 An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, 1891 by Ambrose Bice. This is the LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Althea Bay. Manched it upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back. The wrists bound with a rope. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-temperor above his head, and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers, supporting the medals of the railway, supplied a footing for him and his executioners. Two private soldiers of the federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as support. That is to say vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest. A formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge. They merely blockade the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it. Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight. The railroad ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then curving was lost to view. In the outlets there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was open ground, a gentle aclivity topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks. Loop hold for rifles with a single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. Midway of the slope between bridge and the fort were the spectators, a single company of infantry in line at parade rest. The buds of the rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood in the right of the lane, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Accepting the group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily motionless. The sentinels facing the banks of the stream might have been statutes to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms silent, observing the work of his subordinate, but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the coat of military etiquette, silence and fixity are forms of deference. The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about 35 years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which is that of a planter. His features were good, a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long dark hair was calmed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting frock coat. He wore a mustache and a pointed beard, but no whiskers. His eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen were not excluded. The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant turned to the captain, saluted, and moved himself immediately behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one space. These movements left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank, which span three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which the civilian stood almost but not quite reached a fourth. This plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain. It was now held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former, the latter would step aside, the plank would tilt, and the condemned man would go down between the two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked a moment at his unsteady fast footing, then let his gaze wander to the swirling waters of the stream, racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention, and his eyes followed it down the stream. How slowly it appeared to move, what a sluggish stream. He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and children. The water touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mist upon the banks at some distance down the stream. The fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift all had distracted him, and now he became conscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sharp sound which he could neither ignore nor understand. A distinct metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil, it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant or nearby, it seemed both. Its occurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each stroke with impatience, and he knew not why apprehension. The interval of silence grew progressively longer, the delays became maddening. With their greatest infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ears like the thrust of a knife. He feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch. He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. If I could free my hands he thought I might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods, and get away home. My home, thank God, is as yet outside their lines. My wife and little ones are still beyond the invaders farther as advance. As these thoughts, which have here to be, set down in words, were flashed into the doomsman's brain, rather than involve from it, the captain nodded to the sergeant and the sergeant stepped aside. Peyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planner of an old and highly respected Alabama family. Being a slave owner, and like the other slave owners, a politician, he was naturally an original secessionist and artfully devoted to the southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is unnecessary to relate here, have prevented him from taking service with the Gallant army that had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with the fall of Coreb. And he chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, the opportunity for distinction. That opportunity felt would come as it comes to all in wartime. Meanwhile, he did what he could. No service was too humble for him to perform in aid of the south, no adventure too perilous for him to undertake, if consistent with the character of a civilian who was at heart a soldier and who in good faith and without too much qualification, ascended to at least a part of the, frankly, villainous dictum that all is fair in love and war. One evening while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate and asked for a drink of water. Ms. Farquhar was only too happy to serve him with her own white hands. While she was fetching the water, her husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from the front. The yanks are repairing the railroad, said the man, and are getting ready for another advance. They have reached the Isle Creek Bridge, put it in order, and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian caught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels, or trains, will be summarily hanged. I saw the order. How far is it to the Isle Creek Bridge, Farquhar asked? About 30 miles. Is there no force on this side of the creek? Only a picket post half a mile out on the railroad and a single sentinel in the center of the bridge. Suppose a man, a civilian, and a student of hanging should allude the picket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel, said Farquhar, smiling. What would he accomplish? The soldier reflected. I was there a month ago, he replied. I observed that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now drying with burn like tow. The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband, and rode away. An hour later, after nightfall, he re-passed the plantation going northward in the direction from which he had come. He was a federal scout. As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge, he lost consciousness and was, as one, already dead. From this date he was awakened. Ages later it seemed to him by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen poignant agony seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fiber of his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well-defined lines of ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid periodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of fullness, of congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced. He had power only to feel and feeling with torment. He was conscious of motion, unencompassed in a luminous cloud from which he was now merely the fury heart without material substance. He swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation like a vast pendulum. Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shopped upward with the noise of a loud splash. A fightful roaring was in his ears and all was cold and dark. The power of thought was restored. He knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. There was no additional triangulation. The noose about his neck was already suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs to dive hanging at the bottom of a river. The idea seemed to him ludicrous. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light. But how distant, how inaccessible, he was still singing for the light became fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten and he knew that he was rising toward the surface, knew it with reluctance for he was now very comfortable. To be hanged and drowned, he thought, that is not so bad, but I do not wish to be shot. No, I will not be shot. That is not fair. He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist appraised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle, his attention, as an idler might observe the feet of a juggler without interest in the outcome. What splendid effort. What magnificent, what superhuman strength. Ah, that was a fine endeavor. Bravo! The cord fell away, his arms parted and floated upward. His hands dimly seen on each side in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first one and then the other pelt upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away and thrust it fiercely aside, his undulations resembling those of a water snake. Put it back, put it back. He thought he shouted these words to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by the direst pain that he had yet experienced. His neck ached horribly, his brain was on fire, his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole body was wracked and wretched with an insupportable anguish. But his disobedient hand gave no heed to the command. They beat the water vigorously with quick downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his head emerge, his eyes were blinded by the sunlight, his chest expanded convulsively, and with the supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek. He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were indeed preternaturally keen and alert, something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before received. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf, saw the very insectus upon them, the locus, the brilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass, the humming of the gnats that danked above the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragonfly wings, the strokes of the water spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their boat. All these made awful music, a fish slid along beneath his eyes, and he heard the rush of his body parting the water. He had come to the surface, facing down the stream, and a moment the visible world seemed to wheel slowly around himself, the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort, the two soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and gestulated, pointing at him. The captain has drawn his pistol, but did not fire. The others were unarmed. Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic. Suddenly he heard a sharp report, and something struck the water smartly within a few inches of its head, splattering his face with spray. He heard a second report and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge, gazing into his own through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye, and remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all famous marksmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed. A counter-swerly called Farquhar and turned him half around, he was again looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of a clear high voice in a monotonous sing song now rang out behind him and came across the water with the distinctness that pierced and subdued all other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ear. Although no soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawing, aspirated chant when Lieutenant Unshora was taking a part in the morning's work. How coldly and piteously, with what an even, calm intonation, presaging and enforcing tranquillity in the men with what accurately measured intervals fell those cruel words. Attention! Company! Soldiers! Arms! Ready! Fame! Fire! Farquhar dived, dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his ears like the voice of Nigra, yet he heard the dull thunder of the volley and rising again toward the surface met shining bits of metal, singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched him on the face and hands and fell away, continuing their descent. One lodged between his collar and his neck, it was uncomfortably warm and he snatched it out. As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a long time under water. He was perceptibly further downstream nearer to safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading. The metal ramrods flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels, turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels fired again independently and ineffectually. The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder. He was now swimming vigorously with the current. His rain was as energetic as his arms and legs. He thought with the rapidity of lightning. The officer, he reasoned, will not make that mark next era a second time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has probably already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge them all. An appalling splash within two yards of him was followed by a loud rushing sound, which seemed to travel back through the air to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its depths. A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded him, and strangled him. The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water, he heard the deflected shot humming through the air ahead. And in an instant, it was cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond. They will not do that again, he thought. The next time they will use a charge of grape, I must keep my eye upon the gun. The smoke will apprise