by Lorna Gray
Chapter 28
There was a cold hard surface at my back; the sound of horses moving restlessly nearby. I tried to open my eyes but like my limbs, they seemed leaden and unresponsive. After a futile effort to make anything, even any muscle at all move, I gave in and simply hung there, helplessly immobile, as my fogged brain tried to remember what had happened.
I could hear an irregular tapping like fingers drumming idly on a table, only softer. A vague memory of being on Beechnut flitted through my mind and I wondered if I had taken a fall. Then the rhythmic chewing of hay caught in my ears and when the sweet scent of manure pricked at my nose, the spinning sensation of cold suddenly solidified and I realised abruptly that I was not out on a ride at all but was on my back on the hard stone floor of one of my stables. With a rush of frustrated irritation, I wondered why on earth Freddy was just messing about out there, playing games and tossing grit up onto the barn roof when surely he must have noticed that I hadn’t come in for some lunch. Or had we already eaten lunch? I tried to make my mind dredge up a memory but after a very brief effort it gave up and wandered off.
I heard voices coming closer and the soft whisper of hooves on grass. Here he was then, finally. All I had to do was lie here and he would find me.
The sounds came closer. There was a clattering of unshod feet on wood and the ground seemed to shift and tilt. I heard the voices more clearly now and suddenly I knew something was wrong; this was not Freddy, this was not my yard and I was not at all sure that I should want them to find me. Then the clattering approached nearer, alarmingly so, coming to a stop very near my head, and despite this, still my body refused to work.
“She’s in, sir.” I knew that voice. How did I know that voice?
“Well done.” It all came back to me then, in a rush which made my head hurt. John’s voice was very near and I gave up trying to move and concentrated very hard on staying very still indeed. Overhead, the soft drizzle continued to patter monotonously on the hard metal of the lorry roof. “And no one saw you put her in, did they?”
“No,” Simon replied in his gruff northern accent. “No one was about. We’ll be on our way then?”
“Yes. But I nearly forgot; did you get what I wanted from his house?”
There was a brief flurry of action filled by Simon yelling at Davey to fetch whatever it was from the car, followed after a short while by, “There you go, sir. What are you going to do with it?”
I listened intently, wondering what new clue Simon might be about to betray. In hindsight, I don’t think my brain had quite processed the fact that I wasn’t exactly in the position to be playing detective, as all I thought about was what information I might be able to give Matthew when I saw him later, quite as if the very serious reality of my own situation didn’t exist at all.
Either way, I was not to learn and instead all I heard was John’s casual reply of, “Nothing much. Just a little bit of harmless incrimination to send that damned detective trotting off in the right direction.”
Simon laughed, then abruptly stopped. “Did she just move?”
There was an agonising sharp intake of breath. All thoughts of investigation stopped and my brain screamed No, no I didn’t! But wood creaked as someone climbed into the horse lorry beside me and then John’s hand was tilting my head.
My eyelashes must have flickered because he said, “Well, hello, my dear. Not quite asleep, are we. Fetch that bottle, would you?”
There was a steady crunching of gravel underfoot as Simon walked away. I felt John’s hand shift to my throat; for a terrifying moment I thought he was going to strangle me as I lay there, but he was just checking my pulse. I must have regained some coordination because my hand feebly tried to push him away but it was perfectly easy for him to take hold of my wrist and then, surprising me with his gentleness, carefully press my hand back down onto the cold mat floor of the lorry once more.
The rough sound of footsteps and a trace of that familiar breathing announced Simon’s return and then his distant voice said, “Here you go, sir. Be careful how you go with that though. Too much and you’ll kill her.”
“I’m well aware of that, man,” John snapped curtly, before adding in a softer tone, “I have no intention of killing you, Ellie, not if you behave yourself like a sensible girl. How would I complete my little scheme if you were dead?”
My eyes suddenly flicked properly open and I stared up at him mutely as he tipped the bottle over to allow some drops to fall onto a fresh scrap of cloth.
