The Outlaw (Marriott Watson)/Chapter 1

HE circumstances of that strange and terrible period of my life, to the relation of which I am now setting my hand, may very well appear incredible to others, as they would have been inconceivable to me ere I was involved in the actual events. But I am willing to excite any incredulity, and even to run the risk of being branded for a liar, partly out of a sense that it is necessary to my own honour to clear myself in the public mind, and in part because the record of my adventures and my sufferings may not be without use and interest to my fellows. As for the truth of this statement which I am about to make, the facts are known in every detail to one man at least—Detective Serjeant [sic] Drummond; and there are others at Scotland Yard and elsewhere, including Colonel Simes-Little, R.E., who can bear witness to the chief events narrated; so that in any case I snap my fingers at the incredulous with equanimity.

I date the beginning of my troubles from the 10th day of December in the year 189–, at which time I was but newly returned from India, after five years' service with my regiment, including some hard fighting among the hill tribes. I had taken a wound in a recent skirmish, had been invalided home, and, on the day I speak of, had been enjoying my convalescence and London for some three months. In town I put up always at my club, a house convenient to the stations, the theatres, the restaurants, and indeed to all the central seats of business and pleasure. The morning of the 10th dawned, thick with mist and rain; and when I rose it was to throw open the window and peer out upon the dirty sky disconsolately from my lofty bedroom. I had to meet an old friend in some small place near Croydon, and the weather threatened me with an abominable expedition. But I was too old a soldier to be pulled up by a bit of dirt, and late in the afternoon I was rattling along in the train for Purley Junction. My friend's house lay a little back from the station, and in a rustic nook—a pleasant spot enough in which to spend the summer, within call of the glowing common, and under the shadow of slowly-rising hills. His name, house, the place itself, and the transactions of that evening, bear in no way upon my narration; or rather, they have this connection only—that I found the company so congenial and the welcome so warm that I lingered beyond the proper hour of departure, and when finally I hurried off and reached the station, it was to find the last train gone.

The sky had cleared and the night was showing fine. I was warm from my company, and was propelled by an abundant flow of vitality. I would not go back to the house and beg a lodging; on the contrary I would walk on and catch a train at Croydon. At Croydon, however, there was no train due for some time, and, rather than wait, I resolved to push forward. It was dry overhead, the air was fresh, and I was quite enjoying the exercise. Why not continue to the confines of the urban radius and pick up a wandering cab?

I have walked thirty miles and more under a roasting sun in tropical and difficult countries; and presently I found the landmarks of the journey pass me indifferently easy. I drew into more populous quarters along a straight blind road. No voice or footstep broke the stillness; not even a policeman was in sight. I guessed it was somewhere between two and three in the morning, the deadest of all the nocturnal hours. The road, hereabouts, in that southern suburb was broad and broken by tramway lines. The houses upon each side lay at the back of little gardens, and, I could fancy, were deeply embowered in the summer. The district was strange to me, but I could only suppose that I was drawing into London from my direction, as well as from the increasing numbers of the houses. I remember that I walked still briskly, smoking a cigar, and entertaining very cheerful thoughts, with no suspicion that within an hour my life would be so horribly contorted and maimed. The night was quite black, and the rain had begun to fall again. As I noticed this I saw standing at a gate, a little in front of me, the figure of a tall man, partly thrown into view by the full gleam of, a gas-lamp. I barely noticed him and no more; I strode on—when suddenly he stepped out upon the pavement and stopped me.

“Excuse me, sir,” said he, speaking very courteously but as though under the influence of some profound feeling, “but I should be very grateful if you could help me.”

I searched his face, for the moment quite at a loss to understand what he wanted. He gave an odd little laugh.

“My dear sir,” he said, interpreting my perplexity: “no, I don't mean that. What I want is a witness. There is an urgent necessity—I will explain presently. May I ask you to come in? Indeed, it is but your signature as a witness I want.”

“It seems an odd time to want a deed signed,” I remarked, considering him.