me. The report arrives too late. It lags behind the missile. That is a good gun. Suddenly he felt himself world round and round spinning like a top. The water, the banks, the forest, the now distant bridge, fort, and men all were co-mingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only, circular horizontal streaks of color. That was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In a few moments he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream, the southern bank, and behind, projecting points which concealed him from his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of his hands on the gravel restored him and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls, and audibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds. It could think of nothing beautiful, which it did not resemble. The trees upon the banks were giant garden plants. He noted a definite order in their arrangement. Inhaled the fragrance of their blooms, a strange rosette light shone through the branches among their trunks, and the wind made in their branches the music of harps. He had no wish to perfect his escape. He was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken. A whisked in a rattle of great shot among the branches, high above his head roused him from his dream. The baffle canineer had fired him a random farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged into the forest. All that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The forest seemed interminable. Nowhere did he discover a break in it, not even a woodsman who rode. He had not known that he lived in a wild region. There was something uncanny in the revelation. By nightfall he was fatigued, foot sore and famished. The thought of his wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him to what he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as the city street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields boarded it, no dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both sides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson in perspectives. Overhead as he looked up through this rift in the woods, shown great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations, he was sure they were arranged in some order, which has secret and maligned significance. The wood on either side was full of singular noises. Among which once, twice again, he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue. His neck was in pain, and lifting his hand to it, he found it horribly swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. Eli's eyes felt congested, could no longer close them. His tongue was swollen with thirst. He relieved his fever by thrusting it forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue, he could no longer feel the roadway beneath his feet. Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking. For now he sees another scene. Perhaps he had merely recovered from a delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have traveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide, white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments. His wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At the bottom of the steps, she stands waiting with a smile of inevitable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. And how beautiful she is. He springs forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her, he feels a stunning blow upon the back of his neck. A blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon, then all is darkness and silence. Peyton Farquhar was dead. His body with a broken neck swung gently from side to side beneath the tempers of the Owl Creek Bridge. End of story. A specter of police of the Second Division of S, District, there appeared a respectably dressed young man who announced that his master, Marcus Ivanovich Klausov, a retired officer of the horse guards, separated from his wife, had been murdered. While making this announcement, the young man was white and terribly agitated. His hands trembled and his eyes were full of terror. Whom have I the honour of addressing? asked the inspector. Psykov, Lieutenant Klausov's agent, agriculturist and mecanician. The inspector and his deputy, on visiting the scene of the occurrence in company with Psykov, found the following. Near the wing in which Klausov had lived was gathered a dense crowd. The news of the murder had sped swifters' lightnings for the neighbourhood and the peasantry, thanks to the fact that the day was a holiday, had hurried together from all the neighbouring villages. There was much commotion and talk. Here and there pale, tear-stained faces were seen. The door of Klausov's bedroom was found locked. The key was inside. It is quite clear that the scandals got in by the window, said Psykov, as they examined the door. They went to the garden into which the bedroom window opened. The window looked dark and ominous. It was covered by a faded green curtain. One corner of the curtain was slightly turned up, which made it possible to look into the bedroom. Did any of you look into the window? asked the inspector. Certainly not, you worship. Answered Ephraim, the gardener, a little grey-haired old man who looked like a retired sergeant. Who's going to look in if all their bones are shaking? Ah, Marcus Ivanovich! Marcus Ivanovich! sighed the inspector, looking at the window. I told you you would come to a bad end. I told the dear man, but he wouldn't listen. Discipatient doesn't bring any good. Thanks to Ephraim, said Psykov. But for him we would never have guessed. He was the first to guess that something was wrong. He comes to me this morning and says, Why is the master so long getting up? He hasn't left his bedroom for a whole week. The moment he said that, it was just as if someone had hit me with an axe. The sword flashed through my mind. We haven't had a sight of him since last Saturday and today is Sunday. Seven whole days, not a doubt of it. I, poor fellow, again sighed the inspector. He was a clever fellow, finally educated and kind-hearted at that. And in society nobody could touch him. But he was a waster, God rest his soul. I was prepared for anything since he refused to live with Olga Petrovna. Poor thing, a good wife, but a sharp tongue. Stephen, the inspector called to one of his deputies. Go over to my house this minute and send Andrew to the captain to lodge an information with him. Tell him that Marcus Ivanovich has been murdered. And run over to the orderly. Why should he sit there, caking his heels? Let him come here. And go as fast as you can to the examining magistrate, Nikolas Yamulayevich. Tell him to come over here. Wait, I'll write him a note. The inspector posted sentinels around the wing, wrote a letter to the examining magistrate and then went over to the directors for a glass of tea. Ten minutes later he was sitting on a stool, carefully nibbling a lump of sugar and swallowing the scalding tea. There you are, he was saying to Psykov, there you are, a noble by birth, a rich man, a favourite of the gods, you may say, as Pushkin has it. And