by Lorna Gray
The wild air met us with a brutal blast. It stopped us in our tracks and with sudden concern, I threw a hasty look around in case we had been spotted, but I could see no one.
We jogged messily across the open ground to the barn, eyes scanning the black gaping doorway for any sign of movement other than the swaying undergrowth but it was clearly deserted. With a curse I used rein and leg to turn the horse and urged her down towards the farmhouse, careless now of any disturbance we made. But I needn’t have worried; the farmhouse was similarly blank and empty.
I stopped for a moment, thinking furiously. Then inspiration struck and with renewed determination, I turned Beechnut about and let her fly again across the wide expanse of the open hilltop.
She stretched her neck forwards and lowered herself into the streamlined arrow of a racehorse as she sped across the curving grassland. We slowed briefly to navigate the spreading marsh of a thin stream and then, plunging through another open gateway and across the road that led to the village, we launched ourselves at the great grassy slope that climbed upwards to meet the summit of the high ridge.
It was impossibly steep and her laboured breathing became rough and irregular as she fought her way up the banks. But just as her great strength began to tire, the dark shape of the evergreen hedge loomed towards us and, giving her a moment to gather herself, I set her at the last slope and the low stone wall that bounded the open space of the drive near the rear range. She pricked her ears and I sat up to urge her on.
And very nearly fell off. There was a rough breath of air and a scattering of dirt as she locked her legs to slither agonisingly to an ugly stop. Her breast brushed the moss from the cold face of the wall and I would have fallen off but that she threw up her head at the last possible moment and by some miracle I managed to shove myself back into the saddle. With an angry snort she shied away and bunched to bolt wildly back down the slopes again but the hard hold I took on her mouth pulled her head round and held her panicked flight steady.
“Sorry, darling,” I said breathlessly as I put a hand on her sweaty neck to calm her. “I’m so sorry, it’s not your fault.”
It occurred to me later that it was probably very fortunate that she didn’t make the jump because if we had burst in on them like that, at such a maddened pace and so wholly unexpectedly, their reaction would have been purely instinctive and certainly devastatingly final. But as it was, her refusal checked my crazed headlong rush and instead we trotted relatively sedately along the wall to find the corner with its little gate that would lead us out onto the drive.
With limbs that were trembling from adrenalin and nerves, I slithered down from her back and led her carefully through the gap as the wind snatched open the gate and then swung it sweetly shut again behind us. Crossing her stirrups over the saddle and knotting the reins safely on her neck, I whispered a hard command of “Stand!” and, leaving her to forage for grass on Sir William’s neat verges, I slipped soundlessly along in the lee of the bowing yew hedge, under the darkened wall of the house and onwards to the corner where the high gabled frontage met the gardens.
And all the while I was keeping up a steady silent prayer that this maddened race would not, with all the laws of logic, prove to be far, far too late.
Chapter 34
I do not believe that I even considered for a moment the possibility of finding that they were not there. Knowing John as I now unhappily did, I had already guessed he would not simply take Matthew away to dispose of him quietly in some secluded woodland spot. Equally clearly there had never been any intention of handing Matthew over to the police – with the danger of exposure creeping ever closer there was no likelihood of him making that mistake now. Instead Matthew’s death would be as grandiose and as unnecessary as this crazed scheme with all its exhilarating risks could allow.
From the very instant that Matthew had unwittingly become involved, John must have allowed for this moment. With the same single-mindedness that had snuffed out the life of his uncle’s joiner, I knew he would now act to remove any remaining danger of discovery and with it mark a final and emphatic conclusion to their absurd rivalry. And if I felt a momentary concern as to how effective I of all people might be in attempting to prevent it, my doubts were forgotten when at last I peered around the edge of the building.
Not far from me, on the level terrace that looked out over the spot where I had lingered in brief but wonderful respite from the pressures of the dance, stood the Colonel and Sir William. The two old men were standing side by side with their faces turned slightly towards me, identical coats lifting and guttering behind with each fresh gust, and where the dull cast of light from the house touched and coloured them, I could see the metallic gleam of a shotgun hanging in Sir William’s hand. It was polished to a shine and he held it level at his hip with practiced ease. His finger was resting lightly on the trigger so that the long lethal barrel aimed casually down the stone steps to a point concealed by the bulk of a tall elegantly squared yew which, although bent out of all shape by the rising gale, was still entirely impenetrable.
Cursing the gardeners who had cultivated such an impossible blind, I forced my nerves to permit me to creep stealthily closer. I slipped clumsily under the light of a window and into the deep shadow of the high arches of the arcade and then, with my heart in my mouth, took that insane first step out of cover. With my fingers outstretched to ward off unforeseen obstacles, I slid along until I had moved beyond the very last column of the arcade. My awkward body came to rest in the woody stems of an overgrown creeper beside a bay window, only yards away from the unguarded backs of the old gentlemen, and where finally, and against every wish, I could see beyond the broken boxed yew.
I very nearly cried out. Not from fear or horror, although I could see in an instant that their treatment of him had not been kind, but instead from an overwhelming relief that whatever else had happened, I was not too late. He was still alive.
