The Fire Within (3 page)

There 's many a weary game to be played

  With never a penny to choose,

But the weariest game in all the world

  Is waiting for dead men's shoes.

IT was about a week later that Edward Mottisfont rang David Blake up
on the telephone and begged him in agitated accents, to come to Mr.
Mottisfont without delay.

“It 's another attack—a very bad one,” said Edward in the hall. His
voice shook a little, and he seemed very nervous. David thought it was
certainly a bad attack. He also thought it a strange one. The old man
was in great pain, and very ill. Elizabeth Chantrey was in the room,
but after a glance at his patient, David sent her away. As she went she
made a movement to take up an empty cup which stood on the small table
beside the bed, and old Mr. Edward Mottisfont fairly snapped at her.

“Leave it, will you—I 've stopped Edward taking it twice. Leave it,
I say!”

Elizabeth went out without a word, and Mr. Mottisfont caught David's
wrist in a shaky grip.

“D' you know why I would n't let her take that cup? D' you know
why?”

“No, sir—”

Old Mr. Mottisfont's voice dropped to a thread. He was panting a
little.

“I was all right till I drank that damned tea, David,” he said, “and
Edward brought it to me—Edward—”

“Come, sir—come—” said David gently. He was really fond of this
queer old man, and he was distressed for him.

“David, you won't let him give me things—you 'll look to it. Look
in the cup. I would n't let 'em take the cup—there 's dregs. Look at
'em, David.”

David took up the cup and walked to the window. About a
tablespoonful of cold tea remained. David tilted the cup, then became
suddenly attentive. That small remainder of cold tea with the little
skim of cream upon it had suddenly become of absorbing interest. David
tilted the cup still more. The tea made a little pool on one side of
it, and all across the bottom of the cup a thick white sediment drained
slowly down into the pool. It was such a sediment as is left by very
chalky water. But all the water of Market Harford is as soft as
rain-water. It is not only chalk that makes a sediment like that.
Arsenic makes one, too. David put down the cup quickly. He opened the
door and went out into the passage. From the far end Elizabeth Chantrey
came to meet him, and he gave her a hastily scribbled note for the
chemist, and asked her for one or two things that were in the house.
When he came back into Mr. Mottisfont's room he went straight to the
wash-stand, took up a small glass bottle labeled ipecacuanha wine and
spent two or three minutes in washing it thoroughly. Then he poured
into it very carefully the contents of the cup. He did all this in
total silence, and in a very quiet and business-like manner.

Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont lay on his right side and watched him. His
face was twisted with pain, and there was a dampness upon his brow, but
his eyes followed every motion that David made and noted every look
upon his face. They were intent—alive—observant. Whilst David stood
by the wash-stand, with his back towards the bed, old Mr. Edward
Mottisfont's lips twisted themselves into an odd smile. A gleam of
sardonic humour danced for a moment in the watching eyes. When David
put down the bottle and came over to the bed, the gleam was gone, and
there was only pain—great pain—in the old, restless face. There was a
knock at the door, and Elizabeth Chantrey came in.

Three hours later David Blake came out of the room that faced old
Mr. Mottisfont's at the farther end of the corridor. It was a long, low
room, fitted up as a laboratory—very well and fully fitted up—for the
old man had for years found his greatest pleasure and relaxation in
experimenting with chemicals. Some of his experiments he confided to
David, but the majority he kept carefully to himself. They were of a
somewhat curious nature. David Blake came out of the laboratory with a
very stern look upon his face. As he went down the stair he met with
Edward Mottisfont coming up. The sternness intensified. Edward looked
an unspoken question, and then without a word turned and went down
before David into the hall. Then he waited.

“Gone?” he said in a sort of whisper, and David bent his head.

He was remembering that it was only a week since he had told Edward
in this very spot that his uncle might live for three years. Well, he
was dead now. The old man was dead now—out of the way—some one had
seen to that. Who? David could still hear Edward Mottisfont's voice
asking, “How long is he likely to live?” and his own answer, “Perhaps
three years.”

“Come in here,” said Edward Mottisfont. He opened the dining-room
door as he spoke, and David followed him into a dark, old-fashioned
room, separated from the one behind it by folding-doors. One of the
doors stood open about an inch, but there was only one lamp in the
room, and neither of the two men paid any attention to such a trifling
circumstance.

