The Whispering Lane/Chapter 2

her youthful years and fragile looks, Aileen More was remarkably strong-willed and self-possessed. Naturally, she endured an age-long sixty seconds of sheer horror, when stumbling so unexpectedly upon Edith’s enemy lying dead in the grounds of Edith’s cottage. The thought of a possible explanation flashed into her mind immediately, as she recalled the late conversation; and a vivid sense of her friend’s peril suggested instant action. After ascertaining that Slanton really was lifeless, she picked up Toby, who circled distrustfully round the corpse, and returned swiftly to the cottage. Here a fresh shock awaited her. Edith was lying unconscious on the floor near the open window.

“Jenny! Jenny!” Aileen flew to open the door and summon the servant. “Bring a jug of water at once. Miss Danby has fainted. Get the smelling salts and sal volatile from my bedroom. Be quick, be quick.”

Issuing these directions rapidly, she crossed the passage to shut up the terrier in the opposite room; then returned to attend to the insensible woman. Kneeling beside her, the girl loosened her collar, chafed her hands, placed a cushion under her head, and did all that was possible at the moment, to better the situation. Jenny, a stout red-haired damsel, not overgifted with brains, and extremely stolid on all and every occasion, tardily arrived with a jug in one hand and two bottles in the other. “Lor, Miss, whatever did missus go off like this for?” asked Jenny, heavily.

“A sleepless night—the heat of the room—Oh, I don’t know. Here, give me the jug!” and Aileen dashed the water over Edith’s white face. Very wisely, she decided to say as little as possible to the maid, who was known to be a notorious gossip. Then, as Edith showed no signs of returning to her senses, she ordered Jenny to help place her on the sofa. “You lift her feet,” she said, slipping her hands under Miss Danby’s arms. “Careful now.”

The two women accomplished the transfer from floor to couch fairly easily, as Edith was little else than skin and bone, owing to the wasting effect of secret troubles. The smelling salts produced some signs of revival, for Miss Danby heaved a long weary sigh, half-opened her eyes, and closed them again, listlessly. “Get me a glass of water and a teaspoon,” commanded Aileen, uncorking the sal volatile bottle: and these came to hand in less time than might have been expected from Jenny’s cumbersome appearance. “Now you can go. She’ll soon be herself again. I’ll call you if I want anything.”

Thus banished at this thrilling moment, the overgrown domestic retired reluctantly, overwhelmed with justifiable curiosity as to the reason for the unexpected fainting of her mistress. Despite her stolidity and limited capacity, she inherited all the easily-aroused suspicion of the lower-class scandalmonger, and had long since guessed that there was “something queer” about Miss Danby. Aileen knew that the girl was a born mischief-maker, so wisely took the precaution of getting rid of her, lest Edith should reveal too much, when she regained her senses. The situation was so strained and suggestively dangerous, that it was necessary to move discreetly, if a public scandal was to be averted. But indeed, Aileen, watching her unhappy friend, slowly coming back to consciousness, did not see how it could be avoided in any way. The presence of the dead body in the wood must needs be explained, and the explanation would most surely bring to light uncomfortable matters best left in the dark. “It is the climax sure enough,” said Aileen, and, unconsciously, she said it aloud.

“Climax!” muttered Miss Danby, confusedly, “what climax?”

“Never mind,” said the girl quickly, “take another sip of sal volatile, and I’ll get the brandy. Feel better don’t you dear?”

Edith sat up weakly, pushing back her grey hair with a bewildered expression. “Feel better?” she echoed, brokenly, “why—what—when?”

“You fainted,” explained Aileen, quietly, and stepped over to the side-board to fill a wine-glass with brandy.

“Fainted! Fainted! Why—what—when?—oh I am sick—very sick!” and the miserable woman rocked herself to and fro, trembling violently.

“Hush! Hush!” Aileen held the glass to her lips, “drink this. Lie back, and in a few minutes you will be able to talk.”

“But I don’t—don’t understand.”

“Rest! Rest! We can speak later.”

Speaking coaxingly, the girl adjusted the cushion, made her patient lie back comfortably, and stroked her forehead with a gentle hand. Shortly Edith closed her eyes and became more placid, although every now and then, she moaned pitifully. Aileen crossed to the window silently, and as silently drew down the lower sash, looking meanwhile—as Edith had done several times that morning—over the lawn to the belt of stone-pines. Knowing what lay underneath those pines, she shuddered and wondered if, indeed, Edith knew also. It was evident that she did, else why her constant looking in that ominous direction, and why the unexpected fainting? Then again, the dead man had been her enemy, whom she frankly detested, whom she openly longed to get rid of. Had she accomplished this by violence, and was the projected journey to America a flight from justice? Aileen asked herself these dreadful questions, and the answers which suggested themselves filled her with dismay. Yet plausible as the answers were, the girl could not bring herself to believe that the best friend she had in the world had committed a cold-blooded murder. She comforted herself with the thought that there must be some exonerating circumstance, and that Edith would explain the circumstance in due time.

