Everything was prepared for Linda’s interview with Medworth. Mrs. MacAslan and Janet had been sent out to have a picnic in the woods. Iain was hanging about, waiting for Linda to arrive. He had gone to the door for the fourth time to peer up the path, when he heard steps coming from the opposite direction, and saw James Middleton coming towards him through the trees. Iain was annoyed, he did not want strangers prowling round while the interview was taking place.
“Hullo!” he said, not very cordially. “Do you want the boat?”
“Not to-day, thank you.”
“I’m sorry I can’t ask you in,” said Iain frankly.
“I’m expecting some people on business—”
“You’re expecting me,” Middleton replied.
The two men looked at each other for a few moments in silence.
“So you’re Medworth!” Iain said at last. He thought—I might have guessed—and yet how could I? The swine has been here all the time spying on Linda.
They were still standing there, when Linda emerged from the woods and came quickly down the slope. She was dressed in a grey Shetland cardigan and skirt, and a small red hat. Iain glanced at her anxiously; she was even paler than usual, but she seemed quite calm and composed. They all went into the sitting-room.
“You’re looking rather pale, Linda,” said Medworth, with mock solicitude. “Haven’t you been enjoying your holiday?”
Linda sat down by the table and drew off her gloves. She said quietly, “You didn’t ask me here to discuss my looks.”
“Not altogether,” Medworth replied. “But your looks are your strong point, you know, and I haven’t seen you for a long time.” He sat down at the table opposite to her and stared at her impudently.
Iain lingered near the window, he would have liked to strangle the man, but he knew that he must not interfere. Linda had agreed to his being present at the interview, but had impressed upon him that she was to be allowed to manage it in her own way. I mustn’t interfere, Iain told himself firmly, not at first, anyway—not until we see what line he is going to take. Linda knows him—perhaps she can manage him . . .
“Come to business, please, Jack,” Linda said. “If you have anything to say—”
“I’ve got a lot to say,” replied the man with a breezy laugh. “A bibful—as the Yanks put it.”
Linda waited quietly—she was rather wonderful, Iain thought; there was something almost frightening about her. He had never seen her like this before—cold as ice—an ice maiden. He saw that she was undermining the man’s confidence by her silence and composure.
“Well, it’s like this,” Medworth began in a blustering voice. “I want my son, and I’m damn well going to have him. The judge gave him to you—I know that, so you needn’t stuff that down my throat. He gave you the child because he thought you were a fit person to have him—but are you? That’s what I want to know.”
He waited for Linda’s reply, but none came. She was still waiting, looking at him with a kind of cold disdain, waiting for him to state his case.
“Supposing we had another little party at the Divorce Court,” continued Medworth. “How would you like that, eh? You might not come out of it so well this time.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Linda said.
“You know quite well what I mean, but I’ll put it baldly if that’s what you want. You’re supposed to behave yourself for six months after your divorce, or you don’t get your decree absolute. Well, you haven’t been behaving yourself. You’ve taken a lover, haven’t you—”
Iain started up—he would have to interfere—he would have to speak. He was silenced by a look from Linda.
“You are wrong,” she said to Medworth. “I haven’t taken a lover.”
Medworth laughed in a sneering way. “So you say—you would say that, of course, but you can’t kid me. You had plenty of opportunities. If you didn’t take them you’re more of a fool than I thought.”
“You judge other people by yourself,” Linda said. “Other people—”
“See here, Linda,” he interrupted. “I don’t care whether you went all the way or not—it’s nothing to me—get that. I’ve got enough evidence to convince any ordinary-minded man that you and MacAslan are lovers—that’s all I want.”
“Evidence!” exclaimed Linda.
“Evidence,” he repeated. “I’ve found out a good deal about your goings on in spite of the way MacAslan has bribed the villagers not to give you away—”
“Bribed the villagers!” Iain exclaimed in amazement.
Medworth turned his head and looked at Iain. “Yes, bribed the villagers,” he said in a sneering voice. “I suppose you thought I wouldn’t find out the way you had bribed them. Why, the very first moment I set foot in the village you were at your little game.”
Iain gazed at him, thoroughly bewildered by the accusation.
“Oh, you’re clever enough,” Medworth allowed, “but that innocent expression won’t wash in a Court of Law. When I came into MacTaggart’s that first day you were bribing Alec MacNeil—it was the first thing I heard you say—‘Keep your mouth shut and you’ll get what you want’ you said to him. Those were your very words. I thought there was something pretty fishy about it and I wasn’t far wrong. I soon found that everybody in the place is bribed to keep their mouth shut. I’ve only got to mention your name and they shut up like clams.”
Iain said, “My God! So that’s how evidence is made.”
“But it doesn’t matter a damn,” continued Medworth. “That’s the beauty of it—I don’t need the villagers’ evidence. I’ve got enough evidence without them.”
“You can’t have evidence of something that doesn’t exist,” said Linda with a touch of spirit.