“It is,” he said, “hence my need of you,” but offered no further explanation, He was a good-looking man, somewhat pale of colour, and with delicate features; he was clearly a gentleman. I threw away my cigar.

“Very well,” said I, “I am at your service.”

He thanked me, and without further ado led the way through the gate and along a little wintry path to the door of the house beyond. It was a large, ugly building, completely shuttered in front, which I thought remarkable, and a thin thread of light shone from the hall. The door was ajar, and the man pushed it open. A bitter wind with rain came flying up the wretched garden, set the empty branches creaking, and whistled into the house. It was a horrid, melancholy sound. I stepped over the threshold, and the door clapped to sharply. In that instant the face of this man, turned as it was to me, with an invitation, showed drawn, white and ghastly, yet was lighted, as it seemed to me, with a sickly flicker of satisfaction.

“Will you be good enough to follow me?” he said: “it is downstairs.”

I had taken some steps along the hall, which rang loudly in my ears, dismal with-echoes. It was as if some bare house were calling from all its empty chambers. But at the top of the stairs which descended into the basement I paused momentarily: a faint misgiving affected me; and then, dismissing the thought, I clattered down the bare steps upon the heels of my host. We came immediately upon that into a room, barely furnished with a patch of carpet, a table and some chairs, and presenting the appearance of a shabby breakfast-room. It was lighted by a blazing gas-jet in the centre of the ceiling, a small asbestos fire glowed on the hearth; and before the fire, with her eyes on the door, stood a tall, strong and handsome woman. She might have been about thirty years of age, and her features were marked by pallor, like those of the man, but were broader and bolder. She had the air of courage and resolution, very different from his more delicate manner; yet upon both man and woman were the signs and traces of a strong contest.

“This gentleman,” said the man, introducing me, “has been so very kind as to oblige us.”

“You are very good,” said the lady, bowing at me, but without any expression in her eyes. “You must think us mad; but it is really a matter of great moment to us.”

“My dear madam,” I said, “I am delighted if I can be of any use, even at this late hour.” I turned to the table, where the man was fingering among papers “Perhaps you will let me know what I can do.”

There was a sudden silence, and then the woman spoke. “Will you explain?” she said harshly to the other. He started and began rummaging among the papers uneasily. “Of course,” he said, in his somewhat mincing voice. “Here is a document which I should like you, sir, to sign as a witness. Will you please take a seat at this table?”

I sat down before the document he indicated, and set my hand on it. I looked up. “You wish me to read this?” I asked.

The man hesitated. “If you desire to,” said the woman coldly. “We are not known to you, and therefore our private affairs cannot interest you.”

“That is true,” I said: “yes, I see no necessity to read it. I am to witness your signatures.” I took them, on a sudden inspiration, to be husband and wife who had emerged from some tragic relations and were resolved to part. The story of their recent emotions was still visible on their countenances. “Adelaide Katherine Shaw”—“Reginald Hunt Shaw,” I read aloud; “in the presence of...” and I dipped my pen in the ink,

The man Shaw, standing by my side, held one hand upon the paper, as if to keep it straight and smooth for me. His fingers trembled; and my glance went up involuntarily, seeking his face. He was conscious of my scrutiny—he moistened his lips, but held his eyes averted. From him my gaze travelled, all within a brief interval of time, across the table to his wife, as I conceived her. She had fallen into a chair by the fire, her face thrust over the chair-back towards us, her eyes directed on me, expressing some nameless terror, the hard look compressing her mouth. She did not flinch, like her husband, but met me, still with that signal of fear. I remember that this extreme agitation, thus exhibited by each in different ways, moved me with a certain sense of pity for these unfortunate people. They had made, it seemed, a shipwreck of their lives together, and were yet suffering under the fume and fever of their conflicting passions. I put the pen to the paper. “Oliver Challen,” I said, as I wrote, and I added the name of my club.

