Blue Murder (25 page)

“Now tell me all about it,” he said gently. “I know that you couldn't have killed old Hardstaffe, though I'll admit you scared me a bit when you confessed that you had.”

“Of course I didn't!” she said indignantly. “It was just nerves. I'm not usually given to making scenes, but all that sob-stuff from Stanton and his wife fairly finished me after the awful time I'd had that morning. I felt I must do something to stop all those questions and arguments or I should go mad.”

“Yes, I can understand that,” replied Arnold. “It was lucky that the Inspector had the sense to send for the doctor. When he arrived he couldn't tell us whether you'd recover or not. He just bundled you into his car and insisted on taking you to a nursing-home, and said he'd have to keep you doped for a few days to give your brain a chance to recover from the shock. I wonder he let you out so soon really.”

“Oh, I'm as strong as a horse,” said Charity. “I feel that I owe you all an apology, though, for making an exhibition of myself.”

“You didn't,” Arnold smiled. “You looked—magnificent. Really, I mean it. We ought to do the apologising, not you. We ought to have had more sense than to subject you to such an interview after the shock you'd had. So, if that's all you were crying about—”

“No, it isn't.” She sat quite still for a minute, then looked at him in that heart-piercing way of hers. “Mr. Smith, you've always been kind and understanding to me,” she said. “I'm so alone in the world, and everyone in the village dislikes me. I suppose it's because I never mix with them, and they think I'm a snob.”

“They probably envy you,” returned Smith. “They're none of 'em noted for their looks, and you are beautiful.”

“No!” cried Charity. “They've no reason to envy me. They say that good looks are the snares of the devil. If I have any, that's what they are. If I'd been ugly, I shouldn't have attracted
him
, and I shouldn't need to feel so wretchedly miserable now.”

Arnold stared at her in amazement.

“You mean—you're still in love with Leda's father?” he asked.

Charity's laugh was full of bitterness.

“In love? No! I hated him! I'm glad he's dead, though it was my fault, I know, that he died. All those rumours about us were quite true. He was in love with me—at least he was crazy about me, if that's the same thing. He wanted to marry me. No, that's not the truth. He wanted to make me his mistress.” Arnold winced at the word. “When I refused, he said he would marry me even if he had to kill his wife first. I don't know whether he did it or not, but I think he was capable of it.

“But it isn't that. It's my own part in it that makes me feel so unhappy. He flattered me, and gave me lovely presents. I ought not to have accepted them, but I did. I was so lonely here and he was unhappy at home, and I thought I was in love with him. It all seemed so natural at the time, then I suddenly came to my senses, and realised that I didn't love him and never had. I knew that he was just a dirty old man and I was pandering to him. Oh, I'm not shirking ugly words,” she went on. “It was just like that. It must have been a kind of Svengali attraction, for, until then, I'd seen it as a great romance. That night when I came to dinner and met you, he tried to kiss me when he took me home. I told him how I felt, and I'd have killed him if he'd tried to touch me again.”

Arnold did not perceive her reason for telling him all this, and said with some diffidence, “But you found it all out in time. I don't see why you're letting it worry you so much.”

Charity looked at him, her lips trembling, and he saw that her lovely green eyes were filled with tears.

“Can't you understand how ashamed I feel?” she asked earnestly. “I felt ashamed that you should have seen Mr. Hardstaffe treating me as though I belonged to him. I still feel dreadful when I think of it.”

Arnold took her hand in his.

“My dear, you have no cause to feel like that,” he said. “However foolish you may have been, that's all over. I don't believe all the awful things you've been saying about yourself. To me, you are quite lovely.”

Charity squeezed his hand.

“You do say the sweetest things,” she said, smiling through her tears. “I've wanted so much to be friends with you, but I felt that I couldn't until I'd told you the truth about
him
.”

One of the woodcutters passed them, his footsteps deadened by the soft mossy ground. He whistled as he went on his way, hoping to convince them, perhaps, that they had not been observed.

