clearly—the resonant voice and infectious laughter of Fergus O’Brien, contrasting so strangely with the fey look in his eyes, the look of one seeing things beyond the world’s edge. When Lord and Lady Marlinworth took their leave at 11 p.m. and some of the men adjourned to the billiard room, Nigel went up to bed. He wanted to rest. Hoax or no hoax, he meant to be near the hut tonight. O’Brien might be able to look after himself, but four hands were better than two. The hut … zero hour … ‘Look after him, won’t you?’ … four hands better than … zero hour …
IV
A DEAD MAN’S TALE
NIGEL, COMING AWAKE by slow degrees, was conscious first of light and then of silence. The light seemed to be striking down at him from the ceiling, which was surely odd on a winter’s morning. The silence was not, now that he listened to it more attentively, exactly silence; but a damping-down of all the country sounds, of dog-bark, harness-jingle, wagon-rumble, cockcrow, and footfall, as though some gigantic soft pedal had been pressed down over the countryside. Nigel wondered vaguely if these phenomena were the after-effect of drugs. Then he pointed out to himself, rather laboriously, that he did not take drugs. Then his mind started working properly, and he exclaimed, ‘Snow!’ He went to look out of the window. Yes, there had been a fall in the night: not enough to overload roofs and branches, but blanketing earth and all its sounds. Nigel’s heart contracted suddenly. O’Brien! The hut! He ran along to the room in which O’Brien had pretended to be sleeping, and looked out towards the hut. A single trail of footsteps, half obliterated by the snow, led to it from the veranda. There was a thin layer of smooth snow on the veranda roof. ‘Thank God, that’s all right,’ Nigel muttered. ‘No one but O’Brien has been out there. Nothing has happened after all.’ Returning to his room, he looked at his wrist watch. Eight-forty. He had slept late. So had O’Brien, it seemed: he was usually out feeding the birds by this time. Well, after a dinner like that, what could you expect? But a little flaw of apprehension crawled over Nigel’s heart again. He would have been told if—Arthur Bellamy would have told him. But Arthur had not been out to the hut; or, if he had been out, he had not come back. And why hadn’t he called Nigel?
Nigel hurried on his clothes. A nightmare sensation was gnawing at him—the sensation he had felt as a boy, dreaming that he was late for school. He ran downstairs. Edward Cavendish was stamping up and down the front veranda in an overcoat.
‘Getting up an appetite for breakfast,’ he said. ‘Everyone seems very sleepy this morning. I wasn’t called at all—though I suppose one couldn’t expect that in this house.’ His tones were a little pettish.
‘I’m just going out to the hut to see if our host is awake,’ said Nigel. ‘Coming?’
Nigel’s uneasiness must have communicated itself to Cavendish, for the latter preceded him with alacrity round the corner of the house. The trail of footsteps stretched out before them from opposite the french windows to the hut door, a distance of about fifty yards. Nigel hurried out, unconsciously keeping well away from this trail, Cavendish a little ahead of him. He knocked on the door of the hut. There was no answer. Nigel looked in at the window, and what he saw made him leap for the door, thrust it open and stumble inside. The enormous kitchen table was still there, strewn with books and papers; the oil stove and the easy chairs were as he had seen them last. One of the carpet slippers was there on the floor, too; but the other was on the foot of O‘Brien, who lay in a heap beside the desk.
Nigel knelt down and touched one of his hands. It was dead cold. It did not need the dried trickle of blood from his heart, the scorching of black lapel and white shirt-front to tell Nigel that Fergus O’Brien was dead. A revolver lay beside the
IV
A DEAD MAN’S TALE
NIGEL, COMING AWAKE by slow degrees, was conscious first of light and then of silence. The light seemed to be striking down at him from the ceiling, which was surely odd on a winter’s morning. The silence was not, now that he listened to it more attentively, exactly silence; but a damping-down of all the country sounds, of dog-bark, harness-jingle, wagon-rumble, cockcrow, and footfall, as though some gigantic soft pedal had been pressed down over the countryside. Nigel wondered vaguely if these phenomena were the after-effect of drugs. Then he pointed out to himself, rather laboriously, that he did not take drugs. Then his mind started working properly, and he exclaimed, ‘Snow!’ He went to look out of the window. Yes, there had been a fall in the night: not enough to overload roofs and branches, but blanketing earth and all its sounds. Nigel’s heart contracted suddenly. O’Brien! The hut! He ran along to the room in which O’Brien had pretended to be sleeping, and looked out towards the hut. A single trail of footsteps, half obliterated by the snow, led to it from the veranda. There was a thin layer of smooth snow on the veranda roof. ‘Thank God, that’s all right,’ Nigel muttered. ‘No one but O’Brien has been out there. Nothing has happened after all.’ Returning to his room, he looked at his wrist watch. Eight-forty. He had slept late. So had O’Brien, it seemed: he was usually out feeding the birds by this time. Well, after a dinner like that, what could you expect? But a little flaw of apprehension crawled over Nigel’s heart again. He would have been told if—Arthur Bellamy would have told him. But Arthur had not been out to the hut; or, if he had been out, he had not come back. And why hadn’t he called Nigel?
Nigel hurried on his clothes. A nightmare sensation was gnawing at him—the sensation he had felt as a boy, dreaming that he was late for school. He ran downstairs. Edward Cavendish was stamping up and down the front veranda in an overcoat.
‘Getting up an appetite for breakfast,’ he said. ‘Everyone seems very sleepy this morning. I wasn’t called at all—though I suppose one couldn’t expect that in this house.’ His tones were a little pettish.
‘I’m just going out to the hut to see if our host is awake,’ said Nigel. ‘Coming?’
Nigel’s uneasiness must have communicated itself to Cavendish, for the latter preceded him with alacrity round the corner of the house. The trail of footsteps stretched out before them from opposite the french windows to the hut door, a distance of about fifty yards. Nigel hurried out, unconsciously keeping well away from this trail, Cavendish a little ahead of him. He knocked on the door of the hut. There was no answer. Nigel looked in at the window, and what he saw made him leap for the door, thrust it open and stumble inside. The enormous kitchen table was still there, strewn with books and papers; the oil stove and the easy chairs were as he had seen them last. One of the carpet slippers was there on the floor, too; but the other was on the foot of O‘Brien, who lay in a heap beside the desk.
Nigel knelt down and touched one of his hands. It was dead cold. It did not need the dried trickle of blood from his heart, the scorching of black lapel and white shirt-front to tell Nigel that Fergus O’Brien was dead. A revolver lay beside the
Similar Books
Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done."
Bad-Boy Storyteller
