As the uncle opened his mouth to cry for aid the nephew caught him by the throat and slipped between his lips the tiny white lozenge which he had taken from the silver box. Then he struck up his jaw with a click and held it shut, so that he could not put it out again. Forcing back his head, he gripped him tight. His uncle was seized with a convulsion which seemed to Rodney as if it must have shaken the carriage. Almost at the same instant it was as if all vitality had gone clean out of him. The nephew was gripping a limp corpse.
CHAPTER X
IN THE CARRIAGE--ALONE
Graham Patterson, in the agony of that last convulsion, had nearly slipped off the seat, so that, with a very little, he would be on the floor. His nephew, who hitherto had not for a moment lost his presence of mind, and who kept it then, was at a loss. Would such an attitude be recognised as proper for a suicide? Would, that is, a doctor--any doctor--be prepared to assert that a man who had killed himself with potassium cyanide might, under the circumstances, quite conceivably die in such an attitude, or assume it after death? To Rodney's supernaturally keen vision there were trifles about his uncle's appearance which scarcely marked this as inevitably a case of suicide.
The collar was a little crumpled; the tie a little disarranged; he even fancied that there were prints of his fingers on the skin of the throat. He was conscious that he had gripped him with great force--perhaps a little clumsily; he certainly ought to have avoided contact with the collar and the tie, but no doubt the prints would wear off. Indeed, as he bent closer he was not sure that they did not exist only in his imagination; the light was not good; he could not be certain. With dexterous fingers he smoothed the collar, he rearranged the tie--so deftly that he felt convinced that no one would notice that anything had been wrong with him. He raised the body a little, so that it was in what seemed to him to be a more natural position, on the edge of the seat; he felt that it would look better. He was surprised to find how heavy his uncle was--it required quite an effort on his part to lift him.
He turned the contents of the silver box on to his hand. There were seven tiny lozenges. He returned three to the box, and laid it on the seat; the other four he placed beside it. Taking an envelope out of an inner pocket of his jacket, he tore off a corner. In it he placed the four tabloids, carefully folded it, and put it in his waistcoat pocket. Then he balanced the cap of the box on the arm of the seat beside his uncle; the box itself he placed between the fingers of his uncle's left hand, with--in it--the other three tabloids. So tightly were the fingers clenched that Rodney had to use force to open them sufficiently to enable him to insert the box. Then, seating himself opposite, he looked his uncle carefully over with an artist's eye for detail. In his present attitude, with that open box with its tell-tale contents held tightly between his stiffened fingers, it seemed to Rodney that a coroner would be bound to instruct his jury that suicide was the only possible explanation of Graham Patterson's death. Having satisfied himself on which point, he withdrew to the opposite end of the carriage, being, in spite of himself, conscious of a feeling that the dead man's too immediate neighbourhood was not a thing to be desired.
Seated in his original place, he took out his white cambric handkerchief, and with it delicately wiped his fingers, having an uncomfortable notion that something disagreeable had adhered to them which it would be better to remove. Then he set himself to consider the position. A great smoker of cigarettes, absent-mindedly and as a matter of course he took out his case, and was about to light one when it occurred to him that it might be a dangerous thing to do. It was not a smoking carriage; if, when the discovery was made, it smelt strongly of smoke--and nothing lingers like a cigarette--it might be shown that his uncle had not been smoking, and the question might arise--who had? He returned the case to his pocket. As he did so the train rushed past a signal-box. He remembered reading of the strange things which signalmen see in trains as they rushed past them. When his uncle was found, exhaustive inquiries would be set on foot. Quite conceivably some signalman had seen them struggling, or something which had piqued his curiosity as it had caught his eye. His uncle would be found alone. The signalman's story might suggest that at one period of the journey someone had been in the carriage with him. What had become of that someone? The mere question might start a hue and cry. Rodney recalled, with quite a little sense of shock, that his uncle had been partly pushed into the carriage by an official on the Brighton platform. Graham Patterson was a noticeable-looking person; he must have presented a striking spectacle as he had come hurrying along the platform. When discovery came about, the official would recollect the incident and recognise him beyond a doubt.
