Chapter TEN: Love Amidst the Ruins

Her face was white; there were shadows under her eyes. But—more damning evidence to him—she was wearing the grey silk stockings she had worn on the previous day, and a woman does not wear light-coloured stockings two days in succession. She had not undressed that night!

She walked into the hall-room. One light burnt, for the curtains had not been pulled apart nor the blinds raised.

“I was expecting you,” she said listlessly. “Will you please let me tell father before you take me away?”

He stood, a man turned to ice.

“Before—I take—you away?” he repeated.

“I knew you would come for me. I have been waiting all night for you, Mr. Macleod. I don’t think I have moved from that chair.”

She saw how ill he looked and dropped her head.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I was mad, just mad.”

He recovered himself, and in two strides was before her, his hands gripping her shoulders.

“You fool—you poor, dear fool,” he breathed. “Oh God! You fool! Look what you left—look!”

He wrenched the scarf from his pocket and threw it on the table. On to this he tossed the ring.

“My scarf—my ring! I remember.”

He found some difficulty in speaking; his heart was beating at a rate that made the pathologist in him wonder. “I’m being as big a fool as you, Stella,” he said, “but I can’t—I can’t let you go through that hell. I’m in love with you, I suppose, which sounds pretty mad to me, but I’ll have my car ready in a quarter of an hour and I can get you out of the country before anybody suspects—associates you with the crime. I’m mad, of course, but I can’t see that——”

She was looking at him in a frowning, puzzled way, open-eyed, and the eyes were wet.

“You’re very—wonderful, doctor, but I can’t and Mr. Merrivan knows and is probably watching.”

He stepped back.

“Knows—watching? He’s dead!”

She did not understand him.

“Merrivan is dead—murdered last night.”

“Murdered last night,” she repeated, and a stone rolled from his heart.

“Phew!” He wiped his clammy forehead. “I _am_ mad after all—to think you knew anything about it.” And then he sprang forward and caught her as her knees gave way.

The first thought that came to her as she recovered consciousness was that he had thought her a murderess and had wanted to save her. Mr. Merrivan was dead. That was terrible news. They might suspect her, too, but he didn’t, the man with the grey eyes who had searched her face and whom she had hated. Nothing else really mattered.

“I think I am a little mad,” she said unsteadily, and the glass he held to her lips rattled against her chattering teeth.

She looked up into his face as she drank; he saw the confidence of a child—the confidence her father might have inspired.

“You’re wonderful, and I think you’ve been making love to me—love amongst the ruins!” she said jerkily. “It is dreadful, Mr. Merrivan’s death. I went to his house last night. He sent for me, and I agreed, because I wanted something.”

“What was it, Stella?” he asked gently.

“I’ll never tell you that,” she said. “If I die I cannot tell you, doctor—Andrew, and I used to hate you so—and you’re quite nice.”

His arm was about her shoulder and pillowed her brown head. As she spoke she played with the fingers of his supporting hand.

“And then what happened?”

“He was horrible to me. I mustn’t talk that way about him now that he is dead, must I? But he was—awful—and I had to let him paw me”—he felt her shiver—“and kiss me, and then he showed me things I wanted, and he made me take my ring off and he put on the big flashing diamond ring; and then I snatched the things I wanted—they were on the table. And then he came after me, I pointed a revolver at him.”

“You had a revolver? Oh, Lord, Stella, you did all that you could to endanger your dear neck, didn’t you?”

“I did, didn’t I? And then I flew out of the house.”

“Which way did you come?”

“By the front door. I don’t know any other way.”

“You didn’t go through the orchard?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Go on—you came straight home. What time was that?”

“Eleven. Beverley Church clock struck eleven as I opened the door.”

“What made you go to him?”

“A letter—a terrible letter—putting things plainly, and—and—alternatives as plainly. I—I destroyed the things I brought from the house, and then I waited for you to come and arrest me for what I’d done. I hoped a little bit that it wouldn’t be you, and then I hoped it would. I thought you wouldn’t be gruff and horrid like Inspector Dane. And when I saw you come to the gate—I somehow knew you were at the gate—I felt that I just wanted to get things over. I couldn’t endure any more. What are you thinking about, doct—Andrew?”

“Did anybody see you go to the house?”

She shook her head.

“Do you think—Wilmot saw you?”

“Arthur Wilmot? No. Why?”

