In the Shadow of Winter

by Lorna Gray

  When I didn’t ask the invited question, the frown slowly reformed on his face and he turned back to staring out of the window once more. His eyes were fixed upon the faint gleam of the unmoving car but I was not sure that he was really seeing anything at all in the steadily fading scene. I watched him mutely; his averted profile was dark and shadowed against the black metal of the car door, unnaturally amplified by the approaching dusk as it betrayed all the strain of his present situation and with a rush of compassion, I almost put a hand out to him. But then he blinked and shifted uncomfortably in his seat and I had to hastily look away in case he thought I was staring at him.

  I felt myself cringe at what would have been an embarrassingly telling gesture of care, and then flushed again but this time with self-righteous indignation at being made to feel like this when, all along, all I had ever wanted from him was to be allowed to give my help. It was becoming increasingly apparent, however, that this assistance was neither useful to him nor wanted and by this frayed impatience, he was making it abundantly clear that he would have much rather been anywhere else but near me.

  Muttering a silent tirade at myself for believing it could ever be otherwise, I fixed my own gaze with renewed concentration upon the smudge of farm buildings with every intention of discovering that I didn’t care to help him so very much after all. In fact I was sure of it. He really was almost hateful and it was clear now that I ought to save us both from this unpleasantness, and find some excuse so that I could simply go home and leave him to deal with his future and his frustrations alone.

  Just to torture myself with the hope of proving myself indifferent, I couldn’t help daring to glance at him again. His thumb was tracing a line along the doorframe as he gazed steadily at the dead scenery. The act was abstracted, introverted, and I think it was that very fact which made me finally acknowledge the truth. With a sudden jolt, I saw that the unhappy set to his jaw was not a result of the extraordinary stresses of his fugitive existence at all. That was like a charade agreed between strangers. And he was sustaining it for me.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Freddy got upset today,” I said, all of a sudden being very brave indeed.

  “Did he? What about?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me at first, but eventually I got it out of him. The silly boy had convinced himself that I was planning to marry John!”

  “Did he indeed?” His reply was flat and disinterested as he tirelessly watched the silent barn and from his tone, it would not have seemed that he was paying the slightest bit of attention. But his thumb had frozen in its endless sweep of the doorframe.

  “He got himself so worked up – I don’t think he likes John very much and it really scared him – but all was soon set to rights.” My voice sounded unnaturally false and high after the stifling silence but I persevered doggedly. “I don’t know how he came to that conclusion, I really don’t.”

  “Do you not?”

  An owl hooted in earnest in the fading light. “I can’t say whether John truly wants me, although I can see why Freddy might have thought that, but as to me liking him in that way. Well, it’s just impossible.” I snatched a hasty breath, catching myself before I could run on in that same silly voice.

  “It is?” The chair springs gave a squeak as Matthew turned towards me. I could feel his eyes resting watchfully on my face but it was impossible to meet his gaze.

  “It is?” he repeated. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, er…” I swallowed nervously, realising suddenly that here we were straying into something truly dangerous. “John and I have been good friends for a long time, and I’m sure he’s very attractive, but love him? No. I don’t. I couldn’t. Not when I —”

  I stopped. I was too scared to continue. The car seemed very, very small all of a sudden.

  “When you what?” Matthew was still watching me closely. His manner was strange. “Eleanor, when you …?”

  “Look out, they’re moving!” I cried suddenly.

  “What? I just … Oh!” His head snapped round as comprehension dawned.

  They were indeed moving. Lit by dirtied headlights, the battered grey car had nosed its way out of the barn and, creating a distraction that could not have been better timed, was now heading along the road straight towards us.

  “Get down!” snapped Matthew, dragging me sideways before dropping over me himself. From within the peculiar cocoon of his folded body, I heard the car rumble slowly by. For a horrible moment I thought that they had seen us and were stopping but then the rough roar of the engine passed steadily onwards.

  Finally Matthew released his hold. I sat up slowly, feeling more than a little shaken, though at what I did not truly know. I peered out of the window, trying to make out where they had got to.

  “Looks like we’re on,” Matthew said, all attention now focused on the red taillights that were rapidly dwindling into fog. I waited, expecting a sharp instruction to make for the barn but to my surprise he got out, ran round the car and dragged open my door.

  “Shift over,” he ordered. “We’ve got to find out where they’re off to first of all.”

  Obediently I slithered across into the passenger seat as he urged the car into life. Thankfully the battery had regained some charge and the car lurched forwards as he threw it into gear.

  But no sooner had we roared into action than Matthew had to step on the brakes. The grey car was gently climbing the hill into the village with all the casual air of one that was out for a pleasant Sunday drive and as we lingered in the shelter of the woodland, there was a pause just long enough for me to be grateful that I was no longer the designated driver, and to be just a little bit startled by the all-consuming concentration that had settled on my companion’s face. Then the car bounded forwards once more and all thought ceased as the nervous thrill of the chase caught me so that I too must have seemed just as intent and focused.

