Page 95 of The Case of the Curate

As Miss Nye went on, Kate eased to her feet, for from a crouching position, she could not move fast enough. In full flight, the murderess on the other side of the door surely would not notice the faint sound of the door handle turning…

Having created a crack between the door and the frame, Kate had a better view. And she didn’t think either of the players inside had seen her. On the other hand, Kate heard quick footsteps in the wide passage leading from the main entrance hall, and Chadbon’s low voice, speaking to someone—Nye? Grissy? Whoever, they might just be in time.

“She was in the way,” Miss Nye said, chillingly reasonable. “Like Lady Ambrose. Like you.” She threw up her left hand, pointing her pistol quite steadily at Rupert’s chest.

Time had run out.

Kate hurled herself through the door and took a flying leap—something she recalled, quite inconveniently, doing onto Rupert’s back as a girl. But God knew this was no game. Someone was making a horrible noise, half war cry, half sob, as she landed on Miss Nye’s back.

At the same time, the loud crack of gunshot split the air.

Oh God, no, please, no… Both women landed hard on the floor, which at least stopped the horrible howling. With vague surprise, Kate realized it had been her. In fury, she tore the pistol from the older woman’s strong grip and sent it spinning across to the fireplace.

The fireplace where Rupert still stood, blinking.

“Quite the entrance, Katy,” he remarked.

Miss Nye, heaving beneath her, her face pressed into a cushion—where the devil had that come from?—had missed. Sprawled on top of her, Kate found herself grinning like a moonling.

Until a most-unlooked-for voice thundered, “What on earth are you doing?” And she was hauled off Miss Nye like a sack of coal.

Kate gazed up at her husband in bemusement.

His expression was furious, mixed with not a little shock. Miss Nye struggled to rise, and Gilbert dropped Kate to aid the older woman.

“Madam, I so very sorry,” he said earnestly. “I can only beg your forgiveness for this inexplicable assault upon your person.”

Rupert picked up the pistol from the floor.

“Quite explicable, really,” he murmured.

“Who the devil are you?” Gilbert demanded.

“I’m the curate,” Rupert replied, offering his free hand. “How do you do?”

Before Gilbert could answer—if he had anything to say—the sash window lifted, letting in the scents of the night, and Sam Salter stuck his head in. “I didn’t hit Lady Kate, did I? Nearly had a fit when she ran into my shot.”

That was when Kate realized there was a hole in the glass, oddly neat and even.

She stared indignantly at Rupert. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d got Salter to shoot her?”

“I must have forgotten,” Rupert said, and to Salter, “You seem to have missed them both, though Lord Chadbon has a bit of a hole in his wall as well as his window. Sorry, my lord.”

“But—but Miss Nye,” Chadbon said, goggling at the lady who now shrank from Rupert and Kate like a child afraid of a beating.

“You really are an excellent actress, aren’t you?” Kate said admiringly.

“Oh, Sophie,” Sir Colin said, stepping out from behind Chadbon, so that Kate noticed him for the first time. He looked suddenly old and helpless and not threatening at all as he walked up to his sister. “What have you done?”

As though reminded, Gilbert glared at Kate again. “I would ask you the same question, my lady!”

“She’s caught the murderer of Lord Chadbon’s housemaid,” Rupert said. “And her own attempted murderer.”

“And yours, rev,” Salter put in.

“Who the deuce are you?” Chadbon demanded of the old soldier.

“Salter, sir, late of the 95th. You might have seen me in court when the magistrate let me off with a fine.”