Chapter XXVI: Fate Takes the Odd Trick

Melville was on the point of leaving his rooms, his Inverness cape hanging on his arm, when Jervis came into the room.

"A commissionaire, sir, has come and wants to see you."

"All right," said Melville casually; "send him up."

The man appeared and gave his message tersely; he was often sent on errands such as this, but still was no adept in the art of breaking bad news.

"There has been an accident, sir, and you are wanted at once."

"Who is hurt?" Melville asked.

"Lady Holt," the man replied.

"Lady Holt?" said Melville; "and she sent for me?"

"Yes, sir; the cabman's killed and the lady's dying, they say. Will you come back with me? I have a cab at the door."

"Is it as bad as that?" said Melville.

"They're waiting to take her depositions, if they can," the messenger said. "It was an awful sight."

"Go back and say I'll come in half a minute," Melville said. "I shall be there as soon as you, if not sooner."

He controlled his agitation until the door closed upon the man, and then, turning the key in the lock, threw his cape upon the couch. In an instant he realised to the full what this meant. With incredible swiftness he slipped off his dress clothes and changed into a dark mourning suit, crammed some linen and a couple of suits into a Gladstone bag, tipped the contents of his despatch box into it, and took the banknotes from his writing-table drawer. In a wonderfully short time his preparations were complete, and, grasping the bag, he ran lightly down the staircase, and getting into the crowd in Piccadilly Circus took a cab and drove to Charing Cross. Finding that he still had some time to wait before the express left, he went into one of the many small restaurants near the station and took a hasty dinner, which he washed down with a plentiful supply of spirits. Before suspicion at the hospital had definitely been turned upon him, he was lying back against the cushions of an otherwise empty carriage and speeding through Kent upon his way to Dover.

He did his utmost to concentrate his thoughts upon what was next to be done, but, despite his endeavours, they would wander to the hospital where Lavender was lying. If he had any sure information of what was going on there, what the nature of the accident was, and who was with her, the possible danger would have had less terror for him; but it was still too early for any particulars to appear in the papers, and he could only allow his overwrought imagination to supply the details for him. The commissionaire had said that Lady Holt was dying, and used the ill-omened word "depositions." That meant that Lavender had acknowledged her identity either by accident or of design, and was about to make a full statement of her knowledge of the events which culminated in Sir Geoffrey's death. Doubtless, she was being influenced by some smooth-cheeked, smooth-spoken parson to confess her sins before passing away, and in the hysterical, neurotic state in which she had been these last few weeks--to say nothing of the state to which the accident might have reduced her--that task of professional persuasion might be only too easy to fulfil. She had tied the label of conviction round his neck by asking for him by name, and while his flight would possibly only be regarded as corroboration of her story, the alternative course of staying was attended by too grave risks for any sane man to contemplate. No good purpose could be served now by hoping for the best or by trying to look upon the bright side of things. It was wiser to look the probabilities squarely in the face, and they spelled hanging by the neck for Melville Ashley.

As he sat there, rigid and impassive, he might have been taken for a financier working out some vast calculation involving millions of money, a statesman debating a point in international policy involving issues of peace or war, a physician considering a new development of disease involving life or death to his patient; no one would have taken him for what he was, a murderer flying from the Nemesis that was trailing close after him. But his cold face masked a heart aflame already. As on his way home from Monte Carlo he cursed what he called his luck, so now on his way from London to--he knew not where--he cursed the greater thing he called his destiny.

Only once could he remember having made any mistake in the way he played the cards dealt out to him by fate, and what added bitterness to the memory now was the fact that he made the mistake with his eyes open. He cursed himself for having once been persuaded into doing a thing which at the time he knew was imprudent. That once was when he agreed to take Lavender with him by boat to Fairbridge Manor. But for that he would not now be in this parlous plight. Even supposing he had still committed the murder--which actually was never in his mind when he set out--he still would not have been seen and been rendered subject to the mercies of an emotional woman. Lavender would never have suspected him, and he could have kept his own counsel and had no fear of nerves.

It was impossible for him to keep his mind from memories and turn it to the future. He could only think of what had been and what might have been, not of what was to be. Never before had his thinking powers played him false like this; will and foresight were dispossessed by memory just at the moment when he needed them as he had never needed them before. That was the most pregnant fact of all, and he did not perceive it. If he thought of the present it was only with some vague satisfaction that every moment was taking him farther away from peril.

In the hospital the depositions were taken, and the grey man looked across at the inspector of police and left the room with him. And soon the inspector left the hospital and went to see his chiefs. There was no evidence against any individual, for the name of the man who rowed her up to Fairbridge had not escaped Lavender's lips, but Melville had not obeyed the summons she had sent him, and the inspector was not alone in wanting to know why. He went to Jermyn Street and asked for Mr. Ashley.

"I don't think he's at home," the hall porter said, and the inspector went upstairs. On the top landing he met Jervis coming from another set of rooms. "I want to see Mr. Ashley," he said again.

"He's dining out," said Jervis.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite," said Jervis. "I saw him dress, and a commissionaire brought him a message just as he was finished. I haven't been in his rooms since, but I'm sure he's out."

"Show me," said the inspector, and something about him quelled Jervis's usual breezy impertinence.

"Look for yourself, if you don't believe me," he said, unlocking the door and flinging it wide open. "Perhaps you will believe your own eyes."

The room bore unmistakable evidence of Melville's flight. His dress clothes were flung upon the sofa, his despatch box stood open on the table, his writing-table drawers were unlocked. Jervis's face of surprise only confirmed the inspector's previous idea.

