"I don't understand, inspector. You'd better explain."
"Very well. The death of Lady Sutton was reported early Friday morning. Medical examination proved she died of heart failure, the result of shock. Witnesses' evidence revealed that you had deliberately frightened her with full knowledge of her weak heart and with intent so to kill her. That is murder, Mr. Peel."
"Certainly," Peel said coldly. "If you can prove it. May I ask the identity of your witnesses?"
"Digby Finchley, Christian Braugh. Theone Dubedat, and—" Ross broke off, coughed, and laid the paper aside.
"And Sidra Peel," Peel finished dryly. Again he met his wife's venomous gaze. He understood it all, at last. They'd lost their nerve and selected him for the scapegoat. Sidra would be rid of him; her joyous revenge. Before Ross or Richards could intervene, he grasped Sidra by the arm and dragged her toward a comer of the library.
"Don't be alarmed, Ross. I only want a word alone with my wife. There'll be no violence, I assure you."
Sidra tore her arm free and glared up at Peel, her lips drawn back, revealing the sharp white edges of her teeth.
"You arranged this," Peel said quietly.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"It was your idea, Sidra."
"It was your murder, Robert."
"And that's your evidence."
"Ours. We're four to one."
"All carefully planned, eh?"
"Braugh is a good writer."
"And I hang for the murder on your evidence. You get the house, my fortune, and get rid of me."
She smiled like a cat.
"And this is the reality you asked for? This is what you planned when you went through the burning veil?"
"What veil?"
"You know what I mean."
"You're insane."
She was genuinely bewildered. He thought: Of course. I wanted my old world just as it was. That would exclude the mysterious Thing in the shelter and the veil through which we all passed. But it doesn't exclude the killing which came before nor what's happening after.
"No, Sidra, not insane," he said. "Merely refusing to be your scapegoat. I won't let you bring it off."
"No?" She turned and called to Ross: "He wants me to bribe the witnesses." She walked back to her chair. "I'm to offer each of them ten thousand pounds."
So it was to be a bloody battle. His mind clicked rapidly. The best defense was an attack and the time was now. "She's lying, inspector. They're all lying. I charge Braugh, Finchley, Miss Dubedat, and my wife with the willful murder of Lady Sutton."
"Don't believe him!" Sidra screamed. "He's trying to lie his way out of it by accusing us. He—"
Peel let her scream, grateful for more time to whip his lies into shape. They must be convincing. Flawless. The truth was impossible. In this new old world of his, the Thing and the veil did not exist.
"The murder of Lady Sutton was planned and executed by those four persons," Peel went on smoothly. "I was the only member of the group to object. You will grant, Inspector Ross, that it sounds far more logical for four people to commit a crime against the will of one, than one against four. And the testimony of four outweighs that of one. Do you agree?"
Ross nodded slowly, fascinated by Peel's detached reasoning. Sidra beat at his shoulder and cried, "He's lying, Inspector. Can't you see? If he's telling the truth ask him why he ran away. Ask him where he's been for three days . . ."
Ross tried to calm her. "Please, Mrs. Peel. All I'm doing is taking statements. I neither believe nor disbelieve anyone yet. Do you wish to say any more, Mr. Peel?"
"Thank you. Yes. The six of us had played many silly, sometimes dangerous, practical jokes in the past, but murder for any reason went beyond sense and tolerance. Thursday night the four realized I would warn Lady Sutton. Evidently they were prepared for this. My wine was drugged. I have a vague memory of being lifted and carried by the two men and—that's all I know about the murder."
Ross nodded again. The doctor leaned over to him and whispered. Ross murmured, "Yes, yes. The tests can come later. Please go on, Mr. Peel."
So far so good, Peel thought. Now, just a little color to gloss over the rough edges. "I awoke in pitch darkness. I heard no sounds; nothing but the ticking of my watch. These dungeon walls are ten and fifteen feet thick, so I couldn't possibly hear anything. When I got to my feet and felt my way around I seemed to be in a small cavity measuring . . . oh . . . two long strides by three."