A great gust of a sigh breathed from the man beside me, “We are much indebted to your courtesy,” he said; though I could not but fancy that his lips parted in some mean and cunning smile—grin, indeed, I might call it.

I rose. “You are welcome,” I said, and I reached for my hat on the table.

Upon that the woman also got to her feet, and coming forward began to talk. She had been silent until now, silent with a grim rigour of control; but she broke all at once into what in contrast with her previous taciturnity might be called garrulousness. I imagined, in accordance with my theory, that the strain had been somewhat lifted from both by this simple act of mine. They breathed freer, and returned at a bound to their normal characters. The man, Shaw, put the document swiftly into his pocket.

“It is a wet night,” said he, “and the wind blows keenly.”

“You are very wet,” cried the woman, suddenly noticing my clothes. “You must not go out in that condition, sir!”

“You will at least drink a glass of hot whisky?” said Shaw, in his soft and frightened voice.

“My dear madam,” I replied, “I am accustomed to weather, but certainly, if you have the whisky...”

Shaw left the room at once, and I sat down by the fire and warmed my hands. The woman stood at a little distance, silent still, but casting now and then a clandestine glance at me. I could perceive once, when I observed her, that her nostrils were quivering, and she put a hand on the mantelpiece as if for a support. When Shaw returned he filled me a glass of toddy, stirred the fire, offered me a cigar, and had managed to assume a false air of brisk cheerfulness. The discomfort of their minds was plainest in their long, unnatural pauses; it was as though they were unreadily fetched back to the present from their thoughts. It was odd, but I had the thought that to neither of them did I quite exist; they barely were conscious of me; and it was only the mechanical form of politeness which they maintained. I warmed myself; my clothes steamed in the heat; I sipped at my glass and observed them.

Suddenly Shaw started, and made a movement as if listening. He apologised: “Pray excuse me; I will be back presently,” and hastily, and with signs of great excitement, withdrew, leaving me there with the woman.

She plied her fingers restlessly in her dress, eyeing me when she fancied I did not observe her. A certain silence fell upon us. Once our eyes met, and with a start she came back from somewhere and parted her lips as if to speak. But no sound issued from her mouth—a sort of gulp was swallowed in her throat. She got to her feet, and I saw that she trembled like a lath in the wind. Again she advanced towards me, struggling with speech, but quickly turned and fled from the room in a rush.

I rose, and for a moment thought of following her, but recollecting that Shaw would presently return, and considering that I might be rudely intruding upon some intestine and private emotions, I came back to the fire. As I did so a little noise striking through the uncurtained window by the fireplace, saluted my ears, and approaching I looked out. The window, sunk in that basement half-way below the level of the ground, fronted the garden and the street. The rain was falling heavily, but across the blackness of the night streamed the thin rays of the light within the hall above. They fell coldly, faintly, tremulously, upon the face of a man standing before the door. I had but a glimpse of the features as the door was opened and he vanished into the house; but the impression I had was that of a fat, smooth-shaven man. I returned and sank back into my seat. It was a strange hour for visitors, yet the situation of these two people was peculiar throughout. I resolved to finish my toddy and go forth, without waiting further. I stretched my legs comfortably; I sipped at the glass, I warmed myself; and the peace of one who has contended with the inhospitable elements and is soundly tired stole on me. Outside the wind shrilled among the branches and the rain drove against the panes.

All of a sudden I was startled by a noise. It was sharp, loud and instantaneous, and rang above the sounds of the uproarious night. I believe that with the warmth and comfort I must have dozed, but this startling irruption on the stillness of the house roused me thoroughly. Commingling through my senses ran the nocturnal whistlings and howlings, yet I was conscious that this strange new sound had alarmed me. It set all my nerves on edge. I started to my feet and went quickly to the door. It was locked.

For the first time I began to conceive a dread of my surroundings, and to have more than a suspicion of my adventure. It seemed beyond doubt now that something was amiss. What could it be? and how was I to get out? Who had locked me in? and why? These questions danced through my mind in flashes; and upon that, as suddenly and unexpectedly as before, the gas went sharply out, and the room was filled with the blackness of midnight.