Had he noticed that somebody was already in the carriage when he was thrusting the fat man in? Rodney was compelled to admit that the probabilities were that he had. So far as he himself was concerned, Rodney recalled the whole sequence of events. How he had rushed up to the ticket inspector just as the Pullman was moving; how the man, slamming the gate in his face, had informed him that another train was due to start in ten minutes. The young gentleman had a suspicion that the fellow had looked him up and down as he was explaining. There were others about who might also have looked him up and down. Rodney had an uneasy feeling that, in his way, he was perhaps as noticeable a figure as his uncle--so tall, so upright, so well groomed, so handsome, with something about his appearance which almost amounted to an air of distinction. He had walked a few paces to another platform, as directed; the man at the gate, in his turn, had looked him up and down as he clipped his ticket; he had strolled leisurely along the platform, which he had had almost entirely to himself; when he reached a carriage which he thought would suit him, he stood for a second or two at the open door--as he remembered, right in front of the official who, later, had helped his uncle in.
He sat up very straight as that little fact came back to him. He remembered very well eyeing the man, whom, certainly, he would know again anywhere. No doubt the man had eyed him, and had his likeness in his mind's eye. The fellow had seen him enter the compartment and shut the door; a few minutes later he had opened the door again to admit his uncle, well knowing that he was already within. The accident might prove very awkward for the nephew later on; no one could have appreciated the possibilities of the position more clearly than he did.
As he pondered the matter he was inclined to think that he had made a mistake in doing what he had done. Such a fuss is made about a thing of that sort that, in any event, one runs a risk. Had he had more time to appreciate exactly what would be the nature of the risk in his own case he might have--hesitated. If he had he would have been deposed from his cousin's good graces, and--to adopt her sire's rather melodramatic language--have been "branded as a felon," so that he would not have been much better off. Looking at it philosophically the result of what he had done was this: that whereas, if he had let his uncle have his own way, ruin was certain, as things were he had at least a fighting chance of postponing the evil day--perhaps to an indefinite period. More; in the meanwhile he could have a rattling good time. And he would have it. He smiled as he made himself that promise.
All the same, though he smiled, he realised that if he proposed to have a good time he must not continue to take his ease where he was--with his uncle on the seat at the other end. If he seriously wished the world to take it for granted that Graham Patterson had committed suicide, he must not be found in the same compartment. That was sure. He had been told by someone, or had read somewhere, that every express train, though assumed to be "non-stopping," stopped at least once, because a signal was against it, or at least slowed down sufficiently to enable an agile passenger, with safety, to alight. So far that train had neither stopped nor slowed. His watch told him that it was about twenty to ten--ten minutes ago his uncle had been alive. It seemed longer ago than that. He had a fair knowledge of the line by daylight; it was different at night. Objects--even stations--were difficult to distinguish. He peered through the open window without thrusting out his head. They seemed to be running through open country, possibly on the top of the ballast. He could make out lights, though they were few and far between; they seemed to be passing a number of trees, with a big building beyond. They crashed through a station--it was Earlswood; they had just passed Earlswood Asylum. Immediately they would be on the new part of the line, which avoids the South-Eastern station at Redhill. There was no station between this and Purley. He might leave the train anywhere with comparative safety if it would only slow a little. To attempt to alight while it was moving at that rate through the darkness would be equivalent to committing suicide. At the best he could not hope to avoid serious injury. He must wait--till it slowed.
The whistle on the engine sounded; the train began to slow. Instantly he was leaning forward, his fingers on the handle, which was inside the door. The train slowed still more; it entered a tunnel, slowing all the while; in the heart of the tunnel it stopped--dead. The gods were on his side. Yet not for an instant did he lose his presence of mind. The signal was against them--that was why they had stopped. Was it on the left or the right? On the signal side the guard would possibly have his head out of the carriage with an eye for it; possibly some of the passengers might be observing it also. It would be fatal to get out on that side; his door would be seen opening; he might be seen to alight; he would be jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire; all sorts of consequences might accrue. He looked out of his own window; there was no signal in front or behind. Then it was on the other side, on the left, against the wall of the tunnel. He looked on to the six-foot way. He could see the whole length of the train; not a sign of a head at any of the windows. He had already turned the handle, opening the door just wide enough he stepped on to the footboard, closed the door, and dropped on to the permanent way.
He had left his uncle to continue his journey alone. Lest his upstanding figure might be visible to someone, he crouched as close as he could to the ground. The train began to move very slowly. The door of the compartment next to that which he had just left was opened, a figure came on to the footboard, closed the door, sprang on to the ballast while the train was already in motion. For a moment Rodney was the victim of a gruesome delusion; to him it was as if the door of his own compartment had been opened; as if Graham Patterson had alighted at his side. He pressed the tips of his fingers into his palms to keep himself from exclaiming.
