by Sally Wragg
Too many ears were listening avidly, eyes peeled as to what the young couple would say and do next. Bill sprang up, seizing Hettie by the arm and hustling her quickly back outside, drawing her to a halt outside the garage forecourt. ‘Would you like to start from the beginning?’ he asked but so gently, she almost, if not quite, forgave him for not believing Lewis was innocent.
‘It was something the vicar said,’ she told him, more calmly now. ‘About Queen Elgiva and her being so good, she was more like an angel.’
‘So?’ he demanded, still uncomprehending.
‘So don’t you see?’ she demanded impatiently, resisting the urge to shake him. ‘Nell built the church and if Leon’s right and she wrote the riddle too. . . . Can’t you see the connection? Nell . . . Queen Elvira . . . Aelric. . . ? When Aranrhod is at her greatest power – well, that’s the moon, obviously – burnishes the angel bright – and then shall mighty Aelric strike.’
Bill’s look of incomprehension only deepened. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
She spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘It means when the moon’s full and shines on the angel, otherwise Queen Elgiva, as depicted in the stained glass window of Loxley’s church, then . . . then. . . .’
‘Then what?’ he demanded, roughly.
She shook her head, having no clear idea what would happen next or how to answer him. ‘I don’t know yet. But I will – and soon! At the next full moon, we have to be there, in the church, to find out!’
Happily they hadn’t long to wait. A consultation of her diary showed Hettie, for once, their luck was in and only two nights later there would be a full moon. Once she’d made this delicious discovery, she waited with a thinly veiled impatience. Two long days to get through but somehow she did get through them, arriving on the given date in a flurry of nervous anticipation in which she longed for the night-time but oddly, dreaded it, too. How could she bear it if she was wrong? Now, more than ever, she found herself wishing Lewis was here, too. If responding to the prospect of being alone with her at the dead of night with an alarming alacrity, Bill was so amused at the whole idea, she could have shaken him. Lewis, meanwhile, was still in the hands of the police with no prospect yet of release. Agonizingly, the day passed. She rode Tallow, dutifully took tea with her grandmother and sat through an interminable dinner in which the Count held forth on his travels in Europe. Unbelievably, at last it was time for bed. Changing quickly into trousers and the thickest, warmest jumper in her wardrobe, she forced herself to lie down on the bed and wait whilst the house settled. At last, thankfully, she discerned every goodnight had been uttered and the last, lingering footsteps echoed tiredly towards the servants’ quarters. Moonlight shone, pale and ghostly, through her bedroom window. Groping for the torch, which she’d had the forethought to smuggle into her room earlier and hidden under the bed, she crept downstairs, expecting at any moment for her mother, or worse, her grandmother to appear and demand to know what she was up to at such an ungodly hour.
She was going to find Aelric and make people sorry they’d ever doubted her!
By the front door, she froze, sure she’d heard footsteps padding stealthily behind her so that she whipped round scarcely reassured to see only the humped shapes of ordinary things normally she’d never give thought to: a vase of dried flowers, a heavy mahogany chair, the suit of armour by the stairs, faintly menacing to her now. But everywhere looked so different in the dark!
Bill was waiting on the bridge, lolling against the low wall overlooking the water, flicking his torch on and off and holding it up against his chin and pulling faces.
‘This isn’t a joke,’ she told him, sharply. This was an adventure and one, no matter what the outcome, they’d never forget for the rest of their lives. Both more nervous than they cared to admit, they set off through the darkness, padding swiftly villagewards, their progress illumined here and there by an occasional light spilling from the window of a house they passed and indicative only of the insomnia of its occupant. Soon they’d reached the perimeter of the churchyard with its spiked, iron railings encasing the church spire, a solemn sentry against a star-spangled sky. Once inside consecrated ground, the full moon they’d been so grateful for proved a double-edged sword, casting light on the gravestones which reared, some tilted at odd angles, ivy-strewn and mildewed with age, silent and accusing against the interlopers who had no right to be here and surely would have been better tucked up in bed. Hettie shivered, averting her gaze and leading the way hurriedly along the path to the sanctuary of the porch where, to her relief, the iron handle on the church door turned readily to her pressure. She pushed open the door, which creaked in protest, loud enough – to her guilty ears – to raise the dead. Thankfully, she led the way inside. Haunting, mournful shapes that in light barely touched her, in darkness took her breath.
