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  She had formerly been married to an army officer named Devereaux. He had died of drink and penury four years previously. A year later, Neville Butcher took her for his second wife. She had no children by either husband.

  “I’m sorry those people were so rude to you,” she said to Fenton in a low voice as they mounted the broad stairway side by side.

  Fenton was afraid to look at her, even though he knew that she was looking at him and he could hear her excited breathing. Whenever he found himself alone with her, his passion made him inarticulate and conscience-stricken.

  “I dare say they mean well,” he said after a long pause.

  “Even so,” Barbara said, lowering her voice still further and slackening her pace. “I find it insufferable that people should be so stupid. The people here bore me terribly.”

  She put her hand on the banister, halted and turned towards him. He kept his eyes averted for a few moments, but his agitation increased until it became almost unbearable. Even without looking at her, he could feel the power of her eyes.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, in a voice whose passionate tenderness made him tremble, “whether you hate this sort of life as much as I do?”

  Then he finally raised his eyes and looked at her. It was obvious to him that she was under the influence of some violent passion. He could not say whether it was anger or something more tender. In either case, it sent the blood coursing madly through his veins. He wanted terribly to throw his arms around her and confess his love.

  Yet he merely said in a casual tone:

  “It is rather boring, I admit.”

  Barbara’s face became contemptuous. She drew in a deep breath, raising her magnificent bosom. At the same time, she drew the fingertips of her left hand across the heart of the palm, making a rasping sound. Then she suddenly expelled her breath, shrugged her shoulders, raised her skirts and marched up the stairs rapidly.

  Fenton bit his upper lip and stood for several moments looking after her, feeling terribly ashamed of his cowardice. Then he suddenly rushed forward, determined to speak to her. Yet when he drew alongside and she glanced at him with that contemptuous look in her eyes, he again lost heart. He slackened his pace and allowed her to precede him by several yards as they marched down the corridor towards Neville’s room.

  “Mr. Fenton is here to see you, Neville,” she said brusquely as she threw open the door.

  She was striding back along the corridor once more when Fenton passed her. Looking straight in front of her, she did not deign to glance at him.

  Fenton shuddered miserably as he saw the look of contempt in her golden eyes.

  Chapter IV

  Butcher was resting on a large canopied bed, with his bandaged torso propped against a number of pillows. He seemed to have aged a great deal since calling on Raoul. His jaw sagged. His small grey eyes, however, looked cunning and alert.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Captain Butcher …” Fenton began on entering the room.

  “Cut out the formality,” Butcher interrupted in a cordial tone that did not sound very sincere. “I asked you to come here as a friend and a fellow-countryman, not as an officer of constabulary. I’m feeling low, Fenton. Pull up a chair. I’m feeling damned low.”

  Fenton closed the door and then went to fetch a chair.

  “Too bad, really,” he said. “Can be awfully painful, broken ribs. Once broke some of my own in a hunting accident.”

  When Fenton’s back was turned, Butcher’s expression changed from cordiality to dislike. The cordial expression returned as Fenton approached the bedside with a chair.

  “Couple of broken ribs wouldn’t keep me in bed,” he said. “It’s the fall, my dear fellow. I got badly shaken. See Geraghty? Anything new?”

  Fenton sat down, crossed his legs and said in a casual tone:

  “They found an empty row-boat drifting among the islands off the south side of the peninsula.”

  “Ha!” said Butcher. “I thought they would.”

  Fenton looked sharply at Butcher. His recent experience with Barbara had left him feeling angry and frustrated.

  “Why did you think they would find a row-boat?” he said.

  “Only way O’Dwyer could get back to his nobby after firing at me,” Butcher said.

  “Oh!” said Fenton, extremely irritated by Butcher’s casual manner. “Then you think that O’Dwyer …?”

  “Let me show you something before we go any further,” Butcher interrupted. “This may help to explain things.”

  He threw back the bedclothes and pulled up his night-shirt, exposing his right buttock, in which there was a deep hole.