what did he come to? He drank and dissipated, and there you are, he's murdered. After a couple of hours the examining magistrate drove up. Nikolas Yamulayevich Chubikov, for that was the magistrate's name, was a tall, fleshy old man of sixty, who had been wrestling with the duties of his office for a quarter of a century. Everyone in the district knew him as an honest man, wise and energetic and in love with his work. He was accompanied to the scene of the murder by his inveterate companion, fellow worker and secretary, Dukovsky, a tall young fellow of twenty-six. Is it possible, gentlemen? cried Chubikov, entering Psykov's room and quickly shaking hands with everyone. Is it possible? Marko Zivanovich murdered. No, it is impossible, impossible. Go in there, sighed the inspector. Lord have mercy on us. Only last Friday I saw him at the fair in Farobankov. I had a drink of vodka with him, save the mark. Go in there, again sighed the inspector. They sighed, uttered exclamations of horror, drank a glass of tea each, and went to the wing. Get back! The orderly cried to the peasants. Going to the wing, the examining magistrate began his work by examining the bedroom door. The door proved to be of pine, painted yellow, and was uninjured. Nothing was found which could serve as a clue. They had to break in the door. Everyone not here on business is requested to keep away, said the magistrate, when after much hammering and shaking the door yielded to axe and chisel. I request this in the interest of the investigation. Orderly don't let anyone in. Chubikov, his assistant and the inspector opened the door, and hesitatingly, one after the other, entered the room. Their eyes met the following sight. Beside the single windows to the big wooden bed was a huge feather mattress. On the crumpled feather bed lay a tumbled, crumpled quilt. The pillow, in a cotton pillow case, also much crumpled, was dragging on the floor. On the table beside the bed lay a silver watch and a silver twenty-copeck piece. Beside them lay some cellful mattress. Beside the bed, the little table and the single chair, there was no furniture in the room. Looking under the bed, the inspector saw a couple of dozen empty bottles, an old straw hat, and a quart of vodka. Under the table lay one top boot covered with dust. Casting a glance around the room, the magistrate frowned and grew red in the face. Scoundrels, he muttered, clenching his fists. And where is Marcus Ivanovich? asked Dukovsky in a low voice. Mind your own business, Chubikov answered roughly. Be good enough to examine the floor. This is not the first case of the kind I have had to deal with. Yougraf Kuzmich, he said, turning to the inspector and lowering his voice. In 1870 I had another case like this. But you must remember it, the murder of the merchant Protrytov. It was just the same there. The scoundrels murdered him and dragged the corpse out through the window. Chubikov went up to the window, pulled the curtain to one side and carefully pushed the window. The window opened. It opens, you see. It wasn't fastened. Hmm. There are tracks under the window. Look, there is the track of a knee. Somebody got in there. We must examine the window thoroughly. There is nothing special to be found on the floor, said Dukovsky. No stains or scratches. The only thing I found was a struck safety match. Here it is. As I remember, Marko Zivanovich did not smoke and he always used sulfur matches, never safety matches. Perhaps this safety match may serve as a clue. Oh, do shut up! cried the magistrate deprecatingly. You go on about your match. I can't abide these dreamers. Instead of chasing matches you had better examine the bed. After a thorough examination of the bed, Dukovsky reported, there are no spots either of blood or of anything else. There are likewise no nude torn places. On the pillow there are signs of teeth. The quilt is stained with something which looks like beer and smells like beer. The general aspect of the bed gives grounds for thinking that a struggle took place on it. I know there was a struggle without you telling me. You are not being asked about a struggle. Instead of looking for struggles you had better... Here is one top boot, but there is no sign of the other. Well, and what of that? It proves that they strangled him while he was taking his boots off. He hadn't time to take the second boot off when... There you go, and how do you know they strangled him? There are marks of teeth on the pillow. The pillow itself is badly crumpled and thrown a couple of yards from the bed. Listen to his foolishness. Better come into the garden. You would be better employed examining the garden and digging around here. I can do that without you. When they reached the garden, they began by examining the grass. The grass under the window was crushed and trampled. A bushy burdock growing under the window close to the wall was also trampled. Dukovsky succeeded in finding on it some broken twigs and a piece of cotton wool. On the upper branches were found some fine hairs of dark blue wool. What colour was his last suit? Dukovsky asked Psykov. Yellow crash. Excellent! You see, they wore blue. A few twigs of the burdock were cut off and carefully wrapped in paper by the investigators. At this point, police captain Atsoyubachev Swistakovsky and Dr. Tyutyev arrived. The captain obeyed them good day and immediately began to satisfy his curiosity. The doctor, a tall, very lean man with dull eyes, a long nose and a pointed chin without greeting anyone or asking about anything, sat down on a log, sighed and began, the servants are at war again. What in heaven's name can they want now? Ostrads, all you're doing. The examination of the window from the outside did not supply any conclusive data. The examination of the grass and the bushes nearest to the window yielded a series of useful clues. For example, Dukovsky succeeded in uncovering a long dark streak made up of spots on the grass which led some distance into the centre of the garden. The streak ended under one of the lilac bushes in a dark brown stain. Under this same lilac bush was found the top boot which turned out to be the fellow of the boot already found in the bedroom. That is a blood stain made some time ago, said Dukovsky, examining the spot. At the word blood, the doctor rose and going over lazily looked at the spot. Yes, it is blood, he muttered. That shows he wasn't strangled if there was blood, said Chebikov, looking sarcastically at Dukovsky. They strangled him in the bedroom and here, fearing he might come round again, they struck him a blow with some sharp pointed instrument. The stain under the bush proves that he lay there a considerable time while they were looking about for some way of carrying him out of the garden. Well, and how about the boot? The boot confirms completely my idea that they murdered him while he was taking his boots off before going to bed. He had already taken off one boot and the other, this one here, he had only had time to take half off. The half-off boot came off of itself while the body was dragged over and fell. There's