Edward sat down by the table, which was laid for dinner. Even above
the white tablecloth his face was noticeably white. All his life this
old man had been his bugbear. He had hated him, not with the hot hatred
which springs from one great sudden wrong, but with the cold slow
abhorrence bred of a thousand trifling oppressions. He had looked
forward to his death. For years he had thought to himself, “Well, he
can't live for ever.” But now that the old man was dead, and the yoke
lifted from his neck, he felt no relief—no sense of freedom. He felt
oddly shocked.

David Blake did not sit down. He stood at the opposite side of the
table and looked at Edward. From where he stood he could see first the
white tablecloth, then Edward's face, and on the wall behind Edward, a
full-length portrait of old Edward Mottisfont at the age of thirty. It
was the work of a young man whom Market Harford had looked upon as a
very disreputable young man. He had since become so famous that they
had affixed a tablet to the front of the house in which he had once
lived. The portrait was one of the best he had ever painted, and the
eyes, Edward Mottisfont's black, malicious eyes, looked down from the
wall at his nephew, and at David Blake. Neither of the men had spoken
since they entered the room, but they were both so busy with their
thoughts that neither noticed how silent the other was.

At last David spoke. He said in a hard level voice:

“Edward, I can't sign the certificate. There will have to be an
inquest.”

Edward Mottisfont looked up with a great start.

“An inquest?” he said, “an inquest?”

One of David's hands rested on the table. “I can't sign the
certificate,” he repeated.

Edward stared at him.

“Why not?” he said. “I don't understand—”

“Don't you?” said David Blake.

Edward rumpled up his hair in a distracted fashion.

“I don't understand,” he repeated. “An inquest? Why, you 've been
attending him all these months, and you said he might die at any time.
You said it only the other day. I don't understand—”

“Nor do I,” said David curtly.

Edward stared again.

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Mottisfont might have lived for some time,” said David Blake,
speaking slowly. “I was attending him for a chronic illness, which
would have killed him sooner or later. But it did n't kill him. It did
n't have a chance. He died of poisoning—arsenic poisoning.”

One of Edward's hands was lying on the table. His whole arm
twitched, and the hand fell over, palm upwards. The fingers opened and
closed slowly. David found himself staring at that slowly moving hand.

“Impossible,” said Edward, and his breath caught in his throat as he
said it.

“I 'm afraid not.”

Edward leaned forward a little.

“But, David,” he said, “it 's not possible. Who—who do you
think—who would do such a thing. Or—suicide—do you think he
committed suicide?”

David drew himself suddenly away from the table. All at once the
feeling had come to him that he could no longer touch what Edward
touched.

“No, I don't think it was suicide,” he said. “But of course it 's
not my business to think at all. I shall give my evidence, and there,
as far as I am concerned, the matter ends.”

Edward looked helplessly at David.

“Evidence?” he repeated.

“At the inquest,” said David Blake.

“I don't understand,” said Edward again. He put his head in his
hands, and seemed to be thinking.

“Are you sure?” he said at last. “I don't see how—it was an
attack—just like his other attacks—and then he died—you always said
he might die in one of those attacks.”

There was a sort of trembling eagerness in Edward's tone. A feeling
of nausea swept over David. The scene had become intolerable.

“Mr. Mottisfont died because he drank a cup of tea which contained
enough arsenic to kill a man in robust health,” he said sharply.

He looked once at Edward, saw him start, and added, “and I think
that you brought him that tea.”

“Yes,” said Edward. “He asked me for it, how could there be arsenic
in it?”

“There was,” said David Blake.

“Arsenic? But I brought him the tea—”

“Yes, you brought him the tea.”

Edward lifted his head. His eyes behind his glasses had a misty and
bewildered look. His voice shook a little.

“But—if there 's an inquest—they might say—they might think—”

He pushed his chair back a little way, and half rose from it,
resting his hands on the table, and peering across it.

“David, why do you look at me like that?”

David Blake turned away.

“It 's none of my business,” he said, “I 've got to give my
evidence, and for God's sake, Edward, pull yourself together before the
inquest, and get decent legal advice, for you 'll need it.”

Edward was shockingly pale.

“You mean—what do you mean? That people will think—it 's
impossible.”

David went towards the door. His face was like a flint.