  “See that hole?” he said.

  “Gunshot?” Fenton said.

  “Blunderbuss at close range,” Butcher said. “O’Dwyer’s father did it.”

  “John O’Dwyer?” said Fenton. “I heard of the affair.”

  “He shot my bailiff dead,” Butcher said, “together with wounding myself severely.”

  “Got hanged, didn’t he?” Fenton said.

  “Yes,” Butcher said. “When the son returned to Manister from America a year ago, I understood at once what he had in mind. I have been waiting for him to strike ever since.”

  “Geraghty is of your point of view,” Fenton said. “At the same time, it’s going to be difficult to obtain a conviction. The man has an excellent alibi.”

  “Exactly,” Butcher said. “I want to talk to you about that. This land war is a complicated business. I have two sons in the army, both on active service at this moment. Nigel is with Sir Frederick Roberts in Afghanistan. Fought at Peiwar Kotul and is still in the thick of things. Robert sailed for South Africa a few weeks ago to fight the Zulus. Going out to join Lord Chelmsford’s force. The Zulu is a tough enemy, when you consider what Cetewayo did to our fellows last January at Isandhlwana. I have no desire to minimize the importance of these two wars, on the frontiers of the Empire. Neither am I conceited enough to put myself on a level with my two sons, who are gallantly serving their Queen. Thank God that I’ve been able to give them advantages I didn’t enjoy. A good public school and the army. I’m just a plain Englishman, son of a Berkshire yeoman. My rank of captain is mere eye-wash. You know yourself that I’m just a captain of Irish militia. I’m a self-made man and I frankly admit it. Yet I feel that my work here in Ireland is more important to the Empire than what my sons are doing. I’m defending the feudal system and the landowning gentry, on whom the power of England is based. If that system and that class are destroyed, then England is doomed within the space of a few generations.”

  “Quite an interesting theory,” Fenton said irritably.

  “With me it’s not a theory,” Butcher said, “but an article of faith.”

  “Really?” said Fenton.

  “England is already beginning to rot at the core,” Butcher continued with heat. “Since the capitalists got into the saddle, Liberals and Radicals have become all-powerful in the Government. Because of them, Fenton, you and I are obliged to fight rebellion with one hand tied behind our backs. We can’t deal with the Irish in the way Roberts is dealing with the Afghans and Chelmsford with the Zulus. No, sir. If we show the least sign of undue severity, as the Liberals put it, there is a rumpus in Parliament. Why? Because the Irish peasant now has a vote. Furthermore, he is a customer for English manufactured goods. The capitalists coddle him and fight the Irish landlords, because they want all the peasant’s money in exchange for their goods. They are opposed to land rents, the payment of which curtails the peasant’s purchasing power. Do you follow me, Fenton?”

  “What has all this got to do with O’Dwyer?” Fenton said insolently.

  “It has this to do with it,” Butcher said. “In dealing with O’Dwyer we have to use cunning. Otherwise, the Liberals are going to pounce on us.”

  “I’m afraid that I disagree,” Fenton said. “The essence of English law, like the Roman, is impartial justice.”

  “Good Heavens!” Butcher cried in horror. �
�You are talking like a Liberal yourself.”

  “Nothing criminal about being a Liberal,” Fenton said in a low voice.

  “What?” Butcher shouted, purple in the face. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m not in the habit of being flippant,” Fenton said.

  Although he spoke quietly and seemed to be in complete control of himself, he was really getting terribly afraid of Butcher. He found it increasingly difficult to breathe. He tugged at the collar of his uniform, in an effort to give himself more air.

  Butcher glared in silence at his guest for a while. There was hatred in his little grey eyes. Then he suddenly assumed a cordial expression once more.

