III

And now I come to that part of my story which I find most difficult to write. From the story-teller’s point of view pure and simple, it is the easiest; from the human point of view I have never tackled anything harder. Because, though the events I am describing took place months ago—and the first shock is long since past—I still cannot rid myself of a feeling that I was largely to blame. By the cold light of reason I can exonerate myself; but one does not habitually have one’s being in that exalted atmosphere. Jack blames himself; but in view of what happened the night before—in view of the look in Bill’s eyes that Sunday morning—I feel that I ought to have realised that there were influences at work which lay beyond my ken—influences which at present lie not within the light of reason. And then at other times I wonder if it was not just a strange coincidence and an—accident. God knows: frankly, I don’t.

We spent that evening just as we had spent the preceding one, save that in view of shooting on Monday morning we went to bed at midnight. This time I fell asleep at once—only to be roused by someone shaking my arm. I sat up blinking: it was Jack Drage.

“Wake up, Tom,” he whispered. “There’s a light in the dining-room, and we’re going down to investigate. Dick is getting Bill.”

In an instant I was out of bed.

“It’s probably Bill himself,” I said. “I found him down there last night walking in his sleep.”

“The devil you did!” muttered Jack, and at that moment Dick Armytage came in.

“Bill’s room is empty,” he announced; and I nodded.

“It’s Bill right enough,” I said. “He went back quite quietly last night. And, for Heaven’s sake, you fellows, don’t wake him. It’s very dangerous.”

Just as before the dining-room door was open, and the light filtered through into the passage as we tiptoed along it. Just as before we saw Bill standing by the table—his hand outstretched.

Then came the same words as I had heard last night.

“You lie, Sir Henry!—you lie!”

“What the devil——” muttered Jack; but I held up my finger to ensure silence.

“He’ll come to bed now,” I whispered. “Keep quite still.”

But this time Bill Sibton did not come to bed; instead, he turned and stared into the shadows of the musicians’ gallery. Then, very slowly, he walked away from us and commenced to mount the stairs. And still the danger did not strike us.

Dimly we saw the tall figure reach the top and walk along the gallery, as if he saw someone at the end—and at that moment the peril came to the three of us.

To Dick and Jack the rottenness of the balustrade; to me—the end of the vicar’s story. What they thought I know not; but to my dying day I shall never forget my own agony of mind. In that corner of the musicians’ gallery—though we could see her not—stood Lady Wrothley; to the man walking slowly towards her the door was opening slowly—the door which had remained shut the night before—the door behind which lay the terror.

And then it all happened very quickly. In a frenzy we raced across the room, to get at him—but we weren’t in time. There was a rending of wood—a dreadful crash—a sprawling figure on the floor below. To me it seemed as if he had hurled himself against the balustrade, had literally dived downwards. The others did not notice it—so they told me later. But I did.

And then we were kneeling beside him on the floor.

“Dear God!” I heard Drage say in a hoarse whisper. “He’s dead; he’s broken his neck.”

· · · · ·

Such is my story. Jack Drage blames himself for the rottenness of the woodwork, but I feel it was my fault. Yes—it was my fault. I ought to have known, ought to have done something. Even if we’d only locked the dining-room door.

And the last link in the chain I haven’t mentioned yet. The vicar supplied that—though to him it was merely a strange coincidence.

The baby-girl—born in the gallery—a strange, imaginative child, so run the archives, subject to fits of awful depression and, at other times, hallucinations—married. She married in 1551, on the 30th day of October, Henry, only son of Frank Sibton and Mary his wife.

God knows: I don’t. It may have been an accident.

VIIIWhen Greek meets Greek