The Attic Murder by S. Fowler Wright (me reader .txt) đź“–
- Author: S. Fowler Wright
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Besides, did she not deserve that he should give her a better trust than his doubts implied? Or was that the right word? Jealous he might be, but there was no loyalty that she owed to him.
There were still slight noises over his head. He thought, but was not sure, that he heard her open her window. After that, the sounds ceased entirely. Doubtless, she was in bed. Probably already asleep, as he would be if he had not come up at so confoundedly early an hour…
Horribly through the silence there came the sound of a human scream. It ceased abruptly, as though cut off before it had come to a natural end.
Francis had dozed, but he was widely awake while the sound was still loud on the air. The light in his room still burned. He leapt up. The cry had surely come from the floor above, but not, he thought, from the room over his head.
He had no doubt what he should do now. He must lose no instant to find the cause of that dreadful cry. Yet the tyranny of custom prevailed so far that he delayed to put on some clothes — the circumstances under which he came having left him without a sleeping-suit, so that he had lain down in his shirt — and while he hurriedly half-dressed he heard footsteps, light and quick, crossing the floor over his head, as he had heard them before.
He opened his door to face a house that had become silent again. He switched on a landing-light. He looked down the dark well of the narrow stairs, from which there came no motion, nor light, nor sound. It seemed that the cry, loud and agonized as it was, had been insufficient to disturb Mrs. Benson’s rest.
Could there be reason for him to hasten up, where it seemed that nothing was happening now? And what would it be to find?
He looked up, and the silence became sinister. He lost the sense of urgency in that of fear — fear of that which the I silence held.
It was the thought of the girl who might be in peril above, or sick with fear in her locked room, that gave him courage to climb the stairs to encounter he knew not what. If, he thought, he had a weapon of any kind — -. Yet what danger could he expect to meet on the silent landing above?
As he approached it, he became aware of a cold draught, and then had his first surprise on seeing that the bedroom door was open, which he believed that he had heard Miss Jones lock at so late an hour. The opposite door was closed.
He called: “Miss Jones, are you all right?” in a low, and then in a louder voice.
He approached the open door, pushing it wider. The light was switched on. The draught came from the window, which was open. Still getting no reply, he entered the room.
The bed appeared to have been occupied. The clothes had been thrown back, and half on to the floor, as though it had been hurriedly or carelessly left. The room was clearly vacant.
Had she been abducted by criminals who had come over the roofs, perhaps having guessed her to be a detective upon their tracks? Had they murdered her, and dragged her body away? Was it her death-cry that had roused him from sleep?
He did not think that the voice had been hers, but perplexity was mingled with a great fear as he crossed the landing, and knocked upon Mr. Rabone’s door.
There was no reply, though he called aloud, and his fear grew. He had no desire to wake the bank inspector without evident cause, and he had most urgent reason for avoiding anything which might involve him in a further publicity, but it had become a matter which he must pursue, at whatever cost.
He tried the handle, and the door opened as it turned. The room was in darkness, and still no one answered his call. Had Rabone also gone in the night?
There was no light on the upper landing. All that entered the room was from the open door opposite. He stepped a pace in, feeling along the wall for the switch which he had missed nearer the jamb, and as he did so he trod on a man’s hand, which moved slightly beneath his heel.
He looked down with eyes sharpened by fear, and which were growing used to the gloom. A body sprawled largely over the floor.
He stepped quickly back, and, as he did so, his hand touched the switch which he had avoided before.
The light showed William Rabone lying face downward If he had any flicker of life, it was yet evident that he was far beyond human aid. His throat was cut, and the dusty carpet was bright with blood.
FRANCIS stood for some moments, his hand still on the switch. Only his brain moved. He would have I had a greater horror of what he saw, had not his heart been cold with the quick instinct of a personal fear.
Should he put out the light, and go back to bed, leaving it for others to discover what it was not his business to know? Who could say that he had been disturbed by a cry which seemed to have aroused no one except himself? But that would be of little avail unless he should have left the house before Mrs. Benson would get about, and perhaps discover that which the attic held. And, if he should slip early away, would it not be like an admission of guilt, especially in the eyes of those who would not, at first, know that he might fly from another fear? Would it not rouse a double urgency of pursuit, before which he would have little chance of escape?
