The Black Swan by Philippa Carr Read Free Book Online

helplessly. I was stunned.
    Briefly I saw the man, then I knew that although he was dressed differently, he was the one I had seen last night waiting on the other side of the road. He had changed his opera cloak and hat for a cloth cap which was pulled down over his eyes. For a second we looked fully at each other. I could not see the widow’s peak, but I did recognize the scar on his left cheek; and instinctively I knew that he was the man who had stood on the other side of the road, and that last night he had been waiting for my father so that he might do then what he had done today.
    He had turned away and made off.
    People were shouting. They were all round us. Bates was kneeling by my father, and servants were dashing out of the house.
    It was like a nightmare … fearfully real. A terrible fear had come over me. I might never wait for him to come home to a late supper … never again talk to him of his ambitions.
    I had never known such desolation.
    My memories of that time come back to me like a series of bad dreams—overshadowed by a terrible sense of loss. I found myself trying to cling to the past, telling myself that it had not really happened … but it had.
    Celeste was beside me. She clung to me. She was as dazed as I was.
    They had taken him to the hospital. Celeste and I went with him. We sat side by side, holding hands, waiting.
    I think I knew from the start that there was no hope. He had been shot through the heart and was on the point of death by the time they got him to the hospital.
    Celeste, I am sure, found a grain of comfort in looking after me. I had been there at the vital moment, I had seen it happen. Small wonder that I was in a state of shock.
    I was taken back to the house. There was a hushed atmosphere there. It did not seem like the same house. The servants were silent. There was tension everywhere.
    I was given something to drink and made to lie on my bed; and after a while I slipped into blessed oblivion.
    But soon I was awake again. My respite was brief; and the nightmare continued.
    I soon realized that I was to play an important part in the drama, for I was the one who had been with my father when it happened. I was the one the police wanted to talk to.
    I soon found myself in their company. They asked questions which I tried to answer. The conversation kept going round and round in my head.
    “Did you see the man with the gun?”
    “Yes. I saw him.”
    “Would you recognize him again?”
    “Yes.”
    “You seem certain.”
    “I saw him the night before.”
    They were alert. I had said something of the utmost importance and I had to explain.
    “I was waiting for my father’s return from the House of Commons. When he was late home I kept a little supper for him in his study. It was a custom between us. While I was waiting for him I looked out of the window and saw a man. He was waiting on the other side of the road by the railings of the garden. He looked as if he were waiting for someone.”
    “What was he like? Was he tall?”
    “Of medium height. His hat blew off. There was a strong wind. I saw him clearly under the lamplight. He had dark hair which grew to a peak in the middle of his forehead. And there was a white scar on his left cheek.”
    They were very excited now. They looked at me in wonder and then exchanged glances. One of them, the Inspector, I think, nodded his head slowly.
    “This is excellent,” he said. “And you saw the same man when the shooting took place?”
    “Yes, but he was wearing a cloth cap pulled down over his face. I did not see his hair, but I saw the scar. And I knew he was the one who had waited last night.”
    “Very good. Thank you, Miss Lansdon.”
    There were headlines in the papers.
    BENEDICT LANSDON ASSASSINATED.
    BENEDICT LANSDON WAS SHOT DEAD OUTSIDE HIS HOME TODAY. HIS DAUGHTER, MISS LUCIE LANSDON, WAS AT HIS SIDE.
    The newsboys were shouting in the streets. All London was talking of the death of Benedict Lansdon who had so recently