Chapter XV: Flight

Had Ralph not lingered on the houseboat to see that Gwendolen crossed the garden in safety he must almost have taken his brother red-handed in what was tantamount to parricide. That fearful peal of thunder against the din of which he shouted to her to run quickly home, marked the point in time when Melville fired the shot that took his uncle's life. Great tragedies often take but seconds in the acting, and in this supreme moment in Melville's life of crime deed followed thought and thought followed deed as swiftly as the lightning shafts that burst from the riven sky and tore down into the bosom of the earth.

In a sense, he was conscious of a sort of elemental grandeur in his position that yet was wholly diabolical; it was as if all the spirits of evil had sped from the furthest confines of hell and, borne on the pinions of the storm, had foregathered at that lonely spot to become incarnate in him for one brief instant of concentrated passion; but, that brief instant gone, they had departed from him again and sped away, shrieking with fiendish glee at leaving him to reawaken to human consciousness, and face the fact that he was a murderer whose crime had been overseen.

That was the dominant fact in Melville's mind--Lavender had been a witness of the murder. What measures to take to secure her silence he must decide presently; the immediately urgent matter was to get away unseen. Casting one rapid, comprehensive glance all round the room to satisfy himself that he had left no damning trace behind him, and incidentally photographing the scene upon his highly sensitised brain, he stepped noiselessly out of the boathouse and grasped Lavender by the wrist.

"Come," he said curtly and incisively. She shuddered as she felt his touch, but relaxed her hold upon the iron pillar and looked fearfully in his eyes. "Come," he said again, and she obeyed him. Still holding her firmly by the wrist he led her to the far end of the creek and helped her over the ha-ha. As he did so, she dropped her handkerchief, and Melville, picking it up, put it in his pocket. "I'll give that back to you at Waterloo," he said with grim humour. "We can't afford to be so careless here."

Across the meadow they broke into a run, and, reaching the river bank, forced their way through the bushes and regained the boat. There Lavender collapsed, and breaking into nervous hysterical sobs, begged Melville not to push off into the open stream. She seemed, indeed, to have lost all self-control, and Melville hesitated, wondering if her condition would attract attention. But that was a smaller risk than for him to be found in the neighbourhood if the discovery of Sir Geoffrey's body were followed by an immediate and exhaustive search; so he contented himself with the assertion of his mastery of will, and for the moment tried to reassure her.

"There is no more danger on the open water than there is under these trees," he said, "if so much. See, I will move the stroke seat and row up in the bows. Then you can lie down and hide your eyes so as not to see the lightning." He made her as comfortable as he could, covering her with his coat and waistcoat; then he shoved off, and with firm, strong strokes lifted the boat along, while Lavender crouched down on the cushions and hid her face from the horror of the storm.

And as he rowed, his mind worked as methodically as his arms and legs, the measured thud of the sculls against the rowlocks seeming to have a soothing effect upon his excited imagination. Possibly it was due to something akin to demoniacal possession, but whatever its originating source might be there was not a little to compel admiration in the determined way this man could control his thinking powers, could face danger, however imminent, and utilise all his ingenuity in devising means of escape.

In the time required to row from Fairbridge to St. Martin's Lock he surveyed the whole situation. He reflected that the storm would break up the Longbridge regatta, that some of the inmates of the Manor House would find Sir Geoffrey lying dead in his summer room and raise a hue and cry, and that as soon as the first shock of the discovery was over they would telegraph for Mr. Tracy and himself. In order, therefore, to avoid having to invent any circumstantial story of his own movements, it was essential that he should, if possible, get into his rooms unseen, so that his wet flannels might not betray where he had been, and be there when the telegram arrived. Could that be arranged he might be able, if the worst came to the worst, to set up an _alibi_ successfully, and the Fairbridge murder would be numbered among the unsolved mysteries of crime. As for Lavender, something would depend upon the severity of the storm in London. Provided she held her tongue as to her movements, suspicion was most unlikely to fall upon her, at any rate for some time, and the danger of her being sought for as Lady Holt was remote; and, if she were, she would certainly not be a consenting party to the identification, because of the consequent inevitable exposure of her bigamous marriage and the rupture with Sir Ross Buchanan which that exposure would entail.

Melville looked at his companion lying huddled at the bottom of the boat. Could he rely upon her not betraying him? What line should he take with her when presently the scene that had to be got over between them should begin? He could not quite decide; it was difficult to do so until he saw her face. But for the moment he was glad that she should cower down as she was doing; it rendered her chance of being recognised so much the less, and already boat-loads of soaked holiday-makers were passing them. Melville paused as a favourable opportunity offered, and surreptitiously dropped his revolver into the river-bed. If--anything--should happen, that must not be found amongst his possessions, for the bullet it had held would certainly be kept, and such a coincidence as his possessing a weapon which it fitted must be prevented. He kept his head down as he sculled and looked neither to the right nor to the left. To the lock-keeper from whom he had hired the boat he was a stranger, and all he had to do was to avoid being recognised himself by any acquaintance who might chance to be in the crowd that now was nearing the lock simultaneously.