First old Mr. Hardstaffe and now old Mr. Smith, he thought. Well, they do say Charity always begins at home!

Charity withdrew her hand and got up hurriedly.

“It's getting late. I must go,” she said in the old, impersonal voice.

Arnold, finding the sudden change in her manner disconcerting, got up, and turned to accompany her.

“No, don't come with me,” she said, “You'd better go back the short way. Your fiancée will be waiting for you,” and, waving a slender hand, she walked quickly away through the wood.

Arnold turned back thoughtfully.

Before he had reached the house, he had resolved to break his non-existent engagement with Leda.

He heard Leda's voice calling to him as soon as he entered the hall, and, disturbed by its unfamiliar urgency, he hastened forward.

The hall, like many others in old houses, lacked adequate windows, and he could see her indistinctly among die shadows.

“Oh Arnold, I'm so glad you've come!” she exclaimed. “I'm in such trouble.”

He stretched out a hand, but she drew back.

“Don't touch me,” she said quickly. “I'm—wet.”

"Wet?” repeated Arnold. “On a lovely evening like this? What on earth have you been doing? Falling into the river?”

He switched on the light.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “What have you done? What is it—oil?”

He streaked a finger across the front of her coat, then looked at it, and gasped.

“It's blood,” he said. “Blood!” He looked at the wide smears on the sleeves of her coat, at the great, spreading blotch across the waist and breast, at her bloody hands, and his voice grew urgent.

“Has there been an accident? Are you hurt?”

“No.
I'm
all right, Arnold.”

He gazed at her agitated face and frightened eyes.

“Then, what is it? You don't mean—?”

Leda gulped.

“It's Cherub,” she said, “my little darling Cherub. I was coming back from the meeting and she must have heard my step. She ran right across the road. A motor-bike—the man couldn't help it. No one could have avoided her. It caught her with some sharp part. She's—terribly injured, Arnold. Oh, why didn't I come home five minutes earlier? Why did it have to be Cherub?”

“I'm sorry, Leda. Is there anything I can do?”

In his relief, Arnold found it difficult to express his sympathy, though he knew that the puppy was as dear to Leda's heart as Paul was to Betty's. But, standing there motionless, her hands stained with blood, and that look of horror in her eyes, she had looked a veritable Lady Macbeth, and he had imagined a tragedy much greater.

“Yes. Ring up the vet for me—you'll find his number on the telephone pad. I've put her in one of the kennels. She's bleeding so terribly.”

“Right,” replied Arnold. “Vincent's the name, isn't it? Perhaps it isn't as bad as it looks. It isn't always a bad thing for a wound to bleed at first.”

“You haven't seen it,” Leda replied in dull tones. “I want him to put her to sleep at once. She's in no pain yet, but there's absolutely no hope of saving her.”

“I'm sorry,” he said again. “I know how you feel. You can't do anything for a few minutes, though, so how about mixing yourself a drink and then taking that coat off? You must be sensible, dear.”

As he spoke, it occurred to him that this was probably the first time in her life that anyone had ever had to tell Leda to be sensible.

She fumbled with the belt of her coat, but before she could take it off, Arnold was put through to the vet's number, and she waited while he took the call.

At last, he put down the receiver and turned to answer her unspoken question.

“He can't come,” he said. “He's out on an emergency call some miles away. Sir Andrew Carnford's brood mare. He isn't expected back for hours. Isn't there anyone else we can get?”

Leda shook her head.

“No,” she said. “He's the only vet within miles. I shall have to do it myself.”

Arnold stared.

“Your favourite puppy? You can't, Leda.”

“I can. I've got to. When the first numbness wears off, she'll be in agony. You'll help me, won't you, Arnold? I can't do it alone.”

“Of course,” replied Arnold, “but wouldn't it be better to wait for a bit? Vincent might get back earlier than they expect.”

“I don't relish it any more than you do,” said Leda, “but it's just got to be done. When you see her you'll understand.”