"That would be six feet by nine, Mr. Peel?"
"Approximately. I realized I must be in some secret cell known to the men of the clique. After an hour's shouting and pounding on the walls, an accidental blow must have tripped the proper spring or lever. One section of thick wall swung open and I found myself in the passage where—"
"He's lying, lying, lying!" Sidra screamed.
Peel ignored her. "That is my statement, inspector." And it'll stand up, he thought. Sutton Castle was known for its secret passages. His clothes were still rumpled and torn from the framework he had worn to impersonate the devil. There was no known test to show whether or not he'd been drugged three days previous. His full beard and moustache would eliminate the shaving line of attack. Yes, he could be proud of an excellent story; farfetched but heavily weighted by the four-against-one logic.
"We note that you plead not guilty, Mr. Peel," Ross said slowly, "and we note your statement and accusation. I confess that your three-day disappearance seemed to incriminate you but now"—he took a deep breath—"now, if we can locate this cell in which you were confined . . ."
Peel was prepared for this. "You may or you may not, inspector. I'm an engineer, you know. The only way we may be able to locate the cell is by blasting through the stone, which may wipe out all traces."
"We'll have to take that chance, Mr. Peel."
"That chance may not have to be taken," the doctor said.
The others exclaimed. Peel shot a sharp glance at the little man. Experience warned him that fat men were always dangerous. Every nerve went en garde.
"It was a perfect story, Mr. Peel," the fat doctor said pleasantly. "Most entertaining. But really, my dear sir, for an engineer you slipped up quite badly."
"Would you mind telling me on what you base that?"
"Not at all. When you awoke in your secret cell, you said you were in complete darkness and silence. The stone walls were so thick that all you could hear was the ticking of your watch."
"And so they were."
"Very colorful," the doctor smiled, "but alas, proof that you're lying. You awoke three days later. Surely you're aware that no watch will run seventy hours without rewinding."
He was right, by God! Peel realized that instantly. He'd made a bad mistake . . . unforgivable for an engineer . . . and there was no going back for alterations and revisions. The entire lie depended on a whole fabric. Tear away one thread and the whole fabric would unravel. The fat doctor was right, damn him! Peel was trapped.
One look at Sidra's triumphant expression was enough for him. He decided he would have to cut his losses like lightning. He arose from his chair, laughing in admitted defeat. Peel, the gallant loser. Abruptly dashed past them like a shot, crossed arms before his face, hands over ears, and plunged through the glass windowpanes.
Shattered glass and shouts behind him. Peel flexed his legs as the soft garden earth came up at him, and landed with a heavy jolt. He took it well, and was on his feet and running toward the rear of the castle where the cars were parked. Five seconds later he was vaulting into Sidra's two-seater. Ten seconds later he was speeding through the open iron gates to highway beyond.
Even in this crisis, Peel thought swiftly and with precision. He had left the grounds too quickly for anyone to note which direction he would take. He sent the car roaring down the London road. A man could lose himself in London. But he was not a man to panic. Even as his eyes followed the road, his mind was sorting through facts methodically, and without flinching coming to a
hard decision. He knew that he could never prove innocence. How could he? He was as guilty of the killing as all the rest. They had turned on him and he would be pursued as Lady Sutton's sole murderer.
In wartime it would be impossible to get out of the country. It would even be impossible to hide for very long. What remained, then, was an outlaw living in miserable hiding for a few brief months only to be taken and brought to trial. It would be a sensation. Peel had no intention of giving his wife the joy of watching him dragged through a headline prosecution to the executioner's noose.
Still cool, still in full possession of himself, Peel planned as he drove. The audacious thing would be to go straight to his house. They would never think of looking for him there . . . at least for a time; certainly enough time for him to do what had to be done. "Vendetta," he said. "Blood for blood." He drove deep into London toward Chelsea Square, a savage, bearded man, now looking much like Teach, the buccaneer.
