Cayley could not believe that Rose was dead.
It had been too easy, too quick. She could not have died in that tiny instant. Not Rose. She was too vigorous, too vital, to have the life blown out of her like that in a tiny fraction of a second.
He looked at her lying there, in her best frock of saxe-blue silk, her black straw hat, brown shoes, and pink silk stockings. People bled, didn’t they, when they were shot? But there was no blood. Rose was not bleeding at all.
Cayley’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat. Rose was not really dead, after all! He had missed her, somehow, in the darkness. The gun had not been touching her head at all, it had been touching something else. Rose was only stunned. Perhaps not even stunned: just pretending to be stunned: shamming.
Cayley dropped on his knees beside her and felt frantically for her heart. He knew Rose was dead, but he could not believe it. Her heart gave no movement.
“Rose!” he said, in a shaky voice. “Rose — can’t you speak to me? Rose!” He could not believe Rose was dead.
Rose lay on her back staring up at the, roof of the little shed, her eyelids just drooping over her eyes. Cayley did not know why he had spoken to her aloud. Of course Rose could not answer. She was dead.
The tears came into Cayley’s own eyes. He understood now that it was too late, that there had never been any need to kill Rose at all. He could have managed everything by being firm. Just by being firm. Rose would have understood. Rose had always been sensible. And now, for the want of a little firmness, Rose was dead and he was a murderer.
“Oh, God,” he moaned, “I wish I hadn’t done it. Oh, God, I wish I hadn’t done it.”
But he had done it, and Rose was dead. Cayley got up slowly from his knees.
It was dreadful to see Rose lying there, with her head on the floor. There was an old pillion cushion on the shelf. Cayley took it down and put it under Rose’s head. Somehow that made her look better.
Besides — Rose might not be dead. If she came to it would be nicer for her to have a cushion under her head.
Cayley stiffened. Had that been a noise outside? He stood stock-still, hardly daring to breathe. Was someone prowling about? He listened desperately. It was not easy to listen very well, because the blood was pounding so in his ears. It made a kind of muffled drumming, like waves on a distant shingle beach. Beyond the drumming he could detect no sound.
Very slowly he lifted the latch of the door. It was stiff, and for all his caution rose with a final jerk. Cayley started violently. The latch had made only a tiny click, but in his ears it sounded like the crack of doom.
He edged the door open, got outside, and closed it behind him. Then he stood still, listening again. There was no sound. He began to walk softly towards the cottage, fifty yards away.
He walked more and more slowly. A horrible feeling had suddenly taken possession of him: that someone was following, just as softly, in his tracks. The back of his head tingled and pricked as the hair lifted itself on his scalp; for something was telling him that the door of the shed had opened and Rose had come noiselessly out. Now she was following him.
He could feel her presence, just behind him. Cold beads chased each other down his back. He tried to turn his head to make sure that Rose was not really there, but could not. It was physically impossible for him to look back towards the door of the shed. All he could do was to stand still and listen, between the pounding of the waves in his ears. The flesh of his back quivered and crept. Every second he expected Rose to come up and touch him on it. He could almost feel her touch already. It was all he could do to stop himself from shrieking.
At last, with a little sob, he forced himself to turn round.
There was nothing but inky darkness behind him.
But somewhere in that inky darkness, between himself and the shed, Cayley could not get rid of the feeling that someone, or something, stood. He dragged the revolver out of his pocket again and levelled it at the shed. At any moment a shape might loom towards him out of the blackness, and he must be ready. He stood rigid, waiting, his tongue parched and his throat dry. Then, with a sudden effort, he walked rapidly back to the shed.
The door was still closed.
Cayley put the revolver back into his pocket and walked quickly over to the cottage.
Outside it he halted for a few moments, working his jaws to obtain some saliva in order to moisten his tongue and throat. The kitchen was at the back of the cottage. As he peered round the angle, Cayley could see the light streaming out of the window. Mrs. Wace had not gone.
Cayley’s knees shook together. Mrs. Wace had not gone, and she must have heard the shot. It was impossible that she could not have heard it, deaf as she was. He had miscalculated in his experiments. They had been made in the daytime, and sound travels further in the silence of the night. He had not allowed for that. Mrs. Wace had heard the shot, and now she was waiting to find out what it meant. Cayley stood for a minute in the grip of a panic so violent that his limbs shook and his teeth chattered, and he could not control them. It was all he could do at last to drag himself round the corner of the house and, unseen, stare through the uncurtained kitchen window.
Mrs. Wace was doing something by the larder door. She had her hat and coat on. Cayley watched her take up three onions, look at them, drop one into a string-bag and put the other two back into the larder. He searched her face. There seemed to be nothing on it but preoccupation with what she was doing. Was it possible that she had not heard the shot after all?
He walked quickly round to the front of the house and went into his living-room.
From a cupboard on the wall he took a whisky-bottle and a glass. Then, putting back the glass, he pulled the cork out of the bottle and put the mouth of it to his lips, gulping down the neat spirit in thirsty haste. Not until half its remaining contents had gone did he put the bottle back on the shelf.
Almost immediately the stuff did him good. He waited a moment while the heartening glow steadied his limbs. Then he walked firmly into the kitchen.
Mrs. Wace was just going out through the back door. She stopped when she saw him, and it seemed to Cayley that she looked at him queerly.
Cayley’s fingers tightened round the revolver in his pocket as he searched her face.
“Ah, back, are you?” said Mrs. Wace comfortably.
Cayley breathed with relief. His fingers relaxed on the revolver. The next instant they tightened again.
“Back? I haven’t been away. I’ve been sitting in the garden, smoking.”
“Well, there’s no accounting for tastes,” observed Mrs. Wace indifferently. “Good night, Mr. Cayley.”
“Good night, Mrs. Wace.”
Cayley went back to his living-room, his knees weak with relief. If Mrs. Wace had heard anything, or voiced any suspicion, he would have shot her dead. He knew he would. It would have been madness, but he would have done it. He took the whisky-bottle and tumbler from the shelf and poured himself out a stiff dose. He realized now that he was trembling.
Instantly the same feeling came to him as in the shed. Rose was not dead at all. She had only been stunned. She would come to if he gave her some whisky. He caught up the bottle and hurried with it down the garden through the dark.
Outside the door of the shed he stopped. He could not go in: he just could not go inside. Suppose after all that...