I thought to myself directly: There’s nothing in that drink. I have been dreaming, I have made the awfullest mistake!”
Mr Smith put the glass down. He stood before Powell unharmed, quieted down, in a listening attitude, his head inclined on one side, chewing his thin lips. Suddenly he blinked queerly, grabbed Powell’s shoulder and collapsed, subsiding all at once as though he had gone soft all over, as a piece of silk stuff collapses. Powell seized his arm instinctively and checked his fall; but as soon as Mr Smith was fairly on the floor he jerked himself free and backed away. Almost as quick he rushed forward again and tried to lift up the body. But directly he raised his shoulders he knew that the man was dead! Dead!
He lowered him down gently. He stood over him without fear or any other feeling, almost indifferent, far away, as it were. And then he made another start and, if he had not kept Mrs Anthony always in his mind, he would have let out a yell for help. He staggered to her cabin door, and, as it was, his call for “Captain Anthony” burst out of him much too loud; but he made a great effort of self-control. “I am waiting for my orders, sir,” he said outside that door distinctly, in a steady tone.
It was very still in there; still as death. Then he heard a shuffle of feet and the captain’s voice “All right. Coming.” He leaned his back against the bulkhead as you see a drunken man sometimes propped up against a wall, half doubled up. In that attitude the captain found him, when he came out, pulling the door to after him quickly. At once Anthony let his eyes run all over the cabin. Powell, without a word, clutched his forearm, led him round the end of the table and began to justify himself. “I couldn’t stop him,” he whispered shakily. “He was too quick for me. He drank it up and fell down.” But the captain was not listening. He was looking down at Mr Smith, thinking perhaps that it was a mere chance his own body was not lying there. They did not want to speak. They made signs to each other with their eyes. The captain grasped Powell’s shoulder as if in a vice and glanced at Mrs Anthony’s cabin door, and it was enough. He knew that the young man understood him. Rather! Silence! Silence for ever about this. Their very glances became stealthy. Powell looked from the body to the door of the dead man’s state-room. The captain nodded and let him go; and then Powell crept over, hooked the door open and crept back with fearful glances towards Mrs Anthony’s cabin. They stooped over the corpse. Captain Anthony lifted up the shoulders.
Mr Powell shuddered. “I’ll never forget that interminable journey across the saloon, step by step, holding our breath. For part of the way the drawn half of the curtain concealed us from view had Mrs Anthony opened her door; but I didn’t draw a free breath till after we laid the body down on the swinging cot. The reflection of the saloon light left most of the cabin in the shadow. Mr Smith’s rigid, extended body looked shadowy too, shadowy and alive. You know he always carried himself as stiff as a poker. We stood by the cot as though waiting for him to make us a sign that he wanted to be left alone. The captain threw his arm over my shoulder and said in my very ear: ‘The steward’ll find him in the morning.’
“I made no answer. It was for him to say. It was perhaps the best way. It’s no use talking about my thoughts. They were not concerned with myself, nor yet with that old man who terrified me more now than when he was alive. Him whom I pitied was the captain. He whispered: ‘I am certain of you, Mr Powell. You had better go on deck now. As to me...’ and I saw him raise his hands to his head as if distracted. But his last words before we stole out that cabin stick to my mind with the very tone of his mutter—to himself, not to me:—
“No! No! I am not going to stumble now over that corpse.”
“This is what our Mr Powell had to tell me,” said Marlow, changing his tone. I was glad to learn that Flora de Barral had been saved from
We sat silent then, my mind running on the end of de Barral, on the irresistible pressure of imaginary griefs, crushing conscience, scruples, prudence, under their ever-expanding volume; on the sombre and venomous irony in the obsession which had mastered that old man.
“Well,” I said.
“The steward found him,” Mr Powell roused himself. “He went in there with a cup of tea at five and of course dropped it. I was on watch again. He reeled up to me on deck pale as death. I had been expecting it; and yet I could hardly speak. ‘Go and tell the captain quietly,’ I managed to say. He ran off muttering ‘My God! My God!’ and I’m hanged if he didn’t get hysterical while trying to tell the captain, and start screaming in the saloon, ‘Fully dressed! Dead! Fully dressed!’ Mrs Anthony ran out of course but she didn’t get hysterical. Franklin, who was there too, told me that she hid her face on the captain’s breast and then he went out and left them there. It was days before Mrs Anthony was seen on deck. The first time I spoke to her she gave me her hand and said, ‘My poor father was quite fond of you, Mr Powell.’ She started wiping her eyes and I fled to the other side of the deck. One would like to forget all this had ever come near her.”
But clearly he could not, because after lighting his pipe he began musing aloud: “Very strong stuff it must have been. I wonder where he got it. It could hardly be at a common chemist. Well, he had it from somewhere—a mere pinch it must have been, no more.”
“I have my theory,” observed Marlow, “which to a certain extent does away with the added horror of a coldly premeditated crime. Chance had stepped in there too. It was not Mr Smith who obtained the poison. It was the Great de Barral. And it was not meant for the obscure, magnanimous conqueror of Flora de Barral; it was meant for the notorious financier whose enterprises had nothing to do with magnanimity. He had his physician in his days of greatness. I even seem to remember that the man was called at the trial on some small point or other. I can imagine that de Barral went to him when he saw, as he could hardly help seeing, the possibility of a ‘triumph of envious rivals’—a heavy sentence.”
I doubt if for love or even for money, but I think possibly, from pity that man provided him with what Mr Powell called “strong stuff.” From what Powell saw of the very act I am fairly certain it must have been contained in a capsule and that he had it about him on the last day of his trial, perhaps secured by a stitch in his waistcoat pocket. He didn’t use it. Why? Did he think of his child at the last moment? Was it want of courage? We can’t tell. But he found it in his clothes when he came out of jail. It had escaped investigation if there was any. Chance had armed him. And chance alone, the chance of Mr Powell’s life, forced him to turn the abominable weapon against himself.
I imparted my theory to Mr Powell who accepted it at once as, in a sense, favourable to the father of Mrs Anthony. Then he waved his hand. “Don’t let us think of it.”
I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily:
“I was with Captain and Mrs Anthony sailing all over the world for near on six years. Almost as long as Franklin.”
“Oh yes! What about Franklin?” I asked.
Powell smiled. “He left the
