Beyond this place (29 page)

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"Anyhow," he said, "it makes no difference. I knew already."

She started and turned pale, made as though to speak, while her eyes questioned him with a miserable smile that unconsciously implored him. It was her only moment of weakness. Firmly she closed her lips.

There was a longer silence. He closed his eyes, suppressed a short throaty cough.

"I'm afraid I do feel rather seedy."

Now she did not hesitate. Without a word, she hurried into the hall, put on her raincoat and went out.

Doctor Kerr's surgery was the nearest, only two hundred yards along Ware Street. He was a young man, not long qualified, who had recently put up his plate and was trying to build up a practice in the district. She had heard that he was pleasant and competent.

When she reached the surgery it was closed, but on the door was a printed notice giving the telephone number at which Dr. Kerr might be called. She went into the public booth at the street corner and dialed that number. It was a woman who answered. She told Lena that the doctor was out at an urgent case, but she promised to give him the message whenever he returned.

Lena came out of the booth with a white and anguished face. Had she done right in leaving the call on such an indefinite basis? Should she not rather have sought out another doctor in the neighbourhood? After her procrastination, for which she bitterly blamed herself, it now seemed imperative to have medical advice without a second's delay.

Back in the room, she found Paul apparently asleep. She waited in unbearable suspense, straining her ears for the sound of the doctor's approach. Shortly after eleven o'clock when she had almost reached the breaking point, he arrived. She saw that he was tired — his sharp features were peaked, his questions to her abrupt — but he gave Paul a careful examination. When he had finished he withdrew from the bedside and looked at his watch.

"What is it, Doctor?" She could barely articulate the words. "Is it serious?"

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His day had been hard and he had missed his dinner, but he answered with exemplary patience.

"He's had a dry pleurisy — that was the pain. Then came the exudate — lots of fluid pressing on the lung."

"Pleurisy?" It did not sound so bad.

But he gave her a quick look then glanced away.

"I'm afraid there may be pus there. Empyema. That means hospital."

Her colour changed. She pressed her hand against her side.

"You couldn't treat him here?"

"Good heavens, no. This requires a rib resection. The whole cavity must be drained. A six weeks' job. Have you a telephone in the house?"

"Yes. In the hall."

He went clattering downstairs. She could hear him telephoning, stressing the gravity and urgency of the case. Palely, she followed him down.

The doctor was having great difficulty in finding a vacant bed: many of the free hospitals were full, and, since he was not yet properly established in the district, he received scant consideration from most of the receptionists. But, at last, he was successful, and after making the arrangements, he turned from the phone with a sigh of relief.

"They'll take him at St. Elizabeth's Home. It's three miles out on the Oakdene Road ... a small place but quite good. They're sending for him now."

The ambulance came in a quarter of an hour. Ten minutes later it had gone.

Still labouring under an undiminished sense of strain, confused and exhausted, beaten down by her own emotions, Lena came back upstairs. The little flat felt hot and stuffy. She turned out the gas fire. Going to the window she threw it up, drew in deep breaths of the damp night air, then moving away, began, from habit, to tidy up the room.

His threadbare suit, which he had worn through all that troubled time when he slept beneath the Arches, lay folded upon a chair beside the bed. She took it up, meaning to place it on a hanger in the cupboard. As she did so, Paul's battered old wallet

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dropped from the inside pocket, hit upon its edge, and spilled its contents, mainly a number of loose papers, upon the floor.

Lena bent to pick up the papers, notes that Paul had made relating to the case, and which she restored piecemeal to his pocket. Suddenly, amongst the sheets, her fingers came upon a small, cut-out photograph and, instinctively, she looked at it. It was a studio portrait of Ella Fleming, done in sepia and extremely flattering — Ella had seen to that — and beneath was written a tender message of scriptural endearment. This was in fact a souvenir that Ella had presented to Paul upon his nineteenth birthday and which, indeed, with a glance of meaningful sweetness, she had personally inserted in his wallet, with the hope that he would wear it next his heart.

