Chapter: When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but
had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then
his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones
inquired for Margaret.

"I don't know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner
nearly an hour for her."

"Tell me when she comes in."

Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his
father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not
returned.

"I'll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming.
Isn't she stopping with her sister at the hotel?"

"Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--"perhaps."

"Can I do anything for you, sir?"

"Not to-night, my boy."

Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son
more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles
as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable
his children were left to him.

After midnight he tapped on Charles's door. "I can't sleep," he said. "I
had better have a talk with you and get it over."

He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and
they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very
quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as
bad as her sister.

"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had
of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of
thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with
her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be
yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one
is to live there. I won't have it." He looked angrily at the moon.
"To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the
rights of property itself."

"Undoubtedly," said Charles.

Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son's, but somehow liked him less as
he told him more. "I don't want you to conclude that my wife and I had
anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who
would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding
that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua
non."

"Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?"

"Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of
course, use no violence, Charles."

On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the
gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was
due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss
Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his
way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and
said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading
his eyes from the sun.

"It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there,
and they had the man up there with them too."

"What--what man?"

"I told you last night. His name was Bast."

"My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother's house!
Charles, in your mother's house!"

"I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is
no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart
disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went
off. The police are seeing about it at this moment."

Mr. Wilcox listened attentively.

"I got up there--oh, it couldn't have been more than half-past seven.
The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs.
I waited in the drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and
collected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, and
Mrs. Wilcox said, 'Oh yes, I see; yes,' in that way of hers."

"Nothing else?"

"I promised to tell you, 'with her love,' that she was going to Germany
with her sister this evening. That was all we had time for."

Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved.

"Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hiding, for suddenly
Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his name. I recognised it, and I went for him
in the hall. Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little
too far."

"Right, my dear boy? I don't know. But you would have been no son of
mine if you hadn't. Then did he just--just--crumple up as you said?" He
shrunk from the simple word.

"He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down over him. So I merely
put the sword down and carried him into the garden. We all thought he
was shamming. However, he's dead right enough. Awful business!"

"Sword?" cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. "What sword? Whose
sword?"

"A sword of theirs."

"What were you doing with it?"

"Well, didn't you see, pater, I had to snatch up the first thing handy.
I hadn't a riding-whip or stick. I caught him once or twice over the
shoulders with the flat of their old German sword."

"Then what?"

"He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell," aid Charles, with
a sigh. It was no fun doing errands for his father, who was never quite
satisfied.

"But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you're sure?"

"That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than enough at the inquest
on such unsavoury topics."

They went in to breakfast. Charles had a racking headache, consequent on
motoring before food. He was also anxious about the future, reflecting
that the police must detain Helen and Margaret for the inquest and
ferret the whole thing out. He saw himself obliged to leave Hilton. One
could not afford to live near the scene of a scandal--it was not fair on
one's wife. His comfort was that the pater's eyes were opened at last.
There would be a horrible smash-up, and probably a separation from
Margaret; then they would all start again, more as they had been in his
mother's time.

"I think I'll go round to the police-station," said his father when
breakfast was over.

"What for?" cried Dolly, who had still not been "told."

"Very well, sir. Which car will you have?"

"I think I'll walk."

"It's a good half-mile," said Charles, stepping into the garden. "The
sun's very hot for April. Shan't I take you up, and then, perhaps, a
little spin round by Tewin?"

"You go on as if I didn't know my own mind," said Mr. Wilcox fretfully.
Charles hardened his mouth. "You young fellows' one idea is to get into
a motor. I tell you, I want to walk; I'm very fond of walking."

"Oh, all right; I'm about the house if you want me for anything. I
thought of not going up to the office to-day, if that is your wish."

"It is, indeed, my boy," said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a hand on his sleeve.

Charles did not like it; he was uneasy about his father, who did not
seem himself this morning. There was a petulant touch about him--more
like a woman. Could it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not
lacking in affection; they had it royally, but they did not know how to
use it. It was the talent in the napkin, and, for a warm-hearted man,
Charles had conveyed very little joy. As he watched his father shuffling
up the road, he had a vague regret--a wish that something had been
different somewhere--a wish (though he did not express it thus) that
he had been taught to say "I" in his youth. He meant to make up for
Margaret's defection, but knew that his father had been very happy with
her until yesterday. How had she done it? By some dishonest trick, no
doubt--but how?

Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired. There was to be an
inquest on Leonard's body to-morrow, and the police required his son to
attend.

"I expected that," said Charles. "I shall naturally be the most
important witness there."

 Rewind - we go back to Charles's encounter with Tibby. After leaving Ducie Street, Charles returns home, not knowing about the whole Helen-at-Howards End debacle. Mr. Wilcox is worried about Margaret, who hasn't come home . Late that night, Charles and Mr. Wilcox have a heart-to-heart. Mr. Wilcox is worried about Margaret, and he's certain now that she's disobeyed him and gone to Howards End. He asks his son to go to the house the next morning and sort things out - basically, to kick Helen and Margaret out of Howards End. He's very clear in telling Charles not to use violence. OK, fast forward to the present moment - Leonard is dead by Charles's hand. Charles still thinks he didn't use violence. After all, he only struck Leonard with the flat part of the sword . Miss Avery and Margaret both agree that Charles didn't use the edge, and he assumes that Leonard's death was due to a heart attack - of course, Charles himself isn't at fault. Charles stops by the police station in Hilton on his way back home and informs them that there's a dead man at Howards End. He tells them his part of the story is thanked, and goes home to tell his father. Charles informs Henry that he found Leonard at Howards End, and Henry is horrified - Charles makes it out as though Margaret and Helen were at fault somehow. The way he tells it, Leonard was in the last stages of heart disease, and just when Charles was going to show him what for, he just up and died. Mr. Wilcox goes along with the story until Charles mentions the sword, at which point, his father freaks out. It certainly sounds suspicious... It's unclear as to what the real cause of death was. Charles is anxious, and wonders what will happen in the aftermath of this scandal. Surely, they'll have to leave Hilton. He's just glad that, as he sees it, he's cleared the way for a breakup between Henry and Margaret. Mr. Wilcox casually mentions that he's going to go to the police station. Mr. Wilcox shows an unusual tenderness towards Charles, which makes his son suspicious. Mr. Wilcox returns, looking exhausted, and says that there'll be an inquest the next day, which Charles will have to attend. His son pompously and blindly assumes that he will naturally have to be there to act as the key witness.

