III

The doorbell rang about a quarter to eight.

Tressilian went to answer it. he returned to his pantry to find Horbury there, picking up thecoffee cups off the tray and looking at the mark on them.

“Who was it?” said Horbury.

“Superintendent¹ of Police—Mr. Sugden—mind what you’re doing!”

Horbury had dropped one of the cups with a crash.

“Look at that now,” lamented² Tressilian. “Eleven years I’ve had the washing up of those andnever one broken, and now you come along touching³ things you’ve no business to touch, and lookwhat happens!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Tressilian. I am indeed,” the other apologized. His face was covered withperspiration. “I don’t know how it happened. Did you say a Superintendent of Police had called?”

“Yes—Mr. Sugden.”

The valet passed a tongue over pale lips.

“What—what did he want?”

“Collecting for the Police Orphanage⁴.”

“Oh!” The valet straightened his shoulders. In a more natural voice he said:

“Did he get anything?”

“I took up the book to old Mr. Lee, and he told me to fetch the superintendent up and to putthe sherry on the table.”

“Nothing but begging, this time of year,” said Horbury. “The old devil’s generous, I will saythat for him, in spite of his other failings.”

Tressilian said with dignity:

“Mr. Lee has always been an open-handed gentleman.”

Horbury nodded.

“It’s the best thing about him! Well, I’ll be off now.”

“Going to the pictures?”

“I expect so. Ta-ta, Mr. Tressilian.”

He went through the door that led to the servants’ hall.

Tressilian looked up at the clock hanging on the wall.

He went into the dining room and laid the rolls in the napkins.

Then, after assuring himself that everything was as it should be, he sounded the gong in thehall.

As the last note died away the police superintendent came down the stairs. SuperintendentSugden was a large handsome man. He wore a tightly buttoned blue suit and moved with a senseof his own importance.

He said affably: “I rather think we shall have a frost tonight. Good thing: the weather’s beenvery unseasonable lately.”

Tressilian said, shaking his head:

“The damp affects my rheumatism⁵.”

The superintendent said that the rheumatism was a painful complaint, and Tressilian let himout by the front door.

The old butler refastened the door and came back slowly into the hall. He passed his handover his eyes and sighed. Then he straightened his back as he saw Lydia pass into the drawingroom. George Lee was just coming down the stairs.

Tressilian hovered⁶ ready. When the last guest, Magdalene, had entered the drawing room, hemade his own appearance, murmuring:

“Dinner is served.”

In his way Tressilian was a connoisseur⁷ of ladies’ dress. He always noted⁸ and criticized thegowns of the ladies as he circled round the table, decanter in hand.

Mrs. Alfred, he noted, had got on her new flowered black and white taffeta. A bold design,very striking, but she could carry it off, though many ladies couldn’t. The dress Mrs. George hadon was a model, he was pretty sure of that. Must have cost a pretty penny. He wondered how Mr.

George would like paying for it! Mr. George didn’t like spending money—he never had. Mrs.

David now: a nice lady, but didn’t have any idea of how to dress. For her figure, plain black velvetwould have been the best. Figured velvet⁹, and crimson¹⁰ at that, was a bad choice. Miss Pilar, now,it didn’t matter what she wore, with her figure and her hair she looked well in anything. A flimsycheap little white gown it was, though. Still, Mr. Lee would soon see to that! Taken to herwonderful, he had. Always was the same way when a gentleman was elderly. A young face coulddo anything with him!

“Hock or claret?” murmured Tressilian in a deferential¹¹ whisper in Mrs. George’s ear. Out ofthe tail of his eye he noted that Walter, the footman, was handing the vegetables before the gravyagain—after all he had been told!

Tressilian went round with the soufflé. It struck him, now that his interest in the ladies’

toilettes and his misgivings¹² over Walter’s deficiencies were a thing of the past, that everyone wasvery silent tonight. At least, not exactly silent: Mr. Harry¹³ was talking enough for twenty—no, notMr. Harry, the South African gentleman. And the others were talking too, but only, as it were, inspasms. There was something a little—queer about them.

Mr. Alfred, for instance, he looked downright ill. As though he had had a shock orsomething. Quite dazed he looked and just turning over the food on his plate without eating it. Themistress, she was worried about him. Tressilian could see that. Kept looking down the tabletowards him—not noticeably, of course, just quietly. Mr. George was very red in the face—gobbling his food, he was, without tasting it. He’d get a stroke one day if he wasn’t careful. Mrs.