a lively imagination for you, laughed Chebikov. He goes on and on like that. Do you learn enough to drop your deductions? Instead of arguing and deducing, it would be much better if you took some of the blood-stained grass for analysis. When they had finished their examination and drawn a plan of the locality, the investigators went to the director's office to write their report and have breakfast. While they were breakfasting, they went on talking. The watch, the money, and so on, all untouched, Chebikov began, leading off the talk, show as clearly as two and two are four that the murder was not committed for the purpose of robbery. The murder was committed by an educated man, insisted Dukovsky. What evidence have you of that? The safety match proves that to me, for the peasants hereabouts are not yet acquainted with safety matches. Only the landowners used them and by no means all of them. And it is evident that there was not one murderer, but at least three. Two held him while one killed him. Klasov was strong, and the murderers must have known it. What good would his strength be supposing he was asleep? The murderers came on him while he was taking off his boots. If he was taking off his boots, that proves he wasn't asleep. Stop inventing your deductions. Better eat. In my opinion, your worship, said the gardener Ephraim, setting the sum of our on the table, it was nobody but Nicholas trick. Quite possible, said Psykov. And who is Nicholas? The master's valid, your worship. Answered Ephraim. Who else could it be? He is a rascal, your worship. He is a drunkard and a blackguard, the like of which heaven should not permit. He always took the master his vodka and put the master to bed. Who else could it be? And I also ventured to point out to your worship. He once boasted at the public house that he would kill the master. It happened on account of Aquilina, the woman, you know. He was making up to a soldier's widow. She pleased the master. The master made friends with her himself and Nicholas, naturally, he was mad. He is rolling about drunk in the kitchen now. He is crying and telling lies, saying he is sorry for the master. The examining magistrate ordered Nicholas to be brought. Nicholas, a lanky young fellow, with a long freckled nose narrow-chested and wearing an old jacket of his masters, entered Psykov's room and bowed low before the magistrate. His face was sleepy and tear-stained. He was tipsy and could hardly keep his feet. Where is your master? Trubikov asked him. Murdered, your worship. As he said this, Nicholas blinked and began to weep. We know he was murdered. But where is he now? Where is his body? They say he was dragged out of the window and buried in the garden. Hm! The results of the investigation are known in the kitchen already. That's bad. Where were you, my good fellow? The night the master was murdered. Saturday night, that is. Nicholas raised his head, stretched his neck and began to think. I don't know, your worship, he said. I was drunk and don't remember. An alibi! whispered Dukovsky, smiling in his hands. So! And why is there blood under the master's window? Nicholas jerked his head up and considered. Hurry up! said the captain of police. Right away! That blood doesn't amount to anything, your worship. I was cutting a chicken's throat. I was doing it quite simply, in the usual way, when all of a sudden it broke away and started to run. That is where the blood came from. Ephraim declared that Nicholas did kill a chicken every evening and always in some new place, but that nobody ever heard of a half-killed chicken running about the garden, though, of course, it wasn't impossible. An alibi! sneered Dukovsky, and what an asinine alibi! Did you know Aquilina? Yes, your worship. I know her. And the master cut you out with her? Not at all. He cut me out. Here, Ivan Mikhailovich. And the master cut Ivan Mikhailovich out. That is how it was. Psykov grew confused and began to scratch his left eye. Dukovsky looked at him attentively, noted his confusion, and started. He noticed that the director had dark blue trousers, which he had not observed before. The trousers reminded him of the dark blue threads found on the burdock. Trubikov, in his turn, glanced suspiciously at Psykov. Go! he said to Nicholas. And now permit me to put a question to you, Mr. Psykov. Of course you were here last Saturday evening. Yes, I had supper with Marko Zivanovich about ten o'clock. And afterwards? Afterwards? Afterwards? Really, I do not remember. Stammered Psykov. I had a good deal to drink at supper. I don't remember when or where I went to sleep. Why are you all looking at me like that? As if I was the murderer. Where were you when you woke up? I was in the servants kitchen lying behind the stove. They can all confirm it. How I got behind the stove, I don't know. Do not get agitated. Do you know Aquilina? There's nothing extraordinary about that. She first liked you and then preferred Klausov? Yes. Ephraim, give us some more mushrooms. Do you want some more tea? A heavy oppressive silence began and lasted fully five minutes. Dukovsky silently kept his piercing eyes fixed on Psykov's pale face. The silence was finally broken by the examining magistrate. We must go to the house and talk with Maria Ivanovna, the sister of the deceased. Perhaps she may be able to supply some clues. Trubikov and his assistant expressed their thanks for the breakfast and for the dinner. We must go to the house and express their thanks for the breakfast and went toward the house. They found Klausov's sister, Maria Ivanovna, an old maid of forty-five, at prayer before the big case of family icons. When she saw the portfolios in her guest's hands and their official caps, she grew pale. Let me begin by apologizing for disturbing, so to speak, your devotions began the gallant Trubikov bowing and scraping. We have come to you with a request. Of course you have heard already. There is a suspicion that your dear brother, in some way or other, has been murdered. The will of God, you know, no one can escape death, neither Tsar nor Plowman. Could you not help us with some clue, some explanation? Oh, don't ask me, said Maria Ivanovna, growing still paler and covering her face with her hands. Nothing, I beg you, I know nothing. What can I do? Oh, no, no. Not a word about my brother. If I die, I won't say anything. Maria Ivanovna began to weep and left the room. The investigators looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and beat a retreat. Confound the woman, scolded Dukovsky, going out of the house. It is clear she knows something and is concealing it. And the chambermaid has a queer expression, too. Wait, you wretches, will ferret it all out. In the evening, Chubikov and his deputy, lit on their road by the pale moon, wended their way homeward. They sat in their carriage and sought over the results of the day. Both were tired and kept silent. Chubikov was always unwilling to talk while travelling, and the talkative Dukovsky remained silent to fall in with the elder man's humour. But at the end of their journey the deputy could hold in