  Matthew had to wait until the car was nearly out of sight and into the village before daring to charge up the slopes after them. A tall and willowy maple tree stood in the middle of the road to form an impromptu roundabout and our little car had to instantly slow to a crawl again, negotiating it carefully before plunging wildly after the other car like a stone from a slingshot past the public house and on towards the school. It was hard to imagine what possible destination there could be along this gentle country lane that might have any connection with their crime. A nearby village perhaps, or further? Whiteway? Cranham? Or beyond to Stroud and Gloucester…?

  None of them, it seemed. I very nearly hit my head on the windscreen when Matthew braked sharply and swung the car into a space behind a chimney-sweep’s van.

  “What are you doing?” I asked in confusion as Matthew silenced the engine and leaned across my lap to see around the parked van.

  “Don’t you recognise where we are?”

  I peered at the muffled road ahead. At first I could not make out the grey car at all only then I spotted it on the small driveway of a converted outhouse.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed uselessly.

  “Oh indeed. My house.”

  We watched as the two burly Yorkshiremen climbed out of their car and went along the short path to the front door. I remembered now that the outhouse had been part of old Mr Croft’s farm complex and had been little more than a crumbling machine-shed back then. But then he had died, the farm had been sold so that Mrs Croft could move to be nearer her sister in Gloucester and, unwilling to surrender the village he had loved as a boy, Matthew had bought back the crude building before painstakingly converting it into a very sweet and very stylish little cottage. Looking at it now, I could recall in perfect detail the beautiful view from the kitchen window where it backed onto the fields that his father and grandfather before him had worked and tended. I could also remember the uproar it had caused when Mrs Croft sold the farm to a distant cousin rather than to the Estate as was expected.

  “I wonder …” I began but before I could translate the e
mbryonic idea into coherent words, it was stopped in mid-thought by the sight of the Turford men opening the sturdy wooden door and disappearing inside. I looked at Matthew.

  “Did they have a key?”

  He shook his head grimly. “I don’t think locked doors matter much to those two.”

  They were gone for about ten minutes. When they emerged there was some kind of ragged bundle cradled in Davey Turford’s thick arms. It looked like a large shapeless mass of curtain fabric, but I didn’t have to see the furtive manner in which it was concealed in the boot of their car to presume there was something more valuable wrapped within it than a few yards of faded upholstery.

  “Did you see what that was?” Matthew’s voice was very soft.

  I shook my head. “Did you?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “I can’t imagine what they would find in there to be worth stealing…Oops, look out – they’re coming. Sorry about this.”

  “What …?”

  This was all I had time for before I was roughly grabbed and pulled towards him. I think I gave a startled squeak, instinctively putting my hands to his chest almost certainly with the intention of pushing him away … But I did not. He held me fast as the sound of a car crawled past. It seemed to take forever. A lifetime of racing senses and heartbeats, and the crush of unexpected contact. Then there was a wolf-whistle, a shout of obscene congratulation and finally the car was gone.

  He lifted his head. Mesmerised, I simply lay there, head against the turn of his shoulder, and watched as his eye traced the course of the car through the small rear window while it drifted around the tree and back down into the park. My lips burned where he had touched them; although this abrupt handling certainly was not likely to be the fulfilment of my most tender dreams – it was only a cover after all – my mind had frozen and I really couldn’t tell whether I was supposed to be affronted by his uninvited closeness, or charmed.

  Then the heady mixture of musty car and his warm skin gently filled my nose. As all my senses abruptly made a return, I suddenly found myself very aware indeed of the texture of his coat where it pressed beneath my fingers. The coarse fabric was lifting slightly to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

  He glanced down at me still imprisoned within his arms; “Sorry about that, couldn’t think what else to do.” He released his hold and, as I straightened, he started the car.

  “A touch on the clichéd side, don’t you think?” I said, considerably more steadily than I felt. “You need to work on your secret-agent routine.”

  He gave a laugh as he turned the car around and sped after them while I concentrated very hard on trying not to think about the feel of his mouth upon mine. It was a cover, just a cover, I reassured myself as he span the car around the tree and raced back down into the park once more. I stole a glance at him and he was grinning.

  I had to hang onto my seat as the little car plunged down the unkempt road after the others. “There!” I cried.

  “I see them,” said Matthew as he swung the car in a right-hand turn away from Warren Barn and onto the rough frost-damaged drive that led across the park. There was a brief impression of grey between the black trees as the other car went round a bend, then a resounding crash as our car hit a pothole and I swear we were airborne for a moment.

  “If you break my car, I’ll kill you.”

  “Sorry,” said Matthew ruefully, while not actually looking remotely sorry.

  I saw the brief flash of light ahead as their headlamps bounced back at us against the deepening gloom; the grey car was already halfway up the far slopes of the valley side, casting a ghostly trail through the fog as it followed the snaking road towards the hilltop. We rocketed over the little stone bridge in pursuit. I cast a quick sideways look at Matthew; he was wearing the most remarkable expression.

  He shifted down a gear to set the car at the incline. Then he glanced at me and, seeing me staring, said, “What?”

  “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” I said accusingly.

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “Let’s just say it is nice to play the hunter for once.”