George wasn’t eating. Slimming, as likely as not. Miss Pilar seemed to be enjoying her food allright and talking and laughing up at the South African gentleman. Properly taken with her, he was.

Didn’t seem to be anything on their minds!

Mr. David? Tressilian felt worried about Mr. David. Just like his mother, he was, to look at.

And remarkably¹⁴ young-looking still. But nervy; there, he’d knocked over his glass.

Tressilian whisked it away, mopped up the stream deftly¹⁵. It was all over. Mr. David hardlyseemed to notice what he had done, just sat staring in front of him with a white face.

Thinking of white faces, funny the way Horbury had looked in the pantry just now when he’dheard a police officer had come to the house .?.?. almost as though—Tressilian’s mind stopped with a jerk. Walter had dropped a pear off the dish he was handing.

Footmen were no good nowadays! They might be stable boys, the way they went on!

He went round with the port. Mr. Harry seemed a bit distrait¹⁶ tonight. Kept looking at Mr.

Alfred. Never had been any love lost between those two, not even as boys. Mr. Harry, of course,had always been his father’s favourite, and that had rankled¹⁷ with Mr. Alfred. Mr. Lee had nevercared for Mr. Alfred much. A pity, when Mr. Alfred always seemed so devoted¹⁸ to his father.

There, Mrs. Alfred was getting up now. She swept round the table. Very nice that design onthe taffeta; that cape¹⁹ suited her. A very graceful²⁰ lady.

He went out to the pantry, closing the dining room door on the gentlemen with their port.

He took the coffee tray into the drawing room. The four ladies were sitting there ratheruncomfortably, he thought. They were not talking. He handed round the coffee in silence.

He went out again. As he went into his pantry he heard the dining room door open. DavidLee came out and went along the hall to the drawing room.

Tressilian went back into his pantry. He read the riot act to Walter. Walter was nearly, if notquite, impertinent!

Tressilian, alone in his pantry, sat down rather wearily.

He had a feeling of depression. Christmas Eve, and all this strain and tension .?.?. He didn’tlike it!

With an effort he roused himself. He went to the drawing room and collected the coffee cups.

The room was empty except for Lydia, who was standing²¹ half concealed²² by the window curtain atthe far end of the room. She was standing there looking out into the night.

From next door the piano sounded.

Mr. David was playing. But why, Tressilian asked himself, did Mr. David play the “DeadMarch?” For that’s what it was. Oh, indeed things were very wrong.

He went slowly along the hall and back into his pantry.

It was then he first heard the noise from overhead: a crashing of china, the overthrowing²³ offurniture, a series of cracks and bumps.

“Good gracious!” thought Tressilian. “Whatever is the master doing? What’s happening upthere?”

And then, clear and high, came a scream—a horrible high wailing²⁴ scream that died away in achoke or gurgle.

Tressilian stood there a moment paralysed, then he ran out into the hall and up the broadstaircase. Others were with him. That scream had been heard all over the house.

They raced up the stairs and round the bend, past a recess²⁵ with statues gleaming white andeerie, and along the straight passage to Simeon Lee’s door. Mr. Farr was there already and Mrs.

David. She was leaning back against the wall and he was twisting at the door handle.

“The door’s locked,” he was saying. “The door’s locked!”

Harry Lee pushed past and wrested²⁶ it from him. He, too, turned and twisted at the handle.

“Father,” he shouted. “Father, let us in.”

He held up his hand and in the silence they all listened. There was no answer. No sound frominside the room.

The front door bell rang, but no one paid any attention to it.

Stephen Farr said:

“We’ve got to break the door down. It’s the only way.”

Harry said: “That’s going to be a tough job. These doors are good solid stuff. Come on,Alfred.”

They heaved and strained. Finally they went and got an oak bench and used it as a batteringram. The door gave at last. Its hinges splintered and the door sank shuddering²⁷ from its frame.

For a minute they stood there huddled²⁸ together looking in. What they saw was a sight that noone of them ever forgot. .?.?.

There had clearly been a terrific struggle. Heavy furniture was overturned. China vases laysplintered on the floor. In the middle of the hearthrug in front of the blazing fire lay Simeon Lee ina great pool of blood .?.?. Blood was splashed all round. The place was like a shambles²⁹.

There was a long shuddering sigh, and then two voices spoke³⁰ in turn. Strangely enough, thewords they uttered were both quotations³¹.

David Lee said:

“The mills of God grind slowly. .?.?.”

Lydia’s voice came like a fluttering whisper:

“Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? .?.?.”

 

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