‘Now what do we do?’ Bill whispered.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, realizing she really didn’t. ‘Wait, I suppose?’
What else could they do but for how long and for what, was anyone’s guess. Until the moon was at its highest, she expected, peering towards the stained-glass window which glowed out of the darkness towards them, a brilliant mosaic of dazzling, vibrant colour. It seemed crazy to her now they were actually here, as if they were chasing a fantasy no one in their right mind would have given second thought to. Perhaps she really was crazy and imagined all this? Time passed, minutes which passed like hours and in which, oddly, Hettie found comfort in the saint-like features of Queen Elgiva, smiling benignly from her vantage point in the great west window. Why had she never taken notice of her before? Why had she never realized what a beautiful window this was? Queen Elgiva would want them to find Aelric and do some good with it, surely. . . .
It felt as if the church were closing in around her, a kind of smothering hush charged with expectation and seeming, to her heated imagination, as if, from their ancient and crumbling places of rest, all Loxley’s many and distinguished ancestors were rising up, urging them to success.
The moon shone, round and full, peering down at them with a warm benevolence. If anything was to happen, it must be now. . . . Her heart thumped, gaining in rapidity, as if it would burst right out of her chest. ‘Bill, look. . .’ she whispered hoarsely, grabbing at his arm, her fingers digging in so tightly, he winced. But before her startled gaze, a miracle was happening. Elgiva’s face was filled with a shimmering light, highlighting her benignity of expression before expanding outwards and shattering into a myriad of tiny flashing lights. And then, and most wonderful of all, a shaft of pure white light hurtled past the two young people watching on in such amazement, its objective the narthex of the church and the ancient memorial built into a recess in the far wall, of the Duke, Nell’s father. A dramatic contrast of marble and alabaster, his austere figure lay, hands folded in prayer, a stone lion beneath his feet. The light hit at the point of his sword lying by his side, glowing fiercely before all too quickly extinguishing. As of one, Hettie and Bill rushed forwards, Hettie to throw herself to her knees to search frantically around the spot until, all at once, miraculously, she felt something give beneath her fingers. To their general astonishment, under the shaky beam of Bill’s torchlight and with a grating and jarring of stone against stone, the bottom panel of the plinth, on which the Duke slept his long repose, rattled forwards. Bill whistled out loud. Pressing her face up against cold marble, Hettie scrabbled, one-handed inside the aperture just so tantalizingly revealed, seeking that which now she was absolutely certain she would find there. Wonderfully, her hand brushed against cloth. Stretching her hand out to its limit, she clawed it eagerly towards her to discover a length of material wrapped around . . . what exactly?
She knew – of course she knew! So great was her excitement, she wanted to scream it out loud. Instead, she knelt, her knees pressing into the cold-flagged floor and with a heartfelt prayer on her lips. Please, God, let it be what she thought. . . . With trembling fingers, she began to unwrap
that which Nell, Duchess of Loxley, her illustrious ancestor, had concealed and which had not seen the light of day for centuries.
She gasped out loud. Revealed before their startled gaze lay a magnificent two-handed broadsword, a dazzling glory of intricately wrought gold, encrusted with rubies, opals and diamonds, shimmering and winking in Bill’s torchlight.
‘Aelric,’ Hettie breathed, even now scarcely able to believe it.
Awestruck, Bill sank to his knees besides her.
‘It’s true, then,’ he whispered.
‘So it appears!’ came a disembodied voice from behind.
Hettie jumped, scrambling quickly to her feet as Bill swung his torch up, revealing, shockingly, Count Charles Dresler and the Luger pistol in his hand, which, for the moment and to the horror of both young people, was directed straight at Hettie’s heart.
