When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train
home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at
night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in
very grave tones inquired for Margaret.
"I don't know where she is, pater" said Charles. Dolly kept back
dinner nearly an hour for her."
"Tell me when she comes in."
Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles
visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs.
Wilcox had still not returned.
"I'll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be
coming. Isn't she stopping with her sister at the hotel?"
"Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--"perhaps."
"Can I do anything for you, sir?"
"Not to-night, my boy."
Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave
his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured.
He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his
wife had proved unstable his children were left to him.
After midnight he tapped on Charles's door. "I can't sleep," he
said. "I had better have a talk with you and get it over."
He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden,
and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles
became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along
that Margaret was as bad as her sister.
"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who
had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let
this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain
that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--
and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to
live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won't have
it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is
connected with something far greater, the rights of property
itself."
"Undoubtedly," said Charles.
Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son's, but somehow liked him
less as he told him more. "I don't want you to conclude that my
wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only
overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for
Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house
at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non."
"Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?"
"Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative,
and, of course, use no violence, Charles."
On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the
gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death
was due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and
even Miss Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of
the sword. On his way through the village he informed the police,
who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his
father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun.
"It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were
there, and they had the man up there with them too."
"What--what man?"
"I told you last night. His name was Bast."
"My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother's
house! Charles, in your mother's house!"
"I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there
is no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of
heart disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of
him he went off. The police are seeing about it at this moment."
Mr. Wilcox listened attentively.
"I got up there--oh, it couldn't have been more than half-past
seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were
still upstairs. I waited in the drawing-room. We were all
moderately civil and collected, though I had my suspicions. I
gave them your message, and Mrs. Wilcox said, 'Oh yes, I see;
yes,' in that way of hers."
"Nothing else?"
"I promised to tell you, 'with her love,' that she was going to
Germany with her sister this evening. That was all we had time
for."
Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved.
"Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hiding, for
suddenly Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his name. I recognised it,
and I went for him in the hall. Was I right, pater? I thought
things were going a little too far."
"Right, my dear boy? I don't know. But you would have been no son
of mine if you hadn't. Then did he just--just--crumple up as you
said?" He shrunk from the simple word.
"He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down over him. So I
merely put the sword down and carried him into the garden. We all
thought he was shamming. However, he's dead right enough. Awful
business!"
"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," aid 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 in to 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.
"What for?" cried Dolly, who had still not been "told."
"Very well, sir. Which car will you have?"
"I think I'll walk."
"It's a good half-mile," said Charles, stepping into the
garden. "The sun's very hot for April. Shan't I take you up, and
then, perhaps, a little spin round by Tewin?"
"You go on as if I didn't know my own mind " said Mr. Wilcox
fretfully. Charles hardened his mouth. "You young fellows' one
idea is to get into a motor. I tell you, I want to walk; I'm
very fond of walking."
"Oh, all right; I'm about the house if you want me for anything.
I thought of not going up to the office to-day, if that is your
wish."
"It is, indeed, my boy," said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a hand on his
sleeve.
Charles did not like it; he was uneasy about his father, who did
not seem himself this morning. There was a petulant touch about
him--more like a woman. Could it be that he was growing old? The
Wilcoxes were not lacking in affection; they had it royally, but
they did not know how to use it. It was the talent in the napkin,
and, for a warm-hearted man, Charles had conveyed very little
joy. As he watched his father shuffling up the road, he had a
vague regret--a wish that something had been different somewhere--
a wish (though he did not express it thus) that he had been
taught to say "I" in his youth. He meant to make up for Margaret's
defection, but knew that his father had been very happy with her
until yesterday. How had she done it? By some dishonest trick,
no doubt--but how?
Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired. There was to
be an inquest on Leonard's body to-morrow, and the police
required his son to attend.
"I expected that," said Charles. "I shall naturally be the most
important witness there."
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