CHAPTER XIII.
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?"