I stood where I was for fully thirty seconds. The gas-fire had gone out with the gas-jet, and with that darkness seemed to have fallen the silence of the grave. Presently I set my hand again upon the handle of the door and shook it. It yielded in no way, and after a vain effort to break the hinges, I groped my way across the room, and finding the window, threw back the latch and lifted the sash. Here again I was brought to a pause, for outside a row of heavy iron bars forbade all hope of egress. I sat down in the chair and began to consider the situation. The reason for my incarceration eluded me. Why was I locked in so unceremoniously, and with such treacherous pretences? I could frame no conjecture. Yet you can conceive my position, and the dismal agitation of my mind, thus to be imprisoned in that subterraneous chamber, enveloped in thick darkness, and with no guess as to the fate that was intended for me, or the transactions in which I was involved. I must have sat for half an hour in this disconsolate state of mind. The storm was still striding through the garden and gibbering about the house, but through its noises I seemed now to catch a sound as of a key turned somewhere. Jumping quickly to my feet I stumbled towards the door, and pulling at the handle found it open. I stepped out swiftly, and breathing deeply in that new sense of safety, peered above me into the darkness of the stairway. A sound as of some person moving stealthily came down to me; and, encouraged by this evidence of human life, as well as inspired with a fresh and flowing anger, I made up the steps, groping and feeling my way.

I paused at intervals to listen, and reports of that other body were signalled to me. I heard breathing not my own, and a creak of the stairs echoed in that bare house. I think we both must have advanced very slowly; for, consider—the place was pitch-black, and I at least had no notion of the plan of the house nor of the identity of this invisible creature I was following. But soon a cold stream of wind plied about my shoulders, and, from a dull break in the darkness, I realised hastily that we had come into the hall, and that the door stood open to the garden.

Here lay my proper road, and I have no doubt that I should have taken it, and left for ever the mysteries of that strange house; but at this moment I was aware of something brushing by the wall, and of swift, uncertain footsteps ahead. I turned from the freedom of the outer air, and, seized with an irresistible curiosity, sprang forward in the direction of the sound. I grasped nothing but the empty air, and my foot stumbling on the foremost step of the ascending stairway I came to the floor. Picking myself up, I listened, and there seemed to float down the soft sounds of creeping feet. Utterly bewildered by this experience, and strung to a high note of interest, I pushed noiselessly up the stairs towards the first floor.

Directed from time to time by creaks and snatches of sound, I moved on, always forward, in pursuit of this receding creature. Once I was almost tempted to laugh at myself for a fool, and to suppose that I was stalking in this furtive and diligent spirit no more than a wandering cat. But I had some other sense upon me, a sense of the unfathomable, even a sense of alarm; and I held to my quest. I was now conscious that I had entered a large room, uncarpeted and bare, and that my quarry was somewhere before me. I caught the sound of hard breathing, as of one in distress, as I came to a pause near the centre of the room. The chamber appeared to me, though silent, to sing loudly with the darkness and the stillness. Innumerable whispers were in my ears. I had a great feeling of strain upon all my senses; and I darted forward, and fell—over what?

The thing was soft and silent. I had one match in my pocket, which I had carefully preserved against an emergency. I struck it swiftly; the flare suddenly illuminated the central patch of the room, and I was looking down at the fat, smooth face of the man I had seen enter at the door not an hour before.

I uttered a cry, and a second cry started upon mine; the match fell from my agitated fingers and went out. Shaking and terrified, I stood in the darkness and the stillness, by the side of that dead body, and the creature I had pursued was crouching somewhere near by in the room.

I had no hesitation in my mind. This man had been murdered, and the object of my chase was the murderer. Among all the perplexities of this mysterious affair this much was clear to me. And perhaps I too had been a predestined victim. God alone knew. My back stiffened: I set my teeth together. I had caged the murderer, and I would keep him there. I sat down by the doorway and began my vigil.

