Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 12

  ‘Of course she never wrote?’ he said coolly to the squatter.

  ‘We have received nothing,’ was the grave answer.

  ‘Yet she started,’ said Alfred. ‘I put her in the train myself, and saw her off.’

  His composure was incredible. The Australian was more shaken than he.

  ‘Did you make any inquiries on the line?’ asked Barrington, after a pause.

  ‘Inquiries about what?’

  ‘There might have been — an accident.’

  Bligh tapped the telegram with his finger. ‘This points to no accident,’ he said, grimly. ‘But,’ he added, more thoughtfully, ‘one might make inquiries down the line, as you say. It might do good to make inquiries all along the line.’

  ‘Do you mean to say you have made none?’

  ‘None,’ said Alfred, fetching a deep sigh. ‘I came here straight. I could think of nothing else but getting here — and — perhaps — finding her! I thought — I thought there might be some — mistake!’ His voice suddenly broke. The futility of the hope that had sustained him for hours had dawned upon him slowly, but now the cruel light hid nothing any longer. She was not here; she had not been heard of here; and precious hours had been lost. He grasped his hat and held out his trembling hand.

  ‘Thank you! Thank you, Mr Barrington! Now I must be off.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To Scotland Yard. I should have gone there first. But — I was mad, I think; I thought there had been some mistake. Only some mistake!’

  The squatter was touched to the soul. ‘I have known her, off and on, since she was a baby,’ he said. ‘Bligh — if you would only let me, I should like to come with you.’

  Alfred wrung the other’s hand, but refused his offer.

  ‘No. Though I am grateful indeed, I would rather go alone. It would do no good, your coming; I should prefer to be alone. So only one word more. Your daughter was a great friend of Gladys; better not tell her anything of this. For it may still be only some wild freak, Mr Barrington — God knows what it is!’

  It was evening when he reached London. A whole day had been wasted. He stated his case to the police; and then there was no more to be done that night. With an eagerness that all at once became feverish he hastened back to Twickenham. It was late when he arrived at the house; only Granville was up; and, for an instant, Granville thought his brother had been drinking. The delusion lasted no longer than that instant. It was not drink with Alfred: his excitement was suppressed: he stood staring at Granville with a questioning, eager expression, as though he expected news. What could it mean? What could be the explanation of such fierce excitement in stolid Alfred, of all people in the world?

  Granville thought of the one thing, or rather of the one person, likely, and threw out a feeler: —

  ‘Have you heard from Gladys?’

  ‘No,’ said Alfred, in a hollow voice. ‘Have you seen her?’

  This was the last idea that had possessed him: that Gladys might have come home, that he might find her there on his return. It was the second time that day that he had cheated himself with vain, unreasoning hopes.

  ‘Seen her?’ Granville screwed in his eyeglass tighter. ‘Of course I haven’t seen her! How should we see her here, my good fellow, when she’s down in Suffolk?’

  Alfred turned pale, and for an instant stood glaring; then he burst into a harsh laugh.

  ‘You know how odd she is, Gran! I thought she might have tired of her friends and come back. She’s capable of it, and I feared it — that’s all!’

  He left the room abruptly.

  ‘Poor chap!’ said Granville, with a sentient shake of the head; ‘he is far gone, if you like.’

  Next morning Alfred walked into Scotland Yard as the clocks were striking eleven. His appointment was for that hour, and he had striven successfully to keep it to the second; though commonly he was a far from punctual man. In point of fact, he had been sitting and loitering about the Embankment for a whole hour, waiting until the moment of his appointment should come, as unwilling to go to it a minute before the time as a minute late. So he entered the Yard while Big Ben was striking. And this was a young man with a reputation for unpunctuality, and all-round unbusinesslike, dilatory habits.