A low wailing cry from the sofa brought back Aileen in a hurry with an anxious face, and a rapidly-beating heart. She dreaded to hear what Edith might confess; yet knew that she must listen carefully, so as to plan future action. Assuring herself, by peering into the passage, that Jenny was not eavesdropping, she closed the door and returned to the sofa. Edith was sitting up, composed and apologetic, but smiling uneasily as she raised her eyes. “I don’t know how I came to faint in this silly way,” she said, with a foolish titter. “Probably the want of sleep last night.”

“I thought that the opium made you sleep?” suggested Aileen, dryly.

“On and off: off and on,” mumbled the other affecting lightness and swinging her legs on to the floor, “but I feel weak.”

“Try and feel strong.” Aileen’s voice was still dry. “I have something very unpleasant to tell you.”

Miss Danby winced, stood up and stationed herself on the hearth-rug. In her severely plain garb, now hanging so loosely on her tall figure, she looked miserably grey and gaunt. Her eyes did not meet those of Aileen, but stared over the lawn, as they had done previously. “Yes!” said the girl, immediately seizing the opening, “he is lying there.”

“He—Who?” Miss Danby suddenly stiffened and looked as hard and grim as granite.

“Dr. Slanton!” retorted the other, bluntly.

“What is he doing there?”

“He isn’t there.”

“You said that he was.”

“Only his body.”

“Body! Body!” Edith’s voice hinted at a scream, although she spoke hoarsely. “Do you mean to tell me that he is—he is—dead?” she whispered the last word, wild-eyed with panic.

Aileen nodded, looking straightly into her friend’s eyes. She met therein an emotion, which made her recoil; not a human emotion, but one which suggested the animal, which lies dormant in all. A she-wolf peered out of those eyes—the merest hint of one—then again disappeared in a flood of fear, the new emotion overwhelming the old. “Murdered!” said Aileen, driving home the intensity of the moment.

“No! No!” Miss Danby shrank back against the mantelpiece, thrusting her two hands out before her, as if to ward off a blow, “It’s—it’s impossible.”

“It is true. Come and see for yourself.”

“I can’t—I daren’t!” her voice lowered to a horrified whisper.

“Why daren’t you?” Aileen had recovered from her second of sick loathing when the animal strain had surged to the surface, and pursued her examination relentlessly. Even if this wretched woman was guilty, it was the duty of the girl she had succoured to stand by her in the hour of her need.

“I’m afraid!” faltered Edith, trembling. “He troubled me when alive, so why should I let him trouble me now that he is dead? Dead!” her voice steadied and leaped an octave, “Who killed him?”

“I should ask you that, Edith, and I do.”

“What do you mean? I know nothing about the matter,” her words poured out in spate, tumbling furiously over one another, “I have not been to the wood—it’s impossible—you are mistaken. That beast can’t be there: he isn’t dead. Men like Cuthbert Slanton cannot die. They live—live to torment unhappy women,” and she paused, breathless with wordy haste.

“Unhappy women sometimes take the law into their own hands,” hinted Aileen, and again came the torrent of denial.

“Why do you say that—what do you mean—I know nothing—why should I know anything—you said you were my friend—you know you did.”

“I am your friend,” came the steady answer, “and for that very reason I wish to get at the truth.”

“The truth—the truth. I know nothing of the truth. Why come to me? I am ignorant of everything.”

The girl, controlling herself amazingly, placed her hands on the woman’s shoulders, “Can you swear to that?”

“I can—I can—why shouldn’t I?” Edith shook her off. “How dare you think”

Aileen interrupted. “It is not what I think, but what the police will think.”

Miss Danby clutched at her breast and gasped painfully, her mouth opening and shutting with never a sound, for one long, long minute. Then, “You won’t—tell the police of—of—this.”

“Edith, it is impossible to keep this thing quiet. Dr. Slanton is dead, and his body lies in the wood yonder, so”

“We can bury it!” Miss Danby clutched Aileen round the waist and whispered the suggestion hoarsely, “You and I—to-night—when there’s no one about.”

