Then on an impulse he crossed quickly to the cupboard that flanked the massive stone fireplace, and tried the door.
It was locked.
Without passion he stood back and kicked in the panel.
The wood splintered and he kicked again, smashing the door from its hinges.
The oblong leather case was on the top shelf, and he took it down and carried it to the desk. He sprang the catches and laid back the lid.
He lifted out the blue metalled double barrels of the Purdy Royal, and the gun oil was greasy on his hands.
“Jacobus Isaac van der Byu He read aloud the name in gold inlay set into the steel among the engraved pheasants and gundogs.
He smiled then.
“The old devil.” He shook his head smiling as though at some private joke, and began slowly to assemble the shotgun. He weighed it in his hands, feeling the sweet pure balance of the weapon.
“The old bastard made his own decisions.” And still smiling he carried the gun across to the new carpet. He placed it butt down between his feet with the barrels pointed at the ceiling and leaning slowly forward he opened his mouth and placed the muzzles between his lips, then reaching farther down he placed a thumb on each trigger and pushed them simultaneously.
Click! Click!
The firing pins fell on the empty chambers, and Benedict straightened up and wiped the taste of gun oil from his lips.
He grinned again.
“That’s the way he did it. Both barrels in the back of the throat. What a cure for tonsilitis!” he chuckled, and glanced across at the shattered cupboard door. The square packets of cartridges were on the second shelf.
He tucked the gun under his arm and went to the cupboard again, moving more purposefully now. He snatched down a packet of SSG and broke it open. Suddenly his hands were shaking and the fat red cartridges spilled on to the floor. He stooped and picked up two of them.
With mounting excitement and dread he broke open the shotgun and slipped the cartridges into the blank eyes of the breeches. They slid home against the seating with a solid double thunk, and he hurried back to the spot in front of the window.
His eyes were bright and his breathing quick as he pushed the safety catch on to “Fire” and placed the butt between his feet once more.
He took the muzzles in his mouth again, in an obscene Soul kiss and reached down for the triggers. They were cold and oily. He caressed them lightly, feeling the fine grooving in the curves Of metal, thrilling to the touch and feel of them as he had never thrilled to the feel of a woman’s body.
Then abruptly he stood up again. He was gasping for breath.
Unsteadily he carried the weapon back to the desk and laid it on the dark polished wood.
As he poured brandy into the crystal glass his eyes were fastened with perverse fascination on the beautiful glistening weapon.
The steam had fogged the mirrored walls of the bathroom, so her image was dewed and misty. Ruby Lance dried herself slowly with one of the thick fluffy towels. She was in no hurry; she wanted Tracey to have a start of at least four hours on her journey to Cartridge Bay.
With a deep narcissistic pleasure she noticed in the mirrors how her whole body glowed with soft pink highlights from the hot waters of the bath.
Wrapping herself in the towel she went through into the dressing-room and picking up one of the silver- backed brushes began stroking it through her hair, moving across to the open wardrobe to select a dress for the occasion. It must be something special, perhaps the unworn full-length Louis Feraud of daffodil satin.
Still undecided she went back to seat herself at the dressing-table and began the complicated ritual of applying her make-up. She worked with meticulous care until at last she smiled at her reflection with satisfaction.
She dropped the towel, went back to the wardrobe, and stood slim and naked before it. Pouting slightly with concentration she decided against the Feraud. Then suddenly she smiled, and reached for
Benedict’s mink.
She wrapped herself in the pale cloud of fur, fluffing up the collar to frame her face. It was perfect. just the fur and a pair of golden slippers, pale gold, a perfect match for her hair.
Now suddenly she was eager to go. She ran from the house to where her car was parked in the driveway.
She switched off the headlights as she turned into the driveway that curved up to where the old house crouched on the top of Wynberg
Hill. The whisper of the engine was unobtrusive and blended with the whimper of the night breeze in the chestnut trees that flanked the driveway.
She parked in the courtyard, and saw that Benedict’s Rolls was still in the garage and a light burned in the window of the study, a yellow oblong behind the curtains.
The front door was open. Her skippered feet made no sound along the gloomy passages, and when she tried the door to the study it swung open readily. She stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her. She stood with her back to the dark panelled wood. A single shaded lamp lit the room dimly.
Benedict sat behind the desk. The room was heavy with the smell of cigar smoke and brandy fumes. He had been drinking. His face was flushed, and the top button of his shirt was undone. On the desk in front of him lay a shotgun.
Ruby was surprised at the presence of the weapon, it disconcerted her and the words she had prepared were forgotten.
Benedict looked up at her. His eyes were slightly unfocused and he blinked slowly. Then he grinned; it twisted his mouth and his voice when he spoke was slurred.
“So you’ve come back.” Instantly her hatred returned in full flood. But she kept her face impassive. “Yes,” she agreed. “I’ve come back.”
“Come here.” He swivelled his chair to the side of the desk. Ruby did not move, she leaned back against the door.
“Come here.” Benedict’s voice was stronger now, and suddenly Ruby smiled and obeyed.
She stood in front of him, huddled in the fur.
“Kneel down,” commanded Benedict, and she hesitated.
“Down!” his voice crackled. “Down, damn you!” Ruby sank to her knees in front of him, and he straightened up in the chair. She knelt in front of him in the attitude of submission, with her head forward so the golden hair hung like a curtain over her face.
“Say it,” he gloated. “Ask me to forgive you.” Slowly she lifted her face and looked up at him. She spoke softly.
“Tracey left for Cartridge Bay at five-thirty this evening, Benedict’s expression changed.
“She has a start of four hours - she is half-way there already.”
He stared at her with his lips parting, soft and red and slack.
“She is going to Johnny,” Ruby went on. “She knows about the thing in Kingfisher. She knows about the big blue diamond.” He began to shake his head in disbelief.
“By dawn tomorrow Johnny will know also. So you see, my darling, you have lost again - haven’t you? You can never beat him, can you, Benedict? Can you, my darling?” Her voice was rising, ringing with triumph.
“You?“he croaked. “You?” And she laughed, nodding her head in agreement, unable to speak through her laughter.
Benedict lunged clumsily out of the chair, his hands going for her throat. She went over backwards with him on top of her. Her laughter died gurgling in her throat.
They rolled together on the floor. Benedict’s hands locked on her neck, his voice rising in a scream of fury and despair. Her long legs kicking and thrashing, clawing at his face and hands, she fought him with the strength of a cornered animal.