  The road was very dark under the trees and still driving necessarily without lights, I was amazed that Matthew could see well enough to make the tight turns. The Eagle Gates loomed above us through the heavy canopy of bare branches, the great white stone birds standing silent sentry over the road, and then we were up and out in the open, running along under the trees of the long avenue that would lead us to the main gates.

  Then the road straightened and Matthew eased the car back to a steady crawl; even with the fog, it would be simple enough to see which way they turned with the yellow glare of their headlamps catching on the drooping branches as they passed.

  But to my considerable surprise, instead of passing through the tall metal gates and out onto the road, the grey car slowed and then drew clumsily to a halt by the gatehouse. Matthew braked instantly and silenced the engine, and we watched as the two men, recognisable by their bulk even in the low light cast by the nearby windows, stepped out and walked into the house. Clearly this door posed no difficulties either.

  Without a word, Matthew allowed the car to coast backwards down the incline before swinging it into a vacant field gateway. He stepped out. I hesitated to follow but at his expectant expression, I swallowed my half-formed excuses and hastily gathered my courage, climbed out of the car and joined him in the sudden chill of the wood-scented driveway.

  I took my lead from him. We hurried along, me trailing feebly in his wake, passing silently under the still arch of the trees and onwards until we were met by the deeper shadow of the house. Until then I hadn’t realised just how thoroughly night had settled but now I saw that the fog had thickened abruptly to swallow any hope of a starlit sky and without even the faintest of halos from the moon to lighten the sober dark, I was very glad of the faintly greenish sheen of the driveway between white verges as a guide.

  With a lift of his hand, Matthew instructed me to wait and I lingered nervously while he crept forwards to the first window. A dull glow from the heavily curtained glass lit his features as he paused, head tilted slightly, listening. He slipped along to the next and I saw his posture change as he suddenly tensed. Then, after what seemed like an age, he finally beckoned.

  Reluctantly, I crept forwards. He gave a slight nod of approval as I settled next to him, crouching under the low sash of the window and we huddled there together under the stone windowsill, watching and waiting, and listening intently. I could just make out the dark gleam of his eyes where they stared thoughtfully at the stone wall standing inches from his face.

  For a while I could not hear a thing above the sound of my own hushed breathing. But then, all of a sudden, my ears made sense of the muffled sounds and abruptly I was able to distinguish a rough growl from Simon Turford. It was followed by a rather softer murmur in reply and, stupidly, it actually came as a shock when I recognised the muffled voice as belonging to someone still more familiar: Adam Hicks. This then was the estate manager’s home – as if on any normal day I would not have known from the start – gifted to him by the Park and his for as long as he held the post; which given that he was an honest and dependable man, would probably be until old age or infirmity took it from him. Honest and dependable, excepting of course that he was now fraternising with murderers.

  Matthew glanced at me and, giving a quick hint of a reassuring smile, cautiously raised his head to peer over the sill. I held my breath waiting for a cry of surprise and flurry of action from within but nothing came and so slowly, and violently wishing that I had stayed at home, I too lifted my head.

  We were shielded from view by grubby netting which hung limply behind the dirty green of the gaping curtains and beyond it, lit by a couple of standard lamps, I could just make out the ugly profiles of Simon and Davey Turford where they sat at a heavy wooden table. The aging estate manager was pouring whiskey into some glasses at the sideboard. His wife, a fifty-something housewife compl
ete with apron, ugly floral housecoat and spectacles hanging from a string about her neck, marched in clutching two steaming bowls which she set down with a brisk clunk on the table and, judging by the quick guilty glance her husband gave her from across the room, it seemed that she had been very unwillingly relegated to this role of domestic servant. Certainly, the two men barely acknowledged her before snatching up their spoons but, as she turned to go, I felt the cold night air catch in my throat. The pinched look I had seen in her face was not that of grudging hospitality at all, but the white grimace of a woman functioning on the very edge of fear.

  Matthew’s eye flicked left to me in a brief flash of shared concern before grimly fixing once more upon the remaining occupants of the room. We listened for a while, hoping that their talk would turn to something of interest but as seems to be the case with all master criminals when being watched, their stilted conversation consisted of nothing more incriminating than the dangers of such a rapid thaw and the possibility of further bad weather. Finally, however, the pitch of their voices shifted and here was something. It was not the wished-for confession of all their plans but nevertheless I felt a little tingling flare of tension as Hicks began to fret about Sir William. “If he hears that you’ve been up here …”

  “Sir William,” Simon spat the words, “is more clued-up than you think, old man. Just keep your mind on your job, and your thoughts on what we’re paying you. We wouldn’t want your wife to have to worry about how we’ll take it all back again, would we?” He let the threat hang.

  The silence was palpable. I glanced wide-eyed at Matthew, an unspoken question hovering electric between us while, in the background, Hicks noisily slammed the rapidly diminishing whiskey bottle down on the table. I thought I heard a snigger. Then I was sure of it and I had to hastily look back as Matthew tensed and sharply caught his breath. But thankfully, whatever ideas of rebellion had briefly flickered across the aged estate manager’s mind, they were evidently gone now and instead I was just in time to catch the blur of his movement as he turned to shuffle quietly back to the armchair in the corner.