“Better to have ended it then—when my crime was fresh.” At first
I thought these agonies of guilt were caused by his having been away from the house at the time of the murder—at his club—unable
to bear returning home to his wife under the burden of his love for Maria.
A normal man in such a dreadful situation might well have reproached himself in that way. Yet he did not directly accuse himself
of having been absent when his wife and child died, nor did he speak of finding out and punishing the man who had done this
deed. His agony seemed connected with some guilt he could not name, with a punishment he had earned but which had been visited,
instead, on Elizabeth and his son.
I did what little I could to comfort him and form a buttress between him and those who came to discuss the crime, ask if he
had any enemies, establish if there had been robbery, as well as murder, done in the house.
As dawn came I was at the drawing-room window while Victor lay on the couch, his despairing countenance down which tears continually
poured turned to the ceiling. Glancing out, I thought I saw a figure in the trees beyond the lawn. There was little light
and some mist about the dark trunks of the trees, so it was difficult to see the huge form of a man among the tree trunks,
especially as he stood so still. I closed my eyes and opened them again. I still believed what I saw there was a man—and not
just a man but that ogreish figure I had seen earlier outside the theatre.
“My God, Victor!” I cried out. “I believe he is there, among the trees—the murderer!”
Victor jumped up and came towards me. I turned, left the room, ran down a passageway and pulled back the bolts of the door
leading to the garden. But by the time I had got them undrawn and hastened outside there was no sign of the figure I thought
I had seen. I ran across the snow-sprinkled lawn to the trees but no one was there. If he had been there, and I was still
not quite sure of what I had seen, then he had escaped over the garden wall, where I found the bent-back branches of an elder
bush growing close to some old crates piled up against the wall, which might have assisted him in scrambling over. I thought
I saw his footprints on the path leading to the wall, but in the dim light with snow falling, then melting on the earth of
the path the marks were hard to read.
I went slowly back to the house, thinking of that great, limping figure I had now seen, I thought, three times. Or had the
figure been on this occasion the product of my imagination, worked on by fatigue and emotion? But if it was that same hideous
creature I had seen before, was he the author of this dreadful crime? When I re-entered the drawing-room Victor was still
by the window, ashen and hopeless. The early light showed deep lines carved on his face, lines which had not been there the
evening before. He seemed twenty years older.
“I thought I saw a hulking brute out there.” I told him. “I may have been mistaken. At any rate, if he was there before, he
is gone now.”
Victor shivered. I took him to the fire and put a rug over his shoulders. As I did so I said, “It may be imagination, but
I believe I am haunted by a vast and ugly individual. I saw him once two months ago, by the river near this house, then last
night, outside the theatre.” As I described my encounters with the man and his appearance Victor's eyes seemed to sink deeper
into their sockets and he entered a state of profound and deadening despair. Then he said in a low voice, “Then he is back.”
“You know him?” I said, startled. “Who is he?”
Victor stood, went to the window again.
“Who?” I asked. “Who, Victor? Who is this enemy?” For I assumed this man and the murderer were one and the same.
Victor turned to me and through the half-dark of the room said, “Do not ask who, Jonathan. Ask rather what—what fiend—what
thing—is that?” And then
I thought these agonies of guilt were caused by his having been away from the house at the time of the murder—at his club—unable
to bear returning home to his wife under the burden of his love for Maria.
A normal man in such a dreadful situation might well have reproached himself in that way. Yet he did not directly accuse himself
of having been absent when his wife and child died, nor did he speak of finding out and punishing the man who had done this
deed. His agony seemed connected with some guilt he could not name, with a punishment he had earned but which had been visited,
instead, on Elizabeth and his son.
I did what little I could to comfort him and form a buttress between him and those who came to discuss the crime, ask if he
had any enemies, establish if there had been robbery, as well as murder, done in the house.
As dawn came I was at the drawing-room window while Victor lay on the couch, his despairing countenance down which tears continually
poured turned to the ceiling. Glancing out, I thought I saw a figure in the trees beyond the lawn. There was little light
and some mist about the dark trunks of the trees, so it was difficult to see the huge form of a man among the tree trunks,
especially as he stood so still. I closed my eyes and opened them again. I still believed what I saw there was a man—and not
just a man but that ogreish figure I had seen earlier outside the theatre.
“My God, Victor!” I cried out. “I believe he is there, among the trees—the murderer!”
Victor jumped up and came towards me. I turned, left the room, ran down a passageway and pulled back the bolts of the door
leading to the garden. But by the time I had got them undrawn and hastened outside there was no sign of the figure I thought
I had seen. I ran across the snow-sprinkled lawn to the trees but no one was there. If he had been there, and I was still
not quite sure of what I had seen, then he had escaped over the garden wall, where I found the bent-back branches of an elder
bush growing close to some old crates piled up against the wall, which might have assisted him in scrambling over. I thought
I saw his footprints on the path leading to the wall, but in the dim light with snow falling, then melting on the earth of
the path the marks were hard to read.
I went slowly back to the house, thinking of that great, limping figure I had now seen, I thought, three times. Or had the
figure been on this occasion the product of my imagination, worked on by fatigue and emotion? But if it was that same hideous
creature I had seen before, was he the author of this dreadful crime? When I re-entered the drawing-room Victor was still
by the window, ashen and hopeless. The early light showed deep lines carved on his face, lines which had not been there the
evening before. He seemed twenty years older.
“I thought I saw a hulking brute out there.” I told him. “I may have been mistaken. At any rate, if he was there before, he
is gone now.”
Victor shivered. I took him to the fire and put a rug over his shoulders. As I did so I said, “It may be imagination, but
I believe I am haunted by a vast and ugly individual. I saw him once two months ago, by the river near this house, then last
night, outside the theatre.” As I described my encounters with the man and his appearance Victor's eyes seemed to sink deeper
into their sockets and he entered a state of profound and deadening despair. Then he said in a low voice, “Then he is back.”
“You know him?” I said, startled. “Who is he?”
Victor stood, went to the window again.
“Who?” I asked. “Who, Victor? Who is this enemy?” For I assumed this man and the murderer were one and the same.
Victor turned to me and through the half-dark of the room said, “Do not ask who, Jonathan. Ask rather what—what fiend—what
thing—is that?” And then
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