The House by the River Part 9

Stephen braced himself and went down. The man in the hall was an obvious detective--square built and solid, with hard grey eyes and a dark walrus moustache, a bowler hat in his hand. In the other he held the end of a yellow sack, muddy in patches and discoloured.

"Sorry to trouble you, sir, but can you tell me anything about this sack? I'm a police officer," he added unnecessarily.

Stephen felt extraordinarily cool.

He said, "Can't say, Inspector. Sacks are very much alike. We had one in the scullery once, but--" He had the sack in his hands now, looking for the label.

"And what happened to _your_ sack, sir?" said the man smoothly.

"We lent it to Mr. Egerton, and--_Hullo!_ where did you find _this_, Inspector? It is ours!" And he held it out for the other to see the blurred lines of the label st.i.tched inside the mouth of the sack. The name of Stephen Byrne, The House by the River, W. 6, was still legible.

"Very curious, sir," said the man, looking hard at Stephen. "Do you remember when you lent it to Mr. Egerton?"

Stephen made a rapid calculation. The exact period was seventeen days.

He said, "When was it, Cook? About three weeks ago, wasn't it?"

"Couldn't say, sir, I'm sure. All I knows is it went one day, and the other day we asked for it back from Mr. Egerton when the man came about the bottles, and he said--Mr. Egerton said, that is--as he was sorry he'd lost it picking up wood, or so Mabel said, and it was Mabel as went round for it."

Stephen was feeling cooler and cooler. It was all amazingly easy.

He said, "That's right, Cook; I remember now. I gave it to Mr. Egerton myself one evening; he was going out to get wood." Then, with a tone of cheerful finality as one who puts an end to a tedious conversation with an inferior, "Well, I'm sure we're much obliged to you, Inspector, for bringing it back. Where--"

"If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to keep it a little longer. Those are my orders, sir--there's a little matter we're clearing up just now--"

"Just so. Certainly, Inspector. As long as you like."

"Thank you, sir. And as I take it, sir, none of your household has seen anything of this article since you lent it to Mr. Egerton?"

"As far as I know, no one--I certainly haven't seen it myself. In fact, I was looking for it only the other day."

The Inspector thought obviously for a moment, and obviously decided to say no more. "Well, that's all, sir, and thank you."

Stephen bowed him affably out of the door. "Of course, if it's anything _important_, I should look in and see Mr. Egerton--he's only next door."

"No, sir, it's of no consequence. I'll be off now."

The man departed, with many smiles, and "sirs," and "Thank you's," and Stephen watched him round the corner.

Then he went into the garden, full of a curious relief, almost of exultation. He could delight at last in the sun and the boats and the happy, irresponsible people. He, too, could look at the beloved river without any urgent anxiety of what it might carry into his view. The worst was over; the doubts were done with. Emily was found, and there was an end to it. And he had diddled the policeman. How cleverly, how gloriously he had diddled the policeman. Perfect frankness and easiness and calm--a gracious manner and a good lie--they had worked perfectly.

He had never hoped for anything so easy. Almost without intention, certainly without plan, as if inspired he had uttered those tremendous lies about John. And, of course, he could hardly have said anything else. Cook had given John away already; one must be consistent. Poor old John! He must see John--talk to him--warn him--no, diddle him. He could manage John all right.

He went down the steps into his tiny dinghy--a minute, fragile, flat-bottomed affair, just large enough and strong enough for a single man. It flitted lightly on the surface like one of those c.u.mbrous-looking waterflies which move suddenly on the quiet surface of ponds with a startling velocity. He called it _The Water Beetle_.

With a few strokes Stephen shot out into the lovely sun, and drifted a little, faintly stirring the oars as they rested flatly on the golden water with a movement which was almost a caress. It was very delightful out there, very soothing and warm. It was inspiring, too. Stephen thought suddenly of the long poem. He must have a go at that--now that things were better, now that his mind was easier.

Then he saw John walk down to the end of his garden, smoking comfortably the unique and wonderful Sunday morning pipe. He rowed back immediately to the wall, framing smooth explanatory phrases in his head. John, he saw, was gazing with a strained look through his gla.s.ses at a muddle of wreckage drifting down from the Island.

"You needn't worry, John," he said; "it's all over--it's--it's _found_.... Come down the steps."

John came down and squatted at the foot of the steps, saying nothing.

Stephen tied up the boat, but did not get out of it.

"A man's been here this morning--a policeman--with the sack ... he wanted to know if we knew anything about it.... Cook saw him first, and let out that it was ours--said we'd lent it to you--silly fool ... about three weeks back ... when I saw him it was too late to say anything else...." He stopped and looked up. Surely John was going to say something.

John looked steadily at him and said nothing.

"She said Mabel went round and asked you for it, and you said--what _did_ you say, John?"

John looked out across the river and thought. Then he said in a far-away voice:

"I said I'd taken it out to pick up wood--and lost it. Overboard ... I had to say something."

"h.e.l.l!" Stephen hoped that this exclamation had an authentic note of perplexity and distress. He was conscious of neither, only of a singular clearness and contentment.

"Well, what are we going to do now?"

There was no answer.

"Margery's very bad this morning," he went on, with seeming irrelevance.

"We're very worried. The doctor ..."

John interrupted suddenly, "What _can_ we do? What will the police do next? Will they come and see me?" He had a sudden appalling vision of himself in a stammering, degrading interview with a detective.

"No, John, they won't bother you.... I'm the man they'll bother....

There'll be an inquest, of course.... And I'm afraid you'll have to give evidence, John ... say what you said before, you know ... say you lost it ... about three weeks ago ... that's what I said ... somebody must have picked it up.... I'm awfully sorry, John--but it will be all right...." Then, doubtfully, "Of course, John ... if you'd rather ...

I'll go at once and tell them the whole thing.... I hate the idea of you ... but there's Margery.... The doctor said ... I don't know what would happen...."

John was roused at last. "Of course not, Stephen ... you're not to think of it ... it'll be all right, as you say.... Only ... only ..." with a strange fierceness, "I wish to G.o.d it had never happened." And he looked at Stephen very straight and stern, almost comically stern.

"So do I," said Stephen, with a heavy sigh. For the first time since the policeman left he had the old sense of guiltiness and gloom.

"There's one thing, Stephen ..." John hesitated and stammered a little.

"I've heard some awful rumours about ... about that girl ... immoral and so on ... they're not true, are they?... anyhow, don't let's encourage them, Stephen ... it's not necessary ... and I don't like it...." He stopped, and was aware that he was blus.h.i.+ng.

It was a lame presentation of what he had intended as a firm unanswerable ultimatum: "If you want me to help you, you must drop all this." But Stephen somehow always intimidated him.

Stephen thought, "The d.a.m.ned old prig!" He said, "What _do_ you mean, John? You don't imagine I ... these servants, I suppose ... but I quite agree.... I must go and see Margery now. So long, John ... and thank you so much."

John went up into his garden and into his house and sat for a long time in a leather chair thinking and wondering. Stephen walked briskly in and whispered to the nurse. Mrs. Byrne was asleep.

He sat down at the sunny table in the study window, and drew out again the long poem. It was a good idea--a very good idea. He read through what he had written; uneven, yes, but there was good stuff in it. A little polis.h.i.+ng up wanted, a little correction. All that bit in the middle.... He scratched out "white" and scribbled over it "pale." Yes, that was better. The next part, about the snow, was rather wordy--wanted condensing; there were six lines, and four at least were very good--but one of them must go--perhaps two. He sharpened a pencil, looking out at the river.

VIII