Pyramids of snow

by Edith Metcalfe

CHAPTER XV.
FLIGHT.

Had Ralph not lingered on the houseboat to see that Gwendolen crossed the garden in safety he must almost have taken his brother red-handed in what was tantamount to parricide. That fearful peal of thunder against the din of which he shouted to her to run quickly home, marked the point in time when Melville fired the shot that took his uncle's life. Great tragedies often take but seconds in the acting, and in this supreme moment in Melville's life of crime deed followed thought and thought followed deed as swiftly as the lightning shafts that burst from the riven sky and tore down into the bosom of the earth.

In a sense, he was conscious of a sort of elemental grandeur in his position that yet was wholly diabolical; it was as if all the spirits of evil had sped from the furthest confines of hell and, borne on the pinions of the storm, had foregathered at that lonely spot to become incarnate in him for one brief instant of concentrated passion; but, that brief instant gone, they had departed from him again and sped away, shrieking with fiendish glee at leaving him to reawaken to human consciousness, and face the fact that he was a murderer whose crime had been overseen.

That was the dominant fact in Melville's mind—Lavender had been a witness of the murder. What measures to take to secure her silence he must decide presently; the immediately urgent matter was to get away unseen. Casting one rapid, comprehensive glance all round the room to satisfy himself that he had left no damning trace behind him, and incidentally photographing the scene upon his highly sensitised brain, he stepped noiselessly out of the boathouse and grasped Lavender by the wrist.

"Come," he said curtly and incisively. She shuddered as she felt his touch, but relaxed her hold upon the iron pillar and looked fearfully in his eyes. "Come," he said again, and she obeyed him. Still holding her firmly by the wrist he led her to the far end of the creek and helped her over the ha-ha. As he did so, she dropped her handkerchief, and Melville, picking it up, put it in his pocket. "I'll give that back to you at Waterloo," he said with grim humour. "We can't afford to be so careless here."

Across the meadow they broke into a run, and, reaching the river bank, forced their way through the bushes and regained the boat. There Lavender collapsed, and breaking into nervous hysterical sobs, begged Melville not to push off into the open stream. She seemed, indeed, to have lost all self-control, and Melville hesitated, wondering if her condition would attract attention. But that was a smaller risk than for him to be found in the neighbourhood if the discovery of Sir Geoffrey's body were followed by an immediate and exhaustive search; so he contented himself with the assertion of his mastery of will, and for the moment tried to reassure her.

"There is no more danger on the open water than there is under these trees," he said, "if so much. See, I will move the stroke seat and row up in the bows. Then you can lie down and hide your eyes so as not to see the lightning." He made her as comfortable as he could, covering her with his coat and waistcoat; then he shoved off, and with firm, strong strokes lifted the boat along, while Lavender crouched down on the cushions and hid her face from the horror of the storm.

And as he rowed, his mind worked as methodically as his arms and legs, the measured thud of the sculls against the rowlocks seeming to have a soothing effect upon his excited imagination. Possibly it was due to something akin to demoniacal possession, but whatever its originating source might be there was not a little to compel admiration in the determined way this man could control his thinking powers, could face danger, however imminent, and utilise all his ingenuity in devising means of escape.

In the time required to row from Fairbridge to St. Martin's Lock he surveyed the whole situation. He reflected that the storm would break up the Longbridge regatta, that some of the inmates of the Manor House would find Sir Geoffrey lying dead in his summer room and raise a hue and cry, and that as soon as the first shock of the discovery was over they would telegraph for Mr. Tracy and himself. In order, therefore, to avoid having to invent any circumstantial story of his own movements, it was essential that he should, if possible, get into his rooms unseen, so that his wet flannels might not betray where he had been, and be there when the telegram arrived. Could that be arranged he might be able, if the worst came to the worst, to set up an alibi successfully, and the Fairbridge murder would be numbered among the unsolved mysteries of crime. As for Lavender, something would depend upon the severity of the storm in London. Provided she held her tongue as to her movements, suspicion was most unlikely to fall upon her, at any rate for some time, and the danger of her being sought for as Lady Holt was remote; and, if she were, she would certainly not be a consenting party to the identification, because of the consequent inevitable exposure of her bigamous marriage and the rupture with Sir Ross Buchanan which that exposure would entail.