He approached the square from the rear, watching for the police. There were none about and the house looked quite calm and inauspicious. But, as he drove into the square and saw the front facade of his home, he was grimly amused to see that an entire wing had been demolished in a bombing raid. Evidently the catastrophe had taken place some days previous, for the rubble was neatly piled and the broken side of the building was fenced off.
So much the better, Peel thought. No doubt the house would be empty; no servants about. He parked the car, leaped out and walked briskly to the front door. Now that he had made his decision, he was quick and resolute.
There was no one inside. Peel went to the library, took pen, ink and paper and seated himself at the desk. Carefully, with lawyer-like acumen, he wrote a new will cutting his wife off beyond legal impeachment. He was coldly certain that the holograph will would stand up in court. He went to the front door, called in a couple of passing laboring men, and had them witness his signing of the will. He paid them with thanks and ushered them out. He closed and locked the front door.
He paused grimly and took a breath. So much for Sidra. It was the old possessive instinct, he knew, that drove him on this course. He wanted to keep his fortune, even after death. He wanted to keep his honor and dignity, despite death. He'd made sure of the first; he would have to execute the second quickly. Execute. Precisely the right word.
Peel thought for another moment. . . there were so many possible roads to extinction . . . then nodded his head and marched back to the kitchen. From the linen closet he took an armful of sheets and towels and padded the windows and doors with them. As an afterthought, he took a large square of cardboard and with shoe-blacking printed: DANGER! GAS! on it. He placed it outside the kitchen door.
When the room was sealed tight, Peel went to the stove, opened the oven door and turned the gas cock over. The gas hissed out of the jets, rank and yet cooling. Peel knelt and thrust his head into the oven, breathing with deep, even breaths. He knew it would not take very long before he lost consciousness. He knew it would not be painful.
For the first time in hours some of the tension left him and he relaxed almost gratefully, awaiting his death. Although he had lived a hard, geometrically patterned life and traveled a pragmatic road, now his mind reached back to more tender moments. He regretted nothing; he apologized for nothing; he was ashamed of nothinga—nd yet he thought of the days when he first met Sidra with nostalgia and sorrow.
What slender youth, bedewed with liquid odors,
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,
Sidra—?
He almost smiled. Those were the lines he had written to her when, in the romantic beginning, he worshiped her is a goddess of youth, of beauty and goodness. She was all the things he was not, he'd believed; the perfect partner. Those been great days; the days when he'd finished at Manchester College and had come up to London to build a reputation, a fortune, an entire life . . . a thin-haired boy with precise habits and mind. Dreamily he sauntered through memories as though he were recalling an entertaining play.
He came to with a start and realized that he'd been kneeling before the oven for twenty minutes. There was something very much awry. He'd not forgotten his chemistry and he knew that twenty minutes of gas should have been enough to make him lose consciousness. Perplexed, he got to his feet, rubbing his aching knees. No time for analysis now. The pursuit would be on his neck at any moment.
Neck! That was an obvious course. Almost as painless as gas and much quicker.
Peel shut off the oven, took a length of stout laundry line from a cupboard and left the kitchen, picking up the warning sign en route. As he tore up the cardboard, his alert eyes surveyed the house looking for a proper spot. Yes, there, in the stairwell. He could throw the rope over that beam and stand on the balcony above the stairs for the drop. When he leaped, he would have ten feet of empty space above the landing.
He ran up the stairs to the balcony, straddled the railing and threw the rope over the beam. He caught the flying end as it whipped around the beam and swung toward him. He tied the end into a loose bowline and ran the knot up the length of the rope until it snugged tight. After he had yanked twice to secure the hold on the beam he put his full weight on the rope and swung himself clear of the balcony. It supported his weight admirably; no chance of its breaking.