Chapter Eleven
Her heart was thudding a tattoo against her ribcage. Bewildered, Hettie scrambled to her feet, her horrified gaze centred on the Luger pistol in the Count’s hand, pointed at her with an ease suggesting he was only too used to firearms. Only now did the dim certainty raise itself: other than that she had visited his art gallery in Berlin, she knew nothing about this man. With a coolness that said much for her nerves, she took in their predicament. They were unarmed. The Count obviously meant trouble. Worse, no one knew they were here.
‘But I don’t understand!’ she wailed.
‘Don’t even try, my dear,’ he responded calmly, his gaze flickering towards Bill and onwards again, greedily, to Aelric, so newly reborn, glinting in the moonlight like a thousand twinkling stars. His eyes widened. Momentarily, his attention was deflected, so he didn’t see, as did Hettie, out of the darkness of the narthex, a man’s form come creeping, gathering itself as it moved closer. Suddenly, startlingly, the figure sprang towards the Count and with such a force, the gun was knocked from his hand and the two men sent crashing to the floor. Shocked, Bill dropped the torch, plunging the scene into darkness. Undeterred, clasped in a deadly embrace, the two figures rolled over and over. Instinctively, Bill and Hettie dropped to their knees and began to scrabble round after the torch.
‘Got it!’ Bill muttered, closing his fingers around cold metal so a wavering light once again illumined the scene. Hettie scrambled to her feet, much of her fear dissipated to find the Count sitting on the floor and Roland de Loxley, for it was the Frenchman who’d arrived just in time to save them, standing triumphantly over his adversary, pointing the gun to his head.
‘You followed us!’ Bill said, shocked.
Roland glared grimly down at his captive. ‘I wasn’t the only one. Are you alright?’
‘Only thanks to you,’ Hettie chimed in, glowering at the man who’d so recently held them to ransom. That he’d meant to rob them of Aelric was clear but had he meant to shoot them too? The thought made her cold all over.
The Count sat nursing his head. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead.
‘Get up!’ Roland snapped.
The man’s head jerked up as, inexplicably, he barked a volley of German towards Roland, at which the Frenchman’s expression faltered. He looked about him nervously.
‘What’s he saying?’ Hettie demanded, too late cursing the lack of attention to which she’d treated German lessons at school. Horrified, she watched as Roland lowered the gun and helped the Count up, meanwhile, returning the conversation in German so once again, she was left agonizing over what had been said. She didn’t even know Roland spoke the language and so fluently too. He must know neither she nor Bill understood enough to follow a conversation!
Suddenly, the outpouring ceased, replaced by a silence, more terrible than anything so far.
Hettie’s hackles rose, every sense telling her that something was badly wrong.
They were in trouble again. Roland’s gun hand shifted. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, pointing the gun towards a shocked Hettie, his gaze sliding away as if he couldn’t even bear to look at her now.
Hettie regarded him in blank incomprehension. But this couldn’t be happening! Why would he save them from the Count and then threaten them himself? Stifling a cry of fear, she stepped back. ‘Roland? But what are you doing? Have you gone crazy. . . ?’
Mutely, he shook his head. Dreadfully, it was the Count who broke the silence, chuckling quietly to himself and causing a shiver of dread to race the length of Hettie’s spine so she couldn’t think now how she’d ever once liked the man. That Roland was in some kind of a thrall to him was obvious.
‘I was merely pointing out to our friend here our connections. . . .’ the German said smoothly.
‘Connections?’ Bill interrupted, as bewildered as Hettie.
‘With the fatherland of course!’ their captor stated gloatingly.
None of this was making sense. ‘Germany, you mean?’ Hettie demanded.
‘He’s helped our party in the past,’ the Count concurred, agreeably.
Bill’s eyes blazed with belated comprehension. ‘You’re a blasted Nazi, aren’t you?’
‘Politically speaking, I’m a member of the National Socialist party. . . .’
He spoke so pleasantly, as if he were talking about the weather instead of the horror that even Hettie knew was invading every part of Germany.
‘Roland, what’s this about?’ she implored, swinging back towards him, her fears only fuelled to see the Frenchman’s hand tighten around the gun. ‘Roland . . . you aren’t a Nazi, are you? For heaven’s sake. . . .’
