A bell jangled in the basement. Someone with his head lowered was peering through the frosted glass of the front door.
III
In moments of crisis the human mind can become extraordinarily efficient. Before the bell was silent in the basement, the mind of Stephen Byrne, kneeling in a sweat by the dead body of a housemaid, had covered a vast field of circumstance and performed two or three distinct logical processes. His first instinct was to put out the light. With that person peering on the doorstep the light in the hall had better be out. He felt exposed, naked, illuminated. On the other hand, one could see practically nothing through the frosted glass from outside, only the shadow of anyone actually moving in the hall. That he knew from experience. Probably the person—whoever it was—could see nothing that was on the floor, nothing that was below the level of his or her interfering eye. If Stephen stayed still as he was, the person might never know he was there, might even go away in disgust. To put the light out would be a gratuitous advertisement that somebody was in the house. Besides, it would look so rude.
Stephen did not turn out the light. He knelt there on two knees and a hand, staring like a snake at the front door. With his right hand he was stealthily scratching his left armpit. It was itching intolerably. And his dress-collar was sticking into his neck. He was intensely conscious of these things.
But all the time the precipitate arguments were jostling in his brain. What sort of person would peer through the glass? Surely a very familiar thing to do. He could think of a few people who would do it—the Whittakers—but they were away; his wife—but it was too early, and she had a latchkey; John Egerton—but Stephen thought he was out. Or a policeman, of course.
A policeman who had heard the screaming, or been told of the screaming, might do it, or even a neighbouring busybody, if he had heard. But they would have clattered up to the door, run up or stopped importantly on the doorstep—probably hammered with the knocker. The person had not done that. He had only rung that damnable bell.
The person’s head disappeared. He gave a loud knock with the big brass knocker which Stephen had bought in Jerusalem. Just one knock. Then the whole world was silent. Stephen’s heart thumped like a steam-engine going at slow speed. He thought, “It’s true what they say in the books. … I can hear it.”
The person shuffled its feet on the step.
“My God!” said Stephen again. “My God!”
In the hall there was an enormous silence. A tug hooted dismally on the river. Stephen started scratching again. He was thinking of his wife now, of Margery. He loved Margery—he loved her very truly and well. And she was just going to have a baby. What would she—How would she—O God!
But she must not know. He would do something in a minute when the damned fool had gone away. Why the hell didn’t he go away, and leave a man alone? It must be some kind of visitor—not a policeman, or a panicky neighbour. They would have been more impatient. Why the hell didn’t he go? It was Whittaker, perhaps. Or that South American chap.
The person did not go away. For the person had only been on the doorstep for thirty seconds in all, and the person was in no hurry.
Soon he would go away—he must go away, Stephen thought. The hours he had been out there. It must be a long time, because Stephen’s knees were so sore. And he did want to get on with doing something—he was not clear what—but something. “God will provide,” he thought.
And as he uttered that hideous blasphemy the person began to whistle. He whistled gently an air from I Pagliacci, and to Stephen Byrne, it was merciful music. For it was a favourite tune of John Egerton’s, bowled often by both of them at casual gatherings of the Hammerton Choir in Mrs. Bryne’s drawing-room. It must be John, after all, this person on the doorstep; good old John—thank God! If it was John, he would let him in; he would tell him the whole story. John must help him.
It was suddenly revealed to Stephen that he could not bear this burden alone. It was too much. John was the man.
But one must be careful. One must make sure. A cunning look came into his eyes. With elaborate stealth he crawled backwards from Emily’s body and so into Emily’s bedroom, which looked over the street. Under the blind he reconnoitred the front doorstep. The back of the person was turned towards him, but it was clear to him that the person was John Egerton, though he could only see part of the back and nothing of the head. No two persons in Hammerton Chase, or probably in the world, wore a shabby green coat like that. It was certainly John, come round for some singing, no doubt. He walked back boldly into the hall. He was cooler now, and his heart was working more deliberately. But he was horribly afraid. He put out the lights.
Then he opened the front door, very grudgingly, and looked round the corner.
“Hullo!” said Egerton.
“Hullo!” said Stephen. “Come in,” and then, with a sudden urgency—“quick!”
John Egerton came slowly in and stood still in the dark.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
Stephen said, “I’m in a hole,” and turned on the light.
It was very badly managed. No doubt he should have hidden Emily away before he opened the door; should have led up gradually to the ultimate revelation; should have carefully prepared a man like Egerton for a sight like the body of Emily Gaunt. For it was a coarse and terrible sight. She lay on her back by the hatstand, with her dark hair tumbled on the floor, her face mottled and blue, her eyes gaping