“I mean this,” he said. “Mr. Mottisfont died of arsenic poisoning.
The arsenic was in a cup of tea which he drank. You brought him the
tea. You are undoubtedly in a very serious position. There will have to
be an inquest.”

Edward had risen completely. He made a step towards David.

“But if you were to sign the certificate—there would n't need to be
an inquest—David—”

“But I 'm damned if I 'll sign the certificate,” said David Blake.

He went out and shut the door sharply behind him.

“Will you give me your heart?” she said.

“Oh, I gave it you long ago,” said he.

“Why, then, I threw it away,” said she.

“And what will you give me instead?

Will you give me your honour?” she said.

“ELIZABETH!”

There was a pause.

“Elizabeth—open your door!”

Elizabeth Chantrey came back from a long way off. Mary was calling
her. Mary was knocking at her door. She got up rather wearily, turned
the key, and with a little gasp, Mary was in the room, shutting the
door, and standing with her back against it. The lamp burned low, but
Elizabeth's eyes were accustomed to the gloom. Mary Mottisfont's
bright, clear colour was one of her great attractions. It was all gone
and her dark eyes looked darker and larger than they should have done.

“Why, Molly, I thought you had gone home. Edward told me he was
sending you home an hour ago.”

“He told me to go,” said Mary in a sort of stumbling whisper. “He
told me to go—but I wanted to wait and go with him. I knew he 'd be
upset—I knew he 'd feel it—when it was all over. I wanted to be with
him—oh, Liz—”

“Mary, what is it?”

Mary put up a shaking hand.

“I 'll tell you—don't stop me—there 's no time—I 'll tell
you—oh, I 'm telling you as fast as I can.”

She spoke in a series of gasps.

“I went into your little room behind the dining-room. I knew no one
would come. I knew I should hear any one coming or going. I opened the
door into the dining-room—just a little—”

“Mary, what is it?” said Elizabeth. She put her arm round her
sister, but Mary pushed her away.

“Don't—there 's no time. Let me go on. David came down. He came
into the dining-room. He talked to Edward. He said, 'I can't sign the
certificate,' and Edward said, 'Why not?' and David said,
'Because'—Liz—I can't—oh, Liz, I can't—I can't.”

Mary caught suddenly at Elizabeth's arm and began to sob. She had no
tears—only hard sobs. Her pretty oval face was all white and drawn.
There were dark marks like bruises under her hazel eyes. The little
dark rings of hair about her forehead were damp.

“Dearest—darling—my Molly dear,” said Elizabeth. She held Mary to
her, with strong supporting arms, but the shuddering sobs went on.

“Liz—it was poison. He says it was poison. He says there was poison
in the tea—arsenic poison—and Edward took him the tea. Liz—Liz, why
do such awful things happen? Why does God let them happen?”

Elizabeth was much taller than her sister—taller and stronger. She
released herself from the clutching fingers, and let both her hands
fall suddenly and heavily upon Mary's shoulders.

“Molly, what are you talking about?” she cried.

Mary was startled into a momentary self-control.

“Mr. Mottisfont,” she said. “David said it was poison—poison, Liz.”

Her voice fell to a low horrified whisper at the word, and then rose
on the old gasp of, “Edward took him the tea.” A numbness came upon
Elizabeth. Feeling was paralysed. She was conscious neither of horror,
anxiety, nor sorrow. Only her brain remained clear. All her
consciousness seemed to have gone to it, and it worked with an
inconceivable clearness and rapidity.

“Hush, Mary,” she said. “What are you saying? Edward—”

Mary pushed her away.

“Of course not,” she said. “Liz, if you dared—but you don't—no one
could really—Edward of all people. But there 's all the talk, the
scandal—we can't have it. It must be stopped. And we 're losing time,
we 're losing time dreadfully. I must go to David, and stop him before
he writes to any one, or sees any one. He must sign the certificate.”

Elizabeth stood quite still for a moment. Then she went to the
wash-stand, poured out a glass of water, and came back to Mary.

“Drink this, Molly,” she said. “Yes, drink it all, and pull yourself
together. Now listen to me. You can't possibly go to David.”

“I must go, I must,” said Mary. Her tone hardened. “Will you come
with me, Liz, or must I go alone?”

Elizabeth took the empty glass and set it down.

