He curses again as he tumbles into a heap on the bedroom carpet.   Then, patting himself down to make sure he has not dropped the revolver, Voss climbs a little unsteadily to his feet again and starts across the room toward the corridor.   Like Tara Weston he slides in the blood slick on the floor, but manages to keep his feet, although he slows his pace a little till reaching the surer footing of the hallway.

*      *      *

Hobbling as fast as they could with Richie Travers’s injuries, Tara and Richie had just passed the first floor landing when they heard the crashing of louvres above, which signalled Roderick Voss’s escape from the walk-in wardrobe.

“Come on,” said Richie.   And, trying to ignore the increasing agony of every movement, he took the lead, almost dragging Tara down the stairs after him.

As they reached the ground floor at last, Tara headed toward the front door, but Richie held onto her to stop her.   “No!” he said.

“But we have to go outside.”

“What for?”

“To get help.”

“And how far is it from your front door to the street?   About half a mile, if I remember rightly.”

“Half a kilometre,” corrected Tara Weston.

“Even so, it’s too far for me in this condition.   These big estates might seem like a good idea when you buy them.   But it’s a long way to run if you need help in a hurry.”

“Then what?”

“You said earlier you have a six-car garage?”

“Yes,” said Tara pointing.   “But it’s around the other side of the house.”

“Is there any way to get to it from inside the house?”

Tara had to think for a moment: “Yes,” she said, pointing back behind Richie.   “Through the basement.”

“All right, let’s go,” said Richie, almost collapsing from fatigue and blood loss as they started down one last flight of stairs.

*      *      *

In the basement, even in the dark, they could see the windowed door leading to the garage and started toward it.   But then Richie stopped and stared at something at the other end of the basement.