John smiled down at me humourlessly. “You did me a good turn by turning up here, you know – you saved me the job of having to come and get you.” He smiled again, gazing at me for a few long seconds before flicking a glance over his shoulder at Simon. “She found out about the horse, you see. Knowing her and her damned principles, I can’t trust that she’ll have the sense to keep it to herself if the wrong people happen to start asking questions. It’ll be much safer with her out of the way. And, perhaps more vitally, it is my profound hope that the girl’s disappearance will flush that idiot man out into the open once and for all.”
I must have unconsciously made some sound because he turned back to me and then his smile grew. “Oh, yes, Ellie, you’re the perfect weapon, didn’t you know? We don’t know what you feel about him, do we, my dear?” He patted me on the cheek. “But we know that he’s still sweet on you.”
There was a pause while he stared thoughtfully at the bottle in his hand for a moment before tipping another drop onto the cloth, “He warned me off you, did you know that? It was months ago now; I ran into him when he was out walking and I couldn’t help but goad him, he looked so … so, what’s the word? I don’t know, so much like he just didn’t give a damn. There I was with some fellows from the shoot and he just said good morning and went to walk on by as if he was one of us! One of us? I remember when he worked his summers in my uncle’s fields for goodness sake! Long before he got his so-called education and came back acting like he owned the place, jumped up, smug bastard. So I decided to set him down a little. He pretended that it didn’t touch him of course, all calm and detached, but he didn’t like it so much when I mentioned you. Didn’t like it at all.”
He laughed and it was a silly little sound of boyish delight. “There is a certain ironic symmetry to it all, don’t you think? Just when my plans were all coming to fruition, who should turn up to play scapegoat but my own personal little nemesis; our favourite ex-farmhand, Matthew Croft?” He grimaced slightly. “That man presumed, wrongly, to set himself against me and later, while you are sleeping your way to Southampton, he’ll be finding out just how much I am his superior in every possible way.”
He gave another ugly little laugh and slowly moved to lean over me with that hateful cloth ready in his hand.
“So now you see why I suddenly stepped up my courtship of you? I was reasonably content to let our friendship drift along before, but since he decided to meddle in my affairs, the temptations of my pretty little childhood companion suddenly seemed so much more…pressing. Particularly when marrying you will make the perfect coup-de-grace for the condemned man.” He paused, still smiling. “And you will marry me, my dear. You really don’t have a choice, not if you want be able to watch Freddy grow up…”
I barely managed any resistance at all this time when he placed the rag over my nose. He watched patiently for my numbed body to make its second surrender to uninvited sleep, and as he waited, he spoke over his shoulder, “I want her back in one piece, do you hear? Dump her nag or kill it, whichever you choose, but if you lay a finger on her I’ll kill you, or even worse than that, you won’t get paid. Understand?”
And the faint echo of Simon’s reply gradually faded to nothing until all that remained to penetrate the smothering embrace of unconsciousness was the light patter of rain on the roof and the ugly rhythm of a man’s coarse breathing.
Chapter 29
I could feel the warmth of his body against my back and I could only marvel at
the fact that he had found me so soon. I murmured something sleepily and his arm tightened. Eleanor. His voice was a whisper in my ear. Eleanor … Eleanor …
Ellie.
“No!” I cried and suddenly the noise in my ears was only the deafening roar of tyres on wet road.
I sat bolt upright and stared about me in a bewildered panic. Two horses were peering down at me with steady interest as they swayed to the jolting movement of the lorry and I blinked stupidly up at them through the fog of drugged and fearful mindlessness.
Oblivious, Beechnut blew gently down her nose in greeting and only then, with a sudden painful rush of nauseating relief, did I realise that no one was holding me at all. She seemed surprisingly unconcerned as she chewed steadily on a mouthful of hay but a telltale crust of dried sweat had dulled her coat and I tried to get up to see what they might have done to her to get my lovely horse to load into the lorry. I very nearly made it.
