Page 92 of The Trick of the Treasure
“Christine would neverhave told them such a shameful thing.”
For some reason, Audrey’s words in defense of her brother’s children kept echoing around Constance’s mind. Not because the words were necessarily wrong, but because the intonation was.
Audrey was not sure. She was trying to convince herself because she had got used to thinking of her brother as the author of all her ills. He had become a convenient villain for her, and rightly so in many things, but not necessarily in all.
Sydney, whom none of them could read or understand, the darling of both his parents, who had exchanged such a long, intense look—Christine silently begging, and Barnabas just as wordlessly agreeing, to take the blame for their son.
Solomon must have been thinking along parallel lines, briefly distracted by his need to defend Constance. Though there was no need in her eyes, it felt curiously sweet and warming, because he understood.
And yet that softness had made them slow at just the wrong moment. As Sydney had edged toward the table with the treasure, right by Solomon and the policemen, she realized suddenly that the culprit was about to run—with at least some of the treasure. She even jumped to her feet, but then he held a pistol to Solomon’s neck and anguish seemed to shriek in her ears.
For a horrible moment, she thought she would faint. Certainly, her head pounded like a drum in a marching band. But she could not allow it.
As if from very far away, Sydney said, “You see, the murder weapon isnotin my room.”
His smugness barely registered with her. Her every instinct was to hurl herself bodily between Sydney and Solomon, but the gun was already pressing into his neck, right over the artery. Any sudden movement, any twitch of Sydney’s finger, and Solomon would die.
The hugeness of that threatened to overwhelm her. She had never felt so helpless in her life. But she would never go back to the belief that nothing good ever happened. Solomon had already happened. Love had already happened.
She moved slowly, creeping nearer, staying outside Sydney’s line of vision. But Sydney was paying no attention to her, to any of the women, in fact. It was his father and Devine he was watching. The policemen he must have trusted to do nothing that would risk Solomon’s life.
Solomon himself appeared quite unconcerned, though at least he was not foolish enough to make any sudden movements that might hasten his own demise.
Help, when it came, was from an unexpected quarter.
Rachel took a step toward him. “What are you doing, Sydney? You can’t shoot Mr. Grey.”
“My poor, deluded child, I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, and I am more than capable of shooting Mr. Grey.”
“But Sydney, Ilikehim.”
A frown crossed Sydney’s brow, as though he were puzzled by the concept. Certainly, it distracted him, but Constance was not yet near enough to take advantage. Besides, the gun never wavered.
“Sorry, pip-squeak,” Sydney said with what sounded like genuine regret. “You like people too easily and you have no discrimination. I don’t want to kill him, though I will, and I do hope you like me better than him.” He let go of Solomon’s arm and, still watching his father, reached for the bags on the table with his free hand. He gathered up the handles of two.
“You missed one,” Solomon said conversationally.
“What?” Sydney asked, just as Solomon’s elbow crashed backward into his chest.
Oh God! Oh God, help him!Even as Constance launched herself forward, the business end of the pistol had slid off Solomon’s skin while Sydney doubled over with a howl of pain.
Solomon spun around, seizing Sydney’s wrist, but the younger man fought back, re-finding his grip on the weapon and dropping the bags in order to punch viciously at Solomon.
“Sydney, stop that this instant!” Lloyd commanded, and a weird gurgling issued from Sydney’s throat. Incredibly enough, he seemed to be laughing.
“Sorry, Papa,” he panted, maneuvering the pistol to aim it once more at Solomon’s body. Constance leapt, shoving up his arm.
She didn’t see what happened next, but she heard the report of the pistol just as she threw herself at Solomon to protect him.
She felt no pain. In the small, disastrous silence, her world did not darken.
Mrs. Lloyd cried out, a low of grief as old as the world. Behind Constance, there was much scuffling. She thought Sergeant Flynn threw his coat to the floor. Over Sydney?
Solomon’s arms were around her, and hers were around him, hard.
“It’s not me, Constance,” he murmured. “He turned the pistol on himself.”
God knew there was tragedy in that. It would haunt her all her life.
