Виктория Холт - It began in Vauxhall Gardens

Desperately she planned. She must meet Thorold and do everything in her power to prevent his writing to her father. She believed she could do that. She could not believe that Thorold was, at heart, a wicked man. The man she had agreed to marry was kind and considerate; it was because of those very qualities that she had agreed to marry him. But he was in debt, in difficulties, and because of that he had lost his head.

She would not marry him now. That would be quite impossible; but she would not believe that he was a real criminal. His plans had been made on the spur of the moment. They were not the result of deliberate scheming. She feared and hated all men. The nuns were right. But she believed that some men were weak rather than wicked.

After she had seen him, after she had made him see reason, made him swear that he would not write to her father, what then?

She thought of Fenella, friendly and kind and, above all, tolerant. Perhaps she would go to Fenella and try to explain why she had run away.

This seemed her only course.

At last morning came. She slipped the pistol into the pocket of her dress and cautiously unlocked the door.

There was no sound in the upper part of the house.

She went down to breakfast in the basement room. She tried to act normally; she was most anxious that the Gunters and Sarah should not know how disturbed she was. She could not talk of her fears, and they would not be able to prevent themselves asking questions if they guessed something was wrong.

"He must have come home last night," Mrs. Gunter said, as Melisande sat down at the table. "Come in very quiet, he did. Rang the bell this morning and asked for his breakfast. Sarah said he seemed in a bit of a paddy. Quarrelled with her, I reckon, and come home in a huff."

"Oh!" said Melisande.

"She'll be home this evening, so he said. We ought to make the most of to-day, eh?"

"Oh yes," said Melisande.

It was difficult to eat, but she managed to force down some of the food.

After breakfast she returned to her room and got her things together. There was not very much. After she had seen Thorold she would have to come back for them, slip quietly upstairs and out again.

She touched the pistol in her pocket; she would not let that out of her possession until she felt herself to be safe from Archibald Lavender.

He had gone out, the Gunters told her. He said he would not be back until evening.

But he might come back unexpectedly, thought Melisande. She had seen more than desire in his eyes; she had seen vindictiveness, the desire for revenge.

The long morning crept by. There was the midday meal to be endured.

"My word," said Mrs. Gunter, "you've got a poor appetite."

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"That won't do, you know ... a growing girl like you. It's the thought of her coming back, is it?"

"It might be."

"Oh, you don't want to worry. You'll be all right. I reckon she's pleased with the work you do. Don't want to take too much notice of what she says. She couldn't say she was pleased, to save her life."

Melisande went to Mrs. Gunter and put her arms about her. "Oh, Mrs. Gunter," she said, "I shall always remember how kind you have been to me."

"Here! Here!" said Mrs. Gunter; and she thought: These foreigners! All up in the air—laughing one minute, crying the next. I don't know. You don't know where you are with 'em. She's nice though. I like her.

Melisande kissed Mrs. Gunter solemnly on each cheek.

"Well," said Mrs. Gunter. "Well! Well! You seem a bit upset, dear. Anyone would think you was going on a journey."

"It is just that I wish to say ... thank you ... and Mr. Gunter and Sarah who have made me so happy in this little room."

"Well, that is nice! We've liked having you here with us. We hope you'll be happy when you get married, and I'm sure you will, for a nicer gentleman there couldn't be, and you deserve him. That's what I said to Gunter: 'A nicer gentleman I never set eyes on, and Miss Martin deserves every bit of her good fortune!' "

"Perhaps we all deserve whatever we get in this life," said Melisande.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. There's some of us not so lucky."

"I must go," said Melisande. "I have much to do. I just wished you to know that you have made me happy in your room."

"Well, you're welcome," said Mrs. Gunter. "See you later, dear."

Melisande did not answer that. She went up to her room. Her few possessions were already in the bag which she had bought, ready to be picked up. She pushed the bag under her bed.

She put on her cloak and bonnet and went out of the house to her appointment with Thorold in Hyde Park.

He was there first. She saw him pacing up and down as she approached.

"Melisande ... how glad I am you've come!"

He seized both her hands; she withdrew them quickly.

"You thought I would break my promise?"

"You were a bit upset yesterday. Ah, I see you are feeling better to-day. You've thought about it, I know. You see the point."

"I see it all very clearly," she said. "Thorold, you are in difficulties and you are worried."

"That's so."

"And because of that you have thought of this thing. You were not serious yesterday. I know it."

"Now, look here, Melisande. You've been foolish. It's only right that your father should provide for you."

"And for you too?"

"Well, we're to be married. I'll be his son-in-law."

"You never shall!"

"I thought you were going to see sense."

"I do see sense. I see that, even after what you said to me yesterday, I am still a fool. I did not believe you could be as bad as you seemed."

"Oh, do stop this nonsense. Who's bad? Who's good? Was your father such an angel when he seduced that poor girl?"

"Stop it. What do you know of such things?"

"Don't be hysterical again, Melisande.. Let us sit down. Here is the letter I've drafted. I want you to copy it and send it to your father. Read it. It says you have met a man with whom you have fallen in love. You want to marry, and you are sure that he will help you now as he wished to do before."

