“That’s where it is, Fane. A fellow like you is lucky. But that’s no reason why I shouldn’t be lucky in my turn. My life has been a failure so far. Yes, I’m not going to attempt to deny it. There are lots of things in my life that might have been different. You’ll understand when I say different I mean pleasanter for everybody all round, myself included. But that’s all finished. With this fruit-farm—well, of course it’s no good grumbling and running down good things—those apples we saw were big enough to make anybody’s fortune. Cawdashit, Fane, I can see myself sitting under one of those apple-trees and counting the bloody fruit falling down at my feet and me popping them into baskets and selling them—where was it he said we sold them?” Barnes poured out more Chianti. “Really, it seems a sin on a fine day like this to be hanging about in London. Well, I’ve had some sprees in old London, and that’s a fact; so I’m not going to start running it down now. If I hadn’t lost that watch-bracelet, I wouldn’t give a damn for anybody. Good old London,” he went on meditatively. “Yes, I’ve had some times—good times and bad times—and here I am.”
He gradually became incoherent, and Michael thought it would be as well to escort him back to Leppard Street and impress on him once again that he must remove all his things immediately.
“You’ll have to be quick with your packing-up. You ought to sail next week. I shall go and see about your passage tomorrow.”
They drove back to Leppard Street in a taxi, and as they got out Barnes said emphatically:
“You know what it is, Fane? Cawdashit! I feel like a marquis when I’m out with you, and it I hadn’t have lost that watch-bracelet I’d feel like the bloody German Emperor. That’s me. All up in the air one minute, and yet worry myself barmy over a little thing like a watch the next.”
“Hullo!” he exclaimed, looking up the road as their taxi drove off. “Somebody else is playing at being a millionaire.”
Another taxi was driving into Leppard Street.
Michael had already opened the front door, and he told Barnes not to hang about on the steps. Barnes turned reluctantly from his inspection of the new taxi’s approach. It pulled up at Number One, and three men jumped out.
“That’s your man,” Michael heard one of them say, and in another moment he heard, “Henry Meats … I hold a warrant … murder of Cissie … anything you say … used against you,” all in the mumbo-jumbo of a nightmare.
Michael came down the steps again very quickly; and Barnes, now handcuffed, turned to him despairingly.
“Tell ’em my name isn’t Meats, Fane. Tell ’em they’ve made a mistake. Oh, my God, I never done it! I never done it!”
The two men were pushing him, dead white, crumpled, sobbing, into the taxi; he seemed very small beside the big men with their square shoulders and bristly mustaches. Michael heard him still moaning as the taxi jangled and whirred abruptly forward. The third man watched it disappear between the two walls; then he strolled up the steps to enter the house. Mrs. Cleghorne was already in the hall, and over the balusters of each landing faces could be seen peering down. As if the word were uttered by the house itself, “murder” floated in a whisper upon the air. The faces shifted; doors opened and shut far above; footsteps hurried to and fro; and still of all these sounds “murder” was the most audible.
“This is the gentleman who rents the rooms,” Mrs. Cleghorne was saying.
“But I’ve not been near them till yesterday evening for six months,” Michael hurriedly explained.
“That’s quite right,” Mrs. Cleghorne echoed.
“Well, I’m afraid we must go through them,” said the officer.
“Oh, of course.”
“Let me see, is this your address?”
“Well, no—Cheyne Walk—173.”
“We might want to have a little talk with you about this here Meats.”
Michael was enraged with himself for not asseverating “Barnes! Barnes! Barnes!” as he had been begged to do. He despised himself for not trying to save that white crumpled thing huddled between those big men with their bristly mustaches; yet all the while he felt violently afraid that the police officer would think him involved in these disgraceful rooms, that he would suppose the pictures and the tawdry furniture belonged to him, that he would imagine the petticoats and underlinen strewn about the floor had something to do with him.
“If you want me,” he found himself saying, “you have my address.”
Quickly he hurried away from Leppard Street, and traveled in a trance of shame to Hardingham. Alan was just going in to bat, when Michael walked across from the Hall to the cricket-field.
Stella came from her big basket chair to greet him, and for a while he sat with her in the buttercups, watching Alan at the wicket. Nothing had ever seemed so easy as the bowling of the opposite side on this fine June evening, and Michael tried to banish the thought of Barnes in the spaciousness of these level fields. Stella was evidently being very careful not to convey the impression that she had lately won a victory over him. It was really ridiculous, Michael thought, as he plucked idly the buttercups and made desultory observations to Stella about the merit of a stroke by Alan, it was more than ridiculous, it was deliberate folly to enmesh himself with such horrors as he had beheld at Leppard Street. There were doubtless very unpleasant events continually happening in this world, but willfully to drag one’s self into misery on account of them was merely to show an incapacity to appreciate the more fortunate surroundings of one’s allotted niche. The avoidance of even the sight of evil was as justifiable as the avoidance of evil itself, and the moral economy of the world might suffer a dangerous displacement, if everyone