“I have got evidence,” Medworth replied loudly, “quite enough to make the King’s Proctor sit up and take notice. What about that night on the island—the night of the 11th August. You spent the whole night alone with MacAslan on the island.”
“We were wrecked,” said Linda. She was beginning to lose her ice-cold composure under the strain.
“That was very unfortunate for you,” Medworth said mockingly. “Very unfortunate indeed. I wonder how you spent the night.”
“I will tell you how we spent the night,” cried Iain, goaded beyond endurance. “We sat on a bench in front of the fire and talked all night—you are not likely to believe that, I suppose.”
“You are perfectly right,” agreed Medworth, smiling at Iain. “I am not likely to believe that—nor the judge either. We will now pass on to the next piece of evidence,” he continued, putting on a mock-lawyer manner that was indescribably galling to his hearers. “On the night of the 19th August the defendant visited the co-defendant’s house at 10.30 p.m. and stayed there with him alone in the house for about an hour. They came out of the house together about 11.30 p.m. (she clinging lovingly to his arm) and walked back very slowly and reluctantly to Ardfalloch House.”
“My God!” Iain cried, taking a step towards him. “So it was you prowling about the place that night—it was you—”
“It certainly was,” laughed Medworth. “We had a little game of hide-and-seek together, hadn’t we? Rather tactless of me to butt in like that and interrupt you, I’m afraid.”
“There was nothing—” Iain cried hotly.
“Please be quiet,” Linda said, stopping him with a movement of her hand. “Iain, please be quiet. You’re doing no good. Can’t you see how hopeless it is to make him understand?” She turned back to Medworth. “Go on,” she said. “Is that all the ‘evidence’ you have managed to collect.”
“No,” he said, “that’s not all. The other night at the ball you were upstairs together for three-quarters of an hour. Greta Bastable saw you disappear and she saw you return looking half dazed. Greta is quite prepared to tell her little story if necessary, and I think the King’s Proctor might find it interesting. It was strange behaviour in the middle of a ball, wasn’t it? Perhaps you were exploring the house—Oh no, I forgot, MacAslan knows the house already—”
“We went up to see Richard,” said Linda.
“Really? And was Richard awake at that hour? No? Dear me, you sat and doted on the sleeping Richard for three-quarters of an hour—what a charming picture!”
“You swine!” said Iain softly. “If Linda were not here—”
Linda stopped him again with the same quieting movement of her hand. She raised her eyes and looked Medworth full in the face. “What do you want?” she asked. “What are you doing it for? What are you going to get out of it for yourself?”
“I am going to get Richard,” replied Medworth firmly.
There was a little silence in the room. Linda’s breast rose and fell hurriedly; for the first time during the interview she was really frightened, really discomposed.
“I want Richard,” Medworth continued. “And I’m going to have him. There are two ways. Either you can give him up to me voluntarily and we’ll say no more about it, or else I shall drag you through the courts—as you dragged me. In either case I shall get Richard.”
“But you don’t like Richard,” Linda said, striving to steady her voice. “You aren’t fond of him, Jack.”
“He’s my son,” Medworth replied sullenly. “He’s my son and I want him. I want him brought up properly. I don’t want my son to grow up a mother’s darling, a namby-pamby nincompoop. He bears my name and he’s part of me. Surely the child must have some guts somewhere in him.”
“But Jack—I don’t understand you. Why do you want to be bothered with him? Who would look after him when you were away?”
“Never you mind,” he replied. “I’ll put him to school—he’ll be well looked after, you may be sure. I’ll give him the chance of growing up into a man—”
“You don’t understand Richard,” Linda said, struggling to control her tears.
“Nonsense, of course I understand him. I’ll soon lick the little rabbit into shape when I get him to myself—”
“Look here, Medworth,” Iain said, coming over to the table and trying to speak calmly and sensibly. “The whole thing is a mistake—a misunderstanding. Can’t we come to an arrangement? I’ll do anything you say. You can’t take the boy away from Linda—you can’t do it. The whole thing is a mistake. Linda and I . . . there’s been nothing between us. I’ve never even kissed her. . . . I’ll swear it if you like—”
“I don’t care a damn,” cried Medworth, striking the table with his clenched fist. “I don’t care a damn what there is between you—or isn’t between you. You can both go to hell for all I care—get that. I’m through with Linda—through—you can take her if you like icebergs in your bed. Personally I like something a bit more human. I don’t pretend to be a saint and I don’t expect other people to be saints. What I want is my son, and I’m going to have him. All I want to know is this—will you give him up, or must I drag you through the Law Courts to get him?”
“I won’t give him up,” said Linda brokenly. “I can’t believe—there must be some justice—I haven’t done anything—anything wrong. Justice—there must be justice.”