  Moreover, for a man who, as a rule, was not fastidious enough about such matters, his appearance this morning was wellnigh immaculate. Yet, perhaps, he had only sought, by a long and elaborate toilet, to while away the long, light hours of the early morning: for, on looking at him closely, it was impossible to believe that he had slept a wink. The fact is, abnormal circumstances had conduced to bring about in Alfred an entirely abnormal state of mind. In a word, and a trite one, he was no longer himself. A crust of insensibility had hardened upon him. Had there been no news for him at all at the Yard this morning, possibly this crust might have been broken through: for he was better prepared for one crushing blow than for the bruises of repeated disappointment. Thus, the very worst news might have affected him less, at the moment, than no news, which is supposed, popularly, to be of the best. But there was some news.

  Official investigation had thus far discovered what a person of average intelligence, with a little more presence of mind than Alfred had shown, might have ascertained, perhaps for himself. Yet the information was important. Gladys had left the train, with her luggage, two stations before her destination. This was testified by the guard of the train. But there was a later fact still. It was certain that Gladys had returned to town by the next up-train: for she had personally deposited her luggage in the cloak-room at Liverpool Street between the hours of six and seven on the Saturday evening. There all trace of her was lost, for the present; but it was extremely likely that fresh traces would be forthcoming during the course of the day.

  The simple nature of the inquiries that had elicited the above information will be at once apparent; but Alfred went away with an exalted opinion of the blood-hound sagacity of the police. In his present condition of mind, his opinion, good or bad, was not worth much. He went to a club which he had not been in for years, and of which he had long ceased to look upon himself as a member; but his bankers, doubtless, still paid his subscription; and in any case it was not likely that he would be turned out. He would find some quiet corner and sit down and wait until the messenger came from Scotland Yard; for, of course, something more would be discovered during the course of the day — had they not promised as much? The quiet corner that he chose was an upstairs window, from which there was a fair glimpse of the river. The river fascinated him most strangely to-day. During the hour he had loitered on the Embankment, between ten and eleven, he had raised his eyes but seldom from the river.

  He sat long at the window — so long that minutes ran into hours and the summer afternoon melted into the summer evening. The room was a reading-room; the windows were in snug recesses. Alfred had his recess to himself for hours and hours. He was conscious of no other presence; certainly no one spoke to him: very possibly, with his beard, no one recognised him.

  The sun was sinking. He could not see it from this window; but he could see the heightened contrast of light and shadow among the ripples of the river, and the shadows deepening far away under Westminster Bridge. This was where his gaze rested. It was a stony gaze; his lips were compressed and bloodless, his features pointed and pale. A hideous vision filled his mind; but it was a vision only; it had no meaning. He did not realise it. He realised nothing.... Some one came and asked if he was Mr Bligh. It was a club servant. A man awaited him below. Alfred went down; the messenger from Scotland Yard was come at last.

  The messenger was the bearer of these few words: —

  ‘A lady’s hat and jacket have been found in the river below Blackwall. If you wish to see them, they are here.’

  Five minutes later Alfred walked into the office in which he had heard the result of the investigations that morning, and identified instantly the jacket and hat awaiting his inspection.

  Gladys had gone away in the
m on Saturday.

  CHAPTER XVII

  WAITING FOR THE WORST

  For the second time, it was Granville whom Alfred first encountered on his return from town. They met in the twilight. Dinner was over, and Granville sauntered alone in the bit of garden between the house and the road, smoking a cigarette. Suddenly the gate was opened, and the one brother, looking up, saw the other coming quickly towards him through the dusk.

  It was too dark for the ready reading of faces; but it struck Granville that the approaching footsteps were hasty and unusual. He recalled Alfred’s unaccountable manner of the night before. Indeed, all his movements, during the past two days, were mysterious: up to London first thing in the morning, back late, and not a word to any one; whereas the whole household, as a general rule, were in possession of most of Alfred’s private plans and hopes and fears. But Granville had no time to speculate now. Alfred came straight up to him.

  ‘I want to speak to you, Gran,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I found you here.’