With a sickening jolt, the lorry rocked over a pothole and my legs gave way beneath me so that I sat back down again with a crash. Then, just as abruptly, all thoughts of her were put out of my head. My body reacted violently to the poisonous effects of the chloroform and for a horribly memorable stretch of minutes, I was left incapable of saying or thinking or doing anything else at all.
It was an extraordinarily unpleasant interlude but at last, gasping and coughing for breath, I managed to get my unhappy stomach back under something like control. Slowly, gingerly, I propped myself up to lean against the wall of the box. I was freezing cold and shocked and utterly weary, and as I fought to suppress the vicious trembling that wracked my body, I discovered that I knew some very choice words with which to describe my feelings towards my former friend. It seemed to be a long while before I recovered enough to be able to lift my head and attempt a second look at my surroundings.
The gloomy interior of the lorry was as impressive now as it had appeared when I had last seen it; the wood-lined box was well built and looked very robust, and if I could have found any fault it was in that the little jockey door could not be opened from the inside. The ramp, of course, was equally impossible.
The new partition between the horses was impeccably designed – thick and sturdy with a metal breast bar that would hold the horses safely in place if there was a sudden stop – and each horse looked remarkably comfortable as it stood rocking gently within its individual compartment. I had been laid in the small space in front of the bar where their hay bags were slung and I could feel where occasional wisps had escaped from a steadily chewing mouth to drift down and tangle in my hair.
Beechnut looked perfectly relaxed, particularly when she stole a mouthful as it dangled from the stallion’s mouth, and I wondered whether they had drugged her too to get her into the box. Perhaps she had been blindfolded; I certainly doubted that even her new gentleman friend would have been enough of an incentive to set aside her usual hatred of all things man-related. At that thought, my mind vividly replayed John’s last instructions to Simon Turford and I suddenly struck the wall with the heel of my hand. It was a burst of fury of the like I have rarely experienced; the sensation was intense, extraordinarily heating and regardless of the impossibility of escape, I absolutely refused to just sit in helpless submission while others plotted away her life. And mine. And, with a gasp of pain, Matthew’s.
Slowly, grudgingly, my brain got to work. It was inconceivable that John had orchestrated this entire nightmare purely for the purposes of damning Matthew and marrying me. And, lovely as he was, surely it could not be possible that the horse was so valuable as to be worth all this risk. No, even the original Union Star would have been worth only a tiny portion of the rolls of paper we had discovered and as my poor befuddled brain struggled back into some semblance of life, I became certain that the unlucky horse’s imminent emigration had to be a convenient cover for the real ambition. It seemed perverse that what had been meant as a casual criticism should in the end prove to be the key to the whole thing, but if John was right and a person would have to be a fool to try and sell looted artworks in his own county, the thought finally occurred to me that perhaps it could be presumed that this rule stretched to countries, too.
With sudden vigour that denied the weakness of my drugged limbs, I set about exploring the turbulent and swaying space of the moving lorry. The horses’ stalls, the Luton space above the cab and even the hay bags were all examined in great detail but after I did it for the second time I had to accept it. There was a big fat nothing.
But I couldn’t be wrong. Surely?
Think Eleanor. Think!
I found myself sitting on the hay-strewn floor leaning against the wall once more, with my hands pressed tightly to my eyes. My enfeebled mind was complaining bitterly at this final assault on its weakened powers and, staring defeat in the face, I lifted my head to look up at Beechnut in the hope of finding some glimmer of cheer to save me from the fast approaching grip of bleak and unanswerable despair. She flicked her ears at me before vigorously scratching an itch under her mane on the edge of the partition.
“Beechnut!” I cried, making her jump in surprise. “You clever girl!”
She didn’t quite know what she had done to deserve this praise but nevertheless accepted it with good grace. It was so obvious when I thought about it, this sudden urgency of refurbishing the lorry when he was constantly reminding me of his financial difficulties. Why so urgent unless it would be carrying a priceless cargo?
