III
The doorbell rang about a quarter to eight.
Tressilian went to answer it. he returned to his pantry to find Horbury there, picking up the
coffee cups off the tray and looking at the mark on them.
Who was it?” said Horbury.
Superintendent of Police—Mr. Sugden—mind what you’re doing
Horbury had dropped one of the cups with a crash.
Look at that now,” lamented Tressilian. “Eleven years I’ve had the washing up of those and
never one broken, and now you come along touching things you’ve no business to touch, and look
what happens
I’m sorry, Mr. Tressilian. I am indeed,” the other apologized. His face was covered with
perspiration. “I don’t know how it happened. Did you say a Superintendent of Police had called
Yes—Mr. Sugden.
The valet passed a tongue over pale lips.
What—what did he want
Collecting for the Police Orphanage.
Oh!” The valet straightened his shoulders. In a more natural voice he said
Did he get anything
I took up the book to old Mr. Lee, and he told me to fetch the superintendent up and to put
the sherry on the table.
Nothing but begging, this time of year,” said Horbury. “The old devil’s generous, I will say
that for him, in spite of his other failings.
Tressilian said with dignity
Mr. Lee has always been an open-handed gentleman.
Horbury nodded.
It’s the best thing about him! Well, I’ll be off now.
Going to the pictures
I expect so. Ta-ta, Mr. Tressilian.
He went through the door that led to the servants’ hall.
Tressilian looked up at the clock hanging on the wall.
He went into the dining room and laid the rolls in the napkins.
Then, after assuring himself that everything was as it should be, he sounded the gong in the
hall.
As the last note died away the police superintendent came down the stairs. Superintendent
Sugden was a large handsome man. He wore a tightly buttoned blue suit and moved with a sense
of his own importance.
He said affably: “I rather think we shall have a frost tonight. Good thing: the weather’s been
very unseasonable lately.
Tressilian said, shaking his head
The damp affects my rheumatism.
The superintendent said that the rheumatism was a painful complaint, and Tressilian let him
out by the front door.
The old butler refastened the door and came back slowly into the hall. He passed his hand
over his eyes and sighed. Then he straightened his back as he saw Lydia pass into the drawing
room. George Lee was just coming down the stairs.
Tressilian hovered ready. When the last guest, Magdalene, had entered the drawing room, he
made his own appearance, murmuring
Dinner is served.
In his way Tressilian was a connoisseur of ladies’ dress. He always noted and criticized the
gowns of the ladies as he circled round the table, decanter in hand.
Mrs. Alfred, he noted, had got on her new flowered black and white taffeta. A bold design
very striking, but she could carry it off, though many ladies couldn’t. The dress Mrs. George had
on was a model, he was pretty sure of that. Must have cost a pretty penny. He wondered how Mr.
George would like paying for it! Mr. George didn’t like spending money—he never had. Mrs.
David now: a nice lady, but didn’t have any idea of how to dress. For her figure, plain black velvet
would have been the best. Figured velvet, and crimson at that, was a bad choice. Miss Pilar, now
it didn’t matter what she wore, with her figure and her hair she looked well in anything. A flimsy
cheap little white gown it was, though. Still, Mr. Lee would soon see to that! Taken to her
wonderful, he had. Always was the same way when a gentleman was elderly. A young face could
do anything with him
Hock or claret?” murmured Tressilian in a deferential whisper in Mrs. George’s ear. Out of
the tail of his eye he noted that Walter, the footman, was handing the vegetables before the gravy
again—after all he had been told
Tressilian went round with the soufflé. It struck him, now that his interest in the ladies
toilettes and his misgivings over Walter’s deficiencies were a thing of the past, that everyone was
very silent tonight. At least, not exactly silent: Mr. Harry was talking enough for twenty—no, not
Mr. Harry, the South African gentleman. And the others were talking too, but only, as it were, in
spasms. There was something a little—queer about them.
Mr. Alfred, for instance, he looked downright ill. As though he had had a shock or
something. Quite dazed he looked and just turning over the food on his plate without eating it. The
mistress, she was worried about him. Tressilian could see that. Kept looking down the table
towards him—not noticeably, of course, just quietly. Mr. George was very red in the face
gobbling his food, he was, without tasting it. He’d get a stroke one day if he wasn’t careful. Mrs.
