The Goddess: a Demon
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 18: I Am Called
Had I had my way, that night, Miss Moore would have sought a place of refuge, where she could have lain hidden till the cloud passed over and her integrity was made clear. Anything, to my mind, was better than that she should run even a momentary risk of a policeman’s contaminating hands. But Hume would have none of it.
Some one knocked at the door, while I was sitting on the side of the bed, wondering, since I had failed to do murder, if suicide was not the next best thing. It was Hume. He gave me one of his swift, keen glances as he came in.
“Anything fresh?”
“Man, I’ve made an idiot of myself—an idiot.”
“Ah! But what I said was, Is there anything fresh?”
I told him the story of my interview with Symonds. He kept on smiling all the time, as if it had been a funny tale. When I had finished he rubbed his chin.
“You’ve burned your boats, that’s clear. You’ll never hang for the lady. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put that murder story of yours together again. You’ve managed very well, my dear Ferguson.”
I cared nothing for his sneers. Other thoughts were racking me.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone off to arrest her right away, and all because of my—my cursed blundering.”
“I think not. The lady’s safe for to-night. The police don’t always move so fast as you appear to think. They’ll know where to find her when they want her.”
“That’s it! Hume, couldn’t—couldn’t she be induced to go where they wouldn’t know where to find her?”
“I hope she’s not so foolish. To run away would be about equivalent to pleading guilty. She’d have all England hot-foot after her. Better stay and face the music. The inquest’s for to-morrow. As one of the most important witnesses, you will be able to make the whole thing clear, and establish her innocence in the eyes of all men.”
The inquest! I had never thought of it. And for to-morrow? The idea came with a shock of surprise. That was what Symonds had meant by his ironical allusions to my conduct in the witness-box. In my present state of mind, with my muddled head, and stumbling tongue, an expert heckler might goad me into saying anything—into hanging her with the words out of my own mouth.
I had a wild notion of flying myself, so that there might be no risk of doing her an injury by my inability to hold my own in a tongue-match with the lawyers. But I remembered what she had said about feeling safe when I was near; and I myself had a sort of suspicion that, if the worst came to the worst, I still might do her yeoman’s service. So, as I could not keep still at home and think, instead of going farther from her I went closer to her. After I had swallowed a hurried dinner I took a cab Bromptonwards, and hung about Hailsham Road for hour after hour.
I passed and repassed the house. A light was burning in the window of an upper room. I wondered if the room was hers. I would have given a good deal for the courage to inquire, but my nervous system was disorganised. I was as afraid of being seen as if I had been there for an improper purpose.
When any one came into the street from either direction I quickened my pace and almost bolted. Once, when some one raised a corner of a blind, with the apparent intention of peeping out into the street, I fairly took to my heels and ran.
On one point I derived some negative satisfaction—so far as I could judge, the house was not being watched by the police. The lady was free to come or go. I was the only person who was taking an obvious interest in her proceedings.
Perhaps that was in some degree owing to the weather, which was bad, even for London. There was a delightful fog, which, for some inscrutable reason, was seemingly not at all affected by a cutting east wind; and a filthy rain. I had on an overcoat; but was conscious that I was not getting drier as the night wore on. What I was waiting for I could not have told myself, until, towards midnight, a hansom dashed into the street, in which, as it passed, I saw the face of Miss Adair. I was after it like a flash, catching it just as it reached the door of No. 22.
“Miss Adair!” I cried, as the lady was preparing to descend into the mud and rain.
“Good gracious, Mr. Ferguson, is that you? Whatever are you doing here at this time of night?”
“I—I thought I’d call and inquire how—how Miss Moore was getting on.”
“Well, and have you called?”
“No, I—I thought I’d wait till you came home from the theatre and—and ask you.”
From her post of vantage in the cab Miss Adair looked me up and down, perceiving that I was neither so well groomed nor so dry as I might have been.
“And, pray, how long have you been waiting for me to come home from the theatre?”
“Oh, some—some few minutes.”
“A good few minutes, I should imagine. And where have you been waiting?”
“Oh, I—I’ve been hanging about.”
“In the mud, I should say, from the look of you. You are a disreputable object. So I cannot but hope that you’ve enjoyed your vigil. I may tell you, for your satisfaction, that when I left home Miss Moore was ill.”
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