The girl pulled herself away, turning even paler than she already was. This hint at concealment was in itself an admission of guilt. “I lend myself to no such underhand doings,” she said sternly, and her face grew bleak. “If we acted so madly, think what would happen. Dr. Slanton would be missed—it is known that he comes here—to the village, to the cottage. Inquiries would be made, and if the—the”—she shuddered and brought out the ominous word with an effort—“grave was found, both you and I would be accused of murdering him.”

“But we are innocent. You know nothing—I know nothing,” urged Edith, twisting her thin hands in a frenzy of fear. “I haven’t seen Slanton for two weeks—you know I have not.”

“I don’t know what took place last night,” was the significant answer.

“Nor do I—nor do I,” moaned Edith, and flung herself on the sofa, crying.

Aileen sat down beside her, and took one of the limp hands between her own cold fingers: for cold they were, and cold she was to her heart’s centre, so heavily did this nightmare horror weigh her down. “You know that I am your true friend, Edith—that I mean to stand by you, whatever happens. Tell me all you know—all you have done. Did you kill this man—not thinking to kill him perhaps—but in a moment of passion?”

“I know nothing, nothing,” came from the woman in muffled tones, as she buried her face in the sofa-cushion.

“Think! Think! Had you been smoking opium? Were you unconscious of what you were doing? Drugged by the black smoke, you might have killed blindly.”

“I know nothing!”

“You must know,” urged Aileen. “Did you quarrel when Slanton came last night?”

“He never came: I never saw him.”

“He did come; you did see him,” insisted the girl, fiercely, for she realized clearly that the worst must come to the worst, if she failed to gain the miserable creature’s confidence. “He insulted you, didn’t he? And you struck at him, not knowing what you were doing? And afterwards, coming to your senses, you grew afraid and dragged the body into the wood to hide it.”

“As you seem to be so certain of my guilt, it is useless for me to deny anything!” said Miss Danby, bitterly, and sat up rigidly obstinate.

The girl wrung her hands, desperately. “How can I help you, when you won’t be plain with me—when you refuse to confess.”

“I have nothing to confess,” retorted the woman, sullenly, “you construct the whole scene of what did not happen, so glibly, that it is evident you think me guilty. A fine friend you are, I must say.”

“You won’t allow me to be your friend!” Aileen rose, and the extreme terror of the position forced her to brace up and face the worst. “Can’t you understand that honesty is the best policy. We can’t keep this murder quiet.”

“You run on too fast. It may not be a murder.”

“It is a murder, else why should the body be lying in yonder wood? And why did you tattoo the name ‘Cain’ on the forehead? You did it.”

Edith clasped and unclasped her hands, restlessly. “I did nothing of the sort—this is the first time I’ve heard of the thing. How can I have tattooed the forehead, when I have no instruments to do so, and would not know how to use them, if they were in my possession? Cain!” she rose to pace the room, swiftly, as if to work off her superabundant emotion in exercise. “Why should I brand that name on Slanton’s forehead?”

“I don’t know. I know nothing.”

“Neither do I,” retorted Miss Danby, throwing up her hands despairingly, “the whole thing is a mystery to me.”

“Then the mystery must be solved by the police,” said Aileen, moving past the woman, and towards the door.

Edith caught her by the arm. “Where are you going?”

“Down to the village to see the policeman.”

“You’ll ruin me if you go?”

“I’ll ruin you and myself also if I don’t go. Honesty is the best policy.”

“You said that before, parrot that you are. Aileen, don’t make bad worse. In some way Slanton came here last night; in some way he has been murdered. But I swear that I know nothing of the matter.”

“In that case, you can’t object to my going to the policeman in the village.”

“You believe that I am guilty?”

“No! I can’t—I can’t,” cried the girl, trying to persuade herself that she spoke truly, “you couldn’t have done it.”

A cynical smile curved the grey lips of the other. “You blow hot and cold,” she sneered, contemptuously, “one minute you say this: another minute you say that. Ah well—I am guilty.”

Aileen cried out in horror. “You admit it?”

Edith shook her head, positively. “I am only saying what the policeman will say—what the judge and jury will say.”

“The judge and jury,” echoed Aileen, faintly, the full danger of the situation coming home to her.

“Yes! If you go down to the village and tell what you conceive to be the truth,” said Miss Danby, with a shrug, and, although her face was deathly white, she spoke firmly, “everything is against me. I hated Slanton—he came here frequently—we quarrelled incessantly—you overheard our quarrels—Jenny, always with her ear to the key-hole, heard them also. Slanton is murdered you say, and his body lies on my grounds. Who will believe that I am guiltless?”