George wasn’t eating. Slimming, as likely as not. Miss Pilar seemed to be enjoying her food all
right and talking and laughing up at the South African gentleman. Properly taken with her, he was.
Didn’t seem to be anything on their minds
Mr. David? Tressilian felt worried about Mr. David. Just like his mother, he was, to look at.
And remarkably young-looking still. But nervy; there, he’d knocked over his glass.
Tressilian whisked it away, mopped up the stream deftly. It was all over. Mr. David hardly
seemed to notice what he had done, just sat staring in front of him with a white face.
Thinking of white faces, funny the way Horbury had looked in the pantry just now when he’d
heard a police officer had come to the house . . . almost as though
Tressilian’s mind stopped with a jerk. Walter had dropped a pear off the dish he was handing.
Footmen were no good nowadays! They might be stable boys, the way they went on
He went round with the port. Mr. Harry seemed a bit distrait tonight. Kept looking at Mr.
Alfred. Never had been any love lost between those two, not even as boys. Mr. Harry, of course
had always been his father’s favourite, and that had rankled with Mr. Alfred. Mr. Lee had never
cared for Mr. Alfred much. A pity, when Mr. Alfred always seemed so devoted to his father.
There, Mrs. Alfred was getting up now. She swept round the table. Very nice that design on
the taffeta; that cape suited her. A very graceful lady.
He went out to the pantry, closing the dining room door on the gentlemen with their port.
He took the coffee tray into the drawing room. The four ladies were sitting there rather
uncomfortably, he thought. They were not talking. He handed round the coffee in silence.
He went out again. As he went into his pantry he heard the dining room door open. David
Lee came out and went along the hall to the drawing room.
Tressilian went back into his pantry. He read the riot act to Walter. Walter was nearly, if not
quite, impertinent
Tressilian, alone in his pantry, sat down rather wearily.
He had a feeling of depression. Christmas Eve, and all this strain and tension . . . He didn’t
like it
With an effort he roused himself. He went to the drawing room and collected the coffee cups.
The room was empty except for Lydia, who was standing half concealed by the window curtain at
the far end of the room. She was standing there looking out into the night.
From next door the piano sounded.
Mr. David was playing. But why, Tressilian asked himself, did Mr. David play the “Dead
March?” For that’s what it was. Oh, indeed things were very wrong.
He went slowly along the hall and back into his pantry.
It was then he first heard the noise from overhead: a crashing of china, the overthrowing of
furniture, a series of cracks and bumps.
Good gracious!” thought Tressilian. “Whatever is the master doing? What’s happening up
there
And then, clear and high, came a scream—a horrible high wailing scream that died away in a
choke or gurgle.
Tressilian stood there a moment paralysed, then he ran out into the hall and up the broad
staircase. Others were with him. That scream had been heard all over the house.
They raced up the stairs and round the bend, past a recess with statues gleaming white and
eerie, and along the straight passage to Simeon Lee’s door. Mr. Farr was there already and Mrs.
David. She was leaning back against the wall and he was twisting at the door handle.
The door’s locked,” he was saying. “The door’s locked
Harry Lee pushed past and wrested it from him. He, too, turned and twisted at the handle.
Father,” he shouted. “Father, let us in.
He held up his hand and in the silence they all listened. There was no answer. No sound from
inside the room.
The front door bell rang, but no one paid any attention to it.
Stephen Farr said
We’ve got to break the door down. It’s the only way.
Harry said: “That’s going to be a tough job. These doors are good solid stuff. Come on
Alfred.
They heaved and strained. Finally they went and got an oak bench and used it as a battering
ram. The door gave at last. Its hinges splintered and the door sank shuddering from its frame.
For a minute they stood there huddled together looking in. What they saw was a sight that no
one of them ever forgot. . . .
There had clearly been a terrific struggle. Heavy furniture was overturned. China vases lay
splintered on the floor. In the middle of the hearthrug in front of the blazing fire lay Simeon Lee in
a great pool of blood . . . Blood was splashed all round. The place was like a shambles.
There was a long shuddering sigh, and then two voices spoke in turn. Strangely enough, the
words they uttered were both quotations.
David Lee said
The mills of God grind slowly. . . .
Lydia’s voice came like a fluttering whisper
Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? . . .
