Читать книгу Death's Mannikins - Max Afford - Страница 12

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Here was the remainder of the Rochester household, breakfasting and chatting and generally filling in the time before the beginning of chapel prayers—which, out of regard for their host's feelings, they were forced to attend. As the two men entered, a lull occurred in the conversation, and Jeffery felt every eye in the room turn towards him.

"Miss Camilla Ward," Rollo was saying.

At first glance Miss Ward appeared very fragile and infinitely lovely. With smooth black hair folded across a forehead, against a skin of pale ivory, with large violet eyes and scarlet mouth, she was like some exquisite statuette carved from purest alabaster. When she smiled slowly and greeted Blackburn in her throaty voice, the young man thought that here was surely one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Only when she dropped her eyes and her face slipped back into repose did he detect an underlying expression that almost shocked him—a hard, bitter expression of hungriness that formed in the set of her lips and the narrowings of those dark-fringed eyes. In that moment the remark made by Morgan as they entered the room came bark to him, and he wondered anew...

"And Dr. Brian Austin."

So this was Camilla Ward's future husband—a stocky young man with butter-yellow hair and a fair moustache set above white teeth that flashed in a smile of welcome. Not at all a good match, Jeffery decided. The marriage of this good-natured, pleasant-faced young man to the exotic Miss Ward was rather like the mating of an Irish terrier and a Borzoi. Yet it might be the best thing that could happen for both parties.

"And Mr. Phillip Barrett."

Jeffery found himself shaking hands with a broad-shouldered, bespectacled man in his early forties. On his rugged, almost aggressive face, the spectacles sat oddly, like a bow of pink ribbon on a young bull. He grasped the young man's hand in a powerful grip, then made room for the newcomers at the table. Jeffery took his seat and was soon drawn into the current of conversation that flowed backwards and forwards.

The clanging of a bell broke into the silence of the room. At the sound, Morgan, Barrett, and Austin rose to their feet. Camilla Ward crossed and crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray. Her face bore a resigned expression.

"Well," she remarked, "here we go—sinners all."

The chapel stood some two hundred yards away to the side of the house. It was reached by a tarred path sadly in need of repair. Only careful walking prevented tripping in the cracks and pot-holes. The party moved off, splitting into separate groups. Miss Ward, with Jan and Brian Austin, led the way, followed by Jeffery, Morgan, Barrett, and Owen Rochester. The Professor and Pimlott brought up the rear. Cornelius watched his little band with almost jealous eyes, paying small attention to the man at his side who was talking earnestly as they walked.

A brisk wind was clearing the sky and the sun shone through the rain-washed air. Fresh under the sunshine, the garden of lush leafage gave off a strong earthy scent. At one side of the chapel, rubbing hands chafed with the bell-rope, Prater awaited them. The first group was almost to the chapel entrance when Blackburn, who had been looking about the grounds, heard Camilla's voice. "We surely can't be expected to walk across that!" was her indignant comment, and he looked up to find that the trio had halted and were staring down at the path. A few moments later he had reached their side and was examining the cause.

Near the chapel entrance the pathway had broken away completely, leaving some ten feet of rough track. Across this the rain of the previous night had carried a bed of soft mud, a patch of soggy clay some six inches deep. The sticky space looked particularly uninviting, and Miss Ward, with a glance at her dainty shoes, repeated in disgust:

"Chapel or no chapel, I for one am certainly not wading across this morass!"

Barrett, who had approached with Jeffery and Owen, looked at the mud-patch, then darted a quick glance at the girl. Again Blackburn noticed that faint hostility in his tone as he spoke. "Apparently somebody in the house isn't quite as fastidious as you, Miss Ward." He pointed downwards. Across the muddy stretch were two sets of footprints. Although the storm had disfigured the prints, they were obviously those of a fairly large foot. Then Cornelius reached the spot, and voices were raised in explanation.

Professor Rochester was in no way alarmed. He called for Prater to bring a roll of matting from the tool-shed. When the butler-returned this was laid over the mud-patch and the party moved dry-shod towards the chapel entrance. At the entrance Camilla drew back to murmur to Austin: "Remarkable how ingenious our host can be when it affects him personally."

Now the party stood clustered before the locked door, while Cornelius gestured to Prater. The servant moved forward. Taking a small key from his pocket, he fitted it into the lock. The key turned, the doors were pushed back, and immediately a rush of hot air swept out into the faces of the party. The Professor gave an outraged gasp, and pushing the butler out of the way shrilled in indignant excitement:

"The heat is on! Somebody has turned on the heat! Scandalous waste!"

There was no reply. Eyes sought faces, surprised, then amused. Cornelius gave a snort of anger and strode into the chapel. Scarcely had he taken a dozen steps when those waiting outside heard him give a choking cry, a queer, strangled ejaculation that held fear and astonishment and something not so easily named.. They heard the thud as his prayer-book dropped from his hand to the floor. Then, with a scrambling rush, they were inside the chapel, by his side, staring with wide, frozen eyes at the sight before them.

At the far end of the chapel where the candles burnt like splashes of pale gold against the gloom, Roger Rochester lay, his body sprawled grotesquely across the aisle, for all the world like some loose-jointed doll flung down carelessly. But it was not Roger's attitude, astonishing though it was, that held the party's horrified gaze.

All eyes were focused on a wide crimson pool that had formed beneath his body, a wet stain that filtered from the hilt of a knife thrust into his heart.