  “Let’s forget about the damn thing,” he said heartily. “Let me tell you about this hole in my buttock. As you may know, I bought this property from Marcus St. George in 1852. In the previous year I had married and become agent for Lord Mongoole’s Clash estate. There was complete chaos at the time, after the great famine. Peasants were still dying in droves. Others were emigrating. Properties were being auctioned. Having a little money on hand—I had married well—I bought Manister. Unlike other Englishmen that were buying Irish land at the time, I had no ambition to become a foxhunting loafer. As I said before, I come of yeoman stock. I love land. Just to possess it is a passion with me. In addition, I’m no fool in business matters. I could see how things were going. With industry developing in England at a colossal pace, a man didn’t have to be a wizard in order to see that rural Ireland would become England’s cattle market. So I decided to clear Manister of peasants and raise cattle. Most of the new English landowners were doing the same thing. I ran into opposition at once. It was really astonishing. The number of Irish people had been reduced by three millions in a few years, through hunger and fever, yet they continued to resist. They fought us tooth and nail. How do you explain it, Fenton? Is it courage or sheer obstinacy?”

  Fenton shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. He was bored with the recital.

  “John O’Dwyer was leader of the tenants on my estate,” Butcher continued. “Curiously enough, he was not a peasant. The O’Dwyers were shipbuilders in Clash for centuries, a wealthy family at one time. The famine ruined them, as it did nearly everybody else. He was just a natural leader, I suppose, so he took command, finding a number of fellows eager to fight and in search of a leader. It was a pity that he had a kink in him, turning him into a rebel. He would have made a fine soldier. He was the type, fearless and coolheaded. He put up a good fight against me. Then I got a confederate among his followers and that was the end of O’Dwyer.”

  He smiled broadly and cracked the thumb of his left hand against the third finger.

  “But he nearly got you, judging by that hole,” said Fenton viciously.

  Butcher chuckled as he rubbed his large hands together.

  “I had to take that chance,” he said.

  “How do you mean?” said Fenton.

  “I laid a trap for him,” Butcher said.

  “Really?” said Fenton with mounting indignation. “You mean to say that you arranged the ambush?”

  “I even bought the blunderbuss,” Butcher said.

  He again smiled and rubbed his hands together.

  “I see,” said Fenton. “You mean to lay another trap. Is that it?”

  “Exactly,” said Butcher. “Otherwise, it would be impossible to hang O’Dwyer. There is not enough evidence to place before a jury for a conviction. You know very well that it’s no longer possible to pack a jury. The Liberals have stopped all that.”

  “I take it that you sent for me,” Fenton continued slowly, “because you want my co-operation.”

  “I’ve always had an understanding with the Constabulary officers in my district,” Butcher said.

  “What if I am an exception to this rule?” Fenton said.

  “I can be a very hard man when crossed,” Butcher said. “I have very considerable influence in the county.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Fenton said.

  “Threatening you?” said Butcher. “What an idea! Come now. I’m asking you to do nothing extraordinary.”

  “Then why don’t you say what you want?” said Fenton. “Why do you beat about the bush?”

  Butcher stretched out his legs to their full length under the bedclothes and sighed.

  “For twelve long months,” he said bitterly, “I’ve been going about in a steel waistcoat, accompanied by a bloodhound and body-servants, waiting for that ruffian to shoot. I’ve felt humiliated day and night, every moment of that time. I’m determined to make him suffer for every moment of my humiliation. Every moment. Do you understand? I’m going to take no chance of his escaping me. I am determined to see him die, swinging from the end of a rope. You understand?”

  Becoming more and more frightened, Fenton struggled hard against submitting. He knew instinctively that Butcher’s proposal, whatever it was, would degrade him.

  “I have never done anything irregular during my time in the service,” he said harshly.

  Butcher finally lost his temper completely with his victim. He looked Fenton straight in the eyes with the fixity of a pointer dog.

  “I’m afraid that you don’t understand me yet, Fenton,” he said in a menacing tone.

