The Alington Inheritance

Chapter XX

Miriam went out of the front door. Coming from the brightly lighted hall, she blinked at the sudden darkness. The door behind her shut, and she stood for a moment to get her bearings. The two houses were at the end of the road. There was nothing beyond Mrs. Merridew’s, a fact upon which she was apt to be complacent: “Here I am, just on the edge of the common, and no one can build beyond me. At the same time, with that nice quiet Miss Danesworth next door I have all the advantages of company.”

There was a little line of thorn trees on the far side of Mrs. Merridew’s garden, and then the Heath dotted with thorns and carpeted with bracken.

Miriam walked past her own door and on up the road. Jimmy would be waiting for her. Half a mile up the road was what she had said. She had better fix things up with him. Really, Richard didn’t mean anything. She couldn’t flatter herself that he did. But Jimmy-well, she’d got a hold on him, hadn’t she? Jimmy was a cert provided she played her cards right, and there was no reason why she shouldn’t play them right. The best way would be to get Jimmy to marry her now, then there wasn’t anything people could do about it except make the best of a job that was out of their hands. There would be a colossal row of course, but who cared about rows if you got what you wanted? As she meant to.

It was dark. The man who walked behind her could not be seen, or only as a shadow among the many black shadows that lay across the path. Miriam was too much taken up with her own thoughts and plans to hear the faint sound of his footfall. He was walking very carefully. Sometimes the impatience in him throbbed itself to a climax. When this happened he stood quite still for a moment until he had it in control again. And all the time his purpose looked plainer. He had been waiting for an hour. He had given her that length of time. If she did not come then, he would have to think of a plan. There was an arrogance in him that would not contemplate failure. If she did not come out, or if she did not come out alone, he would have to think of another way. You succeed if you will hard enough to succeed. You succeed if you do not contemplate failure. He had never contemplated failure, and he had never failed in what he had set his heart on.

He went over his plans. He did not know that the boy to whom he had given the note was renowned for his carelessness. He had put on his skilfully planned disguise, the moustache and the dark wig, and he had stopped his car half a mile on this side of the village. No one could possibly recognize him. If she didn’t come… He pushed the thought away. She would come. He recalled the wording of his note-

“Jenny, don’t say anything to anyone, but come out and meet me up on the heath as soon as it is quite dark.

Mac

Bring this with you.”

Well, they were far enough now. He quickened his step and came up with her just where a high clump of gorse stood by the side of the road and darkened it. He called to her softly under his breath,

“Jenny-”

Miriam halted. It wasn’t Jimmy. And he had called her Jenny. It wasn’t Richard either. So Jenny was playing a deep game, was she? She thought she would learn a little more. He had taken her for Jenny. Well, she had come out of Miss Danesworth’s. Let him go on thinking she was Jenny for a little. She might learn something more. She tingled with a sense of adventure. She wouldn’t need to speak. She turned, and for a moment they were there in the black shadow with nothing stirring round them.

It was Miriam’s last conscious moment, lighted by a flash of anticipation, a sense of triumph. And then the blow fell.

She slumped to the ground with no more than a deep sigh. He picked her up, carried her round to the far side of the clump of gorse, and dumped her there. Then he bent to the inert body. He had to make sure.

He made sure. Then he walked away.

Ten minutes later he had come up with his car and was driving away up the country road with a sense of triumph in his heart. He had gone nearly ten miles before he remembered the note.

He had told her to bring it with her. Had she done what she was told? If she had, he must go back. Every instinct in him recoiled. The dead thing lying behind the clump of gorse, that was part of the past. You can’t go back into the past and correct your mistakes. They say a murderer always makes one bad mistake. What a fool he had been-what a damned, damned fool. He turned the car and drove back.

But when he came to that stretch of road he knew that he was too late. He saw the light, a lantern swinging from a man’s wrist, and the whole tall threatening clump of gorse standing up in front of it. There was only one thing to do, and he did it. As he went past it at about thirty-five, he could hear a vague clamour. Voices called to him. He heard them for a moment, and then they were away. He was away.

The boy to whom he had given the note was called Dicky Pratt. As it happened, he was probably the most unreliable boy who could have been chosen for the purpose. His mother often said so. “Give Dicky a message,” she would say, “and the first thing will put it out of his head.” But she was wrong in this. Dicky had a very strong sense of what suited himself. On this occasion he went on his way with the intention of delivering the note with which he had been charged. He was always a most obliging boy with a cheerful manner. He had fully intended to deliver the note, but then he fell in with Roger Barton and Stuffy Craddock and they had a marvellous scheme on. Mr. Fulbrook’s apples would be ripe-well ripe enough-and Roger had had a bright idea. There was a wheel off the old cart that was smashed up no more than a fortnight ago. It had gone into the pond, and they hadn’t troubled to fetch it out yet.

“Now if we could have it out of the pond we could run it up against the wall, and two of us could hold it and the third get over and get the apples, and no one would know.”

The note which he had promised to deliver was for the moment wiped as clean from Dicky’s brain as if it had never existed. To him, indeed, it ceased to exist. He said it was a smashing idea, and the three of them rushed off helter-skelter to put it into practice. It is pleasant to record that they never reached their objective, the wheel having stuck in the mud at the bottom of the pond. It refused all efforts to detach it. When at last they desisted they were soaked to the skin and regretfully decided to give up for the day.

The undelivered letter had miraculously survived. It lay crushed together with the mixed contents of Dicky’s pocket. If his mother had been a tidy woman she would have thrown the whole lot out, but she was a weak-willed, complaining sort of creature. She hung up Dicky’s trousers on the line over the stove and left the things in the pockets to dry as best they might.

The note survived. Also in Dicky’s memory there was the number of the car. The man had been sitting in it. He had got out and come after Dicky. Dicky collected car numbers. He ran off towards the village, stopped when he had gone a little distance, and made his way back carefully. The man had got into the car again. He was a large man. He might object to Dicky getting the number. Besides it was more fun if you stalked the car. Dicky was a very expert stalker.

He reached the back of the car and discovered a very curious thing. The car lights were off. There was something hanging out of the boot, and it covered the number plate. Coo-that was a rum start that was! The man in that car didn’t want to be recognized-that’s what that meant! Very secretive and all that! Dicky reflected that it was a good thing he had got a box of matches in his pocket. Very useful things matches. He struck one now and read the number at the back of the car. There were the letters that meant the county, and then 505. Quite easy to remember. He let down the flap again and proceeded on his way towards the village and to his meeting with Roger Barton and Stuffy Craddock.