He drew in to the left bank and let the lock fill up. The rain, which had been savage and relentless while they were on the river, was abating now they were within easy reach of shelter; the intervals between the peals of thunder were lengthening, and, most noticeable of all, the terrible oppression was relieved. Melville hooked the boat on to the stakes below the lock and backed her gently up the stream until he came to a spot where they could land easily.

"Sit up, Lavender," he said softly, but peremptorily.

She raised herself on one arm and looked round. Hopelessness stared from her large eyes, but Melville saw with relief that the insane terror had departed from them; he was anxious to get her into the train without exciting remark, and it was something that she had regained her self-control. That her frock was dripping wet and stained red from the cushions would not attract attention here where everyone was wet, and before they reached Waterloo she would not look so deplorable, however cold and uncomfortable she might feel.

"We won't go through the lock," he said. "I'm going to pay the man for the boat and say he'll find her here. Pull yourself together as much as you can before I come back. If we are quick I think we can just catch a train, and we shall get away before all the people get out of the lock and crowd up the station. Do you feel better now?"

"Yes," she answered dully.

"I can depend upon you until we get home?" he asked, with some anxiety.

She nodded a vacant assent, and with that he had to be satisfied. He got out of the boat and went to the lock to pay for its hire and tell the man where to find it. Meantime, Lavender, realising that whatever the future might have in store for her, no good could be done by a scene at St. Martin's Lock, made an effort to pull herself together, and tried to readjust her bedraggled costume. With one of the napkins from the hamper she dried her face and hands, and wringing some of the water from her skirts and rubbing her patent shoes, she succeeded in making herself a little more presentable. Melville was pleased. They hurried to the station and were fortunate enough to catch an up train and secure an empty carriage.

But as soon as the train moved away his manner changed. Even if they were left alone during the whole journey they only had fifty-five minutes in which to arrive at an understanding, for he was quite clear he could not go back with her to The Vale. He took the corner seat immediately opposite to her.

"Why did you leave the boat at Fairbridge?"

The question sprang sharply from his lips, insisting on an immediate reply.

"The storm was so awful--so appalling," she said faintly. "It was like the end of the world."

It was obvious to Melville that she was frightened of him, and he was content that it should be so, for only by terrorising her could he hope to maintain his ascendency over her; any woman might be nervous at being shut up in a railway carriage with a murderer, but it was not of that precisely that she was afraid, for she stood in no fear of violence at his hands. There was something despotic about him that compelled obedience, and even if she had not been naturally as truthful as she was she would not have attempted to prevaricate.

"Now tell me," Melville rapped out in the same peremptory way, "did you hear what we were saying in that room?"

"Some of it," she replied; "enough, at any rate, to know what you have been doing to get money."

"You don't know what my position was," Melville said. "You remember my leaving Monte Carlo--ruined?" Lavender nodded. "I went down to see my uncle a few days after I got home and he refused to help me. I don't know why. He had always been lavish to my brother, and had never refused me anything before. I was in absolute need of shillings, and had to get them somehow. After I heard of your marriage with him, I told him I knew and got something from him."

"But you got it on the ground that I was in need of it," she said indignantly.

"It was the only way I could get it at all," he retorted.

"It was an outrage," she said, with suppressed passion. "I resent that as much as anything else. After all the years I never touched a penny of his money for you to tell him I was starving and pocket the money for yourself is a thing you can't expect me not to be mad about."

Her eyes blazed from her white face, and Melville grew apprehensive.

"What do you think Sir Geoffrey's answer was?" he asked.

"What?"

"He gave me ten pounds as an act of charity, and said if you needed any more you could apply to the people you'd been living with all those years. So you see, if you had been starving, you need not have looked for much help from him."

A flush shot over her neck and cheeks and ebbed again.

"It only makes it worse that your villainy provoked such a message--such a gratuitous affront. Oh, what an incredible fool I have been! But I am beginning to see you in your true colours now."

Melville looked at her, shading his eyes with his hand; it might not be so easy to silence her after all.

"What are you going to do?"

"How can I say?" she protested. "I must have time. I can't even think yet."

"You must think," he retorted curtly. "You must make up your mind between this and Waterloo, and stick to it afterwards."

"I can't," she repeated. "What's more, I won't try." Her thoughts flashed back from themselves to the dead man. "Why did you do it?" she sobbed. "Why, in the name of heaven, did you do it?"

For just one moment a pang of remorse stabbed Melville's heart.

"Only the devil knows," he groaned; but the train was travelling rapidly, and this was no time for vain reflection. "You must assure me, Lavender. I must know that I can have confidence in you. After all, we're in this thing together."

A look of fear came into her face, to be noted instantly by him.

"What have I to do with it?" she said defiantly.

"Nothing," he answered swiftly. "I want your oath that you know nothing of it."

She threw out her hands with a pathetic gesture.

"I can't give it. I'm not sure of myself. I can't live and be sure of not betraying it. I shall never sleep--never know peace again."

"I want your oath," Melville said doggedly. "After all, you stand to gain more by Sir Geoffrey's death than I do."

"What do you mean?" she asked, surprised.

"You are free to marry Sir Ross."

She looked at him, not quite grasping the purport of his words, but even as he said them they gave him confidence. If she was recalcitrant, he might threaten her.

"Except yourself, no one can ever throw light upon Sir Geoffrey's death. You must swear that you will throw none on it."

She did not answer, but sat like a statue of despair, as white as marble and as motionless. Already they were drawing near to Clapham Junction; ten or twelve minutes were all that were left for him to get the oath he must obtain.

"Think," he said swiftly. "Think what it might mean if a living soul knew that you were at that boathouse to-day. You--Sir Geoffrey's wife--living on money derived from a man whom you had feloniously married, engaged to be married again to a man who is twice a millionaire! What would be said? That you had everything to gain by the death of Sir Geoffrey Holt, supposing your identity became known, as it must be then: that you could hope for no help or forgiveness from him, and that as the wife of Sir Ross you would be rich beyond the dreams of avarice--and safe. They would find there motive enough for the crime, and would say that your hand fired the shot. And if you told the truth, and swore I did it, why should they believe you? Why should I, who have lived all my life upon Sir Geoffrey's bounty, kill the man upon whom I actually depend for my daily bread?"

Lavender stared at him with increasing horror. Could he possibly intend to shift suspicion on to her, or was he only putting into words what would be the general opinion if her presence at Fairbridge that afternoon became known? Melville read the doubt in her mind, and, with his fiendish cleverness, allayed her first uncertainty. To let that rankle might be to goad her too far, but he must appeal to her self-interest too.

"If it got to that, of course that would be the end of me," he said, "for I should have to confess that the deed was only mine, and I could not be taken alive. But think what you stand to lose: the income you have, the fortune you may have, your name, your reputation, possibly your freedom. You would be so involved in a scandal of bigamy and murder that in self-defence you would have to disappear. Lavender, it isn't only for my sake that I'm putting it all like this; I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm only imploring you for both our sakes to do nothing. Will you give me your solemn promise to hold your tongue for ever about to-day's work? Will you swear not to say one word of where we have been, or anything else, to any living soul? Will you, Lavender--will you?"

In sheer despair she retired from the unequal contest.

"I promise," she said. "I will be silent."

Melville could not repress a sigh of relief. It never occurred to him to doubt her reliability. She would keep her promise, he knew, and he would be safe. But there was no opportunity for further converse. They were at Vauxhall, and the man who collected their tickets got into the compartment and travelled with them to Waterloo.

At the terminus Melville put Lavender into a hansom.

"Don't write to me or call," he said. "I must go home at once, and I shall probably have to go down again to Fairbridge. They are sure to send for me. I will write to you as soon as I can and fix up an appointment."

She looked at him in wonder. He had courage of its kind, and courage of any kind appeals to women.

"You need not be afraid," she murmured. "I will keep my promise," and as he told the cabman where to go, she leaned back and closed her eyes in utter exhaustion.

Left by himself, Melville, too, could have collapsed; there was a physical reaction that left all his joints weak, and he shivered with cold. But danger was not over yet; much would depend upon his getting into his rooms unnoticed. So he hailed another hansom and drove to Piccadilly Circus.

"What sort of storm have you had here?" he asked, as he paid the cabman.

"Bad, sir; very heavy about four o'clock."

"Ah, well," Melville said, "it's good for your business, I daresay."

He walked round the corner into Jermyn Street erect and steady, although he felt so excited. How would things work out? The street was almost empty, for London was dressing for dinner, and the commissionaire was not standing by the front door of the chambers. A swift glance into the office showed Melville that that was empty too, and rapidly he walked along the thickly-carpeted passage. Opposite the lift he paused to scan the names upon the letters stuck in the letter rack, and his heart leaped as he caught sight of the orange envelope of a telegram addressed to himself. So it had come! He put out his hand involuntarily to take it, but checked the impulse and silently ran up the staircase and gained his rooms. Once there he tore off all his clothes and hung them in a wardrobe, which he locked. He changed his linen, dried and brushed his hair, and then, putting on a pair of flannel trousers and a smoking jacket, rang the bell and lay down on the sofa, a cigarette in his mouth, a paper in his hand.

After an interval the bell was answered by the manager.

"Where's Jervis to-day, then?" Melville asked pleasantly.

"Went off duty, sir, at twelve. He'll be back at eight. Can I do anything for you?"

"I wanted some tea," said Melville. "I'm ashamed to say I've been asleep."

"I'll bring it to you," the manager said.

"Thanks," Melville answered. "You might see if there are any letters for me," and he rose and stretched himself.

Tea arrived, and on the tray there lay a couple of letters and the telegram. Melville tore it open, and an exclamation of surprise and horror broke from him.

"When did this come?" he asked. "Half an hour ago! Oh, why wasn't it brought up to me at once?"

"I'm very sorry," the manager said, "but I really didn't know you were in."

"I've been in all the afternoon," said Melville. "Who would go out in such a storm if they could help it? But, in any case, I think someone should bring up telegrams to see if I am at home. It's awful--awful!"

"Bad news, sir?" asked the manager.

"Awful," said Melville again. "Sir Geoffrey Holt is dead. I must go down at once."