Paul had long since forgotten that he possessed the photograph. But to Lena, the pretty features, the appealing eyes, the softly waved hair, shattered above all, by the fondly possessive superscription, it became, immediately, his most cherished treasure.

Not even a sigh broke from her, but in her motionless figure and fixed expression, frozen, but for the faintest trembling at the corners of her mouth, there was hidden an unfathomable anguish. At last she straightened from her kneeling position, returned the photograph to the wallet, and the wallet to the inside pocket. She hung the suit upon the hanger, placed it in the cupboard, went into the kitchen. Here, leaning against the mantel, she half-closed her eyes and turned away her head, a prey to a terrible revulsion of feeling which she could not stifle.

All along she had struggled against the fear that she was creating for herself an impossible situation. But never had she imagined this contingency — so ordinary yet so unexpected — which had exposed the enormity of her presumption. She shivered at the thought of her needless struggle with herself, and of her pitiable, her abject surrender. In her stupidity, mistaking gratitude for affection, she had almost brought herself to the point of exposing the tragedy of her life, of blindly making herself the instrument of his disenchantment. She could never tell him now. Never. Utterly abased, she shut her eyes, possessed again by those familiar devils of self-hatred and shame. Contrasting herself, who had been dragged in filth, with this angelic

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creature who was pledged to him, she wished she might die, now, at this moment; she longed tor the pain that was crushing her breast to be the final pang of dissolution.

How long she stood there in anguish she did not know. At last, with sudden energy she freed herself, pushed back her hair from her forehead, sat down upon a low stool. Dry-eyed, her lips compressed in a firm line which foreswore all leniency towards herself, she forced herself to think. Minutes passed, then, through the confusion of her mind there came to her the remedy she sought — it seemed indeed her sole recourse. No matter how difficult, she must do it. All she wanted was to escape, lose herself, stamp out the memory of this supreme act of folly. Crouched on the stool, she began to make her plans.

CHAPTER XII

ON the morning of Monday, February twenty-first the Wortley Chronicle carried on its front page the first of Dunn's series on the Mathry case.

Contrary to his habit, for he was a late and sluggish riser, Dunn walked down early to the Chronicle building. On the pavements the newsboys were shouting the headlines, carrying the special posters which McEvoy had printed. As he heard the boys calling and saw in huge letters the name MATHRY fluttering in the breeze, a slow thrill of exultation went through Dunn. He was not a vain man and had few illusions regarding his profession. But he believed passionately in the freedom of the press and in the power for good of a well-conducted paper. "It's out in the open now," he reflected tensely. "This will shake them up."

When he reached the office McEvoy had arrived — they had agreed to sit out the series in the office, together — and he could not resist communicating his thought to the editor.

"I'd like to have seen Sprott's face, and Dale's — when they found what was being served for breakfast."

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McEvoy was less inclined to enthuse. He shrugged his shoulders a trifle grimly.

"We're into this now, up to the eyebrows. Let's pray to God nothing goes wrong."

During that day no event of any great importance occurred. Several of the distributors phoned in for extra hundreds of the paper. There were no returns. When he went out for lunch Dunn saw people on the street, in the trams, in the restaurant he frequented, reading the article. Everything was calm — the lull, he told himself, before the storm.

On the next day, about eleven o'clock in the forenoon the telephone rang. The second article, much stronger than the first — which merelv outlined the main features of the case — had laid a definite charge of error against the police. When McEvoy put the receiver to his ear his eyes rested on Dunn, then he nodded meaningly and his lips silently shaped the name: "Dale."

"Yes," he said. "This is the editor of the Chronicle. Oh, good morning, Chief. I hope you're well."

There was a pause. Since the office lacked an extension, Dunn had no telephone. He heard one side of the conversation and watched McEvoy s face for the other.

"I'm sorry about that, Chief. Now to which article do you refer? Oh, the Mathry case. Dear, dear, I hope that isn't causing you any great anxiety."

The editor's expression remained bland.

