Tragedy at Beechcroft by A. Fielding

No one had any regular dinner at Beechcroft that night. For one thing the maids had left in a body. For another, it seemed indecent after what had happened. People strayed to and from biscuit tins, and plates of oranges, and the cocktail table. No one spoke. Every one went to their rooms early. Flavelle Bruton had not been seen since the police broke in the door through which she had called out to them that she was looking for the key. She had sent word that she was too ill from the shock to see any one. Doctor Andrews had promptly gone in, and had given her a sedative. He told the superintendent that she ought not to be questioned until the morning. Not that the police questioned any one very much, since the only man responsible for the death of Mrs. Moncrieff was beyond their queries, as Tomlinson said to the chief constable.

Walking up and down in his room that night, Santley decided that Flavelle must have instantly recognised the sword used as soon as the blow went home by her actions at the door, and she had very likely given the Major time to kill himself. Santley believed that she had locked the door intentionally as soon as it happened. But why had she done it? She, who hated Moncrieff? She, the friend of Lavinia? He thought again of that dusty little clay figure transfixed with a pin, which he had found in Flavelle's hidden drawer. But he had little time to spend thinking over her. His own position was too terrible. He had been asked by the mother to come down and protect her daughter. True, no one can forfend against accidents.And at that, something cold just touched his thoughts, Mrs. Phillimore had expected something terrible to happen.something which would not be an accident, but the outcome of a deliberate plan.that fiendish face--that razor--Lavinia's shriek--the Major calling out that his fleeing wife could not escape what was coming to her.