“He was rather mysterious about something. The things you destroyed, they were documents of some kind?”

She nodded.

“Where did you burn them—here or at the house?”

“Here.” She pointed to the fireplace. “Where I burnt the letter.”

“The letter asking you to go over?” he demanded in dismay. “You didn’t burn that? Why, that would have proved everything!”

She was not perturbed.

“I don’t care—if you believe me,” she said, and came painfully to her feet. “I’m going to bed. No, I’m not. There is nobody to get daddy’s breakfast. He combines with a healthy appetite the fastidiousness proper to an invalid.”

“You’re going to bed,” said Andy authoritatively. “I’ll fix your father’s breakfast. I ’phoned yesterday for my man to come down. He can cook perfectly, and as a sweeper he has no rival.”

“Are you sure?” she asked doubtfully, yet willing to be convinced, for she was aching for sleep.

“I won’t suggest anything so indelicate as that I should carry you up,” he said gravely. “I have carried ladies of greater weight in the execution of my duty. They have generally been rather intoxicated.”

“Thank you, I’ll walk,” hastily. She stopped half-way up and leant over the rail, dropping her hand.

“I’m very glad it was you,” she said as he took her hand in his and laid it to his cheek.

“Father’s room is on the first floor—the front room,” were her last instructions.

When she had gone he pulled up the blinds and opened the windows. He had not ’phoned for his servant. He had a servant, but the memory of his cooking made him shudder. Searching the kitchen and pantry, he made himself some tea, then he proceeded to the preparation of Kenneth Nelson’s breakfast. Several times, whilst so doing, he explained to himself that he was engaged in the detection of a double murderer, and that it was absurd of him to be dusting a room, pausing now and then to listen for a boiling kettle.

Kenneth Nelson was even more surprised at Andy than that gentleman had been at himself. He sat up gaping at the spectacle of an M.D. (Edinburgh) carrying in a tray, and his first impression was that he had suffered a relapse, and, following a period of unconsciousness, was a little light-headed.

“What day is it?” he gasped.

“It is still Monday,” said Andy, setting down the tray. “Or it was before I came upstairs. I’ve sent your daughter to bed.”

“She’s not ill?” Kenneth was genuinely alarmed.

“She’s tired. There has been an exciting night. Merrivan is dead, and I think you might get up to-day. A little intercourse with your fellow-men will be all to the good. But, Nelson, this village is dry for you. I can’t run a risk.”

Nelson was shocked.

“Merrivan dead! When did it happen? He looked the picture of health when I saw him last.”

Andy did not give him particulars until the artist was dressed and downstairs. He came down carrying a tray of cold eggs and tea, and they breakfasted together.

“That’s very bad. Poor Merrivan. He was not an especial friend of mine, but——”

Andy saw his face twitch, as though some ugly and long inhibited memory had come to him. He knew this man’s weakness, and, given time, he could reach its foundation. The death of Merrivan had broken a seal that covered some chamber of his mind and the dark thought was loose and disturbing him. Throughout breakfast Andy saw him striving to catch and imprison the prison-breaker. But the thing had grown too big for its narrow cell, and Nelson grew graver and quieter, and more like the man that Andy had expected him to be.

“Why was Stella up all night, doctor?” he asked.

“She may have heard the shot, and possibly was told. One of the servants had hysteria and screamed for an hour on end. I wonder anybody in Beverley Green could sleep.”

He left Mr. Nelson preparing to go out and went off to the guest house. It was then eight o’clock, and he had had an exhausting six hours and at least three minutes of concentrated mental agony which had been more wearing than all the rest of his experiences.

Inspector Dane was coming out of the bungalow as he arrived.

“’Phone message from headquarters,” he reported. “All stations have been warned, and a warrant will be issued this morning for the arrest of Abraham Selim. Headquarters wants to know if you have any idea where he lives. They have found his office.”

Andy had no information to offer.

“Nothing else has been found?” he asked.

“Nothing. There are finger-prints on the polished part of the desk, and I am arranging for these to be photographed. The coroner would like to see you at eleven o’clock.”

The formalities attaching to wilful murder are infinite, the actual “committee work” wearisome, but necessary. Andy was dog-tired and sleeping at an hour when most people were sitting down to dinner.