  The step had been suspicious; the voice was worse. It was calm enough, but it was not Alfred’s voice at all. Something had happened. Granville put up his eyeglass; but in that light it did not avail him much.

  ‘Let us sit down, then,’ said Granville, leading the way to a seat under the trees.

  ‘What is it about?’

  Then Alfred began, in set tones and orderly phrases. The affectation of his manner was almost grotesque.

  ‘I want a kind of professional opinion from you, Gran, about — let us say, about a case that interests me, rather. That will be near enough to the mark, I think.’

  ‘Delighted to help you, if I can.’ Granville lounged back carelessly on the garden-seat, but his keen glance lost not a line of the other’s profile, as Alfred bent forward with his eyes upon the ground; and those lines seemed strangely hardened.

  ‘Thank you. The case is, briefly, this,’ Alfred continued: ‘somebody — no matter who — has been missing for some days. The number of days is of no consequence either. The police were not informed immediately. They only heard of it last night. But, this afternoon, they found — —’

  Alfred checked himself, sat upright, shifted his position, and met Granville’s gaze.

  ‘What should you consider incontestable evidence of drowning, Gran?’

  ‘The body.’

  ‘Of course. But you have to look for bodies. What should you find, to make you search with the absolute certainty of discovering the body at last?’

  ‘Nothing else could make it an absolute certainty. But lots of things would set you searching — a hat, for instance.’

  ‘They have found her hat!’ said Alfred, through his clenched teeth.

  ‘Her hat! Whose?’

  Alfred stretched over, caught Granville’s arm in a nervous grip, and whispered rapidly in his ear. In a moment Granville knew all. But he did not speak immediately. When he did speak, it was to ask questions. And there was another unnatural voice now, besides Alfred’s — Granville’s was quite soft.

  ‘Was she unhappy at all?’ he asked.

  ‘Just the reverse, I thought, until last week. You know what happened in the Park yesterday week. She said some very wild things after that, and spoke as though she had never been quite happy here; she vowed she would never forgive herself for what she had done; and she said she wished she was dead. Well, I did not think much about her words; I thought more of what she had done; I put down what she said to the shame and temper of the moment, not to real unhappiness. But, when I said good-bye to her, then she was unhappy — more so than I ever knew her before.’

  From his tone, no one could have guessed that he was speaking of his wife.

  ‘And you think she — she — —’

  Granville could not bring his lips to utter the words.

  Alfred could. ‘I think she has drowned herself,’ he said calmly.

  Granville shuddered. Callous as he was himself by nature, callousness such as this he could not have imagined possible; it was horrible to see and to hear.

  Neither spoke for some little time.

  ‘Did it never occur to you,’ said Granville, at last, ‘that she might have drowned herself without all this trouble, simply by walking to the bottom of the garden here?’

  ‘What?’ cried Alfred, sharply. His fingers tightened upon Granville’s arm. His voice fell, oddly enough, into a natural tone.

  Granville repeated his question.

  ‘No,’ said Alfred, hoarsely, ‘that never crossed my mind. But there’s something in it. God bless you, Gran, for putting it into my head! It’s almost like a ray of hope — the first. If I hadn’t seen the things and identified them as hers — —’

  ‘The things! You did not say there was anything else besides the hat. What else was there?’

  ‘The jacket she went away in.’

  ‘You are sure it was hers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could swear to both hat and jacket?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Granville leapt to his feet.

  ‘Who throw their things into the water’ — he asked, in strange excitement, for him— ‘the people who mean to sink or the people who mean to swim — or the people who mean to stay on the bank?’

  Alfred stared at him blankly. Gradually the light dawned upon him that had entered Granville’s quicker intelligence in a flash.

  ‘What do you mean?’ whispered Alfred; and, in a moment, his voice and his limbs were trembling.