The Frenchman shook his head. ‘I never realized . . . things I passed on. . . . But I was left with no option, don’t you see? I only had a contact number. How was I to know it was this man I was reporting back to?’
It was so much garbled nonsense and yet, underneath, there ran a dreadful sense. Suddenly, to Hettie, consumed by a burning sense of injustice, everything became dreadfully clear. Roland, for some reason yet unknown, had been passing information to the Nazis, probably to this man here, a self-confessed and fully paid-up member of the party. A bunch of thugs if everything her grandmother told her was true. Abruptly, the Count’s smile disappeared and she saw the ruthlessness hidden beneath the affable veneer.
‘Give me the gun, Loxley!’ he barked.
To her dismay, appearing a broken man, Roland tamely handed the weapon over and with it, the Count motioned the little party, Roland included, towards the dim interior of the church, illumined still by moonlight, shining benignly now through the great west window.
Filled with dread, casting a lingering glance back towards Aelric, lying discarded on the floor, Hettie was left with no option but to do as she was bidden, heading back down the aisles and in the direction of the chancel. Once there, the German pointed with the gun towards the sacristy, the small side room where Lawrence Payne kept his books and vestments.
‘Get in,’ he barked, tersely. ‘And get a move on!’
They trooped inside, the burly figure of the Count momentarily framed in the doorway before, with one swift movement, he slammed the door shut behind them and they heard the sound of the key grating in the lock. They were trapped.
Four square walls with a single, high window, too small even for Hettie to squeeze through. The Count’s footsteps faded quickly away, on his way no doubt to pick up Aelric before making good his escape. Furious now, Hettie ran to the door and rattled the handle but to no avail. There was no escape and she knew exactly who to blame.
‘How could you! I can’t believe it, Roland! You! A spy?’ she spat, rounding on Roland de Loxley angrily and yet still with the wits to take satisfaction in the fact he was as trapped as they. Serve him right too!
Three things happened then. The Frenchman’s face crumpled, the light went out and Bill swore violently, under his breath.
‘The battery’s gone,’ he muttered, shaking the torch.
No one appeared to know quite what to do other than to wait disconsolately for their eyes to refocus. Muffled shapes and strange shadows and, ha
nging on the far wall, a little bright cross belonging to Lawrence Payne, from which a strange lustre emanated, somehow giving Hettie strength.
‘We only need to wait for morning,’ she said, forcing a note of encouragement into her voice.
‘We might as well make ourselves comfy, then,’ Bill grumbled, settling himself back against the wall. Hettie flung herself down beside him.
‘Are you going to tell us what’s going on?’ she demanded of Roland, aware of his bulk settling down against the wall opposite. He sighed heavily. All the spirit had gone out of him.
‘You’ll think badly of me. . . .’ he answered, wretchedly.
‘Too right we will,’ Bill butted in.
‘Let him talk,’ Hettie hissed, despite her anger, acknowledging her growing curiosity as to what could have induced this man to present himself as their friend when, in reality, he was nothing but a blasted spy. Suspicion rose, rearing its ugly head. ‘You stole General Hawker’s papers and let Lewis take the blame for it!’ she burst out, the enormity of this crime, to Hettie, worse than anything so far.
The Frenchman’s voice was full of remorse. ‘I couldn’t help it. I had to!’
‘I bet,’ Bill interjected, furiously.
‘Bill!’ Hettie warned, alarmed, when they were in trouble enough, that a fight would develop. ‘Go on,’ she encouraged and feeling rather than seeing Roland’s nod of complicity.
‘I did it for the woman I love, desperately, a German by nationality. We met . . . oh, so long ago I can scarcely remember it now.’
‘So what?’ Bill demanded, failing to see the relevance of this.
‘She hated the way things were going in her country and got involved with the wrong people, that’s what. They were careless, leaving too many clues as to their identity. They were denounced and she was taken prisoner by the Nazis. People will say anything under torture. It wouldn’t have taken them long to find out every single thing about her and about me. So they got at me through her – that’s how the Nazis operate. They told me if I didn’t do as they said, it would fall harshly on her. Oh, but how could I bear the thought of that!’ he burst out, miserably.