I cannot give you any exact idea of that abominable watch in such gruesome company—the murderer and his victim. I sat for more than an hour with my eyes open upon that darkness, listening, straining, attentive to every interruption of the quiet. The living had sunk into the silence which the dead brought, and at first I feared that he had escaped. But presently I was aware of a fluttered breathing, such as I had heard before, issuing from the opaque nothingness of the room. It grew and fell; it frightened me; it seemed almost as if it was the inspiration of the dead, and that not far from me the bosom of that hapless wretch was slowly rising and falling with the return of life. I was so worn upon by my dreadful watch. The door was open; I had access to the garden and the night; yet I clung to my post as a soldier should cling to the duty he has had imposed upon him.

So crept an hour or more away, and presently after I perceived about the edges of the shuttered windows dim lines and shafts of growing light. I waited but a little longer, and then, quickly going forward, I threw open the shutters with a movement, and at a stride the dawn was in the room.

It fell, grey and wan, upon the corpse on the floor, with its fat swarthy face and black glimmering eyes; and slowly, and as though reluctantly, it detached from the wall the figure of a woman, standing, her eyes fastened upon the body.

It was Mrs. Shaw. I was amazed and startled. Somehow the possibility had never occurred to me, and I had in my innermost thoughts conceived it to be the man Shaw himself that I was guarding. She had the horror of that night upon her face—it was haggard, streaked with ghastly colour; and as I stepped forward into the room I was conscious that her grey and kindling eyes were upon me. They were the eyes of a ghost. From beside the dead man I addressed her.

“This is murder,” I said. “Who has done this?”

She made no answer, keeping her gaze upon me.

“Madam,” I pursued, “it is necessary that we should come to some understanding. I am invited into this house—lured, apparently, by your husband; I am locked in a room; and I find this and you together. What am I to think?”

Still she returned no answer, but shifted her gaze to the dead man, shrinking with a tiny shudder into the wall.

But I was not to go unanswered, for at that moment a voice sounded behind me, and, turning quickly, I came face to face with Shaw. He was miserably changed, and the change was not for the better. The furtive, hesitating look was gone from his face, and instead I beheld a countenance charged with savagery, and diabolic in its disorder.

“You may ask that,” he said, with a ferocious sneer, “but the question is what are the police to think?”

He had the air of one drunk, at least with his own passions; and he was smoking a cigar, from which he knocked the ashes. His eyes wandered everywhere save in the direction of the corpse.

“What are you doing here?” he asked savagely of his wife.

Still she made no sign, opening her mouth but saying nothing.

It was I who spoke, for now I seemed to see it all. “You have done this,” I cried; “you have killed this man.”

He glanced at me askew, his mouth working. “No doubt you have evidence,” he said, with a sneer.

“I have this evidence,” I replied sternly: “that I will have the police here in five minutes and put them in possession of the whole story.”

He laughed shortly, almost with exultation. “I hope we shall see the police,” he exclaimed; “they are very badly wanted.”

I went to the window, and he made a step to follow me.

“You had better consider ere you go farther,” he said with meaning, a black look gathering on his face.

I turned sharply, afraid ot a murderous attack.

“No,” he replied with a serpentine grin, “you have nothing to fear from me—only from your own actions.”

“What!” I cried, “you fool, do you dare to accuse me of having a hand in this foul murder?”

He shrugged his shoulders mechanically. “Not I,” he said. “I have just come on the scene. My wife and I were passing early to catch a train at Waterloo into the country, and hearing a noise were induced to enter this house through the open doorway.”

He spoke deliberately, keeping his eye on me, his brows bent, his fingers rolling the cigar round and round. I even laughed, the story was so grotesque; and from being horrified, I was growing angry now.

“Well, the police may consider this all in due time,” I said.

