A silent witness
the punt in readiness to bear him to the deep water in the middle; a
silent, easily-handled conveyance. A few stones, or some heavy object
from the boat-house, would be all that was needful; and in a moment he
would be rid for ever of the dreadful witness of his crime.
Thus reflecting--not without dissatisfaction at the passive part that
I had played in this sinister affair--I passed through the turnstile,
or “kissing-gate,” at the entrance to Millfield Lane. Almost
certainly, the murderer or the victim or both, had passed through that
very gate on the night of the tragedy. The thought came to me with
added solemnity with the recollection of the silent wood and the dark,
still water fresh in my mind, and caused me unconsciously to tread
more softly and walk more sedately than usual.
The lane was little frequented at any time and now, at mid-day, was
almost as deserted as at midnight. Very remote it seemed, too, and
very quiet, with a silence that recalled the hush of the wood. And yet
the silence was not quite unbroken. From somewhere ahead, from one of
the many windings of the tortuous lane, came the sound of hurried
footsteps. I stopped to listen. There were two persons, one treading
lightly, the other more heavily, apparently a man and a woman. And
both were running--running fast.
There was nothing remarkable in this, perhaps; but yet the sound smote
on my ear with a certain note of alarm that made me quicken my pace
and listen yet more intently. And suddenly there came another sound;
a muffled, whimpering cry like that of a frightened woman. Instantly I
gave an answering shout and sprang forward at a swift run.
I had turned one of the numerous corners and was racing down a
straight stretch of the lane when a woman darted round the corner
ahead, and ran towards me, holding out her hands. I recognized her at
a glance, though now she was dishevelled, pale, wild-eyed, breathless
and nearly frantic with terror, and rage against her assailant spurred
me on to greater speed. But when I would have passed her to give chase
to the wretch, she clutched my arm frantically with both hands and
detained me.
“Let me go and catch the scoundrel!” I exclaimed; but she only clung
the tighter.
“No,” she panted, “don’t leave me! I am terrified! Don’t go away!”
I ground my teeth. Even as we stood, I could hear the ruffian’s
footsteps receding as rapidly as they had advanced. In a few moments
he would be beyond pursuit.
“Do let me go and stop that villain!” I implored. “You’re quite safe
now, and you can follow me and keep me in sight.”
But she shook her head passionately, and, still clutching my sleeve
with one hand, pressed the other to her heart.
“No, no, no!” she gasped, with a catch in her voice that was almost a
sob, “I can’t be alone! I am frightened. Oh! Please don’t go away from
me!”
What could I do? The poor girl was evidently beside herself with
terror, and exhausted by her frantic flight. It would have been cruel
to leave her in that state. But all the same, it was infuriating. I
had no idea what the man had done to terrify her in this way. But that
was of no consequence. The natural impulse of a healthy young man when
he learns that a woman has been ill-used is to hammer the offender
effectively in the first place, and then to inquire into the affair.
That was what I wanted to do; but it was not to be.
“Well,” I said, by way of compromise, “let us walk back together.
Perhaps we may be able to find out which way the man went.”
To this she agreed. I drew her arm through mine--for she was still
trembling and looked faint and weak--and we began to retrace her steps
towards Highgate. Of course the man was nowhere to be seen, and by the
time that we had turned the sharp corner where I had found the body of
the priest, the man was not only out of sight, but his footsteps were
no longer audible.
Still we went on for some distance in the hopes of meeting someone who
could tell us which way the miscreant had gone. But we met nobody.
Only, some distance past the posts, we came in sight of a sketching
box and a camp-stool, lying by the side of the path.
“Surely those are your things?” I said.
“Yes,” she answered. “I had forgotten all about them. I dropped them
when I began to run.”
I picked up the box and the stool, and debated with myself whether it
was worth while to go on any farther. From where we stood, nothing was
to be seen, for the lane was still enclosed on both sides by a seven
foot fence of oak boards. But the chance of overtaking the fugitive
was not to be considered; by this time he was probably out of the lane
on the Heath or in the surrounding meadows; and meanwhile, my
companion, though calmer and less breathless, looked very pale and
shaken.
“I don’t know that it’s any use,” I said, “to tire you by going any
farther. The man is evidently gone.”
She seemed relieved at my decision, and it then occurred to me to
suggest that she should sit down awhile on the bank under the high
fence to recover herself, and to this, too, she assented gladly.
“If it wouldn’t distress you,” I said, “would you mind telling me what
had happened?”
She pondered for a few seconds and then answered: “It doesn’t sound
much in the telling and I expect you will think me very silly to be so
much upset.”
“I’m sure I shan’t,” I said, with perfect confidence in the
correctness of my statement.
