It was twilight now, but the air remained hot and still in the woods above the chateau. So still that I could hear movements in the house, and even the plop as a frog dived off the side of the moat into the water.
There was an occasional rustle in the woods around me, and once or twice a whirring of wings, ending in a flutter at tree-top level, as a belated pigeon arrived to roost. Once, too, I heard a thin, shrill squeal, which ended abruptly as the victim died.
A black-and-white cat came softly down a path, paused when it saw me, and stood stock still, and then turned off swiftly and silently into the undergrowth.
Across the moat, in the chateau, a figure moved in the drawing room, and oil lamps were lit, and I saw it was a woman, probably a village woman who helped in the house. Doubtless she was expecting the Americans shortly to return.
In my day, there would have been dancing now.
I saw the room filled with young people in evening dress. Slow-moving old Hans, again, dancing with Mary, the American; big Norwegian Rolf dancing with little blonde Paulette, a daughter of the house; Bob, from Bradford, talking about money with Freddie the bank clerk in a corner. And Ingrid, dressed in her blue-grey dress, sitting on a sofa by herself, her dress matching her eyes, her soft brown hair outlined against the cream walls. Ingrid whom I had lost through my own sad folly. Ingrid, my first love.
I heard the gramophone playing “My Blue Heaven.” Our tune, we called it. So strong was the image which I formed that I half rose from the log upon which I was sitting, to go to her and say: “May I dance?” And lead her on to the floor, and feel her soft hand in mine, and whisper: “Our tune, darling.”
I felt the gentle pressure of her hand, and saw the misty light in her eyes, and heard her say: “I’m glad you asked me in time. Before anybody else.”
I looked for Bartels, but he was not there. Not there any longer. Not on the terrace, either. Nor in his bedroom.
“Bartels!” I whispered in the silence of the wood. “Barty, where are you, old cock?”
But though the picture was becoming clearer in some respects, in others the present was mingling with the past.
Therefore it was natural that 26 February was suddenly upon me, and as my heart beat faster, Bartels should no longer be there; not at the chateau, where he and I were happy together.
For I killed Philip Bartels, and I don’t regret it, either. At least, I don’t think I do.