Виктория Холт - It began in Vauxhall Gardens

"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.

It was not such a cruel fate as that which had befallen the nun. She would not be walled in to die slowly. The noose would be put about her neck and she would pass on to a new life.

One of the warders came to her. He bent over and shook her by the arm.

"Come this way," he said. "You're wanted." , She rose mechanically. More questions then? It did not matter. She would not tell them why she had killed him. If she did, his death would have been in vain. No one should know that she was Sir Charles Trevenning's daughter and that she had killed to preserve his secret.

She followed the man through corridors, up staircases. She did not care where they took her; she did not care what they asked her. She would be firm in her decision to remain silent.

She was taken into a room and the door was locked behind her. A man rose. Her calm deserted her then. She put her hands to her eyes to brush away a vision which she did not believe to be real.

"Melisande!" Fermor came towards her; he had taken her hands; he was holding her against him.

All the numbness was deserting her now. She was becoming alive again. Life and Death seemed to be in that room—and Life was becoming attractive again.

"Why ... why did you come?" she stammered.

"Why! Did you think I would not? As soon as I knew ... as soon as I heard. I have been looking for you ... searching for you. Why did you run away ... completely lose yourself?"

She threw back her heac and looked at him. Now she could do so without fear. She was lost. Death was already claiming her and Fermor belonged to life.

"I am glad ... so glad you came," she said.

"Certainly I came." His eyes flashed. She had forgotten the power of him. "We've got to get you out of this mess. We've got to get you out of this place."

"This is prison," she said. "This is where felons are put. How can you get me out of here? I shot a man."

"Why? Why? We must build up a defence. We're going to have the best possible people working on this. You don't think we're going to let... to let..."

"To let them hang me? You can't stop them, Fermor. I shot a man. I am a murderess."

"Why, Melisande? You! To kill! It's incredible. I don't believe it. It was self-defence. They cannot hang you for doing it in self-defence. We're going to have the best lawyers in England."