no longer and said, It is quite certain, he said, that Nicholas had something to do with the matter. Nondubitandum est. You can see by his face what sort of a case he is. His alibi betrays him, body and bones. But it is also certain that he did not see the thing going. He was only the stupid hired tool. Do you agree? And the humble Psykov was not without some slight share in the matter. His dark blue britches, his agitation, his lying behind the stove in terror after the murder, his alibi and Aquilina. Grind away, Emillian, it's your week. So according to you whoever knew Aquilina is the murderer, hothead, you ought to be sucking a bottle and not handling affairs. You were one of Aquilina's admirers yourself. Does it follow that you are implicated too? Aquilina was cook in your house for a month. I am saying nothing about that. The night before that Saturday I was playing cards with you and saw you, otherwise I should be after you too. It isn't the woman that matters, old chap. It is the mean, nasty, low spirit of jealousy that matters. The retiring young man was not pleased when they got the better of him, you see. His vanity, don't you see? He wanted revenge. Then those thick lips of his suggest passion. So there you have it. Wounded self-love and passion. That is quite enough motive for a murder. We have two of them in our hands but who is the third? Nicholas and Psykov held him but who smothered him? Psykov is shy, timid, an all round coward and Nicholas would not know how to smother with a pillow. His sort used an axe or a club. Some third person did the smothering but who was it? Dukovsky crammed his hand down over his eyes and pondered. He remained silent until the carriage rolled up to the magistrate's door. Eureka! he said, entering the little house and throwing off his overcoat. Eureka! Nicholas Yomolayevich! The only thing I can't understand is how it did not occur to me sooner. Do you know who the third person was? Oh, for goodness sake, shut up! There is supper. Sit down to your evening meal. The magistrate and Dukovsky sat down to supper. Dukovsky poured himself out a glass of vodka. Rose drew himself up and said with sparkling eyes, well, learn that the third person who acted in concert with that scoundrel Psykov and did the smothering was a woman. Yes! I mean the murdered man's sister, Maria Ivanovna. Trubikov choked over his vodka and fixed his eyes on Dukovsky. You aren't what's its name? Your head isn't what you call it? You haven't a pain in it? I am perfectly well. Very well, let us say I am crazy. But how do you explain her confusion when we appeared? How do you explain her unwillingness to give us any information? Let us admit that these are trifles. Very well, all right. But remember their relations. She detested her brother. She never forgave him for living apart She is of the old faith while in her eyes he is a godless profligate. There is where the germ of her hate was hatched They say he succeeded in making her believe that he was an angel of Satan. He even went in for spiritualism in her presence. Well, what of that? You don't understand? She, as a member of the old faith murdered him through fanaticism. It was not only that he was putting to death a weed, a profligate She was freeing the world of an antichrist. And there, in her opinion was her service, her religious achievement. Oh, you don't know those old maids of the old faith? Read Dostoyevsky. And what does Lyskov say about them or Pachersky? It was she and nobody else even if you cut me open. She smothered him. Oh treacherous woman! Wasn't that the reason why she was kneeling before the icons when we came in? She said to herself, let me kneel down and pray and they will think I am tranquil and did not expect them. That is the plan of all novices in crime, Nicholas Yomolayevitch, old pal. My dear old man, won't you entrust this business to me? Let me personally bring it through. Friend, I began it and I will finish it. Trobikov shook his head and frowned. We know how to manage difficult matters ourselves, he said, and your business put yourself in where you don't belong, right from dictation when you're dictated to, that is your job. Tukovsky flared up, banged the door and disappeared. Clever rascal, muttered Trobikov, glancing after him, awfully clever, but too much of a hot head. I must buy him a cigar case at the fair as a present. The next day, early in the morning a young man with a big head and a pursed-up mouth, who came from Klasov's place, was introduced to the magistrate's office. He said he was the shepherd Daniel and brought a very interesting piece of information. I was a bit drunk, he said. I was with my pal till midnight. On my way home, as I was drunk, I went into the river for a bath. I was taking a bath when I looked up. Two men were walking along the dam carrying something black. Shoo! I cried at them. I cried and went off like the wind toward Makarev's cabbage garden. Striked me dead if they weren't carrying away the master. That same day, toward evening, Psykov and Nicholas were arrested and brought under guard to the district town. In the town they were committed to the cells of the prison. Part 2 A fortnight passed. It was morning. The magistrate Nicholas Yamilayevich was sitting in his office before a green table, turning over the papers of the Klausov case. Tukovsky was striding restlessly up and down like a wolf in a cage. You were convinced of the guilt of Nicholas and Psykov, he said, nervously plucking at his young beard. Why will you not believe in the guilt of Maria Ivanovna? Are there not proofs enough for you? I don't say I am not convinced. I am convinced, but somehow I don't believe it. There are no real proofs, but just a kind of philosophizing, fanaticism, this and that. You can't do without an axe and blood-stained sheets. Those jurists. Very well, I'll prove it to you. You will stop sneering at the psychological side of the affair, to Siberia with your Maria Ivanovna. I will prove it. If philosophy is not enough for you, I have something substantial for you. It will show you how correct my philosophy is. Just give me permission. What are you going on about? About the safety match. Have you forgotten it? I haven't. I'm going to find out who struck it in the murdered man's room. It was not Nicholas that struck it. It was not Psykov. For neither of them had any matches when they were examined. It was the third person, Maria Ivanovna. I will prove it to you. Just give me permission to go through the district to find out. Psykov, sit down. Let's go on with the examination. Tukovsky sat down at a little table and plunged his long nose in a bundle of papers. Bring in Nicholas Tetekov, cried the examining magistrate. They brought Nicholas in. Nicholas was pale and thin as a rail. He was trembling. Tetekov began Trubikov. In 1879 you were tried in the court division, convicted of theft and sentenced to imprisonment. In 1882 you were tried a second time for theft and were again imprisoned. We know all. Estonishment was depicted in Nicholas's face. The examining magistrate's omniscience startled him. But