CHAPTER XI
THE STRANGER
The train went slowly rumbling by; who looked out of the windows Rodney neither knew nor cared. He was conscious of the guard's van passing, then the train had gone. He could see the tail lights moving quicker and quicker through the darkness. He himself continued motionless. He had realised by now that it was not his uncle who had alighted; that it was the door of the next compartment which had been opened. He could not believe that his own movements had been observed.
He doubted if they could have been seen by a person who had not actually got his head out at the moment--even by his next door neighbour. He was certain that no head had been out. The thing had been a coincidence--a strange one, but nothing more. Someone also had reasons for wishing to quit the train in an unusual manner; someone who was unaware that he was out already. The chances were that he had not been noticed; that, if he kept quite still, he would not be noticed. The stranger would blunder along without ever becoming cognisant of his near neighbourhood; whichever way the stranger went, he would go the other.
Now that the train had left, it was very still in the tunnel; the air was close, full of smoke, which was bad both for the throat and the eyes. Something had dropped once or twice on Rodney's shoulder. He had heard that it was sometimes damp in tunnels; possibly it was moisture dropping from the brickwork overhead. He would have liked to move so as to avoid it, but was reluctant to make a sound--till the stranger had moved. He wondered what the stranger was doing; silence continued for what seemed to him to be a preternatural length of time. Possibly, less fortunate than himself, the stranger had been hurt in alighting, which explained the stillness. If that were so, his own position might be difficult. If he moved first the stranger might claim his help, might make a fuss if he refused it--such a fuss that the fact that he had left the train would be discovered.
Still not a sound. Momentarily the situation was becoming more delicate. He could not remain crouched down like that for ever, with big drops of something falling on to his shoulder. What should he do?
The question was answered for him.
"Caught you!"
The words were whispered close to his ear. He stood straight up suddenly, startled half out of his wits. His impulse was to fly--anywhere, anyhow. Then that wonderful presence of mind of his, which never left him long, came back; he realised that haste on his part might involve disaster. He stood bolt upright, quite still, with fists clenched, prepared for anything.
Something came; fingers were laid upon his coat-sleeve. He showed no sign of resenting their coming, their touch was so soft that it hardly suggested danger. A voice came to him through the darkness, the one which had so startled him by whispering in his ear.
"That was a capital idea of yours--capital."
To Rodney's acute sense of hearing there seemed to be a curious quality in the voice; he was not sure if it belonged to a man or a woman. It came again.
"Have you ever been in a tunnel before? I haven't."
The last two words were spoken with a snigger which was certainly a man's, though he still felt that the voice itself might be either masculine or feminine. He had a fastidious taste in voices; apart from the circumstances under which he heard it, that one affected him unpleasantly. It continued, and his distaste grew.
"Do you know that our getting out here in the tunnel has proved something which I have always held as an article of faith; that I have cat's eyes--positively? Isn't it droll? I can see you--not plainly, but sufficiently well. Now I dare say you can't see me at all!"
Rodney could not; he did not believe that the stranger could see him.
Darkness was about them like a wall.
"Come!"
He felt the fingers which had rested on his sleeve slipped under his arm.
"I will guide you; let me turn you round. We will go this way, towards the signal. You see?--it is set at danger. Some people would say that we are in rather a dangerous position."
Again that unpleasantly sounding snigger.
"I hope you're not feeling nervous; you needn't. That signal is not far off, and when we reach it we are out in the open. I know exactly where we are; this is Redhill tunnel. Not only can I see in the dark, dimly, but still see, but I also have, in a curious degree, the bump of locality. With me it amounts almost to an additional sense. I always know where I am, even when I am in a strange place; in a place in which I have been before I have an incredible perception of my surroundings. For three years I lived quite close to this--in Earlswood Asylum, as a patient."
Earlswood Asylum! Then the creature was a lunatic. That explained the singularity of his voice, of his manner, his proceedings. An idea came into Rodney's head. The creature was small; he felt, as he moved beside him with his hand under his arm, that he probably did not reach to his shoulder. It would be easy to leave him in the tunnel. Who cares what happens to a lunatic?
