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I then remembered other similar cases and that I had also read of this curious fact about horses something to do with pressure on the kidneys I believe. One day Burker was unexpectedly absent and I took the drill, finding myself quite competent and au fait. The same evening I went to my wife's wardrobe, she being out, to try and find the keys of the sideboard.
He assured me that the Burker affair was pure hallucination and staked his professional reputation that the image of Burker came upon my retina from within and not from without. "The shock of the deaths of your wife and your friend on consecutive days has unhinged you, and very naturally so," he said. Of course I did not tell him that I had killed Burker, though I should have liked to do so.
At dinner I remarked casually: "I shouldn't enter into a correspondence with Burker if I were you, Dolly. His reputation isn't over savoury and " but, before I could say more, my wife was literally screaming with rage, calling me "Spy," "Liar," "Coward," and demanding to know what I insinuated and of what I accused her.
Turning round, as though to look at the troop, I rested my hand on my horse's back just behind the saddle and pressed hard. He lashed out with both hoofs and Sergeant Burker dropped and never moved again. The base of his skull was smashed like an egg, and his back was broken like a dry stick....
A number of gentlemen joined the Duri Volunteer Corps and formed a Mounted Infantry troop, and, though I am a good horseman, I was not competent to train the troop, as I had never enjoyed any experience of mounted military work of any kind. So Sergeant Burker, late of the 54th Lancers, was transferred to Duri as Instructor of the Mounted Infantry Troop.
And further I am in no sense remorseful, repentant, or "dogged by the spectre of an evil deed". I killed Burker intentionally. Were he alive again I would kill him again. I punished him myself because the law could not punish him as he deserved, and I in no way regret or deplore my just and judicial action. There are deeds a gentleman must resent and punish with the extreme penalty.
Or was it, after all, but a hallucination due to grief, trouble, and the drug of the opiate? I sat and brooded until I thought I could hear the voices of Burker and Dolores in converse. He took me for a long ride, kept me to dinner, and manufactured a job for me a piece of work that would occupy and tire me.
Or rather for the question had narrowed to that how could I kill him? And as the sun struck upon my eyes at dawn, an idea struck upon my mind. I would leave it to Fate and if Fate willed it so, Burker should die. If Burker stood behind my charger, Fate sat with down-turned thumb. I would not seek the opportunity but, by God, I would take it if it offered.
At dawn I said aloud: The story of Burker and Dolores is written. I may now strive to forget." I was wrong. Major Jackson of the R.A.M.C. came to see me soon after daylight. He gave me an opiate and I slept all that day and night. I went on parade next morning, fresh, calm, and cool and saw Burker riding toward the group of gentlemen who were awaiting the signal to "fall in".
"Your next birthday or your last?" I asked. "Please get it at once. We'll settle matters quietly and finally." I fear the poor girl had visions of the doorstep and a closed door. Two, perhaps, for I am sure Burker would not have taken her in if I had turned her out, and she may have thought the same.
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