"You heard the shots?" he said.
"At Spite House?" I whispered.
He nodded.
"You were there?" I asked.
"Half a mile beyond. When I got there it was all dark. Looked in through the end window, but the rain got down my neck, so I went round. The front door was standing open. I listened a while. No need to get shot myself. Thought the place was derelict. Then I heard groans.
"Struck a bunch of matches then, found the hall lamp, and got it alight. Wished I'd got a gun, but there wasn't nothing handy except the poker, so I took that and the light—just followed the groans. He was lying on the barroom floor."
"Brooke?"
"Yes. Shot through the throat, blood spurting down the side of his neck, making a big pool on the oil-cloth. You know the thing you make with a stick and a scarf to twist up? A tourniquet, yes. Well, it choked the swine, so I quit. He whispered something about my thumb hurting the wound, so I told him my father's neck hurt worse.
"Up to that I thought he was just acting, playing pathetic to touch my feelings. Once he muttered your name, and then he was dead."
"Brooke dead!"