"I shouldn't if I were you; it wouldn't pay."
The words were so apposite that, despite himself, Rodney started. He had not spoken. Could the creature read what was passing through his brain?
"There are times when I can read people's thoughts just as plainly as if they had spoken them out loud, even when I can't see their faces--really! Isn't it odd? Oh, I am quite gifted. My argument always has been that, in a general way, a lunatic is merely abnormal, nothing more. At intervals a cloud settles on my brain; I can see, I can feel it coming; then, for an indefinite period, I am on the lap of the gods. When it passes my senses are more acute than other people's--abnormally acute, I know it as a fact. Now you see, as I told you, we are out in the open--look! the stars are shining. Look back at the tunnel; isn't it a horror of blackness? Like the horror I know. If we scramble up that bank we shall probably find a gap in the hedge at the top; platelayers often do leave a gap in a hedge close to the wall of a tunnel that they may descend to the line. As I told you, here's our gap; now, over the fence, and the rest is easy sailing."
It seemed to Rodney that since he had quitted the train something must have happened to him mentally; it was as if, all at once, he were playing a part in a dream. In silence, without offering the least remonstrance, he had suffered the stranger to pilot him out of the tunnel, up the steep bank beyond--to dominate him wholly. Now, except that they seemed to be standing in an open space of considerable size, he had not the dimmest notion of their whereabouts; but to the stranger it all seemed plain.
"That big building on our right's an orphanage--St. Anne's; I believe we're on their ground. If we keep straight on to our left we shall come to the high road, from which it is only a few minutes to Redhill station, whence we shall continue our journey to town. Quite an interesting episode this has been, has it not? I am indebted to you for much entertainment. I have seldom had so much enjoyment in a train, Mr. Elmore."
The creature knew his name! How? Who was he? What did it mean? Again he was conscious of an impulse to take him by the throat and--resolve the question in his own fashion. How came the creature to know his name? Although he had uttered no articulate sound, he had his answer.
"The explanation is simple, explanations often are. I heard your uncle address you by your name in a most audible tone of voice just towards the close. Most people have no idea how thin the partition really is which divides one compartment from another. Do you know I have heard that in some instances it is made of papier-mache--fancy! You can always hear if a conversation is taking place in an adjoining compartment--it is surprising how much you can hear if you try, especially if your hearing is as good as mine is--that's another of my gifts. I had my ear glued to the partition most of the time. Of course, I could not hear everything--and I should very much have liked to see, but I gathered enough to enable me to form a general idea, particularly when you began to use violence towards your uncle and to hurl him back into his seat--it amounted to hurling. You see, I was his side. And, of course, when you both raised your voices I could hear a very great deal. I was not in the least surprised at the silence which followed. I understood--oh, I understood! At least, I think I understood. It was perfectly plain that only one person was left in the compartment who counted, and, of course, I knew that was you. I said to myself: 'Now, I wonder how long he'll stay there all alone? He's sure to take advantage of the first opportunity of getting out if the train stops or slows, and if he gets out I'll get out too.'
Wasn't it lucky that it stopped in a tunnel, and that, therefore, we were both of us able to get out without being observed? Quite a stroke of fortune! Here we are, right on the high road, with the station a little more than a stone's throw in front of us."
Rodney listened to what the stranger had to say as, side by side, they tramped across the uneven ground with feelings which he would not have found it easy to clothe with words. Beyond all doubt this was a lunatic; but of what an uncomfortable kind! He had been wiser to have acted on his first impulse and to have left him in the tunnel. Now it was too late; it would not be the same thing to--leave him there. Yet, if he continued in his company, how should he muzzle him? With what would he make him dumb? By what means could he keep him from blurting out the whole story to the first person they might meet? Once more, though he had uttered not a syllable, there came an answer.
"You run no risk of my blabbing, I am not that kind of person--at least, while the cloud is yet afar off. Afterwards, believe me, no one pays any heed to what I say. I play the part of audience only. I am not, like you, one of Nature's criminals; but I am indifferent, which is about the same. What A does to B is A's business and B's, not mine; that I always shall maintain. Here we are at the station. It's been altered since my time; they've given it a new front. When is the next train to town?"
He put the question quite naturally to a porter who was standing about.
"Ten-forty; nearly half an hour to wait--that is if she is punctual, which she's not always of a Sunday night."
The stranger addressed himself to Elmore.