He did not seem, however, to be in a hurry to redeem his promise. Instead, he made straight for Marryatt’s room, taking the stairs three at a time; and his proceedings in Marryatt’s room were sufficiently curious to be worth recording in detail. First, he took two out of the three pipes which lay there, and hid them carefully behind the coal-scuttle. Then he pulled the remaining pipe in half; picked a strand or two of tobacco out of the nearest tin, and rammed these tightly down the stem of the pipe, close to the mouthpiece. There were a couple of feathers on the mantelpiece; these he unscrupulously put in his pocket. And, “Now, my friend,” he said to himself out loud, as he left the room, “I think we’ve spiked your guns. I for one shall be surprised if you don’t come along hunting for pipe-cleaners.” And so he went down and rejoined Reeves in the deserted billiard-room.
The Committee had not yet decided what action to take about the secret passage, and it was with no difficulty that the two friends entered it again from the billiard-room end, and made their way along it, guided by Reeves’ torch. If it had lost its thrill of human mystery, it had acquired instead a kind of impersonal dreariness. One had not looked for ghosts, when one was expecting a murderer to be lurking there; now, you caught your breath a little as you passed the hiding-hole. Priests had lain close here many times; strange irony, that it should now be serving as a vantage-point for spying on a clerical delinquent. There were two cracks in the panelling of Reeves’ room, and through either you could see, in the shifting firelight, the dark outlines of the oaken cudgel that lay against Reeves’ armchair. By a grim accident, it stood exactly as if it were being held in the right hand of someone seated there. It could not fail to catch the eye of anyone who turned on the electric light, when he came in.
Voices, echoed up the staircase, proclaimed the breaking up of the dining-tables. They could distinguish Carmichael’s high-pitched accents, as he told an interminable story at the foot of the stairs—no doubt to Marryatt, who still delayed his coming. Then at last they heard Marryatt’s step, the rather boyish, light step that characterized him; he was still crooning, if further identification were needed, the hymn Reeves had heard from the churchyard.
Though, like a wanderer,
The sun gone down,
Darkness comes over me,
My rest a stone,
Still in my dreams I’d be—
and the sounds died away with the footfalls, as Marryatt turned the corner into his own room.
Then there was silence; a silence fraught with expectation, and for Gordon with anxiety. Why hadn’t he come? Had he, after all—one ought to have considered that—another pipe in his pocket? Had some splinter or paperclip succeeded in removing the all-important obstruction? No; Marryatt’s door was suddenly flung open with an impatient gesture; Marryatt’s step was heard again in the passage; Marryatt’s voice still found occupation in rendering the hymn, but more savagely now—you pictured a bear robbed of her whelps.
There let my way appear,
Steps unto heaven,
All that Thou sendest me
In mercy given—
and at that the door suddenly swung open, and the light was switched on.
Angels to beckon me—
The voice stopped dead in mid-tone. There was a sharp, nerve-wracking crash as a pipe fell on the floorboards. Marryatt was standing in the doorway as if transfixed, staring at the oaken stick, his face distorted with terror. Half in excitement, half in relief, Reeves drew a deep breath, which came out with a slight whistle—he must be careful not to do that again, or he might betray his presence. … No, precaution was needless. Marryatt had turned; he strode in silence down the passage like a man pursued, and they heard his door shut behind him, the key turn in the lock.
Very cautiously, Reeves and Gordon pushed aside the settee which blocked the entrance of the passage, and stepped out into the room. Marryatt had left his pipe where it lay, had not turned off the light as he went out.
“Now,” said Reeves, “what d’you make of Marryatt’s innocence?”
“I’m going along to his room,” said Gordon.
“No, look here, you mustn’t do that. We haven’t decided what we’re going to say to him, what we’re to do about it. Leave him alone for the present.”
“I’m not going in,” said Gordon. He tiptoed along the passage outside, till he came opposite Marrayatt’s door, and stood irresolute. Then suddenly he heard a muffled voice from inside. “Oh, my God!” and again, “Oh, my God!” He tiptoed back again, his face grave. “Look here, Reeves, I can’t understand it. I tell you, I can’t understand it.”
“It doesn’t much matter whether we understand it or not; the point is, what to do about it? We can have explanations later on. But I daren’t go to a man and say, ‘Look here, are you a murderer?’ Besides, I know he is one. I can’t simply tell the police what I know, and leave them to get on with it; it seems so mean. Besides, I don’t think I want anything to happen to Marryatt. Only I’ve promised Miss Rendall-Smith that I’ll do my best to get Davenant off. What am I to do?”
“If you feel like that—I suppose you wouldn’t trust me to talk to him?”
“It’s awfully good of you, but you know, I feel it’s up to me. I must form my own conclusions.”
“Then, if I were you, I’d write him a letter, simply pointing out that there are certain actions of his which you can’t quite explain, and asking him to explain them. Tell him you’re still worried over Brotherhood’s murder, and feel that perhaps he may be concealing something, from whatever motive, which might lead you to the truth if you knew about it. Reeves, I’m sure the man
