XIX
Algy had never had the slightest intention of allowing Gay to go blinding off alone into dark, unknown grounds with the fairly obvious intention of meeting an anonymous blackmailer. She had, naturally, not announced this as her reason for coming down here in the middle of the night, but it seemed perfectly clear to him that it was what she meant to do, and the minute she mentioned Colebrook, and he guessed that their destination was Cole Lester, he guessed too that it was probably Sylvia Colesborough who was being blackmailed and not Gay Hardwicke. He felt a queer rage against Gay for getting herself mixed up with what was probably a pieee of crass folly and no business of hers.
As he followed Gay at a safe distance up the drive, his rage turned back upon himself, because of all things in the world he could least afford to mix himself up with any new scandal. He was a fool to have come, and a complete fool to have pledged himself not to ask any questions. He ought to have insisted on asking them. He ought at the very start to have said “Nothing doing” and hung up his receiver. He ought… In his heart of hearts he knew perfectly well that he would have taken Gay to Timbuctoo rather than let her run stupid risks without him.
He came to the end of the drive, and realized that he had lost her. What had he to do now? Follow the plan he had made and hope for the best. He wished her away-anywhere but here-in London -out of this business. It weighed darkly on his mind, darkly on them both. He went on…
As the sound of the shot rang out and died away, he began to run. A bird went up, startled, with a rush of wings. His torch was in his hand. When he came to the yew walk he switched it on and saw the dark mouth gaping. And then from the far end he caught the flash of another torch. He plunged into the tunnel and ran along it. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life before. There was a nightmare sense of weight upon his feet and upon his heart.
He came to the seat, and the full beam of his torch shone across it and showed him Gay standing there with a pistol in one hand and a fold of her skirt in the other.
What he felt was not to be put into words-a blinding anger, a cold fear. What was she doing with the pistol-Gay-what had she done? He said her name, and she threw the pistol on the seat and came running to him helter-skelter like a child. She was in his arms and he was holding her before there was time for either of them to think or draw breath. He felt her strain against him, shuddering. All that had resisted her broke in him and dissolved. He said quick and low,
“What is it? Gay-darling-what is it?”
And Gay said, “He’s dead! Oh, I think he’s dead!”
“Who?”
“Francis.”
“Where?”
“Outside-on the grass.”
His arms tightened about her.
“Did you come to meet him? Was he blackmailing you?”
She put her hand against his chest and pushed him away.
“I can’t breathe. Oh, no-it couldn’t have been Francis-it couldn’t!”
“Then why did you shoot him?”
“I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t! Oh, Algy, I didn’t!”
He released her.
“Where is he? Show me!”
They leaned together against the hedge and over the green sill of the window that was cut in it. In the light of Algy’s torch Francis Colesborough lay dreadfully still.
“How does one get out there?” Algy’s tone was almost matter-of-fact.
Gay looked away. Francis was dead. She was quite sure that Francis was dead. She pointed to the left and said in a small, faint voice,
“There’s a way out along there.”
There was, in fact, a way out at either end of the cross-piece. She didn’t know why she had pointed to the left, but when he had run that way she thought perhaps it was because Sylvia had been standing on the right. He hadn’t seen Sylvia-yet.
She picked up her own torch from the arm of the seat and flashed it round. Sylvia had been standing just there on the right of the window, but she wasn’t there now. There wasn’t anyone there.
Algy’s voice called to her through the window, “Gay-come here,” and when she came he leaned in across the sill and said,
“He’s dead. Who shot him?”
She said nothing. Her mind was full of the dreadful picture of Sylvia with the pistol in her hand.
Algy caught her by the arm.
“Gay-if you did it, tell me. I’ll get you away. Only for God’s sake tell me!”
“I didn’t! Algy, I didn’t!”
“What were you doing with the pistol?”
“I picked it up. I was wiping it.”
“Why? For God’s sake, why?”
She burst into tears.
“I can’t tell you. What are we going to do? Algy, what are we going to do?”
Question and answer had followed so fast that there had been no time to think, but now there was a most desperate need for thought. He said,
“I can get you away. We’d better chance it. Wipe that pistol again. Take hold of it with your dress. Don’t leave any fingerprints. Then ran along and meet me at the end of the hedge. If we can get to the car we can get clear.”
Gay said, “You go. I can’t.” But what she really meant was, “If I go, that will put it on Sylvia. I can’t leave Sylvia.”
“Gay, if you did it-”
She stamped her foot.
“I didn’t! I tell you I didn’t!”
“Then we’d better go up to the house and get help.”
XX
They did not need to go up to the house, for the house was roused. From the end of the lawn they could see lighted windows, black figures crossing them, lights moving, lights coming nearer.
“Algy, what are we going to say?”
“You came down to see Sylvia. I drove you. We heard the shot. We found him dead. Stick to it.”
The lights came on. The butler arrived panting-a fat man, his face glistening with sweat in the light of a large electric lamp. He had a pair of trousers hastily pulled on. A striped pyjama jacket clung tightly. Gay remembered him, soft-voiced and decorous. He panted out,
“What are you doing here? What’s up? What’s happened? Her ladyship-”
“Your master’s dead,” said Algy. “He’s been shot. You’ll have to send for the police. And a doctor. My name is Somers, and this lady is Miss Hardwicke, Lady Colesborough’s cousin. We were coming down here to see her. We heard the shot, and found Sir Francis lying on the grass beyond the yew hedge over there. I don’t think there’s any doubt about his being dead. We don’t know who shot him. How many men have you got here?”
“There’s two footmen, sir, and myself, and two men at the garage, and two gardeners who live on the place.”
“Well, you’d better round them up. Someone must stay by the body and see it isn’t touched. And put a man on any way into this tunnel place, because he was shot from there. The weapon’s lying on the seat by the window. Hurry all you can. Miss Hardwicke will go to Lady Colesborough. I’ll come with you if you like, but the police ought to be sent for at once. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Sturrock, sir. Perhaps you’ll get on to the telephone, sir. I’d best take charge out here.”
“Where is Lady Colesborough? Miss Hardwicke had better tell her.”
Gay caught her breath. Sturrock said, still panting,
“Her ladyship knows, sir. She came in running and calling for help. She roused us all, crying out that Sir Francis was shot. And then she dropped down in a faint, and the housekeeper’s looking to her, and her own maid.”
“Well, we’d better be getting along,” said Algy.
Sylvia was in the study. They had carried her there and laid her on the leather-covered couch. She had come out of her faint and was sobbing hysterically, with her maid, a sensible-looking middle-aged woman, trying to soothe her, and the housekeeper, vast in pink flannelette and a waterproof, standing by.
Sylvia sat up when she saw Gay, clutched her, and said, sobbing,