“Well,” she said, “what happened was this as nearly as I can remember:
I was coming up the path from the ponds and I had to pass a man who
was leaning against the fence by the stile. As I came near to him, he
looked at me, at first, in quite an ordinary way, and then, he
suddenly began to stare in a most singular and disturbing fashion, not
at me, so much, as at this little crucifix which I wear hung from my
neck. As I passed through the turnstile, he spoke to me: ‘Would you
mind letting me look at that crucifix?’ he asked. It was a most
astonishing piece of impertinence, and I was so taken aback that I
hardly had the presence of mind to refuse. However, I did, and very
decidedly, too. Then he came up to me, and, in a most threatening and
alarming manner, said: ‘You found that crucifix. You picked it up
somewhere near here. It’s mine, and I’ll ask you to let me have it, if
you please.’
“Now this was perfectly untrue. The crucifix was given to me by my
father when I was quite a little child, and I have worn it ever since
I have been grown up--ever since he died, in fact, six years ago. I
told the man this, but he made no pretence of believing me, and was
evidently about to renew his demand, when two labourers appeared,
coming down the lane. I thought this a good opportunity to escape, and
walked away quickly up the lane; it was very silly of me; I ought to
have gone the other way.”
“Of course you ought,” I agreed, “you ought to have got out into a
public road at once.”
“Yes, I see that now,” she said. “It was very foolish of me. However,
I walked on pretty quickly, for there was something in the man’s face
that had frightened me, and I was anxious to get home. I looked back,
from time to time, and, when I saw no sign of the man, I began to
recover myself; but just as I had got to the most solitary part of the
lane, just about where we are now, shut in by these high fences, I
heard quick footsteps behind me. I looked back and saw the man coming
after me. Then, I suppose, I got in a sudden panic, for I dropped my
sketching things and began to run. But as soon as I began to run, the
man broke into a run too. I raced for my life, and when I heard the
man gaining on me, I suppose I must have called out. Then I heard your
shout from the upper part of the lane and ran on faster than ever to
gain your protection. That’s all, and I suppose you think that I have
been making a great fuss about nothing.”
“I don’t think anything of the kind,” I said, “and neither would our
absent friend if I could get hold of him. By the way, what sort of
person was he?--a tramp?”
“Oh, no, quite a respectable looking person; in fact, he would have
passed for a gentleman.”
“Can you give any sort of description of him, not that verbal
descriptions are of much use except in the case of a hunchback or a
Chinaman or some other easily identifiable creature.”
“No, they are not,” she agreed, “and I don’t think that I can tell you
much about this man excepting that he was clean-shaved, of medium
height, quite well dressed, and wore a round hat and slate-coloured
suede gloves.”
“I’m afraid we shan’t get hold of him from that description,” I said.
“The only thing that you can do is to avoid solitary places for the
present and not to come through this lane again alone.”
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose I must, but it’s very unfortunate. One
cannot always take a companion when one goes sketching even if it were
desirable, which it is not.”
As to the desirability, in the case of a good-looking girl, of
wandering about alone in solitary places, I had my own opinions; and
very definite opinions they were. But I kept them to myself. And so we
sat silent for awhile. She was still pale and agitated, and perhaps
her recital of her misadventure had not been wholly beneficial. At the
moment that this idea occurred to me, a crackling in my breast-pocket
reminded me of the forgotten canvas, and I bethought me that perhaps a
change of subject might divert her mind from her very disagreeable
experience. Accordingly, I drew the canvas out of my pocket, and,
unrolling it, asked her what she thought of the sketch. In a moment
she became quite animated.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “this looks exactly like the work of that artist
who was working on the Heath a little while ago.”
“It is his,” I replied, considerably impressed and rather astonished
at her instantaneous recognition; “but I didn’t know you were so
familiar with his work.”
“I’m not very familiar with it,” she replied; “but, as I told you, I
sometimes managed to steal a glance or two when I passed him. You see,
his technique is so peculiar that it’s easily recognized, and it
interested me very much. I should have liked to stop and watch him and
get a lesson.”
“It is rather peculiar work,” I said, looking at the canvas with new
interest. “Very solid and yet very smooth.”
“Yes. It is typical knife-work, almost untouched with the brush. That
was what interested me. The knife is a dangerous tool for a
comparative tyro like myself, but yet one would like to learn how to
use it. Did he give you this sketch?”
I smiled guiltily. “The truth is,” I admitted, “I stole it.”
“How dreadful of you!” she said, “I suppose that you could not be
bribed to steal another?”
“I would steal it for nothing if you asked me,” I answered, “and
meanwhile, you had better take possession of this one. It will be of
more use to you than to me.”
She shook her head: “No, I won’t do that,” she said, “though it is
most kind of you. You paint, I think, don’t you?”
“I’m only the merest amateur,” I replied. “I annexed the sketch for
the sake of the subject. I have rather an affection for this lane.”
“So had I,” said she, “until to-day. Now, I hate it, but, might I ask
how you managed your theft?”
I told her about the empty cottage and the rejected canvases in the
rubbish box.
“I’m afraid none of the others would be of any use to you because he
had drawn a brushful of paint across each of them.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t matter,” she said. “The brush-strokes would be on
dry paint and could easily be scraped off. Besides, it is not the
subject but the technique that interests me.”
“Then I will get into the cottage somehow and purloin the remaining
canvases for you.”
“Oh, but I mustn’t give you all this trouble,” she protested.