“Molly, my dear, you must listen. No—I 'm thinking of what 's best
for every one. You don't want any talk. If you go to David's house at
this hour—well, you can see for yourself. No—listen, my dear. If I
ring David up, and ask him to come here at once—at once—to see
me, don't you see how much better that will be?”

Mary's colour came and went. She stood irresolute.

“Very well,” she said at last. “If he 'll come. If he won't, then I
'll go to him, and I don't care what you say, Elizabeth—and you must
be quick—quick.”

They went downstairs in silence. Mr. Mottisfont's study was in
darkness, and Elizabeth brought in the lamp from the hall, holding it
very steadily. Then she sat down at the great littered desk and rang up
the exchange. She gave the number and they waited. After what seemed
like a very long time, Elizabeth heard David's voice.

“Hullo!”

“It is I—Elizabeth,” said Elizabeth Chantrey.

“What is it?”

“Can you come here at once? I want to see you at once. Yes, it is
very important—important and urgent.”

Mary was in an agony of impatience. “What does he say? Will he come
at once?”

But Elizabeth answered David and not her sister.

“No, presently won't do. It must be at once. It 's really urgent,
David, or I would n't ask it. Yes, thank you so much. In my room.”

She put down the receiver, rang off, and turned to Mary.

“He is coming. Had you not better send Edward a message, or he will
be coming back here? Ring up, and say that you are staying with me for
an hour, and that Markham will walk home with you.”

In Elizabeth's little brown room the silence weighed and the time
lagged. Mary walked up and down, moving
perpetually—restlessly—uselessly. There was a small Dutch mirror
above the writing-table. Its cut glass border caught the light, and
reflected it in diamond points and rainbow flashes. It was the
brightest thing in the room. Mary stood for a moment and looked at her
own face. She began to arrange her hair with nervous, trembling
fingers. She rubbed her cheeks, and straightened the lace at her
throat. Then she fell to pacing up and down again.

“The room 's so hot,” she said suddenly. And she went quickly to the
window and flung it open. The air came in, cold and mournfully damp.
Mary drew half a dozen long breaths. Then she shivered, her teeth
chattered. She shut the window with a jerk, and as she did so David
Blake came into the room. It was Elizabeth he saw, and it was to
Elizabeth that he spoke.

“Is anything the matter? Anything fresh?” Elizabeth moved aside, and
all at once he saw Mary Mottisfont.

“Mary wants to speak to you,” said Elizabeth. She made a step
towards the door, but Mary called her sharply. “No, Liz—stay!”

And Elizabeth drew back into the shadowed corner by the window,
whilst Mary came forward into the light. For a moment there was
silence. Mary's hands were clasped before her, her chin was a little
lifted, her eyes were desperately intent.

“David,” she said in a low fluttering voice, “Oh, David—I was in
here—I heard—I could not help hearing.”

“What did you hear?” asked David Blake. The words came from him with
a sort of startled hardness.

“I heard everything you said to Edward—about Mr. Mottisfont. You
said it was poison. I heard you say it.”

“Yes,” said David Blake.

“And Edward took him the tea,” said Mary quickly. “Don't you see,
David—don't you see how dreadful it is for Edward? People who did n't
know him might say—they might think such dreadful things—and if there
were an inquest—” the words came in a sort of strangled whisper.
“There can't be an inquest—there can't. Oh, David, you 'll sign
the certificate, won't you?”

David's face had been changing while she spoke. The first hard
startled look went from it. It was succeeded by a flash of something
like horror, and then by pain—pain and a great pity.

“No, Mary, dear, I can't,” he said very gently. He looked at her,
and further words died upon his lips. Mary came nearer. There was a big
chair in front of the fireplace, and she rested one hand on the back of
it. It seemed as if she needed something firm to touch, her world was
shifting so. David had remained standing by the door, but Mary was not
a yard away from him now.

“You see, David,” she said, still in that low tremulous voice, “you
see, David, you have n't thought—you can't have thought—what it will
mean if you don't. Edward might be suspected of a most dreadful thing.
I 'm sure you have n't thought of that. He might even”—Mary's eyes
widened—“he might even be arrested—and tried—and I could n't
bear it.” The hand that rested on the chair began to tremble very much.
“I could n't bear it,” said Mary piteously.

“Mary, my dear,” said David, “this is a business matter, and you
must n't interfere—I can't possibly sign the certificate. Poor old Mr.
Mottisfont did not die a natural death, and the matter will have to be
inquired into. No innocent person need have anything to be afraid of.”

