Twisted Clay, page 15
The music of bells called me back to sensibility; but I must have stared uncomprehendingly at the stars for minutes, ere I realised where I was. Before I could move, The Voice addressed me.
“Your task is ended, little Jean. Go home to bed and sleep!”
I gazed at the fallen torch, whose rays passed across the open grave and illuminated a distant headstone. Subconsciously, without recourse to reason, I felt that the hole should be filled in.
“I am tired. Oh! so tired. Need I return the dirt to the grave?”
“Go home, child. Leave everything as it is. You have done well.”
Mechanically I gathered up the torch and my handbag, and fled from the scene. How I reached home I never knew. I remembered passing through the cemetery gates; then came a complete hiatus until I found myself at the top of the stairs, about to steal along the hall. I ached in every bone. My hands throbbed pitiably. My head expanded and contracted in alternating movements which threatened to drive me mad. And in my nostrils lingered that disgusting stench which had emanated from old Mr. Cummings as he rotted a few inches under daddy. How daddy endured it was beyond comprehension. Why did he not remove himself to a sweeter resting-place?
I must have removed my clothes and donned pyjamas, for the first thing that greeted my eyes, on waking next morning, was a heap of earth-stained clothing in a corner. Myrtle was standing over me, shaking me fiercely by the shoulders. Her eyes were wide with fear, and blazed into mine.
“Have you been there again?” she whispered huskily, shaking me as a terrier shakes a rat.
“Let me sleep.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Let me sleep. For pity’s sake, let me sleep!”
“Your clothes! My God! look at your clothes!”
“Please let me sleep.”
She plunged a hand under the blankets and seized my wrist, drawing my hand into sight, and cried aloud at its appearance. It was masked with mingled blood and dirt which had congealed into a crust of hideous import.
“Oh, my God!” she whispered dully; and again: “Oh, my God!”
I felt myself sinking into slumber; but she shook me into wakefulness — shook me fiercely and remorselessly.
I struggled feebly. “Let me alone. I want to sleep.” She grew gentle. “Tell me all about it, Jean.”
“There is nothing to tell. I’m tired.”
“Were you at the cemetery?”
“Yes.”
“My God! Why?”
“Because I promised daddy.”
“What did you promise him?”
“I want to sleep.”
She was implacable. “What did you promise him?”
“To bind up his wound, so that the dirt wouldn’t addle his wits. He could not think clearly.”
She dropped my hand and shrank away, gazing at me wildly. “You promised to bind up his wound,” she gasped. “What wound?”
“The wound in his skull. His brains kept oozing out, and the dirt kept creeping in. It stopped him from concentrating.”
Staring at me strangely, she backed to the door and vanished. I heard her sobbing as she ran along the hall. Then, as I fell into a delicious sleep, there came the sound of a key turned hurriedly in a lock.
I woke with my mind icily clear. Never had my wits been more alert. A few seconds served to reveal the appalling danger in whose shade I stood. After all my scheming and acting, culminating in the disposal of my father, a few hours’ madness had caused me to sacrifice my hard-won security. In my folly I had betrayed myself beyond repair. The violated grave would be discovered before noon — possibly had been discovered already. Daddy’s remains would be identified without difficulty. The police already were in possession of finger-prints and other evidence against me. The fact that daddy had been murdered would necessitate inquiries at home, and inevitable exposure would be my portion.
Wholly sane, and determined to fight desperately for my salvation, I leapt from bed and dressed myself as quickly as my battered fingers would permit. I left the stained and bedraggled clothing, which I had worn during my maniacal labours, in the corner where I had hurled it when disrobing. I realised that concealment of my action was impossible. The sole hope lay in adopting a bold course, and trusting to my youth and guile to preserve me.
I went straight to the telephone, rang the police station, and asked for the sergeant in charge who had proved such a pliant accessory previously. He was on the wire almost immediately.
