to fall silent.
‘My Lords, Ladies, and Gentleman,’ he began, his deep baritone voice instantly commanding attention. ‘I give you a toast. To Mr Phoebus Daunt, whom I am proud to call my son, as well as my heir, and to his future wife, Miss Emily Carteret.’
Glasses were charged and raised, and the happy couple were toasted, to resounding clapping and cheers. Then, from a gallery at the far end of the room, a small military band struck up with ‘See, the Conquering Hero Comes’.† After the last notes had died away, the heir himself responded with fulsome deference, loquaciously thanking his Lordship for his graciousness and generosity, and then – of all things – quoting at length, without a scintilla of shame, from one of his own poems in praise of great men. He was succeeded by Lord Cotterstock, who struggled to his feet with the help of his son to thank Lord Tansor, on behalf of himself and the other distinguished guests, for his overwhelming hospitality, and to congratulate his Lordship on his plenipotentiary appointment, ‘a position,’ he noted, looking sternly around him, as if to defy anyone to contradict him, ‘that has not often been filled with such conspicuous distinction’.
All this time, Miss Carteret sat with a quiet little smile on her face, turning now towards her noble relative, now towards her lover: a smile, not of crowing triumph at her lot, but more of wistful content, as though she had emerged from some great trouble into a haven of settled security. I had watched her all evening, drinking in every movement, every gesture; marvelling at her gaiety and assurance, and at her aching beauty. Never so beautiful as tonight! So lost was I in observing her that, for a moment, I did not notice that Daunt had risen from his place, and was saying something to Lord Tansor. Then he moved away, nodding greetings to several of the guests, shaking hands as he passed, and stopping occasionally to receive the congratulations of some well-wisher. He approached the door where I was standing, and I inclined my head dutifully as he passed.
‘Are you quite well, sir?’ I heard Cranshaw asking him. ‘You look rather pale.’
‘One of my headaches, I fear. I’m off to take a little air before the ladies leave.’
‘Very good, sir.’
With a thrill of anticipation, I seized my chance. As soon as Cranshaw had re-entered the dining-room, I slipped away, just in time to see Daunt’s figure disappearing through a door at the back of the vestibule. Heart beating, I descended the stairs, and found my way as quickly as I could to the room in which my suit was hanging. Servants were coming and going, and there was a great babble and noise. No one paid any attention to me. In a flash, I retrieved the knife, and made my way to a glazed door at the end of the passage, through which I could see a flight of steps leading up the side of a lighted conservatory. Gently, I opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air. Would he come out? Was this the moment?
It had stopped snowing, though a few fluffy flakes continued to flutter down from an impenetrably dark sky. I heard a door open just above me, and smelled cigar smoke on the air. He was here.
A dark figure descended the steps from the conservatory. At the bottom he stopped and looked up; then he slowly crossed the border of light thrown out by the lamps at the top of the steps, and passed into the snowy darkness beyond. I waited until he was six or seven feet from the steps before I left the shadowed recess from where I had been observing him.
I was amazed to find that I was still completely calm, as if I were contemplating some scene of surpassing, soul-easing beauty. All fear of danger, all apprehension of discovery, all confusion of purpose, all doubt, had fallen away. I saw nothing before me but this single figure of flesh, blood, and bone. The world was suddenly silent, as if Great Leviathan himself were holding his breath.
Daunt’s footsteps were marked out in the pristine snow. One-two-three-four-five-six … I counted them as I carefully placed my own feet in each one. And then I called out to him.
‘Sir! Mr Daunt, sir!’
He turned.
‘What do you want?’
‘A message from Lord Tansor, sir.’
He walked back towards me – ten paces.
‘Well?’
We were almost face to face – and still he did not know me! There was not the faintest glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Just a moment longer, dear Phoebus. Then you will know me.
My right hand slipped inside my jacket, and round the bone handle of the freshly sharpened knife that had last been used to carve beef at the Wellington. The smoke of his cigar curled upwards to the cold sky, the end glowing as he inhaled.
‘Don’t just stand there, you stupid fellow. Give me your message.’
‘My message? Why, here it is.’
It was done in a moment. The long pointed knife easily penetrated his evening suit, but I was not sure the wound was fatal. So I instantly withdrew the bloodied blade and then, as he staggered forward slightly, I readied myself for a second thrust, this time at his uncovered throat. He looked up at me, blinking rapidly. The cigar fell from his lips and lay smouldering on the ground.
Still upright, though swaying a little from side to side, he blinked at me again, this time in disbelief, and opened his mouth, as if to speak; but nothing came out. I took a step towards him; as I did so, his mouth opened again. This time, with a kind of breathless gurgle, he managed three words:
‘Ernest Geddington, footman, at your service, sir.’
Coughing slightly, he was now leaning his head against my shoulder. I found it rather a touching gesture. We stood there for a moment, like lovers embracing. For the first time, I noticed that his thick black hair was brushed to conceal a little bald patch around the crown of his head.
Cradling my enemy in one arm, I raised the knife and struck the second blow.