In the last few minutes, she had contrived to regain her self-control and once again seemed her usual calm self. Arnold, much relieved by her manner, followed her out of the house and across the yard to the kennels, where they entered the large central wooden building.

It was about the size of a large hen-house and smelled of saw-dust, creosote, and dog. Leda could walk about on the raised wooden floor in comfort, but Arnold had to duck his head except in the very middle of the little hut, under the apex of the roof.

The puppy lay on its side on a bed of straw. It raised its head slowly from its front paws, and uttered little whimpers of welcome as Leda knelt down beside it, but its eyes were dazed.

Arnold saw with some surprise that Leda had brought some food in a dish which she offered to Cherub.

“Is that wise?” he asked. “I thought they were supposed not to have it when...”

“I always give them a good meal before they go to the vet for this kind of thing,” Leda replied, “but she doesn't seem able to eat it.”

Arnold felt the pathos of the scene. But one glance at the puppy's injuries assured him that Leda was right about them. The dog could not live long, but it might feel pain again. You couldn't take that chance with any living creature you loved. He admired Leda for her courage.

“I'll get you to hold the lamp up, if you don't mind, Arnold,” she said. “It will be dark before we've finished, and I must be able to see what I'm doing. It's one of those patent A.R.P. lamps that throw the light downwards, and I'm afraid there's no nail to hang it on. When I come here in the dark, I just put it down on the floor, but that will hardly do for this job. I'll be as quick as I can.”

Arnold held the lamp obediently, as she took some small bottles, cotton wool, a cardboard funnel, and finally ampoules and a hypodermic syringe from a tin case originally designed to hold some long-forgotten Christmas gift.

“Morphia?” he asked.

Leda looked up quickly.

“No,” she replied. “I can't get that, you know. This is a new drug—I forget the name—but it doesn't kill. It temporarily paralyses the motor nerves and eventually induces sleep. She might not need it, but I couldn't bear it if she started to struggle when she smells the chloroform. If she did, I don't think I could go on with it.”

“I shouldn't think she could do much struggling with a wound like that,” remarked Arnold.

“No, I don't suppose she can, but I'm taking no risks. If a thing has to be done I believe in doing it properly. It causes less heart-ache in the long run.”

Arnold watched her pinch together a fold of the dog's skin, and make a gentle injection. Then she stroked its head with a slow rhythmic movement.

“The stuff takes a little time to take effect,” she said, “I usually give it in their food when I have to use it at all, but an injection is quicker.”

They watched the dog blink drowsily until, after some minutes, its head dropped on to its front paws, and it breathed deeply in sleep.

Leda's hand did not falter as she packed some cotton wool loosely into the narrow end of the funnel, and sprinkled a few drops of chloroform on to it.

“It looks strange to see you doing this sort of thing,” said Arnold, finding the silence oppressive.

“I daresay it does,” replied Leda. “You don't often see me in the kennels, though, do you? I've done quite a few first aid jobs since you've been here, all the same. When you breed dogs, you have to be prepared for things like this, though I always get the vet, if I can.”

She placed the wide end of the funnel over the dog's nose and held it lightly with one hand while she sprinkled more chloroform on to the cotton wool at the other end, from time to time.

Arnold never saw her hand tremble.

Hours seemed to pass, and still the puppy breathed.

Arnold's head began to ache and he felt slightly dizzy standing there, with the lamp hanging from his out-stretched hand.

At length Leda said, “She's gone,” and laid the funnel on the floor. Then she looked up at Arnold and said with tears glinting in her eyes, “I did it for the best.”

Arnold shook off his lethargy and forced himself to speak.

“I know you did,” he said, and his voice seemed to mock at him from a great distance. He swayed a little, and would have dropped the lamp if Leda had not taken it from him.

The next moment, as it seemed, he found himself outside, shivering in the cold wind, and asked, “What happened? What am I doing?”

“The chloroform made you a bit dizzy,” said Leda. “I hadn't realised that you were standing right over it in the heat of the lamp, and the kennel is so stuffy with the windows closed. I'm so sorry, Arnold. It was selfish of me.”