  ‘Nothing very obscure,’ replied Granville, with a touch of contempt, which, even then, he could not manage to conceal (Alfred’s slow perception always had irritated him); ‘simply this: Gladys has not drowned herself. She was never the girl to do it. She had too much sense and vitality and courage. But she may mean us to think there’s an end of her — God knows with what intention. She may have gone off somewhere — God knows where. We must find out — —’

  He stopped abruptly, and nearly swore: for Alfred was wringing his hand, and weeping like a child.

  Granville hated this, but bore it stoically. It was now plain to him that Alfred had been driven very nearly out of his senses: and no wonder — Granville himself could as yet scarcely realise or believe what he had heard. And this outburst was the natural reaction following upon an unnatural mental condition. But was there any ground for hope? Granville was less confident than he appeared when he amended his last words and said: —

  ‘I will find out.’

  Alfred wrung his hand again. He was calmer now, but terribly shaken and shattered. The weakness that he had been storing up during the past two days had come over him, as it were, in the lump. Granville led him to his room. Alfred had never in his life before known Granville half so good-natured and sympathetic; he blessed him fervently.

  ‘You were her friend,’ he said, huskily. ‘She thought no end of you, Gran! You got on so splendidly together, after the first few days; and she was always talking about you. Find her — find her for me, Gran; and God bless you — and forgive her for this trick she has played us!’

  Granville did not often feel contrition, or remorse, or shame: but he felt all three just then. He knew rather too well the measure of his own kindness to Gladys. For the first time in his life — and not, perhaps, before it was time — he disliked himself heartily. He felt vaguely that, whatever had happened, he had had something to do with it. He had had more to do with it than he guessed. ‘I’ll do my best — I’ll do my best,’ he promised; and he meant his ‘best’ to be better than that of the smartest detective at Scotland Yard.

  He left Alfred, shut himself up alone, and reviewed the situation. An hour’s hard thinking led to a rather ingenious interview — one with the girl Bunn. It took place on the stairs, of all places. Granville saw her set foot upon the bottom stair; he immediately sat down upon the top one, produced a newspaper, and blocked the gangway.

  ‘Bunn, you have a sweetheart in Australia. Don’t pout and toss your head; it’s nothing to b
e ashamed of — quite the contrary; and it’s the fact, I think — eh?’

  ‘Lor’, Mr Granville, what if I have?’

  ‘Well, nothing; only there is something about it in this newspaper — about Australia, I mean; not about you — that’s to come. You shall have the newspaper, Bunn; here it is. I thought you’d like it, that’s all.’

  Bunn took the paper, all smiles and blushes.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Granville. And — and I beg your pardon, sir.’

  ‘Don’t name it, my good girl. But, look here, Bunn; stay one moment, if you don’t mind.’ (She could scarcely help staying, he gave her no chance of passing; besides, he had put her under an obligation.) ‘Tell me now, Bunn — didn’t Mrs Alfred know something about him? And didn’t Mrs Alfred talk to you a good deal about Australia?’

  ‘That she did, sir. But she didn’t know my young man, Mr Granville. She only got his address from me just as she was going away, sir.’

  ‘Ah! she wanted his address before she went away, did she?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She said she would name him in writing to her father, or in speaking to Mr Barrington, or that, any way, it’d be nice to have it, against ever she went out there again, sir.’

  ‘Oh, she gave three reasons all in one, eh? And did she say she’d like to go out again, Bunn?’

  ‘She always said that, sir, between ourselves— “between you and I, Bella,” it used to be. But, time I gave her the address, she went on as if she would like to go, and meant a-going, the very next day.’

  ‘Yet she didn’t like leaving this, even for a week — eh, Bunn?’

  ‘Lor’, no, sir! She spoke as if she was never coming back no more. And she kissed me, Mr Granville — she did, indeed, sir; though I never named that in the servants’ hall. She said there might be a accident, or somethink, and me never see her no more; but that, if ever she went back to Australia, she’d remember my young man, and get him a good billet. Them were her very words. But, oh, Mr Granville! — oh, sir! — —’