"You are Mr. Ashley's servant?" he enquired.

"Yes," said Jervis.

"Well, perhaps you can describe him to me; fully, please. I only want to make enquiries in case there has been an accident. You will not be doing him any injury."

So Jervis gave an accurate description of his master, and found several photographs of him to bear the description out. From a study of the wardrobe he saw what clothes were missing, and suggested what Melville might be wearing, and soon the inspector was satisfied.

"You will be very well advised to keep a still tongue in your head," he remarked. "If Mr. Ashley comes back, well and good, but if he doesn't, see that nobody comes into these rooms unless I am with them at the time," and, leaving Jervis dumbfounded, he walked away.

Thus it came about that when the train in which Melville was travelling reached Dover, the police there, as at many another likely spot for leaving England, were in possession of a close description of him, and of instructions not to lose sight of him if they saw him. His actual apprehension might be deferred with safety, it could be accomplished at any moment; but just as it is a mistake to strike too soon when playing a game fish, so it is often one to arrest a man merely upon suspicion when a little delay may justify the event and yet not prejudice its successful performance. Moreover, if Lady Holt's statement were true, the police had made one gross blunder as it was.

But while at Dover the detectives knew what Melville was like, and had a clearly defined course of action in the event of his arriving there and crossing the Channel, Melville had no idea of what they might be like, and reached the end of this first stage in his journey without devising any scheme for his next movements. He was so persuaded that Lavender had betrayed him, and that already a warrant must be out for his arrest, that his heart was broken ere the pursuit was begun. What was the good of thirty pounds to a man for whom the whole world held no sanctuary? Would it not have been wiser to remain in London until he could raise enough money to take him, at any rate, an appreciable distance away? There might be greater difficulty in leaving the country a week hence, but the difficulty would be more worth trying to overcome if afterwards he had money to go on with. Thirty pounds was almost useless. Again he blasphemed against his luck. If the accident had happened twenty-four hours later he might have drawn a considerable sum from Lavender, and even gone abroad. And it was just like his cursed ill-luck that the cabman should be killed outright and Lavender live to speak once more, whereas if the converse had happened he would have been out of danger for ever, and nobody would have been a penny the worse except his brother, whom everyone believed to be guilty, and who might hang with pleasure so far as Melville was concerned.

He got furtively out of the carriage and scanned everybody about him; in each face he fancied he detected the detectives whom he supposed to be waiting for him, and even when he got aboard the packet unobserved, as he believed, he stood cowering on one side, uncertain whether to go below or linger to watch for the hand that surely must be laid upon him soon. His nerve was utterly gone, and the only idea clear in his mind was that if an attempt were made to arrest him ere the packet started, he must jump overboard and endeavour not to relax his grasp upon his Gladstone bag, so that he might be sure of not rising to the surface. That much, at any rate, was certain: he must not be taken alive.

The night was mild, but very dark, and Melville stood forward watching every figure as it came aboard, and finding the really short wait interminably long; but at last the boat began to move away from the pier, and he felt that he had another respite. With a sudden access of terror, however, he saw two men rush to the end of the pier gesticulating wildly, and he waited, feeling absolutely sick, until he saw they were too late and had missed the boat. None the less, it accentuated his fear and stretched his power of endurance to breaking point. In reality, they were two harmless travellers, one an acquaintance of his own, who had tarried too long in the hotel and lost the packet by mere carelessness. But Melville was convinced that they were the men deputed to detain him, and while it was now too late to draw back, it was fatal to go on. They would certainly telegraph to the authorities at Calais, and freedom was his for another bare hour and a half. How should he utilise it?

The coast line was lost in the darkness, and the lights grew smaller and smaller. When the largest of them showed like pin-pricks, Melville sighed and went below. He had something to do before the pin-pricks should appear ahead and grow larger and larger until they fell upon the deck of the boat at Calais. Going into the saloon he opened his bag and sat down upon a couch. Taking a sheet of paper, he wrote a pencil note.

"I do not know what Lavender Sinclair may have said. This much, at any rate, is true. My brother Ralph is innocent of the crime imputed to him. I declare this upon my solemn oath.--MELVILLE ASHLEY."

He put the note, with Ralph's letter asking for the loan on which so much had turned, and Lavender's first letter from The Vale, and his remaining paper money, into an envelope, and addressed it to Mr. Tracy at Lincoln's Inn Fields. Then he strapped up the bag, which he left unlocked, and went on deck again. This was the end of it all? No god from a car could come to save him this time; the Furies had reached their quarry and were going to pull him down. He found a more or less deserted place upon the deck and stood, a dark figure, against the rail; and so the moment came. With one last glance around to make sure he was not observed, he got on to the outside of the rail and dropped silently into the warm, dark water.

When he rose he was surprised to see how far behind he was left; he had no idea the boat made such good speed. He stifled an impulse to call out, but the natural instinct to swim was too strong to be resisted, and, even managing to disengage himself from his thin overcoat, he began with slow steady strokes to follow in the wake of the boat. The black mass of her shape grew lower in the water, her lights drew away from him with ever increasing speed, the salt burned his eyelids and stung his face. His arms grew weaker with each more painful stroke, until at length, with his eyes set upon the far lights of the boat which represented man, of whom he was forsaken, and never once upon the stars, above which was enthroned the God whom he had rejected, Melville gave up the impossible task of living, and the last mechanical effort ceased.