But this brief feeling with all the meagre comfort it could bring was quickly lost. He was kneeling in the soaked grass at the bottom of the steps with his head down and I could see a dark stain where blood had congealed above his eye from a cut that still bled a little. There was a graze on the back of his hand where it rested on his thigh and his clothes – the ones he had collected from his house only the day before – were torn and ruined. His breath was being snatched away by the wind but surprisingly, although I could see that it was strained and irregular, the little lifts of his chest beneath the open flaps of a mud-stained jacket seemed unhurried as John moved around him.
I watched as John gave Matthew’s shoulder a shove. He had to fling out a hand as he was knocked sideways and slowly, and with what appeared to be a great effort, he righted himself. I wondered if they had beaten him.
“Not so cocksure now, are you?” The low hiss of John’s voice was almost inaudible above the growing shriek of the wind. He was swaggering in a tight circle; he too held a gun, a shotgun I thought, although not a double-barrel. It hung loosely in his hand and I wondered just how much he craved to use it. “Still trying to pretend that you’re innocent?”
I had to swallow another cry as Matthew raised his head. He had a cruel mark on his jaw but the pale face that lifted to meet his captors’ did not bear the wavering gaze of one who was utterly weakened and defeated. With a sudden thrill of hope I realised that he was still very much master of himself and when he spoke it was with a thin fury.
“You can peddle your lies as much as you like, Langton – I just don’t care. All I want to know is what you’ve done with her.” The voice was cracked and faint, but his words broke through the racing air and flung his defiance at their feet with an almost physical force.
I saw John give an exasperated jerk of his head. He turned angrily away and I knew then that this strategic concentration of his remaining strength was how Matthew had managed to survive so long. He must have understood from the very first moment that his capitulation was the victory that John craved; and
the denial of it, even as he slumped battered and bruised at the other’s feet, was a challenge that would not be ignored.
“You can plead all you like, it won’t save you.” John spoke sneeringly and I wondered if he realised how this sounded when it was clear to us all that Matthew was still very far from any kind of pleading. Perhaps he did realise because then he turned to his father and snarled, “We know he killed Jamie; he’s almost certainly done away the girl and now tonight someone else has died by his gun, so what should we do with him, eh?”
There was an odd little silence while I had time to register the meaning of his words. Someone else? But then I had to shrink back into the shadows as John’s gaze swept angrily across the vacant windows towards me.
Matthew’s head drooped once more. From my useless position against the wall, I had the sudden horrible realisation that the effort of maintaining this last show of resistance was telling painfully. His head stayed down even as John stepped past him and I knew that if help didn’t arrive soon to snatch him away from beneath the hungry gaze of those guns, he would lose this battle of wits and make that final admission that would unleash John’s hatred. My ears strained keenly for the sound of approaching cars and our salvation in the form of the Inspector but the groaning embrace of the darkness behind was as uninviting as it was complete.
There was a crack of uneven paving under Sir William’s foot as he shifted his weight. The gun twitched hungrily in his hand. “Who else has he killed?”
Gratified by his uncle’s outrage, John smiled and indulged in a little self-righteous indignation. “Would you believe that he actually came to me, Uncle, trying to accuse me of doing something to harm that girl? Well, now we’ll see who’s boss, won’t we?”
“Who else?” The Colonel cut across him sharply. Even in this meagre yellow light I could see the purple tinge to his features. “John?”
There was a sudden snap by my ear. It drew their attention as well as mine. I snatched back, nerves shrieking, into the creeper as their eyes jerked towards me. But even as I froze in immoveable horror, I realised that they were not staring at me but at the tall latticed window which had inexplicably opened barely inches from my side.
“Bill? Bill!”
The fleeting hope that this distraction would somehow prove to be a forerunner of the Inspector’s judicious arrival was shattered by a woman’s high girlish tones. So close that it seemed inconceivable that she didn’t see me, Sir William’s wife appeared in the vacant frame, swathed in a flapping, gaping dressing gown and grey hair escaping wool-like from a hideously frilly nightcap. In the guttering lamplight, her willowy figure cast a distorted and nightmarish shadow across the group of angry men.
“Bill!” she cried again, idiotically.
“What?” snapped her husband. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”
She flinched at his tone and covering her mouth with her hand, gave a sad little, “Oh…”
Instantly Sir William’s demeanour softened and, flapping a hand in hasty suppression of John’s irritable mutter behind, he took a step towards her making an affectionate abbreviation of her name and restoring his usual genial tone. “What is it, my dear?”
She gave him a silly smile and I wondered whether she had even noticed that there was a man kneeling in the dirt at the foot of her steps with blood on his cheek and guns levelled at his head. “Oh, Bill, dear, it’s just Lord Oakridge. He wants to know why the police have been calling on him to confirm he was with us that horrible afternoon. He said it was terribly embarrassing and that he hopes you won’t be bandying his name about in future. I told him I didn’t believe you ever bandied anybody’s name about because you were above that kind of thing, but he wants to speak to you anyway. He’s on the telephone.”