"Well, really, I don't see what you can object to. It's our job to print the facts. And that's all we're doing. What's that? No, we haven't any doubts. But we've got some interesting evidence."

A longer interval followed. McEvoy's answer was less amiable.

"We're not afraid of libel, or of any other action that may be brought against us. We believe that the public should know about this case. And by the Almighty we're going to see that they do know."

A final pause. The editor's eyes glinted behind his pince-nez.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Dale. You see, the minute you close us up, we'll syndicate the rest of the series in the Howard Thomson chain. That's five provincial newspapers and a daily in London. We have a standing offer on Dunn's material.

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No, I wouldn't if I were you. And try to keep your temper. You'll need all your self-control before you're finished. By the bye, if you'd like to read Detective Inspector Swann's deposition, that's the next article. You'll find it in the Chronicle tomorrow."

McEvoy was slightly flushed as he replaced the receiver. He lit a cigarette to calm himself.

"He's angry. And badly worried. Threatened to suppress the paper. I thought it best to take a strong line with him."

"Dale isn't a bad sort," Dunn said. "Fundamentally honest. It's the man above who's pushing him. But he can't do anything."

"He could," McEvoy answered. "But he won't. If they cracked down on us it would be practically an admission of guilt. They're up against it. I'll bet you a drink that tomorrow or the next day we have a visit from the head man." He picked up a slip which had just been brought in to his desk. In a matter-of-fact tone he added: "It's all good for business. We printed an extra twenty thousand today. Every one of them has gone out."

On the following morning it was evident that people were beginning to talk about the case. The mail brought a sack of letters from readers of the Chronicle and several other newspapers devoted space to comment upon the Heretic's series. Most of the paragraphs were cautious, and the Blankshire Guardian took occasion to rebuke Dunn: "We are afraid that in his mission to reform the universe on this occasion our esteemed colleague is going a little too far." However, the London Tribune, a liberal paper of the highest standing, actually had a leader on the subject which began: "Allegations of a most serious nature are being made in the Wortley Chronicle which, if they are true, will shock the entire country," and which ended: "As in all previous contributions from the Heretic's gifted pen, every word has the ring of genuine conviction. We await, with the greatest interest, the remaining articles of this remarkable series."

"It's begun." McEvoy handed the clippings over to Dunn. "Wait till they see what you say about Swann. Incidentally . . . if I were you I shouldn't stay out too late at night."

"Good God! They wouldn't try anything like that."

"No," the editor said in a queer voice. "But you might catch cold."

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There was a knock upon the door. A young man, McEvoy's secretary, came in.

"Excuse me, sir. Sir Matthew Sprott's clerk is on the telephone. Sir Matthew would be much obliged if sometime this afternoon you would come over to see him."

Dunn and McEvoy exchanged a glance. McEvoy stretched his legs out under the desk.

"Tell Sir Matthew's clerk we're sorry not to be able to step over. Tell him we're extremely busy. On the other hand, if Sir Matthew should care to come here, say that we'd be perfectly happy to see him."

"Very good, sir." The secretary went out.

"He'll never come," said Dunn.

"Perhaps not." McEvoy shrugged. "But for the past fifteen years he's been frightening people. It's about time somebody started to frighten him."

The next two articles dealt, in no uncertain manner, with the suppression of the date of pregnancy, and with the peculiar manner in which the witnesses had been handled by the police. And now, indeed, the avalanche was under way. Sacks of mail kept arriving at the Chronicle building, and so many telegrams poured in that McEvoy arranged for a special group of sorters to work in the adjoining room while Dunn and he, in their shirtsleeves, stood by in their office. Some of the telegrams were from cranks, from societies for the abolition of this, that, and the other, some were abusive, protesting that the articles were undermining the forces of law and order, but in the main the messages, from every corner of the country, were warmly congratulatory. Amongst the chaff, were a number of mealy grains.

From the Reverend Foster Bowles, the sensational publicist and preacher of the London City Temple, this: