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.