soon his expression of astonishment changed to extreme indignation. He began to cry and requested permission to go and wash his face and quiet down. They led him away. Bring in Psykov, ordered the examining magistrate. They brought in Psykov. The young man had changed greatly during the last few days. He had grown thin and pale and looked haggard. His eyes had an apathetic expression. Sit down, Psykov, said Trubikov. I hope that today you are going to be reasonable and will not tell lies as you did before. All these days you have denied that you had anything to do with the murder of Klausov in spite of all the proofs that testify against you. That is foolish. Confession will lighten your guilt. This is the last time I am going to talk to you. If you do not confess today, tomorrow it will be too late. Come, tell me all. I know nothing about it. I know nothing about your proofs. Answered Psykov almost inaudibly. It's no use. Well, let me relate to you how the matter took place. On Saturday evening you were sitting in Klausov's sleeping room and drinking vodka and beer with him. Tukovsky fixed his eyes on Psykov's face and kept them there all through the examination. Nicholas was waiting on you. At one o'clock Marko Zivanovich announced his attention of going to bed. He always went to bed at one o'clock. When he was taking off his boots and was giving you directions about details of management, you and Nicholas at a given signal seized your drunken master and threw him on the bed. One of you sat on his legs the other on his head. Then a third person came in from the passage a woman in a black dress whom you know well and who had previously arranged with you as to her share in your criminal deed. She seized a pillow and began to smother him. While the struggle was going on the candle went out. The woman took a box of safety matches from her pocket and lit the candle. Was it not so? I see by your face that I am speaking the truth. But to go on. After you had smothered him and saw that you had ceased breathing you and Nicholas pulled him through the window and laid him down near the burdock. Fearing that you might come round again you struck him with something sharp. Then you carried him away and laid him down under a lilac bush for a short time. After resting a while and considering you carried him across the fence. Then you entered the road. After that comes the dam. Near the dam a peasant frightened you. Well what is the matter with you? I am suffocating replied Psykov very well have it so only let me go out please. They let Psykov away. At last he has confessed cried Trubikov stretching himself luxuriously. He has betrayed himself and didn't I get round him cleverly regularly caught him napping and he doesn't deny the woman in the black dress exulted Dukovsky but all the same that safety match is tormenting me frightfully I can't stand it any longer goodbye I am off. Dukovsky put on his cap and drove off Trubikov began to examine Aquilina Aquilina declared that she knew nothing whatever about it. At six that evening Dukovsky returned he was more agitated than he had ever been before his hands trembled so that he could not even unbutton his great coat his cheeks glowed it was clear that he did not come empty handed Vene Vidi Vici he cried rushing into Trubikov's room and falling into an armchair I swear to you my honour I begin to believe that I am a genius listen devil take us all it is funny and it is sad we have caught three already isn't that so well I have found the fourth woman at that you will never believe who it is but listen I went to Klasov's village and began to make a spiral round it I visited all the little shops public houses, drum shops on the road everywhere asking for safety matches everywhere they said they hadn't any I made a wide round twenty times I lost faith and twenty times I got back again I knocked about the whole day and only an hour ago I got on the track three verses from here they gave me a packet of ten boxes one box was missing immediately who bought the other box such a one she was pleased with them old man Nikolas Yemelyevich see what a fellow who was expelled from the seminary and who has read Gaborio can do from today on I begin to respect myself oof well come come where to her to number four we must hurry otherwise otherwise I'll burst with impatience do you know who she is you'll never guess Olga Petrovna Marcus Ivanovich's wife his own wife that's who it is she is the person who bought the matchbox you you you are out of your mind it's quite simple to begin with she smokes secondly she was haired in ears and love with Klasov even after he refused to live in the same house with her because she was always scolding his head off why they say she used to beat him because she loved him so much and then he positively refused to stay in the same house loved and sour hell hath no fury like a woman scorned but come along quick or it will be dark come I am not yet sufficiently crazy to go and disturb a respectable honorable woman in the middle of the night for a crazy boy respectable, honorable do honorable women murder their husbands after that you are a rag and not an examining magistrate I never ventured to call your names before but now you compel me to rag, dressing gown dear Nicholas Yomolayovitch do come I beg of you the magistrate made a deprecating motion with his hand I beg of you I ask not for myself but in the interests of justice I beg you I implore you do what I ask you to just this once Dukovsky went down on his knees Nicholas Yomolayovitch be kind call me a blackguard and ne'er do well if I am mistaken about this woman you see what an affair it is what a case it is a romance a woman murdering her own husband for love the fame of it will go all over Russia they will make it they will make it investigate in all important cases understand a foolish old man the magistrate frowned and undecidedly stretched his hand toward his cap oh the devil take you he said let us go it was dark when the magistrates carriage rolled up to the porch of the old country house in which Olga Petrovna had taken refuge with her brother what pigs we are taking hold of the bell to disturb a poor woman like this it's all right, it's all right don't get frightened we can say that we have broken a spring Trubikov and Dukovsky were met at the threshold by a tall buxom woman of three and twenty with pitch black brows and juicy red lips it was Olga Petrovna herself apparently not in the least distressed by the recent tragedy oh what a pleasant surprise she said smiling broadly you are just in time for supper Kuzma Petrovich is not at home he is visiting the priest and has stayed late but we'll get on without him be seated, you have come from the examination yes we broke a spring, you know began Trubikov entering the sitting room and sinking into an armchair take her unawares at once whispered Dukovsky take her unawares a spring, hum, yes so we came in take her unawares I tell you she will guess what the matter is if you drag things out like that well do it yourself as you want but let me get out of it Mata