“Sergeant,” I whispered, “come to the house at once. This is Jean Deslines speaking. My father has been murdered, and I have irrefutable evidence in my possession. I am afraid to speak much on the telephone. Please hurry!”
“I’ll come at once, Miss Deslines,” he replied, and rang off.
My next step was to visit Myrtle. She still was locked in her bedroom, and I had tremendous difficulty in inducing her to admit me.
“I am perfectly sane, Myrtle,” I whispered through the keyhole. “I don’t blame you for having doubts, for God knows how it would have been possible for you to have decided otherwise. The truth is, that I was half insane this morning, owing to the fact that poor daddy had been murdered by his best friend. I went through hell last night, seeking evidence; and it is a miracle that I found the strength of mind to carry it through without going mad in reality. But I did, dear, and I triumphed. The fiend who struck daddy down will pay the penalty of his crime on the gallows.”
I heard her approach the door. “Who killed your father, Jean?”
“Dr. Murray.”
“My God!”
“It’s true. I suspected it from the outset; and now I know. A chance phrase gave me the clue, and I made a solemn vow to my dead father that I would avenge his death. Open the door, Myrtle. There’s nothing to fear.”
After a dismaying delay, she yielded to my importunities and unlocked the door. I slipped inside and closed it again.
“Don’t be afraid,” I admonished, as she gave a startled cry. “All that I have told you is true. I have rung up the police, and they will be here any minute. Look at me, dear. Do I look mad?”
Reassured by the critical glance which she cast at me, she came to my side. “What does it all mean, Jean?”
“I haven’t time for details. You’ll hear the whole story when the sergeant comes. Possibly I was foolish in acting personally instead of notifying the police; but, you see, I was not sure. I was fearful that they would regard my story as too bizarre for belief — would imagine that the loss of my father had turned my brain, so I decided to furnish the evidence myself before enlisting their aid.” I shuddered ostentatiously. “My God it was an awful ordeal, Myrtle. If you only knew the hell I endured in that lonely cemetery, disinterring a body, you would pity me. I’m inclined to believe that I was half insane when you woke me this morning . . . Oh, Myrtle, Myrtle!” I threw myself on her breast, and sobbed.
She fondled me tenderly, running her hands through my unwashed curls, in which the dirt still lingered. When at length I raised my eyes to hers, I had the satisfaction of realising that at least one important witness had been convinced. I had small doubt of my ability to deceive the sergeant. He was a congenital simpleton, already strongly prejudiced in my favour.
Awaiting his arrival, I canvassed the position: I was under no delusions about my recent madness. The chiming bells, the mysterious Voice, the ridiculous belief that shooting-stars were hormones, told me in trumpet tones that my reason had been impaired. The hereditary taint, transmitted by my mother, had almost proved my undoing. However, by a lucky fluke, I had recovered in time, for there still was an excellent chance of extricating myself from the consequences of my mania. But I would need all my wits about me. A single false step would destroy me irrevocably.
It was unfortunate for Dr. Murray that once more he was to become my scapegoat; but there was a measure of poetic justice in the fact, seeing that his desire for a gland-graft had caused all the trouble. Nor did I fear that he would be haled to the gallows. The worst that he would be called upon to endure would be a disconcerting suspicion. No jury would convict him on the evidence which I could concoct. True, he probably would be ruined professionally; but what was that comparatively trivial penalty compared with lifelong imprisonment in a mental hospital for myself? The more I pondered the possibilities, the more I felt that I could bear with equanimity any punishment that accrued to the meddlesome doctor. Besides, he was a plump little man; and I detested fat!
When the sergeant rang the bell, I had completed the details of my defence, and was eager for the fray. But I did not delude myself that an easy task confronted me.
CHAPTER XXI
He was seated in the lounge, and rose as I entered.
“Sit down, sergeant,” I said. “I have a strange story to tell you; one that will strain your credulity to the utmost. However, by the time I have finished you will be convinced that the world contains one fiend who should end his life on the gallows.” I wiped my eyes on a lace handkerchief.