“They will have a simple matter to determine,” he replied quietly, but as it were spitting the words in my face. “This man's name is Kennedy,” and for the first time he threw a glance at the corpse. “I see he has been shot. It is murder,” and he gasped on the word: “who could have done it but some one who had a grudge against him?”

“You!” I cried.

“No,” he said: “the man who wrote a letter to him, inviting him to come to this house last night—the man who signed that letter—Oliver Challen!”

“It is false!” I exclaimed in my bewilderment; “I never heard of the man.”

“On the contrary,” said he, “you signed a type-written letter last night.”

A horrible thought overtook me. “The document!” I cried.

“You wrote on a piece of paper which lay beneath the document,” he said, “Come, Mr. Challen,” he went on, for I fell back in that amazing shock: “there is no harm done yet. We wish you no evil. The door is open, and there is time to get away. The letter lies in Kennedy's pocket, but you will be far away by the time it is found.”

Suddenly a fury seized me; the treachery of this diabolical trick raised me to a passion of indignation. I made a rush at him.

“Stand back!” he cried, and, swiftly drawing, cocked a revolver; but like a tiger I sprang upon him, striking at him with my fist and with all my force. An explosion followed; I seemed to see the course of the bullet as it tore along the bare floor and came to a stop in the corner; but Shaw never moved from where he had fallen. My blow, delivered with such force, had taken him under the ear, and I think he never breathed again.

The incidents here related had passed very rapidly. Not five minutes had elapsed since Shaw's entrance; and now he lay dead by the side of his victim. I had forgotten all but that dreadful fact, when I was recalled to my surroundings by the woman's voice. “He is dead?” she asked, and bending by my shoulder peered into the face of her husband. I said nothing, for I could find no words to speak, confronted by that dual tragedy. She was poised for one full minute above her dead, and then drew back and faced me.

“You have killed him,” she said quietly; and, strange to say, at that moment, even in the growing light I noticed that her hair, which had been black some hours ago, was streaked with white.

“God knows I meant nothing,” I exclaimed. “It is all too horrible!”

She fixed her eyes on me. “Listen,” she said: “that man”—and she made a terrible gesture of hatred towards the dead man Kennedy—“that man was infamous. He kept us in terror of our lives. It was blackmail. We, who are young, had grown old under him. He had to die. What right had you to judge between us?”

She spoke very quietly, but very tersely.

“I judge no man,” I said dully. “But I pray God that I would never fasten my crime on some one else.”

“He was desperate,” she went on, meaning her husband. “He had tried everything. But he gave you your chance. You might have got away. Why, at the risk of everything I crept back to set you free betimes, that you might escape. See,” and she put her hand to her bosom, “here is what I stole to save you, stole from that—that body—the letter which should condemn you. He never knew it, but I could not let you suffer. You might have walked through the door into the night and have gone. I perilled our lives to save you. And this—this is what I have gained.”

She turned her eyes upon the prostrate body of her husband, still without expression; but suddenly her features moved, struck with some violent emotion.

“And now,” she cried, “it is too late. You have killed him. You have murdered him. Here are your two victims. You are a double murderer.”

“What do you mean?” I returned.

She rushed to the window, calm no longer, but taken and shaken in a terrible gust of passion. “They are at the gates now. They see the open door. I will have you handed over to them, I”

I made for the window; but that mad woman, thinking that I was about to break through, raised a shrill scream, and then below (for she had spoken truly) I caught sight of two constables hurrying towards the house, excited by that fearful cry. At once the terrible position in which I stood sprang in a revelation upon me. Perhaps it was that awful scream that actuated me, perhaps I was unnerved by the abominable experience of these past three hours, and it may be that I was left still weak from my wound. Probably all these facts had some share in the fatal step I took, which then and there, and in a second of time, deflected the current of my life. But whatever was the cause, I turned, leaving the woman screaming at the window; and flying down the stairs at a leap, I broke open the back door, and fled across the patch of garden behind into the gray and hopeless dawn.