“I believe, unless you did it in a moment of frenzy.”

“Then you don’t believe,” Edith laughed contemptuously, flung back her head, tossed her arms. “Well then, go. I can meet the worst, if the worst is to come, as it most assuredly will come, if you betray me.”

“I am not betraying you. I am acting for the best.”

“When I am under lock and key you will think differently.”

“I will stand by you.”

“Are you standing by me now?”

“Yes I am. You know I am. It is better for you to face the lesser danger of admission, than the greater danger of concealment.”

Miss Danby reflected for a moment, then went to look into the mirror over the fire-place and smooth her disordered grey hair. “Suppose I kill myself while you are away, preparing my uncomfortable future.”

“Then I shall know you are guilty,” rejoined Aileen, promptly.

“You are frank.” Edith wheeled round with a frown.

“Because I believe you to be innocent, unless you unconsciously?”

“Bah! Hot and cold again in your blowing. Well, for your comfort I say that I am innocent—that I don’t intend to kill myself, and you?”

“I shall discover the truth, somewhere, somehow.”

“The truth! What is the truth?” questioned Edith, cynically, after the fashion of Pontius Pilate. “I should like to know it myself. How did Slanton come to the wood, who killed him, who branded him, and why was he murdered and so tattooed? Difficult questions these, my dear, and I shall be asked to answer the lot. H’m! Here is a new Hell to walk through. Are you ready to walk along with me?”

“Yes! I won’t leave you until you are out of the Hell you speak of.”

“Aileen!” Miss Danby moved forward swiftly, laid her arms round the girl, and kissed her impetuously. “You are a dear child and my best friend. Do what you will. I agree with you that honesty is the best policy. But”—she removed her arm from Aileen’s neck, and returned to the hearth-rug—“nothing will be said, or done by me to prove that it is the best.”

“Edith! Edith! You must defend yourself.”

“There is no defence,” stated the grey woman, coldly.

“But—but”

“There is no defence! I know nothing—I have seen nothing. I am completely at the mercy of circumstances.”

The girl looked imploringly at the inflexible face, now impassive as that of the Sphinx. There was no evidence of fear, no sign of yielding, so she turned and left the room. Her heart ached for Edith, and she fervently wished that common-sense did not compel her to bring this further trouble upon one already burdened. Nevertheless, she felt that the way she was taking was the right way, and went upstairs to make ready for her errand. This did not take long, for in ten minutes Aileen descended drawing on her gloves. Before opening the front door, she peered into the parlour. Miss Danby was still standing on the hearth-rug but her gaze was directed towards the window, staring as formerly, over the lawn to the belt of stone-pines, which sheltered the lifeless body of her enemy. Only God knew what her thoughts were but Aileen trembled to think what those thoughts might be.

It was a pale and very perplexed young woman, who hurried down the tangled avenue of the isolated cottage, out through the crazy wooden gates, swinging between weather-worn brick pillars, and on to the broad highway. Under the showering autumnal foliage, discarded by the bordering elm-trees, between the dwindling leafage of the red-berried hedges, she walked swiftly along the road to where it curved round the bare stubbled fields, towards Fryfeld. Everything looked sad and forlorn beneath the sullen grey clouds, moving sluggishly at the of the damp blowing winds. The brooding mood of earth and sky was also Aileen’s mood, for she, likewise, felt forlorn and sad, deserted and despondent. The presence of the body in that sinister wood, the silence of Edith, and the crying horror of the whole unfathomable mystery, quenched the light of her youth with most unholy gloom. She was inclined to risk immediate flight from this nightmare; to run and run and run, everlastingly, until the ghastly thing was left uncounted leagues behind. But the recollection of Edith’s kindness, of Edith’s peril, brought her to a halt in the village street. And yonder stood Constable Kemp, the one and only guardian of the peace in Fryfeld. One word from her, and he would hurry hot-footed to find the dead man, maybe to arrest Edith, as it were, red-handed.

Suddenly the idea of appealing to the higher authorities at Tarhaven some eight miles distant, came into her mind. She immediately turned aside into the grocer-shop-post-office at her elbow to enter the telephone-box. A few brief words committed the tragedy to world-wide publicity, and having brought about the worst through the necessity of facing the worst, Aileen went to inform Constable Kemp. The smile with which he saluted her was speedily wiped off his face, when she abruptly addressed him: “There is a murdered man lying in Miss Danby’s wood. I have called up the Tarhaven police. Come.”