watching somebody change a tire. Whenever you try to move about, as though you were actually doing something, you run into the other person with a bump; and then you feel as though you had shoved the tire-changer over on his face for sheer devilment. They did not talk much, but Dorothy addressed the tea-things vigorously.
She laid the cloth on a small table before the fire in the doctor's study. The curtains were drawn, the blaze piled again with coal. Intent, her brows puckered, she was buttering toast; he could see the shadows under her eyes in the yellow lamplight. Hot muffins, marmalade, and strong tea; the rasp of the knife on toast, steadily, and the warm sweet odour of cinnamon spread on it….
She looked up suddenly.
"I say, aren't you going to drink your tea?"
"No," he said flatly. "Tell me what's been happening.
The knife tinkled on the plate as she put it down, very quietly. She answered, looking away: "There isn't anything. Only, I had to get out of that house."
"You eat something. I'm not hungry."
"Oh, don't you see I'm not either?" she demanded. "It's so nice here; the rain, and the fire―" She flexed her muscles, like a cat, and stared at the edge of the mantelpiece. The teacups smoked between them. She was sitting on an old sagging sofa, whose cloth was of a dull red. Thrown down on the hearth, face upwards, lay the paper on which he had copied the verses. She nodded towards it.
"Have you told Dr. Fell about that?"
"I've mentioned it. But I haven't told him your idea that there is something hidden… "
He realized that he had no idea what he was talking about. On an impulse that was as sudden as a blow in the chest, he rose to his feet. His legs felt light and shaky, and he could hear the teakettle singing loudly. He was conscious of her eyes, bright and steady in the firelight, as he went round to the sofa. For a moment she stared at the fire, and then turned towards him.
He found himself looking at the fire, its heat fierce on his eyes, listening vaguely to the singing kettle and the dim tumult of the rain. For a long time, when he had ceased to kiss her, she remained motionless against his shoulder, her eyes closed and waxen-lidded. Fear that he would be repulsed had lifted, and slowed the enormous pounding of his heart into a peace that was like a blanket drawn about them. He felt madly jubilant and, at the same time, stupid. Turning, he was startled to see her looking at the ceiling with a blank, wide-open stare.
His voice sounded loud in his own ears. "I―" he said, "I shouldn't have―"
The blank eyes moved over to his. They seemed to be looking up from some great depth. Slowly her arm moved up round his neck, and drew his face down again. A close, heart-pounding interval while the kettle ceased to sing and somebody seemed to be murmuring incoherently into his ear, through a warm mist. Then suddenly she broke away from him and got to her feet with a spasmodic motion. Walking back and forth in the lamplight, her cheeks flushed, she stopped before him.
"I know it," she said, breathlessly, in a hard voice. "I'm a callous little beast. I'm a rotter, that's all. To be doing that — with Martin…"
He got up sharply and took her by the shoulders.
"Don't think about that! Try to stop thinking about it," he said. "It's over and done with, don't you see? Dorothy, I love you."
"And do you think I don't love you?" she demanded. "I never will, I never could, love anybody as much as I do you. It scares me. It's the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning, and I even dream about it at night. That's how bad it is. But it's horrible of me to be thinking about that now…."
Her voice shook. He found that he had tightened his grip on her shoulders, as though he were trying to hold her from a jump.
"We're both a little crazy," she went on. "I won't tell you I care for you. I won't admit it. We're both upset by this ghastly business…."
"But it won't be for long, will it? My God! can't you stop brooding? You know what all these fears amount to. Nothing. You heard Dr. Fell say so."
"I can't explain it. I know what I'll do — go away. I'll go away now — tonight-tomorrow — and I'll forget you―"
"Could you forget? Because, if you could―"
He saw that her eyes were full of tears, and cursed himself. He tried to make his voice calm. "There isn't any need to forget. There's only one thing we've got to do. We've got to explain all this tommyrot, murders and curses and foolishness and everything, and then you'll be free. We'll both go away then, and―"
"Would you want me?"
"You little fool!"
"— Well," she said, plaintively, after a pause, "I only asked… Oh, damn it, when I think of myself reading books a month ago, and wondering whether I might be in love with Wilfrid Denim and not know it, and wondering how they could make such a fuss about it; and then I think of myself now — I've played the silly fool, I'd have done anything-!" She shook her head fiercely and then smiled. The impish look came back; she spoke banteringly, yet it was as though she were pricking a knife-point against her flesh, half fearful that she might draw blood. "I hope you mean it, old boy. I rather think I should die if you didn't."
Rampole started in, oratorically, to tell how worthless he was; young men always feel impelled to do this, and Rampole even went so far as to mean it. The effect was somewhat marred by his putting his hand into the butter-dish at the height of the peroration, but she said she didn't, care if he rolled in the butter, and laughed at his humiliation. So they decided they ought to eat something. She kept saying everything was, "ridiculous," and Rampole seized recklessly on the idea.
"Have some of this damn silly tea," he suggested. "Take a little of this maundering, bughouse lemon and a soupcon of senile sugar. Go on, take it. It's a curious thing, but I feel like throwing the loony toast at you precisely because I love you so much. Marmalade? It has a very low I.Q. I recommend it. Besides―"
"Please! Dr. Fell will be in any moment. Do stop dancing about! — And would you mind opening a window? You beastly Americans like everything so stuffy. Please!"
He strode across to a window beside the fireplace and threw back the curtains, giving a very fair imitation of her accent as he continued his monologue. The rain had slackened. Throwing open the leaves of the window, he poked his head out, and instinctively looked towards Chatterham prison. What he saw caused him not a shock of surprise or fear, but a calm, cold jubilation. He spoke with pleasure and deliberateness.
"This time," he said, "I'm going to get the son — I'm going to get him."