“Oh!” said Mary. Her breath came hard. “You have n't told any
one—not yet? You have n't written? Oh, am I too late? Have you told
people already?”

“No.” said David, “not yet, but I must.”

The tears came with a rush to Mary's eyes, and began to roll down
her cheeks.

“No, no, David, no,” she said. Her left hand went out towards him
gropingly. “Oh, no, David, you must n't. You have n't thought—indeed
you have n't. Innocent people can't always prove that they are
innocent. They can't. There 's a book—a dreadful book. I 've
just been reading it. There was a man who was quite, quite innocent—as
innocent as Edward—and he could n't prove it. And they were going to
hang him—David!”

Mary's voice broke off with a sort of jerk. Her face became suddenly
ghastly. There was an extremity of terror in every sharpened feature.
Elizabeth stood quite straight and still by the window. She was all in
shadow, her brown dress lost against the soft brown gloom of the
half-drawn velvet curtain. She felt like a shadow herself as she looked
and listened. The numbness was upon her still. She was conscious as it
were of a black cloud that overshadowed them all—herself, Mary,
Edward. But not David. David stood just beyond, and Mary was trying to
hold him and to draw him into the blackness. Something in Elizabeth's
deadened consciousness kept saying over and over again: “Not David, not
David.” Elizabeth saw the black cloud with a strange internal vision.
With her bodily eyes she watched David's face. She saw it harden when
Mary looked at him, and quiver with pain when she looked away. She saw
his hand go out and touch Mary's hand, and she heard him say:

“Mary, I can't. Don't ask me.”

Mary put her other hand suddenly on David's wrist. A bright colour
flamed into her cheeks.

“David, you used to be fond of me—once—not long ago. You said you
would do anything for me. Anything in the world. You said you loved me.
And you said that nowadays a man did not get the opportunity of showing
a woman what he would do for her. You wanted to do something for me
then, and I had nothing to ask you. Are n't you fond of me any more,
David? Won't you do anything for me now?—now that I ask you?”

David pulled his hand roughly from her grasp. He pushed past her,
and crossed the room.

“Mary, you don't know what you are asking me,” he said in a tone of
sharp exasperation. “You don't know what you are talking about. You
don't seem to realize that you are asking me to become an accessory
after the fact in a case of murder.”

Mary shuddered. The word was like a blow. She spoke in a hurried
whispering way.

“But Edward—it 's for Edward. What will happen to Edward? And to
me? Don't you care? We 've only been married six months. It 's such a
little time. Don't you care at all? I never knew such dreadful things
could happen—not to one's self. You read things in papers, and you
never think—you never, never think that a thing like that could happen
to yourself. I suppose those people don't all die, but I should die.
Oh, David, are n't you going to help us?”

She spoke the last words as a child might have spoken them. Her eyes
were fixed appealingly upon David's face. Mary Mottisfont had very
beautiful eyes. They were hazel in colour, and in shape and expression
they resembled those of another Mary, who was also Queen of Hearts.

Elizabeth Chantrey became suddenly aware that she was shaking all
over, and that the room was full of a thick white mist. She groped in
the mist and found a chair. She made a step forward, and sat down. Then
the mist grew thinner by degrees, and through it she saw that Mary had
come quite close to David again. She was looking up at him. Her hands
were against his breast, and she was saying:

“David—David—David, you said the world was not enough to give me
once.”

David's face was rigid.

“You would n't take what I had to give,” he said very low. He had
forgotten Elizabeth Chantrey. He saw nothing but Mary's eyes.

“You did n't want my love, Mary, and now you want my honour. And you
say it is only a little thing.”

Mary lifted her head and met his eyes.

“Give it me,” she said. “If it is a great thing, well, I shall value
it all the more. Oh, David, because I ask it. Because I shall love you
all my life, and bless you all my life. And if I 'm asking you a great
thing—oh, David, you said that nothing would be too great to give me.
Oh, David, won't you give me this now? Won't you give me this one
thing, because I ask it?”

As Mary spoke the mist cleared from before Elizabeth's eyes and the
numbness that had been upon her changed slowly into feeling. She put
both hands to her heart, and held them there. Her heart beat against
her hands, and every beat hurt her. She felt again, and what she felt
was the sharpest pain that she had ever known, and she had known much
pain.