The Garden at No. 19/Chapter 22

S we ate our breakfast I became aware that something in the nature of a veil had fallen between me and Marks. He was very grave, absorbed in his own thoughts. At first he could scarcely give me his attention at all. He ate as one in a dream; and at times his face wore an air of rapt amazement.

I set about trying to reconstruct the tragedy of the night; and at first I could not get him to listen to my suggestions and surmises.

But at last he seemed to be listening; and I said, "I can't understand what happened to Murthwaite. Did Woodfell suddenly turn weak and lose control? And was there a terrifying irruption of the Abyss? Or did Murthwaite get worked up to a state of frenzy by the rehearsal of the rite and take advantage of Woodfell's having turned weak to smash in the door of Miss Woodfell's room? He did persecute her rather a little while ago; but Woodfell stopped it."

"It's all very obscure," said Marks uneasily, as if he did not want to discuss the matter.

"I suppose we may take it that, in the overwrought state of their nerves, the horrible sight of the statue falling on that unfortunate girl drove Woodfell mad, and gave Murthwaite a shock which killed him."

"That's the most reasonable explanation," said Marks eagerly.

I paused, thinking, then I said, "Was it necessary to have the statue in the study when the initiates were rehearsing their rites? Was it always there?"

"Not always," said Marks reluctantly. "It has not been there when I've rehearsed my rite with Woodfell; but then I've never needed it. I've always known my rite."

"Well, how did it get there? Of course it's just possible that in the strength of frenzy Murthwaite and Woodfell carried it into the house from the garden; but you felt its weight yourself."

Marks had awakened from his absorption, and was giving me his full attention, but with a very uneasy air:

"It's possible—it's possible," he said slowly. "A madman's strength is said to be sometimes superhuman. But on the other hand the statue may have been in Woodfell's study for two or three days. Miss Woodfell has not been into it for some time; neither has she been into the garden so as to see that it was still on its pedestal. Woodfell may have had some of these furniture people move it into his study. It may have been part of his process of getting a firm grip on the initiates. He may have been getting them used to the statue."

It was possible; but I had an uneasy sense that he was keeping something back from me, that he had found the explanation which eluded me.

"That's an explanation," I said, in a tone of no great satisfaction. "But oh, it's all very obscure. Why did Murthwaite's footsteps strike me as being incredibly sinister? Why did they frighten Miss Woodfell so terribly?"

"If he were possessed," said Marks.

"Do you mean that the Abyss broke loose in him and that he became a vessel, as it were, charged with malefic power, and so sinister?"

"Something of the kind is possible," said Marks.

"And then what was Helen Ranger doing all the time? She was in No. 19 from about half-past twelve? The statue toppled over and crushed her at cock-crow. We heard it."

"There is only one man who can enlighten us, who really knows what happened; and that is Woodfell. And madness seals his lips," said Marks; and he said it in a tone which seemed to show him not sorry that it should be so.

I was silent, racking my mind for the explanation. At last I said, "I suppose we may take it that it was this final rehearsal which loosened Woodfell's control, and brought about this climax."

"The rehearsal on the eve of the full moon. Possibly, too, the approach of the full moon had something to do with Woodfell's mind giving. You know that many people are a little off their balance at the full moon; and he was suffering from a terrible strain of work," said Marks.

"It may be. But the more I think of it, the more obscure I find it. I don't think that there is much chance of Woodfell's recovering to tell us. We shall never know."

"No; we shall never know," said Marks.

He spoke with no conviction in his tone; and the more strongly than ever I felt that he was keeping something back from me, that he could have given me another explanation of the tragedy. I was a little hurt by his reticence; surely he might have trusted me.

We finished our breakfast; I went up and listened at the door of Pamela's room, and found that she was still sleeping. I told Mrs. Ringrose to take her up breakfast when she awoke; and taking some breakfast on a tray for Woodfell, we went back into No. 19. The fresh air blowing in from the garden had cleared the hall and staircase of the musky smell.

As we entered, Woodfell came out of the dining-room. In the same thick, slurring voice, with the same empty laugh, he said, "Pan is not dead."

It flashed on me that, could I but understand it, this repeated saying of his might give me the key to the mystery.

"What does he mean?" I said to Marks.

"If we knew that, we should know everything," said Marks, echoing my thought.

I set the tray on the table; and we watched Woodfell eat his breakfast hungrily. He had just finished it when we heard a motor car come down the street and stop at the house.

Marks did not move; I went to the front door, opened it, and found two men getting out of a big motor car. I recognized one of them as Murthwaite's brother, from his likeness to the dead man.

He came up the garden path to me, and said, "You're Mr. Plowden? I'm Reginald Murthwaite. What has happened to my brother?"

His anxious face showed him ready to hear bad news; and I said, "I'm afraid I have very bad news for you. Your brother is dead."

"Dead?" he cried. "How? When? What did he die of?"

"I don't know. He died suddenly—in the night."

He turned to the other man and said, "This is Sir Erasmus Blomfield, my doctor. Your wire told me to bring a first-class man. Take us to my brother."

I unlocked the study door; they went in; and stopped short staring at the gruesome scene with amazed, shocked faces.