He nodded as he spoke, and turned a queer face to the girl as he pointed out into the rain. Again there was a light in the Governor's Room of Chatterham prison.
It looked like a candle, small and flickering through the dusk. She took only one glance at it before she seized his shoulder.
"What are you going to do?"
"I've told you. Heaven willing," said Rampole, briskly,
"I'm going to kick hell out of him."
"You're not going up there?"
"No? Watch me! That's all I ask, just watch me." "I won't let you! No, I'm serious. I mean it! You can't―"
Rampole emitted a laugh modelled on the pattern of a stage villain. He took the lamp from the table and hurried out towards the hall, so that she was forced to follow. She seemed to be fluttering around him.
"I asked you not to!"
"So you did," replied the other, putting on his raincoat. "Just help me with the sleeve of this thing, will you? Good girl! Now what I want," he added, inspecting the hatstand, "is a cane. A good heavy one…. Here we are. `Are you armed, Lestrade?' 'I am armed.' Plenty."
"Then, I warn you, I'll go along!" she cried, accusingly.
"Well, get your coat on, then. I don't know how long that little joker will wait. Come to think of it, I'd better have a flashlight; the doctor left one here last night, as I remember…. Now."
"Darling!" said Dorothy Starbeth. "I was hoping you'd let me go…."
Soaked, splattering through mud, they cut down across the lawn and into the meadow. She had some difficulty manoeuvring the fence in her long raincoat; as he lifted her over it, he felt a kiss on his wet cheek, and the exultation of confronting that person in the Governor's Room began to leave him. This wasn't a joke. It was ugly, dangerous work. He turned in the dimness.
"Look here," he said, "seriously, you'd better go back. This isn't any lark, and I won't have you taking chances."
There was a silence while he heard the rain beating on his hat. Only that lonely light shone over the rainsheets flickering white across the meadows. When she answered, her voice was small and cool and firm.
"I know it as well as you do. But I've got to know. And you've got to take me, because you don't know how to get to the Governor's Room unless I show you the way. - Checkmate, dear.
She began to splash ahead of him up the slope of the meadow. He followed, slashing at the soggy grass with his cane.
They were both silent, and the girl was panting, when they reached the gates of the prison. Away from firelight, you needed to deny to yourself several times that there could be nothing supernatural about this old house of whips and hangings. Rampole pressed the button of his flashlight. The white beam ran along that green-fouled tunnel; probed it, hesitated, and moved forward.
"Do you suppose," the girl whispered, "it's really the man who-?"
"Better go back, I tell you!"
"It's worn off," she said in a small voice. "I'm afraid.
But I'd be more afraid to go back. Let me get a grip on your arm and I'll show you the way. Careful.-What do you suppose he's doing up there? He must be crazy to risk it."
"Do you suppose he can hear us coming?"
"Oh no. Not yet; it's miles and miles."
Their footfalls made sounds like the squish of oozing water. Rampole's light darted. Small eyes regarded them, scuttling away as the beam pried open dark corners. There were gnats flicking round their faces, and somewhere close there must have been water, for the croaking of frogs beat harshly in guttural chorus. Again that interminable journey wound Rampole through corridors, past rusty gates, down stone stairs and twisting up again. As the flashlight's beam found the face of the Iron Maiden, something whirred in the darkness.
Bats. The girl ducked, and Rampole struck viciously with his stick. He had miscalculated, and the cane clanged against iron, sending a din of echoes along the roof. From a flapping cloud, the squeaks of the bats shrilled in reply. Rampole felt her hand shaking on his arm.
"We've warned him," she whispered. "I'm afraid. We've warned him… No, no, don't leave me here! I've got to stay with you. If that light goes out… Those ghastly things; I can almost feel them in my hair…."
Though he reassured her, he felt the thick knocking of his own heart. If there were dead men walking in the stone house where they had died, he thought, they must have faces just like that big, empty, spider-hung countenance of the Iron Maiden. The sweat of the old torture room seemed to linger. He tightened his jaws as though he were biting on a bullet, as soldiers did to stifle the pain of an amputation in Anthony's day.
Anthony…
There was a light ahead. They could see it dimly, just at the top of a flight of stairs leading to the passage which ran outside the Governor's Room. Somebody was carrying a candle.
Rampole snapped off his light. He could feel Dorothy shaking in the dark as he put her behind him and began to edge up the stairs along the left-hand wall, the stick free in his right hand. He knew with cold clarity that he was not afraid of a murderer. He would even have liked to swing the heavy cane against a murderer's skull. But what made the small wires jerk and jump in his legs, what made his stomach feel cold as a squeezed rag, was the fear that this might be somebody else.
For a moment he was afraid the girl behind him was going to cry out. And he knew that he, too, would have cried out if there had been a shadow across that candlelight, and the shadow had worn a three-cornered hat…. Up there he heard footsteps. Evidently the other person had heard them coming, and then believed he must have been mistaken, for the sounds were going back in, the direction of the Governor's Room.
Somewhere there was the tapping of a cane…
Silence.
Slowly, during interminable minutes, Rampole moved up the staircase. A dim glow shone from the open door of the Governor's Room. Putting the electric torch in his pocket, he took Dorothy's cold and wet hand. His shoes squeaked a trifle, but the rats were squeaking, too. He moved down the corridor and peered round the edge of the door.
A candle in a holder was burning on the centre table. At the table, Dr. Fell sat motionless, his chin in his hand, his stick propped against his leg. On the wall behind him the candlelight reared a shadow which was curiously like that of the Rodin statue. And, sitting up on its haunches beneath the canopy of old Anthony's bed, a great grey rat was looking at Dr. Fell with shiny, sardonic eyes.
"Come in, children," Dr. Fell said, scarcely glancing at the door. "I confess I was reassured when I knew it was you."