“You say your father was murdered, miss?”
I nodded. “I think it would be best to let me tell my story. When you have heard it, you may ask any questions you please. Will that suit you, sergeant?”
“I think it would be the best way.”
“Sergeant, you remember how Dr. Murray treated me?”
“I’m not likely to forget that.”
“Do you remember, also, what I told you about his constant whispering to my grandmother, behind daddy’s back?”
“I do.”
“Well, when daddy disappeared I was suspicious of him. I connected the whispering with it. I have since discovered that my suspicions were unfounded; my grandmother is quite innocent. What they found to whisper about, I don’t know; but I am satisfied that it was not about poor daddy’s death. In that relation Dr. Murray acted alone.”
The sergeant shuffled his feet uneasily, and opened his mouth; but before he could speak I waved him into silence.
“After that dreadful night when you saved me from him, I thought and thought over daddy, knowing how the doctor hated him. Then, one afternoon, I came face to face with him in the School of Arts.”
“Face to face with whom?” inquired the sergeant.
“With Dr. Murray. I think he had been drinking, for his face was very red and his breath just reeked of spirits. He stared at me horribly and began to chuckle. I tried to push past him; but he stepped in front of me. It was during the dinner hour, and no one was about.
“’Where’s your interfering policeman now?’ he sneered.
“I was angry at the slighting manner in which he referred to you and asked him where my father was. At that, he made a clutch at me. I pushed him on the chest and he fell on one of the seats, striking his head against its back. The blow stunned him. He lay there, quite unconscious, and I was terrified almost out of my wits for I thought that had killed him. I felt cold all over. Then he began to mumble, and I caught daddy’s name.
“’As a personal favour, Deslines,’ he muttered, ‘would you run me across to the hospital? I strolled over, and it would be a damned nuisance either to walk to the hospital or go home for my car. It would oblige me greatly, and would only take you a few minutes. I won’t be stopping there.’
“I stared at him in amazement, then gradually began to realise the significance of his words. He had induced daddy to take him in the car after we returned home that night. I listened eagerly; but he remained silent for what seemed like hours. Every minute I feared that someone would come in; and just as I had made up my mind to leave, he spoke again.
“’They won’t think of digging up one dead man to find another, Deslines,’ he mumbled. ‘You’re safe till the Day of Judgment.’
“Then he opened his eyes and stared at me. Fearing further trouble if I stayed, I left as quickly as I dared, and hurried home.
“I did not sleep a wink that night, sergeant. A sixth sense told me that he had murdered my daddy, and had revealed his secret while unconscious on the seat in the School of Arts. But how was I to discover the truth from a few mumbled phrases? I pondered his words all night, repeating them over and over to myself, but I was no wiser when at last I fell asleep.
“Enlightenment came next afternoon. All day I had been repeating his words, and suddenly I realised just what they meant. ‘They won’t think of digging up one dead man to find another’! There was only one interpretation: my poor father had been buried with someone else! But with whom? I set myself to puzzle it out.”
I paused, having suddenly thought of Myrtle, who I had promised should hear my story.
“Would you mind if I called my cousin?” I asked. “She is rather an important witness, having been more or less in my confidence from the outset.”
“Get her, by all means,” he concurred.
I ran to the foot of the stairs, and called softly. She came at once, and sat down beside the sergeant.
“Where was I? Oh! yes, I remember. I thought, and thought, but without success. Then I had an inspiration. Obviously, Dr. Murray had not killed two men, so where was he to find a dead man with whom to bury daddy? There was only one place — in a cemetery! It also was obvious that it must be the local cemetery, otherwise he would need to carry a . . . a corpse” (I sobbed dramatically) “a long distance.”
I paused to wipe my eyes, and gloated inwardly at the tense attention of my fool of a sergeant. Again wiping my eyes, I proceeded. “I went to the local newspaper office and hunted through the files. As I had anticipated, I learned that a Mr. Cummings had been buried that very day. I was convinced that my daddy lay in his grave.”
