Page 113 of The Work of Art

“And the snare?”

Forsythe shrugged. “There was already a shallow hole on your riding path. I simply made it deeper and added a few stones. It was an easy enough task to accomplish during one of my daily rides from Melton Abbey.”

Arthur nodded solemnly, and then he raised his hand, leveling his pistol at Forsythe. “That’s all I needed to know.”

Alarmed by the action, Forsythe took a step backward, angling himself partway behind Philly. “You reckless fool. Do you think to shoot me? I have my pistol inches from your wife’s heart. She’d be dead by the time you pull the trigger.”

Arthur’s blood ran cold. But he didn’t lose focus. He couldn’t afford to.

Philly stared at him from across the clearing. She was clearly petrified. Too scared to speak or to move. But when Arthur had raised his pistol to point at Forsythe, her eyes had followed it. They widened briefly, and then suddenly, lit with guarded hope.

He knew then that she’d registered, for the first time, a fact which she’d been too frightened to notice before. A fact which Forsythe had, as yet, failed to appreciate.

Arthur’s pistol was in his right hand.

Philly dropped her eyes from Arthur’s raised right hand to his injured left. It was presently resting on the handle of his cane—resting there far too lightly to be doing anything more than preventing the cane from toppling to the ground. Dear heaven, he was standing with virtually no support at all! It must be causing him the most dreadful pain.

“Lower your pistol, Heywood,” Mr. Forsythe said. “Lower it and toss it away from you. Into the pond, there. Do it, and I may yet let your wife live.”

“No, Arthur!” Philly protested.

In response to her outburst, Forsythe grabbed Philly roughly.

No sooner had his fingers closed around her arm than a low rumbling erupted from the underbrush.

“What the…?” Forsythe spun around.

Basil’s giant gray body hurtled from out of the woods. Fangs bared, he leapt at Forsythe, colliding with him in a snarling fury. His teeth clamped down on Forsythe’s thigh, tearing straight through his expensively tailored pantaloons and sinking into his flesh.

Reggie Forsythe’s scream rent the air. His fingers squeezed convulsively on the trigger of his pistol.

A shot rang out.

Philly was knocked backward. The crumbling stone of one of the benches abraded the backs of her legs. She reached out, seeking purchase as she fell down upon it, a wave of nausea nearly sending her into a faint.

And then Arthur’s arms were around her, gathering her up and crushing her against his chest in a fearsome embrace. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe. Never had he held her so tightly.

“You killed him,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Just like you told him you would.”

“Yes.”

She had only a fraction of a second to look before Arthur blocked her view. It was enough time to see Mr. Forsythe’s body lying in a crumpled heap beside the pond. Basil stood over it, teeth still bared and flecks of blood on his muzzle. He bore a look of savage triumph, as if he were responsible for the gunshot wound to Forsythe’s head, as well as for the vicious bite to his leg.

Philly lifted her eyes to Arthur’s face, expecting to find the same savagery in his expression. But whatever deadly ferocity lurked within Arthur Heywood was once again under ruthless control. “He said there was an injured dog that needed my help.”

“Damn him to hell.”

“I went right along with him. And all the while he meant to…he intended to…” She trembled. “If you hadn’t come when you did…”

“Don’t say it.” Arthur’s gaze was stark. “Don’t even think it.”

She felt the first sting of tears. “However did you find me? Did Violet truly confess?”

“No. Violet said nothing. It was Sara who told me. She saw you following Forsythe into the woods from your bedroom window.”