With a sudden burst of wild enthusiasm I began examining the smooth wooden surface of the upright that secured the new central partition and held the breast-bar. My fingers ran down its length in search of any loose trimmings that might conceal a void in which to secrete the papers. Then I stopped and did it again. There, definitely there, just above the fixing for the bar, something moved.
I tugged at it and pushed and pulled, and I believe at one point even kicked, but the odious bit of wood would not budge. With a cry of rage I threw my weight against it – and immediately had to stop with a curse and say “Ow!”
A splinter had caught in my hand. However the sudden shock of pain steadied me in my rising hysteria and as I sucked the tiny bead of blood away, I was able to examine the strip of wood more calmly. It had been tacked on with long nails and no amount of cursing at it would draw them out; I needed some leverage. There was even a gap of almost a finger’s width behind it where a knot had broken off and if I could just find something to jam in there I suspected it would not take much to pull it away.
I searched about determinedly. There was nothing in the Luton other than an old blanket which smelled of horse and the rest of the box contained only me, the horses and the hay. That was it; nothing – nothing that would be strong enough to part the nails. I felt my pockets, my clothes and about my body, and then, abruptly, all thoughts of the search were forgotten. My heart stilled and suddenly, completely, nothing else mattered.
My necklace was gone.
It was ludicrous that such a small object should have been the thing that finally broke my fragile resolve but suddenly the fight went out of me and I sat down and cried and cried until my eyes hurt. Somehow the necklace had come to symbolise everything about my newfound hope for a future and the loss of the necklace made me suddenly realise the loss of the man. If he should fall into John’s trap while I was stuck here in this awful prison of a horsebox, if he should die and I was not there …
I stopped that thought very sharply. I wasn’t prepared to give up on him just yet. Tremblingly, I forced my brain to focus and as I began to feel about myself once more and my searching fingers found my waist, I suddenly discovered my much needed inspiration.
The belt was perfect and its long metal buckle seemed almost designed for the task as it slipped easily into the gap. I pushed with all my might against that strip of wood and by some miracle the buckle proved stronger than the nails. Then, with a great tearing sound, the nails ripped free and with tidy efficiency as if mocking my former despair, the
wood pulled away, and fell neatly into my hand.
I was right, the partition was hollow and there was space enough inside for all the papers. There was just one problem; they were not there.
I looked and peered from every angle, but nothing made any difference. The papers truly were not hidden here.
“Dammit!” I threw the strip of wood to the floor in useless fury. Then, cursing again and with more venom at my own stupidity, I had to scrabble about under the stallion’s legs to retrieve it – the protruding nails would be a terrible danger if he were to step on them.
I placed the piece up into the Luton above the cab so that it was safely out of their way before attempting to reawaken my eagerness for my foolish little mission. I was beginning to suspect that I had latched upon this task purely to keep myself from collapsing into a sobbing hysteria but as I stood winding the belt about my waist once more, I felt my brain tentatively give another little nudge.
The floor was covered in hessian matting to soak up any urine and to provide grip for their feet, and in the little space that I occupied, it was possible to convince myself that in the corner where the Luton met the jockey door, perhaps, just perhaps, the matting was not tacked down quite so securely.
Now an expert at prising things free, I bent down and tugged at the hessian with all my might. For a while it seemed like it might not give but then, with a wonderful fraying of threads, it finally surrendered and suddenly the whole portion ripped away from its pins in a great satisfying lump. I almost laughed as I looked down at the bare floor of the lorry. There, set into the plain wood panelled flooring, was a small hatch complete with little brass handles that had been laid flush with its surface. Their hinges squeaked as I lifted the cold metal loops.
Defying tradition, the hatch lifted smoothly clear without even so much as a murmur of resistance and there, below me, in a recess in the floor with the road roaring past underneath, lay my papers.
