Chapter XIII: Murder

Sheltered by the leafy elms which Melville had pointed out to Lavender was an oblong inlet from the river, artificially constructed by Sir Geoffrey Holt to serve as a private bathing-place and as a landing-stage for the Manor House grounds. Here he had built a chalet in an ornate Swiss style, one half being devoted to the boats, the other containing two large sitting-rooms. The end room, which overlooked the creek on one side, the river on another, and the garden on a third, and which was surrounded on these three sides by a wide verandah, was a favourite resort of Sir Geoffrey's, and it was here that Melville hoped to find him this afternoon; if things went badly with him and the interview proved to be very quarrelsome, he would prefer to have it away from the house, where they would be less likely to be overheard.

His mind was quite made up. He knew that Lavender had been in earnest when she said she would not marry Sir Ross Buchanan, and he was mad with himself for having stood in his own light by preventing the marriage; had that been accomplished he could have drawn upon her jointure to a pretty tune. He knew, too, that Sir Geoffrey would not give him any more money for his wife so soon; it only remained for him to extort a payment on account for holding his tongue. His errand was blackmail, and it might not be an easy task to levy it. But he was determined to get money to-day, cost what it might.

Money! Never had false god so devout a worshipper, never had mistress so ardent a wooer as money had in Melville Ashley. He loved it; but as the spendthrift, not the miser. To scatter it broadcast with both hands was life to him, and he recked not how he came by it so that he had it in unfailing abundance; it meant gaiety and excitement and irresponsibility, music and wine and cards--everything that he summed up in the comprehensive name of pleasure. Honour and self-respect were a small price to pay for money which, in his opinion, could not cost too much. What was blackmail, after all? While Sir Geoffrey had a shilling left and desired the story of his marriage to remain untold, Melville would demand the shilling or trumpet forth the news for the delectation of a scandal-loving world.

And if Sir Geoffrey refused and bid him do his utmost? Where would the money come from then? The question framed itself in Melville's thoughts, and his brow darkened, but he dismissed it carelessly again, for as yet Sir Geoffrey seemed inclined to prefer being robbed to being exposed.

Melville gained the grounds and turned down towards the chalet. His rubber-soled canvas shoes were noiseless on the well-rolled paths, and he walked briskly into the boat-house, of which the wooden doors stood open. It was empty--punt and dinghy, pair-oar and canoe, all were gone. Evidently Sir Geoffrey, with customary good-nature, had allowed most of the servants to share in the amusement afforded by the regatta, and until dinner-time the Manor House would be in charge of some of the kitchenmaids. So much the better, if there was to be a quarrel in the house. But was Sir Geoffrey in the house, or was he here in the garden-room?

Melville walked along the verandah, treading softly. Overhead, the lurid sky grew more lurid, the still oppression more still and oppressive. A great drop of rain fell on the asphalte boat-slide, making a mark as big as a shilling; another fell, and, after an interval, another; the storm was going to break upon him, and he must hasten upon his business.

Through the window he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey sitting in a low wicker chair, with an illustrated paper in his hand. Melville's lips tightened as he marked the figure of his uncle, so unconscious of the presence of another person, so attuned to the atmosphere of this rich home of his. Sir Geoffrey's back was towards him, and Melville, with some idea of the fitness of making his entrance from the front, so to speak, walked quickly round the verandah, and, flinging open the French windows with both hands, stepped into the room. For a second the two men eyed each other, and then Sir Geoffrey spoke in a tone of studied evenness.

"So it is you, Melville. Have you come down for the regatta?"

"No," said Melville bluntly. "I want to see you."

Sir Geoffrey picked up the paper again and affected to be more interested in it than in the conversation.

"Want to see me, do you? On business?"

"Yes; on business," Melville answered, a little nettled by his uncle's nonchalance.

"Ah!" said Sir Geoffrey, and paused. "Whose business is it this time?" he enquired presently. "Are you principal or agent on this occasion?"

His affectation of being rather bored by the whole thing emphasised the affront and brought the blood to Melville's cheek.

"Principal," he replied laconically, and, unasked, sat down.

"That simplifies the issue," said Sir Geoffrey, laying down one paper and picking up another. "Go on, man; say what you want. You are not usually lacking in effrontery."

Melville was always conscious of his own meanness when he was in his uncle's presence, always found it difficult to face the steady eyes and honest scorn of the old man; it was characteristic of him, too, that he always felt at a disadvantage unless in a struggle of wits he was able to make his opponent, whoever he might be, lose his temper first, and he could seldom do this with Sir Geoffrey. He grew hot and angry now under the lash of the bitter sarcasm in the coldly spoken words, but they had the effect of bringing him to the point.

"I've come down again for some money," he said coarsely.

"What is the lie to-day?" Sir Geoffrey enquired. "Has Ralph been tapping you again? Don't strain your imagination too much."

"I won't," said Melville. "I want some more money for myself, and I think you will give it me."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," said Sir Geoffrey; "you presume too much." He closed his lips with a snap, but as Melville did not reply at once, he went on in the same even tone that exasperated his nephew so intensely. "I tell you what I will do, Melville, if you like. After all, if I am to pay the piper I have some right to suggest the tune. I will give you an allowance on condition that you stop away altogether."

"How do you mean?" said Melville.

"Give you an allowance to be drawn by yourself at regular intervals, so that you will be spared the trouble of making these irregular applications."

Melville was completely deceived by the way his uncle spoke. He considered the proposal seriously, as he believed it to be made.

"How much will you make it?"