Stella Nelson woke some time in the afternoon, and her first waking impression was that something pleasant had happened. In this spirit she continued as she bathed and dressed, though she knew that a murder had been committed within a few yards of her, and that she was the last known person to be in the victim’s company. She told herself this much, and accepted the self-reproach with great calmness. She was very sorry, and if people thought evilly of her it was unfortunate. She might be arrested yet. Even this terrific ending did not frighten her from her equable frame of mind.

“You are cold-blooded, callous, and inhuman,” she said, “and unwomanly.”

Possibly she was more womanly in that mood than in any other. The world is more narrowly and specifically confined to a woman than to a man. It can be reduced to one shining figure that stands out against a smudged background of vague and meaningless shapes.

Andrew’s servant was evidently a rough and ready duster of rooms, she thought, as she straightened the ornaments he had left askew, and picked up the broom and dust-pan from the top of the piano.

Kenneth Nelson came in bubbling with news. He had lunched at the club, and everybody had been there, and all had agreed that the murders were “bad business.”

“I saw you were up,” she said. “Do you know where Andrew Macleod’s servant is? I want to thank him. Did he bring you your breakfast? I suppose you were surprised to see him?”

“Dr. Macleod brought my breakfast. I didn’t see any servant,” he said. “I didn’t know he had one. I say, Stella, this is terrible news about Merrivan and that man.”

“What man?”

She asked the question without thinking. So Andrew was the awkward duster? She felt inclined to put the broom and the dust-pan back on the piano.

“What was his name—Sweeny——”

“Sweeny? What about him?” she asked quickly.

He told her the story, glad to find somebody who did not know.

“Didn’t Macleod tell you? He said you’d heard the shot and were awake all night. Now, I’ve got a theory that Merrivan and this man had a sort of duel——”

He expounded his theory at length, and she was only too glad to hear him talk and be relieved of the necessity for replying.

She wondered how Andrew had found the eggs. She ought to have told him that the bread was in the earthenware pan and the butter in the refrigerator. She would not finish his dusting; that would be a desecration—like “improving” a beautiful ruin. The teaspoons—how did he find the teaspoons? Of course he was a detective.

“What the dickens are you laughing at?” asked the outraged Mr. Nelson. “I don’t think it is a laughing matter, Stella, by gad!”

“I’m sorry dear—hysteria—or something. What is this?”

She took the letter from his hand.

“A cheque from Mandbys, bigger than I expected,” he said. “I’d nearly forgotten, dear, but seeing you sniggering reminded me.”

He had never before given her a cheque he had received. Usually he carried it to the bank himself and the next morning she was looking for new servants. He was absurdly proud of his reformation, and she was touched.

“You dear!” She kissed him and hung to him, and Mr. Nelson experienced some of the forgotten satisfaction which belongs to virtue.

“Macleod’s in charge of the case. I saw him for a minute or two, looking perfectly ghastly. It shocked even him. He told me so. ‘I had a bad ten minutes this morning,’ he said. Poor chap; but cheerful! My dear, he was as cheerful as—as you are. I suppose these fellows get used to it. A capable man that. I’m glad he is here.”

“So am I,” she said, and glanced at the streaks of dust on the top of a table.

Mr. Nelson had one item of good news. He had met a former cook of theirs in Beverley, and to that good lady’s surprise had stopped and talked to her. In his sober moments he never admitted outside of the house that he was anything else. This had made reconciliations between discharged helps and their former employer a little difficult.

“I told her that I’d given up drinking,” he said. “A bit of a pill to swallow, eh, Stella? But I did it. After all, she knew. Her sister is expecting her fourth baby,” he added inconsequently, and went on, “she’s coming this afternoon and bringing her sister—no, not that one; a younger one. She’s a good parlourmaid. Quite a nice girl, engaged to a soldier in India, so we shall keep her for a bit.”

Stella blessed Andrew once more.

She tried all that afternoon to recall or to reconstruct within herself just how she felt when she had first met him. It was a little difficult. You cannot reconstruct fear without being afraid. There are certain elements of emotion which defy synthesis. She would have given all that she had to give to live over those three minutes when he thought she was confessing to the murder. His terror—his love; she felt the grip of his hands on her shoulder. How long had she known him? She had seen him four times and had spoken a dozen sentences before he told her that he would sacrifice his profession and his honour for her safety. The violence of his abuse—he had called her a fool, a damned fool——

Fortunately her father had gone. He would never have understood her gurgling laughter. Resolutely she went in search of the dust-pan and the broom, and put them on the top of the piano with a bang.