“Sword?” cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. “What sword? Whose sword?”
“A sword of theirs.”
“What were you doing with it?”
“Well, didn’t you see, pater, I had to snatch up the first thing handy I hadn’t a riding-whip or stick. I caught him once or twice over the shoulders with the flat of their old German sword.”
“Then what?”
“He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell,” said Charles, with a sigh. It was no fun doing errands for his father, who was never quite satisfied.
“But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you’re sure?”
“That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than enough at the inquest on such unsavoury topics.”
They went into breakfast. Charles had a racking headache, consequent on motoring before food. He was also anxious about the future, reflecting that the police must detain Helen and Margaret for the inquest and ferret the whole thing out. He saw himself obliged to leave Hilton. One could not afford to live near the scene of a scandal—it was not fair on one’s wife. His comfort was that the pater’s eyes were opened at last. There would be a horrible smash up, and probably a separation from Margaret; then they would all start again, more as they had been in his mother’s time.
“I think I’ll go round to the police-station,” said his father when breakfast was over.