When he had climbed back to the railing, he shaped a hangman's noose and slipped it over his head, tightening the knot under his right ear. There was enough slack to give him a six-foot drop. He weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. That was just about right to snap his neck clean and painlessly at the end of the drop. Peel poised, took a last deep breath, and leaped without bothering to pray.
His last thought as he dropped down was a lightning computation of how much time he had left to live. Thirty-two feet per second squared divided by six gave him almost a fifth of a—There was a shattering jerk that jolted his entire body, a crack that sounded large and blunt in his ears, and agonizing pain in every nerve. He was twitching spasmodically.
He realized he was still alive. He hung by the neck in horror, understanding he was not dead and not knowing why. The horror crawled over his skin like an invasion of ants and for a long time he hung and shuddered, refusing to believe that the impossible had happened. He twitched and shuddered while the chill enveloped his mind, numbing it, breaking his iron control.
At last he reached into a pocket and withdrew his penknife. He opened it with difficulty, for his body was palsied and unmanageable. He sawed until he severed the rope above his head and fell the last few feet to the stair landing. While he still crouched he felt his neck. It was broken. He could feel the jagged edges of the broken vertebrae. His head was frozen at an angle that made everything topsy-turvy.
Peel dragged himself up the stairs, dimly understanding that something too ghastly to understand had overtaken him. There was no attempting a cool appraisal of this; there was no additional data to be received, no logic to apply. He reached the top of the stairs and lurched through Sidra's bedroom to the bath which they both sometimes shared. He groped in the medicine cabinet until he grasped one of his razors; six inches of fine hollow-ground honed steel—With a trembling stroke, he sliced the edge across his throat.
Instantly he was deluged with a great gout of blood and his windpipe was choked. He doubled over in agony, coughing reflexively, and his throat lathered with red foam. Still hacking and gasping, with the breath whistling madly through his throat, Peel crumpled to the tile floor and spasmed while blood gushed with every heartbeat and soaked him through. Yet, as he lay there, thrice killed, he did not lose consciousness. Life was clinging to him with all the possessiveness with which he had clung to his life.
He crawled upright at last, not daring to look in the mirrors the wreckage of himself. The blood—what remained of it him—had begun to clot. He could still draw breaths at times. Gasping, almost totally crippled, Peel crook'd into the bedroom and searched through Sidra's dresser until he found her revolver. It took all his remaining
strength to steady the muzzle against his chest and trigger three shots into his heart. The impacts smashed him back against a wall with a frightful crater torn in his chest and a heart no longer beating; and still he lived.
It's the body, he thought in fragments. Life clings to the body. So long as there's a body—the merest shell—enough to contain a spark—then life will remain. It possesses me, this life. But there has to be an answer—I'm still enough of an engineer to work out a solution . . .
Absolute disintegration. Shatter this body into particles—bits—a thousand, a million mites—and there will no longer remain a cup to contain this persistent life. Explosives. Yes. None in the house. Nothing in this house but an engineer's ingenuity. Yes. How, then, and with what? He was quite mad by now, and the ingenious idea that came to him was mad, too.
He crawled into his study and removed a deck of washable playing cards from a drawer. For long minutes he cut them into tiny pieces with his desk scissors until he had a bowlful. He removed an andiron from the fireplace and painfully took it apart. The shaft was hollow. He packed the brass stem with the playing card bits, ramming the shreds of nitrocellulose tight. When the stem was packed solid he put in the heads of three matches and plugged the open end with the threaded belt which had attached it to the andiron legs.
There was a spirit lamp on his desk, used to keep pots of coffee hot. Peel lit the lamp and placed the andiron stem directly in the flame. He drew the desk chair close and hunched before the heating bomb. Nitrocellulose was a powerful explosive when ignited under pressure. It was only a question of time, he knew, before the brass would burst into violent explosion and scatter him around the room; scatter him in blessed death. Peel whimpered in torment and impatience The red froth at his throat burst forth anew while the blood soaking his clothes caked and hardened.
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