“You realise, of course,” Medworth said. “You realise that if I win my case you will still be my wife. It’s nothing to me—I don’t care a rap whether you are or not—I’m merely pointing it out to you in case you hadn’t realised it. I can go my own way and I haven’t the slightest desire to marry again—marriage is a mug’s game—so it doesn’t affect me. All I want is the custody of my own son—and I’ll have him either way. You shan’t interfere with my plans for Richard, you shan’t stand between us like you did before.”
“I can’t give him up,” said Linda again.
“Well, that’s that,” Medworth said. “I’m off to London to-morrow morning. You’ll hear of this in due course.” He rose and walked to the door. “If you change your mind before to-morrow morning you’ll find me at MacTaggart’s. I advise you to think it over—you’ll gain nothing by sticking out against me, and lose everything.”
“Jack!” cried Linda. “Oh, Jack, won’t you change your mind—won’t anything I can say—or do—”
“No, nothing,” Medworth said. “You needn’t try to get round me, it’s no use. I’m determined to have Richard. Give him up and we’ll say no more. It will come to the same thing in the end, and save a lot of bother and unpleasantness.”
The next moment he was gone.
“Iain,” cried Linda. “Oh, Iain—what have I done? It’s all my fault. I ought to have known better. . . . I was sure he would try . . . try to get Richard.”
Iain came over to the table and stood looking down at her. Now that the strain was over she had broken down completely, the tears were rolling unheeded down her cheeks.
She said, “Richard . . . I’ve failed Richard . . . I’ve failed him. . . .”
“Don’t cry,” Iain said. “There is still a way to save Richard.”
“What do you mean?”
“Leave it to me, Linda.”
Something in his tone frightened her. She seized his arm. “You must tell me what you’re going to do,” she said urgently. “I must know.”
“I shall have to kill Medworth,” said Iain quietly.
“Iain, you are mad!”
“It’s the only thing to do.”
“You can’t do that . . . Iain . . . promise me that you won’t do anything so mad . . . so crazy . . .”
“It’s not crazy,” he said. “Let me go, Linda; let go of my arm.”
Linda clung to him more tightly than ever, clung to him so that he could not disengage himself without actual violence. “Iain, listen to me for God’s sake—you don’t know what you are doing—”
“I’m quite calm,” he replied. “I see clearly—it’s the only thing to do.”
He was quite calm—that was the extraordinary part of it to Linda—the terrifying part. He was perfectly calm and reasonable about the whole thing.
“It’s murder,” she said. “Don’t you understand? They would hang you—”
“Yes, if they found out about it,” he replied. “But they might not find out—and, anyway, it’s the only thing to do. I’m not thinking of us, at all. We can bear it if we have to. I’m thinking of Richard, who can’t. I’m thinking of Richard in that man’s power—Richard would go mad—”
She said, “I know—but you mustn’t do it.”
“It’s our fault,” he continued in the same quiet, reasonable tone. “You said you had failed Richard—we both failed him. We, haven’t done anything wrong but we have been—careless—stupid. We’ve got to do the best we can for Richard—and this is the only thing that is going to be any good. In this world people are punished for stupidity just as surely as for wrong-doing—more so, perhaps—and the same applies to Nature. It is the law of the jungle—if you know what I mean—a rabbit is doing no harm when it runs into a noose, but it is caught all the same.”
“We have been rabbits,” she said with an attempt at a smile.
“We have been rabbits,” he agreed, “and we are caught in a snare; but the worst of it is that Richard is caught too. We’ve got to do the best we can for Richard—and this is the only thing that is going to be any good.”
“Don’t talk like that, I can’t bear it,” she said. “I simply can’t bear it. Murder is wrong—it’s unthinkable—it’s the most dreadful wickedness. Promise me, promise me faithfully that you won’t think of it any more.”
“It’s the only way, Linda. I don’t think of it as wickedness—the man is bad all through, you know it as well as I do—”
“I know, but you mustn’t,” she cried. “You can’t take the law into your own hands like that. You can’t kill a man, even if he is bad—it’s murder.”
“It would be worse than murder to let him have Richard—think of it—”
“I have thought,” she cried. “Do you think I don’t see how frightful it would be? I see it more clearly than you—”
“He’s a bad man,” Iain urged. “A dangerous man—a man without any decent instincts.”
“There must be some other way,” she said. “There must be. The Judge must be made to see the truth. Truth is strong, Iain, stronger than lies—”
“The evidence against us is very strong,” Iain said gravely. “You must face that, Linda.”
“I know—we’ve been incredibly foolish. . . . I have been incredibly foolish . . . that night when I came here. . . . Oh, Iain, what a fool I was! . . . But I can’t believe that God would let evil triumph—I can’t believe it—we must trust God. Promise me that you won’t do it . . . promise me.”
She wouldn’t let him go until he had promised, she held him with all her strength, and, at last, she wrung the promise from him, the promise that he would take no action against Medworth’s life. She let him go then, and sank back into the chair, exhausted with the strain.
He said, “What then? What can I do for you, my dear?—What else is there?”
“There is nothing you can do,” she replied faintly.