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.