Trubikov rising and going to the window yes a spring began Dukovsky going close to Olga Petrovna and wrinkling his long nose we did not drive over here to take supper with you or to see Kuzma Petrovich we came here to ask you, respected madam where Makos Ivanovich is whom you murdered what? Makos Ivanovich murdered stammered Olga Petrovna and her broad face suddenly and instantaneously flushed bright scarlet I don't understand I ask you in the name of the law where is Klausov we know all who told you Olga Petrovna asked in a low voice unable to endure Dukovsky's glance be so good as to show us where he is but how did you find out who told you we know all I demand it in the name of the law the examining magistrate emboldened by her confusion came forward and said show us and we will go away otherwise we what do you want with him madam what is the use of these questions we ask you to show us you tremble you are agitated yes he has been murdered and if you must have it murdered by you your accomplices have betrayed you Olga Petrovna grew pale come she said in a low voice ringing her hands I have him hid in the bath house only for heaven's sake do not tell Kuzma Petrovich I beg and implore you he will never forgive me Olga Petrovna took down a big key from the wall and let her guests through the kitchen give her a message to the courtyard the courtyard was in darkness fine rain was falling Olga Petrovna walked in advance of them Trubykov and Dukovsky strode behind her through the long grass as the odor of wild hem and dishwater splashing under their feet reached them the courtyard was wide soon the dishwater ceased and they felt freshly broken earth under their feet in the darkness appeared the shadowy outlines of trees a little house with a crooked chimney that is the bath house said Olga Petrovna but I implore you do not tell my brother if you do I'll never hear the end of it going up to the bath house Trubykov and Dukovsky saw a huge padlock on the door get your candle at matches ready whispered the examining magistrate to his deputy Olga Petrovna unfastened the padlock and let her guests into the bath house Dukovsky struck a match and lit up the anti-room in the middle of the anti-room stood a table on the table beside the sturdy little Samovar stood a soup terrain with old cabbage soup and a plate with the remnants of some sauce forward they went into the next room where the bath was there was a table there also on the table was a dish with some ham a bottle of vodka plates, knives, forks but where is it where is the murdered man asked the examining magistrate on the top tier whispered Olga Petrovna still pale and trembling Dukovsky took the candle in his hand and climbed up to the top tier of the sweating frame there he saw a long human body lying motionless on a large feather bed a slight snore came from the body you are making fun of us devil take it cried Dukovsky that is not the murdered man some live fool is lying here here, whoever you are the devil take you the body drew in a quick breath and stirred Dukovsky stuck his elbow into it it raised a hand stretched itself and lifted its head who is sneaking in here he asked in a horse-heavy base what do you want Dukovsky raised the candle to the face of the unknown and cried out in front here the pitch black mustaches one of which was drunkly twisted and pointed incidentally toward the ceiling he recognized the gallant cavalrymen Klausov you Marcus Ivanovich is it possible the examining magistrate glanced sharply up at him and stood spellbound yes it is I that's you Dukovsky what the devil do you want here and who is that other mug down there it's the examining magistrate what fate has brought him here Klausov rushed down and threw his arms round Zhubikov in a cordial embrace Olga Petrovna slipped through the door how did you come here let's have a drink devil take it trattati totum trattati totum let us drink but who brought you here how did you find out that I was here but it doesn't matter let's have a drink Klausov lit the lamp and poured out three glasses of vodka that is I don't understand you said the examining magistrate running his hands over him is this you or not you oh shut up you want to preach me a sermon don't trouble yourself young Dukovsky empty your glass friends let us bring this what are you looking at drink all the same I do not understand said the examining magistrate drinking off the vodka what are you here for why shouldn't I be here if I am all right here Klausov drained his glass and took a bite of ham I am in captivity here as you see in solitude in a cavern like a ghost or a bogey drink she carried me off and locked me up and well I am living here in the deserted bath house like a hermit I am fed next week I think I'll try to get out I am tired of it here incomprehensible said Dukovsky what is incomprehensible about it incomprehensible for heaven's sake how did your boot get into the garden what boot we found one boot in the sleeping room and the other in the garden and what do you want to know that for it's none of your business why don't you drink devil take you if you awakened me then drink with me it is an interesting tale brother that of the boot I didn't want to go with Olga I don't like to be bossed she came under the window and began to abuse me she always was a termigant you know what women are like all of them I was a bit drunk so I took a boot and heaved it at her ha ha ha but it didn't, not a bit of it she climbed in at the window lit the lamp and began to hammer poor tipsy me she thrashed me, dragged me over here and locked me in she feeds me now on love, vodka and ham but where are you off to Chubikov where are you going the examining magistrate swore and left the bath house Dukovsky followed him crest fallen they silently took their seats in the carriage and drove off the road never seemed to them so long and disagreeable as it did that time both remained silent and trembled with rage all the way Dukovsky hid his nose in the collar of his overcoat as if he was afraid that the darkness and the drizzling rain might read the shame in his face when they reached home the examining magistrate found Dr. Tyutyev awaiting him the doctor was sitting at the table and sighing deeply was turning over the pages of the never such goings on there are in the world he said meeting the examining magistrate with a sad smile Austria is at it again and gladstone also to some extent Chubikov threw his cap under the table and shook himself deviled skeletons don't you plague me a thousand times I have told you not to bother me with your politics this is no question of politics and you said Chubikov turning to Dukovsky and shaking his fist I won't forget this in a thousand years but the safety match how could I know choke yourself with your safety match get out of my way don't make me mad or the devil only knows what I'll do to you Dukovsky side took his hat and went out I'll go and get drunk he decided going through the door and gloomily wending his way to the public house end of the safety match by Anton Chekhov recorded magazine in October 2007