She took the letter and without glancing at it tore it into pieces. She threw them over her shoulder and the breeze caught them and played with them. She stood up. She was aware of his face, ugly in anger.

"So that is all you have to say?"

"I shall never write to my father asking him for money," she said. "I shall never see you again after to-day. Goodbye."

He caught her by the arm and pulled her round to face him. His mouth was twitching, his eyes blazing. What a different man this was from the one she had thought she would marry!

"You are ... offensive to me," she said. "Release me at once."

"Do you think I shall let you go like this?"

"You have no alternative."

"Do you think this is the end of the matter?"

"It shall be the end," she said.

"You're a fool. You and I could live in comfort for the rest of our lives. He is a rich man ... a very rich man. I have looked into that. He could give us a regular allowance. We need do nothing but enjoy life. And why shouldn't he? He would, you can be sure.

He'd pay any amount rather than it should be known that he's not all that people think him."

"So," she said, "you are telling me that you are a blackmailer."

"Why shouldn't he pay for his sins?"

As she studied his face it seemed to her that he was all evil, and that he was symbolic of Man.

She said quietly: "You will never write to my father. You will never blackmail him."

"Don't be silly. If you won't come in ... well then, stay out. Do I need your help so much? You've told me all I want to know."

"No!" she cried. "Please ... please don't do this. Please do not."

"What! Throw away a chance like this? You're mad. You're crazy."

She felt dizzy. She was aware of the shouts of the children a long way off. "Oh God," she prayed, "help me. Help me to stop him. He must not do this."

And ther she remembered the pistol. Impulsive as she ever had been, she thought of nothing now but the need to save her father from this man's persecution. The pistol had saved her from Archibald Lavender. Could it not save her father from Thorold Randall?

She took it out.

"Swear," she said very quietly and very determinedly, "that you will not attempt to get into touch with my father."

"You idiot!" he cried. "What's that! Don't be a fool, Melisande."

"Swear!" she cried hysterically. "Swear! Swear!"

"Don't be a fool. What is that thing? Do you think to frighten me with a child's toy? Melisande, I love you. We'll be happy together, and we'll live comfortably all our lives. Your father will see to that. And if you won't... well, you see, don't you, that I can get along without you. But I'd rather you were with me, darling. I'd rather you were with me and would be sensible."

"Swear," she cried. "Swear."

He had laid his hand on her arm.

"Do you think I'm as muddled-headed as you? I'd never give up a chance like this ... never!"

She threw off his arm and raised the pistol. It was so easy because he was near.

There was a sharp crack as she pulled the trigger.

Thorold was lying on the ground, bleeding.

She stood there, still holding the pistol in her hand.

She heard voices; people were running towards her. Dazed and bewildered, she waited.

They were watching, these strangers. They had brought her to this place, but they would not let her rest.

She had felt listless as they drove into the cobbled courtyard. There were two men, one on either side of her, watching, ready to seize her if she tried to escape.

They need not have feared. She had no intention of escaping, no desire to do so.

They put her into a room with strange women; some had frightened faces; others had cruel faces. All looked at her curiously, but she did not care.

There was straw on the floor; it was cold and there was a smell of sweat and unwashed bodies. At another time she would have felt nauseated; now she could only think: This is the end. My troubles are over.

She sat on the bench and stared at her hands in her lap.

Someone sidled up to her.

"What you in for, dearie ?"

There were others crowding round her.

She said: "I killed a man."

They were astonished. They fell away from her in shocked surprise.

She killed a man. She was a murderess.

They took her away to question her.

"You shot this man. Why?"

"Because I wished to."

"Was he your lover?"

"There had been talk of marriage."

"And he was trying to ... break away? Was that it?"

"He was not trying to break away."

"But you shot him?"

"I shot him."

"For what reason?"

"Because it was better that he should die."

"Do you know that you have committed a capital offence?"

"Yes."

"Do you not want to say something in your defence?"

"No."

"You must want to make a statement."

"I made my statement. I shot him. It is better that he should die."

"You may not shoot a man just because you think he ought to die."

She was silent.

"Look here, we want to help you. You'll want to put up a defence."

"There is no defence. I shot him. I would do the same again. It was necessary that he should die."

She would say no more than that. She was waiting now ... waiting for the end and the hangman's rope.

In the cell nobody molested her. 'The Queer One' they called her. She had shot a man in Hyde Park and wouldn't say why, except that she wanted him to die. She was certainly a queer one.

She would sit thinking and sometimes smile to herself.

It seemed such a short while ago that she was at the Convent; she had been alive only a short time. Eighteen years. It was not very long to have lived, to have been deceived, to have grown tired of life and to have committed murder.

Always with her were thoughts of the nun who had haunted her childhood. Now there seemed a significance in that haunting. Hers was a similar case. They would take her out and hang her outside Newgate Jail; men and women would come to see her hanged. They would say: "That is Melisande St. Martin, the girl from the Convent who shot a man." They would laugh perhaps and shout insults.