"Ten pounds a month, to be drawn in person at, say, Botany Bay," said Sir Geoffrey, looking at him over the top of the paper.

Melville was furious, and only kept control over himself by an effort.

"You are pleased to be facetious," he replied, "but I warn you I am not in the mood to enjoy a joke to-day. Fortunately, I am in a position to suggest terms as well. I know something which you want kept dark. Having seen the lady, I'm not surprised at your desire to suppress the fact of her existence, for she is not an ideal ornament for the head of your table. I will accept a hundred and twenty pounds now, and hold my tongue about her while that lasts."

Sir Geoffrey betrayed no anger.

"Blackmail?" he said enquiringly.

"Yes," said Melville. "The word is of your own choosing. Indeed, I'm indebted to you for putting the idea into my head. But a man who holds his tongue when it would pay him to talk may not be a blackmailer, but is most certainly a fool."

"You are not a fool," said Sir Geoffrey, "but you are a knave. Now, since I last had the misfortune of seeing you I've had time to think, and the result of my meditation may be of interest to you. Do you wish me to speak plainly?"

"Pray do."

"Well," said Sir Geoffrey, "when you first told me that Lady Holt was alive I confess I was very much surprised. I believed she had died years before; I don't know what she may have said to you, but it is the fact that the marriage was unhappy. Nobody about here had ever heard of it, and I wanted to save myself from being a topic of common gossip. What did I do? I accepted your story, and gave you some money to relieve her from the immediate distress in which you allege you found her. I suppose she received that sum?"

"Of course she did," said Melville.

"You know I distrust you entirely," Sir Geoffrey proceeded. "I had--still have--my doubts about your story, and I saw at once that you intended to convert my natural wish to avoid a scandal into money for yourself. Now I have resolved on my policy; I ought to have resolved on it at first. If Lady Holt needs permanent assistance, she must apply to Mr. Tracy, who will have my instructions. Tell her that from me. She is my wife, and she need have no fear in applying to her husband or his solicitor. But she will never have another farthing from me through you. I don't trust you; and if I did, I still should not employ you in this matter. And as for the blackmail, Melville, you have made a mistake in your calculations. I don't intend to be blackmailed."

"You don't mind your marriage becoming known?"

"I won't pay you to keep it secret," said Sir Geoffrey proudly. "The marriage was a failure, but it was a marriage, and I have nothing to be ashamed of in it. I was a fool to hesitate when you were down here last, but now I hesitate no more. I don't care what you do. Talk if you like. Sell the news to _The Fairbridge Mercury_ for half-a-crown, if you can; I won't give you five shillings to suppress it. And now, sir, go!"

His passion had been steadily rising, and as he shouted out the last word the old man jumped up from his chair and with outstretched arm pointed to the window. It was getting very dark, and suddenly the threatening storm burst in a torrent of heavy rain; it rattled on the zinc roof of the verandah with the noise of musketry, leaping up from the asphalte in white sheets and flooding all the gullies; then a blinding flash of lightning seemed to fill the room, and Melville sank back in his chair, hiding his eyes and waiting for the thunder, which swiftly followed like a roar of artillery. When the crash died away, Melville rose and faced his uncle, who had not moved a muscle.

"It's to be war between us?" he said.

Sir Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't fight with blackguards," he answered. "Do your worst; do what you please--but go."

Melville knew that he had lost; his second castle in the air was shattered and he could not hope to build it up again. Mrs. Sinclair had destroyed the first, Sir Geoffrey had destroyed the second, and Melville was once more face to face with ruin. Outside the wind had risen and the hail was beating into the room, streaming down the windows and blurring all the view. In horrible succession flash of lightning followed flash of lightning, silhouetting everything in the room for an instant before darkness, made more horrible by the deafening crashes of thunder, engulfed it all again. And swift as the lightning that blazed and then was gone, thoughts and schemes shot through Melville's brain. If only Sir Geoffrey were dead, struck by the jagged blades of flame that tore down from the storm-centre in the sky above them, everything would be well. He had made no will--he had said so--and if only he were dead there would be salvation for Melville--salvation in the share of his uncle's money which the law would give him.

Sir Geoffrey strode towards him.

"Storm or no storm," he shouted, striving to make himself heard above the din of wind and hail and thunder, "go. I disown you for the liar and swindler and blackmailer that you are. Not one shilling more shall you ever have whether for my wife or for yourself. Go!"

He seized Melville by the shoulder, and in an instant the men were locked together. Melville was taken by surprise, and even if he had not been he was not more than a match for his uncle, in spite of the difference in their ages. For one brief moment they swayed together, Sir Geoffrey wrestling to throw his nephew out, Melville wrestling to free himself from his uncle's grasp. Another roar of thunder shook the chalet, and even as it did so, the end came. Melville, twisted backwards by his uncle's weight, felt the pistol that he always carried hurt his side. Mad with passion he freed one hand somehow and struggled half an arm's length from the elder man. Before the thunder had fairly died away there was a barking report, a film of smoke rose between the swaying figures, and Sir Geoffrey threw up his arms and dropped. A smell of singed cloth seemed to fill the room, and on the white front of the old man's flannel shirt there was a burnt stain. Sir Geoffrey Holt was dead--shot at close quarters through the heart.

As Sir Geoffrey fell a sharp scream rang outside, and Melville, with wildly beating heart, looked across the room to the window through which he had caught sight of his uncle. A woman was clinging to one of the iron pillars that supported the verandah, and in the half-fainting form Melville recognised Lavender Sinclair.