  Fenton shuddered. Now he was more than frightened. He was mortally terrified. At this instant he understood everything. He knew why the landowner had been so kind to him ever since his arrival in the district six months previously. He understood why so many opportunities for being along with Barbara had been put his way. He knew that he had been deliberately led into a trap. Flight now seemed to him the most desirable thing in the world. He had to keep his feet pressed hard against the floor, in order to conceal the trembling of his knees.

  Butcher was now looking at the far wall. He seemed to have sunk into a reverie. There was dead silence in the room. The silence was like a weight pressing against Fenton’s chest. It became unendurable. He gasped, swallowed his breath and sat forward abruptly in his chair, staring at Butcher intently.

  “What do you want me to do?” he cried in a shrill tone.

  Now it was apparent that Butcher had not been sunk in a reverie. He turned sharply towards Fenton with a smile of triumph on his face.

  “Good,” he said. “I knew we’d finally see eye to eye. I want you to do nothing at all until I give the signal. Call off your men, stop the investigation and give the impression that the police have dropped the whole thing. That will keep him in a state of doubt and suspicion. It may be a month from now, or two months, or three, before he is ready to strike again. These terrorists nerve themselves to a certain action. Afterwards they feel exhausted. It takes time before they gather strength for another blow. It’s a sort of delirium.”

  “Now I understand perfectly,” Fenton said in a peculiarly harsh tone. “You want him to commit a murder.”

  “Call it what you like,” Butcher said. “When the time is ripe, I want certain documents that are in your office at Clash and …”

  Fenton jumped to his feet. His lips felt terribly dry.

  “You want me to become your accomplice in arranging this murder?” he cried.

  “Sit down,” Butcher said brutally.

  “This is frightful,” Fenton said, suddenly lowering his voice to an almost inaudible whisper.

  “Sit down,” Butcher repeated.

  Fenton made a supreme effort to bolt from the room. He failed utterly. He sat down slowly, took out his handkerchief, folded a corner of it around the forefinger of his left hand and wiped the exterior of his lips.

  Chapter V

  Lettice sat by the window of her aunt’s bedroom, listening to the patter of raindrops on the terrace roof and watching a rainbow that stood over the sea beyond the lighthouse tower. In spite of the rain, the sun shone brightly and larks were singing in the sky. April had come, with its strange harmony of tears and laughter, like a woman distraught with love.

  “I do wish you could see this bea
utiful rainbow, Aunt Elizabeth,” she said as she leaned far out over the sill of the open window to get a better view.

  Her thin face was flushed with happiness. Her eyes sparkled.

  “I can hear the larks singing,” Elizabeth said softly. “Oh! Lovely, gentle April! Everything is beautiful in April. It’s the month that pleases me most.”

  “It would make you completely well to see this rainbow,” Lettice said. “Such beauty must surely have healing powers.”

  “I’m sorry to be a nuisance,” Elizabeth said, “lying here in bed when there is so much work to be done.”

  She had kept to her bed for a whole month, ever since the day of the shooting. She was not really ill. At the moment, however, the late afternoon made her look very pale and emaciated in her night bonnet.

  “But you’re not in the least a nuisance,” Lettice said indignantly as she turned her head. “How could you possibly say such a thing?”

  “To-morrow, please God,” said Elizabeth, “I’m going to be on my feet again.”

  “I love looking after the house,” Lettice said. “It makes me feel important. I’d be ever so happy were it not for your being ill.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve always been delicate, just like my brother Julian, God rest his soul. I’m unable to bear any unpleasant shock. Yet I’m very tenacious. I’ve recovered from this bout, my dear. I feel it.”

  “How wonderful!” Lettice said. “I’m so happy to hear you say that.”

  “I’m very proud of you, Lettice,” Elizabeth said. “You are a born housekeeper.”

  “Oh! Thank you,” Lettice said shyly. “I’ve had a great deal of experience, you know. In Paris, I practically looked after our house for the past three years. Father insisted on my learning what he calls ‘a woman’s profession’ very thoroughly.”