"What—what has happened?" said Reginald Murthwaite.

I told them as much as I thought fit of what had happened the night before; that I had heard the crash of the falling statue, had come to the house before breakfast to enquire if any accident had happened, had found my friend Woodfell mad, Helen Ranger crushed by the statue, and Edward Murthwaite lying dead in the corner.

When I had finished Sir Erasmus Blomfield went to the dead man, knelt down beside him, and examined him carefully. Then he rose frowning, gave me a curious, searching glance, and said, "Your brother has been dead some hours, Murthwaite. The cause of death is evidently heart-failure. Perhaps it was caused by the shock of seeing this lady crushed by the statue."

I thought I heard a faint sigh of relief from Reginald Murthwaite.

"Then there won't have to be an inquest," he said.

"No—no. I see no reason for one. The cause of death is quite plain—heart-failure. I can give a certificate," said Sir Erasmus.

"Thank goodness," said Reginald Murthwaite, and paused. Then he added, "Couldn't he be taken home?"

"Yes; there is no reason why he shouldn't be. Would you like me to make the arrangements for you? I can easily do it on the way back."

"If you would—if you would—I'm upset—badly upset," said Reginald Murthwaite.

"Yes; you must be. Look here, you go and sit in your car while I talk it over with Mr. Plowden," said Sir Erasmus.

Reginald Murthwaite went heavily out of the room; and as the door shut Sir Erasmus turned to me, and nodding towards the dead man, he said, "He died of fear, abject, absolute fear which stopped his heart. What frightened him?"

"The statue falling on the lady, when his nerves were overwrought. I know that they were engaged in some occult practices; and something happened, but I don't know what," I said.

"I knew it! I knew it when I saw the statue!" he cried. "This damned occult is cropping up constantly, ruining my patients' nerves but I've never had a case as bad as this. What did they do?"

"We shall never know," I said. "There were three people in the house: two of them are dead; one is mad."

His frown deepened; and he went to the sofa and examined the body of Helen Ranger.

"Poor girl, she at any rate was not frightened; and she died instantly," he said. "This statue must weigh nearly a ton; it's close on eight feet long." He unveiled it. "What a face! Hideous!" And he scowled at it. "I should like to see the owner of the house, Woodfell."

"He's in the dining-room with a friend of his I wired for," I said, and led the way to it.

I introduced Marks to him; and after watching Woodfell, who sat without a movement at the table before the empty breakfast tray, he began to ask him questions. He got no answers from him; and presently we went out into the hall.

"It's a hopeless case," he said.

"Is there no chance of his recovery?" I said.

"There is no saying for certain so soon after the shock; but I can give you no hope."

"Then we shall never know what happened," I said.

"It's most unlikely. Are you an intimate friend of his?"

"I'm engaged to be married to his niece."

"Then that simplifies matters," he said; and his face cleared. "You can act for him. The Murthwaites will want no fuss in the newspapers, both for private and business reasons. A mysterious death will do the firm no good. And I take it that you want as little fuss as possible too."

"I'm a solicitor," I said.

"Good; that does simplify matters. Well, by removing Edward Murthwaite's body at once to his house and burying him from there, it will considerably lessen any fuss the newspapers may be inclined to make about the accident to this unfortunate girl."

"Yes; it will. It will simplify matters considerably."

"Then I will make the arrangements for the removal at once," he said. "And I must be quick about it."

"And you can leave the inquest and the reporters to me," I said.

"Very good; I will tell Murthwaite; and you will find him quite ready to pay handsomely for your services. I'll be off at once. The sooner you are free to inform the coroner of the accident the better."

He shook hands with me and drove off in the motor car.

I locked the study door again; and then after a vain attempt to induce Woodfell to come out of No. 19, Marks and I went back to my study. I sent off a wire to the office to say that I was detained; and then Pamela came down, looking very little the worse, thanks to her long sleep, for the terrors of the night.

She was shocked, naturally, to hear of the misfortune which had befallen her uncle; and I was thankful that she was not bound to him by any strong tie of affection. As we waited for the coming of the men to remove Murthwaite's body, we talked fitfully of the events of the night. Marks asked her some questions, chiefly about the sinister footsteps; and she asserted again her odd belief that they had not been the footsteps of Murthwaite.

I expected that money and the name of Murthwaite would quicken the removal of the body; but I was surprised when a carriage from a leading firm of undertakers came for it within an hour of the departure of the motor car. The men were quick about the removal; and not a single spectator watched them carry the coffin to the carriage. The oppression of horror which had brooded over the road served at any rate the useful purpose of keeping it clear at this juncture.

Marks and I watched the carriage go down the road.

"Now I can inform the coroner of the accident," I said.

"And I must let the others know that there will be no celebration of the rites to-night," said Marks.

"I wonder whether there will be anything dreadful, an irruption of the Abyss to-night again," I said.

"No; there will not," he said firmly.

"Well' I shall take no chances. I shall see that Miss Woodfell sleeps in Town."

"That's just as well," he said; "but it's a most significant fact that with the extinction of Woodfell's mind the horror passed—the Phantasmagoria vanished."

"The horror passed at cock-crow," I said.