The sergeant gave a muffled exclamation; and Myrtle gasped.
“You guess the rest, I know,” I said. “For weeks I tried to pluck up courage to verify my theory; but it was such a dreadful task for a young girl that I faltered. Then I spurred myself by kneeling down under a pine tree one night — daddy always loved the old pines — and making a solemn vow to my dead father that I would expose his murderer.”
I turned to Myrtle. “You remember how mystified you were, when I told you that I had made a promise to daddy?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I remember only too well.”
“I thought you would. But even after I had made my solemn promise, I found it almost beyond my power to goad myself to action. Day followed day, and still I delayed.”
“No wonder,” interjected the sergeant. “Why didn’t you inform the police?”
“I thought of that. My God! How often did I think of it; but what had I to tell them? A few words muttered by an unconscious man! Was I to ask them — to ask even you? — to move on such meagre evidence, disinter a dead man, and incur the displeasure of his relatives? Would I not have been laughed at, perhaps regarded as a lunatic? Also, if the police did act, to find my suspicions unfounded, what would be my position? The more I reflected, the more it was brought home to me that I, and I alone, must test my theory.
“While I was trying to screw my courage to the test, I had a very vivid dream. I thought that daddy came to me with a great hole in his chest, from which blood was running.” (Again I interrupted my narrative to shudder for the benefit of my audience.) “He said nothing; just gazed at me sadly. It made a tremendous impression on me.
“I was too distraught just then to realise how natural such a dream was, in view of my perpetual concentration on the subject of his death. I told my cousin about it at once; I could not wait till morning, it had affected me so much. I went immediately to her room.”
“That is so,” volunteered Myrtle with a nod.
“Shortly after this, I acted. I went to the cemetery, found a shovel in a shed, and began to dig. But my strength failed before the task was completed. I was so exhausted that I could not even return the earth to the hole. I just had to run away and leave everything as it was. My poor hands were a mass of broken blisters, and my clothes were ruined. My cousin noticed my condition, and accused me of having been the culprit who disturbed a grave. That, of course, was after she had read the papers. I made no attempt to deny it. My conscience was clear; all I had to do, in event of emergency, was to explain everything.
“Following the uproar over the disturbed grave, I lived in hope that the police would dig deeper; but they merely filled in the hole, leaving me where I had been at the outset. I waited until my hands had healed a little, then went to the cemetery again last night to complete my task. I dug, and dug! It seemed to me that never had a grave been made so deep. Then, just as I was beginning to despair, the shovel struck something. I was afraid to look, and stood shaking in the dark for a long, long time. But again I screwed up my courage, and turned my torch downward. I had no difficulty in identifying daddy’s . . . poor daddy’s . . . poor daddy’s clothes. I think I went mad with grief. I jumped into the hole, and scraped the dirt away from his head with my fingers.”
Here I sobbed hysterically, while Myrtle clasped my waist and the sergeant patted my head, both uttering soothing words which they might have addressed to a child. But I had my part to play, and clung to them desperately as I sobbed. When I judged that this pantomime had lasted long enough, I dried my eyes and proceeded with my story.
“His face, sergeant . . . his poor, dear face . . . How can I tell you? . . . But he was still my lost daddy, and I fondled his head. I was horrified when my fingers entered a terrible hole in the back of it. I shrieked aloud, and I think I must have fainted, for I can remember nothing till I found myself wetting a small towel under a tap. I had brought it to wipe my hands on, when the work blistered them. I had missed such an aid dreadfully on my first visit, and was careful to include it on this occasion. I washed his dear head as well as I could, then rinsed the towel and tied it over his wound. You see, even in my distracted state I could not bear to think of him contaminated by contact with the bare earth. Most persons . . . are laid to rest in . . . in coffins, which protect them, while poor daddy had been thrown into a hole like a dead animal. Oh! it was horrible to think of. It is horrible to think of even now!”