And when he would be caught, it would be necessary to deny everything, to deny that he had ascended the stairs. And if the police, with their systematic, minute investigations, should be able to prove he had, then he would be lost beyond hope!
But by what means could they do that? He looked down on the shoes into which he had thrust his feet without lacing them, in the hurry of his dressing, and he saw that the right one was wet with blood into which he had stepped while the room was dark. There would be enough evidence there to hang anyone who should be fool enough to deny having entered the room, or who should delay to give the alarm.
But why did he assume that it was murder on which he gazed? He had read of men who cut their own throats. But would they give so terrible a cry, if it were an act of deliberate will? It was a question to which he could give no certain reply.
But if it were William Rabone’s own act, the weapon with which he had done it could not be far. As to that, it lay near. An open razor. But would a man inflict so wide a wound with his own hand? Again, it was a question to which he could not reply.
A new doubt troubled his mind. It seemed that Miss Jones had fled. Had he died by her hand? Perhaps when she found that the game she played was more difficult than she supposed, and her honour could be secured in no other way? If he should give the alarm, would it be to set pursuit on her track, so that she would not escape, as she might otherwise do? He would curse himself to his last hour, if he should do that, through cowardly fear lest suspicion should fall on him.
Yet was it a probable thing? Was it not more likely that she had been dragged away by the same criminal violence which had left the dead man on the floor? Might it not be urgent that she should be rescued while he stood foolishly there? It was only later that he remembered the light quick step that he had heard crossing the floor after the sound of that dreadful cry.
Out of these confused thoughts, a counsel of wisdom came. Was he to accept the character of criminality which had been thrust upon him? But for the experience of the last month, would he not have roused alarm without thought of accusation against himself, as the natural, normal thing for a man to do?
Might it not be his greatest danger that fear should lead him to mimic guilt?
It may have been twenty seconds that he stood motionless with his hand on the switch, while these thoughts went through his mind. Then he turned and went down the stairs, marking each second step with a bloody shoe.
He switched on the lights as he went downward from flight to flight, hesitating a moment as he came to the front passage, with an impulse to open the door on the chance that there might be a policeman whom he could call, but he had an irrational feeling that Mrs. Benson should be first informed of the corpse that her attic held, and he went on to the basement, and knocked loudly on the door where he supposed that she slept.
The woman replied at once, asking what was wrong, in an alarmed voice, to which he answered: “I’m afraid there’s something wrong on the top floor, Mrs. Benson. Mr. Rabone’s been hurt.”
An agitated voice called out: “Mr. Rabone hurt? How could he be hurt?… Well, I’ll be coming up. Is he real bad? You’d better go round to Dr. Foster’s, if so. He’s three doors round the corner in Sefton Street.”
As the voice ceased, there were sounds of movement within the room.
Francis stood hesitating. To call a doctor might be a wise thing to do. But he did not like to go out for such a purpose without giving her a more adequate idea of what she would have to face when she should arrive at the top of the attic stairs.
“Yes,” he answered, “I’ll fetch the doctor at once. But I’m afraid Mr. Rabone’s dead. I think he’s been killed. I think you ought to let the police know.”
He heard a gasping exclamation inside the room. But it seemed that the old woman rose to the emergency, for she called in a firmer voice: “Well, you’d better get the doctor at once. He’s the one to say about that. It’s no good standing there. I’ll get Miss Brown to come in.”
She heard her new lodger’s feet retire as he obeyed this instruction, and emerged a few moments later hastily dressed, and unbarred the basement door with a shaking hand, to summon Miss Janet Brown.
Francis went out by the front door, which had been chained and bolted as though every burglar in London cast covetous eyes upon Mrs. Benson’s ancient furniture. He found Dr. Foster’s without difficulty, and a speaking-tube at the side of the night-bell enabled him to inform the doctor of the nature of the case which required his attention.
Dr. Foster said that he would be down in three minutes. What, more exactly, was the address? Francis could not give a number that he now realized that he did not know. He thought (with a moment’s discomfort of doubt) that he could find Mrs. Benson’s house again without hesitation. It was less easy to describe it to another, and Dr. Fostcr was decided in mind that he would not risk having to knock up the wrong houses to enquire for a murdered man who was
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