Sir William shared an inward ferocious and silent exchange with his temper before forcing his mouth into a smile. “Tell him I’m terribly busy and can’t speak to him now. And to be honest if that dratted buffoon can’t even admit to the police that he likes coming here to share a sherry then he can just go hang and it’s the last time I host his son’s shooting parties. No, don’t say that last. Just give him my apologies, would you? There’s a dear.”
With a simpering smile she span away, the window snapping shut behind her and I knew then that I must be verging on total collapse, because the only thing I could focus on out of all the thoughts that were flying through my mind was the absurd realisation that yet again I had somehow failed to catch the woman’s name.
There was a pause while each of us recovered from her bizarre interruption, then, coattails flapping, the old men turned slowly back again. The Colonel’s eyes, narrowed against the storm, almost seemed to touch upon me for a moment, actually grazing my cowed figure where it pressed frozen against the woody stems of the creeper. But then it moved on and he too settled his attention once more upon the windswept figure of his son.
Sharp as a knife, the Colonel’s voice cut across the horror of what might have been. “Who else has that man killed, John?”
John was staring blankly into space and it took another growl of his name before he blinked and managed to focus on his father. He lifted his head and said, confused, “Why, Hicks, of course.”
“Hicks?” Sir William’s hoarse croak fought a gusting sigh that rattled along the house front. “My manager? He’s killed Hicks?”
“Yes!” John’s enthusiasm revived again in triumph, “Hicks! And I’ve got his gun here, should we help him put it to one final use?”
He stepped smartly towards Matthew once more and gave him another vicious shove. My lip stung where I bit it and with a sudden bitter understanding of my uselessness, I peered fiercely into the darkness beyond the house wall and tried to force my brain to think of some diversion that might delay them until help came. I was listening feverishly but the wind had veered a little and the fresh rain that was now hammering down the length of the building oppressively smothered all else. I turned my eyes back to the men again.
“If you’ve…” Matthew had eased himself upright again and was staring up at John. His voice sounded as if it was held level by a very great effort and it was betraying his fatigue. “If you’ve hurt her I’ll…”
John interrupted him with a laugh.
Matthew lifted his eyes to the two old men, “Colonel, show some sense – make him tell you where she is. Please!”
John’s laugh transformed into a great sneer of triumph. “And finally he begs…”
It took me a horribly long moment to realise what had happened. But even as I began to realise the significance of his words, I saw John stalk around the kneeling man in an arc that made my blood run cold. He came to a stop behind and smiled.
Matthew had turned his head to follow him. He was watching the other man out of the corner of his eye. Then John stepped a little closer. He bent down and, through the swirling tempest of freshly falling rain, I saw his lips move. “Don’t look to my father for help, boy. He won’t save you. He knows exactly what you are.”
The expression on Matthew’s face ought to have told me what I was too afraid to admit but then, with a savagery that brought realisation flooding painfully to my heart, John took hold of Matthew’s hair. I saw Matthew’s body jerk once in instinctive resistance but John simply adjusted his grip and in the stillness that followed it was clear that the man at his feet had nothing more to give.
John’s next words were delivered in a gently spoken undertone and they were meant for Matthew’s ears alone. “It’s far too late for begging. Now you’ll never know, will you?”
He pressed the cold mouth of the gun against Matthew’s temple and cast a glance up at his father. There was loathing and need and not even the barest speck of pity in the Colonel’s eyes as he stared down at the man held taut before him in cruel submission by his son’s fist. Then the old man lifted his gaze to John’s face.
John smiled. “I would say it was perfectly conceivable that overcome with guilt for this last despicable act he s
hould contemplate suicide. Don’t you?”
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Colonel gave a nod.
Chapter 35
“No!”
The scream flung itself gruesomely back at me from the high walls of the house. For a long terrible moment I thought the roaring in my ears was the report of the gun but then finally I managed to draw a gasping breath and I realised that the only sound I could hear was the sharp rattle of windblown rain against glass. I took a moment to steady myself, and stepped forwards into the light.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
There was a devastated silence. All eyes fixed upon me, each face pale and shocked as if I were a ghost, and perhaps I was. It felt so unearthly and cold that I might well have been dead.
But then the spell-bound silence broke. John let out a short choking gasp of a cry and took a staggering step backwards. Abruptly released, Matthew fell forwards in an ugly sprawl onto the lawn and he lay there, awkwardly propped on one elbow, head down and unmoving so that I almost wondered if I was wrong and I had spoken too late after all. But then I saw his soaked shoulders lift a little and he drew a long slow shuddering intake of breath.
I took another unsteady step forwards and found, insanely, that I was smiling. “Surprised to see me?”
John swallowed and put out a hand, half to ward me off and half as a vain attempt at casual greeting. “Ellie?” he croaked. “But I thought …”
“What? That I was taking a Sunday drive?” I peered through streaks of rain-soaked hair at his father. “You might want to think twice before killing an innocent man, Colonel.”
“Innocent? He’s not innocent.” Sir William was the one to find his voice first and it came with a spit of venom. No jovial friend to my father now; his mouth had twisted out of all recognition from its usual supine curve, his features laid bare by the toll of lately conspiring to exact his own extreme idea of justice.
