Mr. Sims looked steadily at Nat as though seeing him for the first time. His cousin gazed back, half-sullen, half-defiant.
"It certainly didn't take you long to get your hands on the money," Mr. Sims said. "It looks as if I can't die soon enough. But I still don't see where Dr. Van Stoke comes into—"
Then suddenly there was no need to ask. The answer was clear on Nat's tight, sullen face.
Mr. Sims turned to the others for help and froze as identical expressions stared back coldly from each of them, piercing him with their long-hidden envy of his success, their pent-up hatred of their dependence on him.
A choking, frightened sound came from deep in Mr. Sims' throat. "For God's sake! How much did you pay him to put me away?"
He jumped quickly off the parapet, knocking the little boy to the ground, and hurled the hemlock into the fountain. He pushed his way past them and started to run. Then the woven garment twisted about his legs. He tried to lift it clear, but his foot caught in the hem and he stumbled.
Nat was the first to move. He picked up the little toy dagger and fell on the struggling man. Without hesitating, he plunged the knife between Mr. Sims' shoulder blades and held it till the older man was still. Then he stabbed again, without malice, without any emotion ... again and again.... The blade made an odd ripping sound each time it pierced the woven robe.
All of them looked away. One of the women leaned over the parapet, sick.
When he was finally done, Nat stood up and cleaned the knife on the grass and then motioned them all back toward the palace.