‘Yes,’ I said, ‘why?’
He handed the customer the package and turned to me. ‘She phoned earlier and said to tell you not to forget Simeon’s bike.’
‘Oh, God—!’ I looked at my watch. It was just coming up to three-thirty now. ‘I’ve got to dash out again,’ I said. ‘I promised to meet Simeon from school to go and buy his birthday present! I forgot all about it!’ I started to move away. Arthur said after me: ‘Have you got your car?’
‘No.’ I turned back to him. ‘I left it at home. I’m going back to get it now.’
‘Take mine,’ he said. ‘It’ll save time.’ He took out his keys and handed them to me. ‘It’s just round the corner in East Street.’
I thanked him and hurried outside. Turning into East Street I recognized his old blue Cortina at once. I got in, revved the motor, edged out into the road and set off in the direction of Simeon’s school.
Four minutes later I rounded the corner into the school road and saw, some hundred and fifty yards ahead on the left, the old Victorian school building. There too was Simeon, a small fair-haired figure standing on the pavement next to a stationary Rover.
I braked as the intersection lights before me turned red to allow a stream of cars, lorries and buses to cross my path. I could still see Simeon—quick, flashing glimpses of him, views caught between the moving vehicles. He was standing now right beside the Rover . . . and one of its doors was opening . . . My view then was suddenly cut off by a gigantic articulated lorry that slowed and stopped in front of me. For a moment I was totally hemmed in on all sides by the heavy traffic.
When at last I could see down the street again the Rover was drawing away from the kerb.
And Simeon was no longer in sight.
Chapter Twenty-three
As the lights turned to green the saturating fear that overwhelmed me caused me to lose my powers of coordination; my hands shook on the steering wheel and my legs seemed to have no strength in them as I tried to manoeuvre the pedals. When I let out the unfamiliar clutch I did it too jerkily and the Cortina bounced to a start and almost stalled. Then, though, with the need for control fighting my panic—and winning out—I got away and drove as swiftly as I could along the road.
Drawing level with the school gates I looked quickly over to the left. There was no sign of Simeon; but there—I had no doubt that he was in the Rover up ahead.
I found myself leaning forward, hunched up over the wheel. What should I do? How could I stop them? Should I call the police? But by the time I had even found a phone-box the Rover would be far out of sight—and as yet I had no idea where it was heading. There was only one thing to be done, I realized, and that was to stay with the car and keep it in sight; then, once I’d found where it was going I could think of some way to deal with the situation and get Simeon back again.
Simeon . . . Simeon . . . Why had they taken him? I had thought it was all over. Had I been wrong about everything? The questions now, though, were fleeting; I no longer cared what the answers were. All I was concerned about was the fate of my son.
The Rover was still in sight, separated from me by five other cars. The busyness of the thoroughfare determined the speed of the traffic and at the moment the vehicles weren’t moving too quickly. Remaining at what I considered to be a fairly safe distance from the Rover I decided to keep my position for as long as I could; I didn’t want to get too close so that I might be recognized, though neither could I afford to get so far behind that I risked losing sight of it.
I realized what a piece of good fortune it was that I was not driving my own car. That would soon have betrayed my presence there on the road, for even if Simeon’s captors didn’t recognize it Simeon himself would certainly do so. As it was, nobody would connect me with the blue Cortina . . .
Stopping at a set of lights on Wandsworth’s East Hill I took a quick look about the car’s interior for something that might aid me to escape detection. Groping in the glove compartment I fished out a pair of dark glasses. I put them on. There was also an old cap, weather-stained and much worn. I put that on too, pulling it well down over my forehead.
The closer I drew towards Hammersmith the thicker grew the traffic and I had to take occasional chances in order to secure my view of the car up in front. I managed it safely, though, and eventually followed the Rover’s path onto the madhouse of the Hammersmith Broadway. Here, caught behind a slowly driven old Vauxhall, I rounded the bend just in time to see the Rover turn left and head westward. My panic rose again; the car was heading for the motorway. Looking at the fuel gauge I saw that the Cortina’s tank was just over half-full. Please God, I thought, let there be enough . . . I was sure now, or almost sure, of the Rover’s destination.
* * *
The journey along the M4, apart from my all-consuming dread, was not in itself as terrifying as I’d feared it would be. I’d been afraid that once on the motorway the Rover would just take off at speed in the fast lane and that the old Cortina wouldn’t be able to keep up. But not so. The Rover maintained a steady pace, rarely exceeding the 70 m.p.h. limit—probably to avoid attracting the attention of any vigilant police patrol, I thought.
To my great relief I found that the Cortina was responding well to the demands I made upon it and throughout the seemingly never-ending journey I was able to keep the Rover in sight at all times. The density of the traffic helped here; the evening rush hours had begun and the numerous homeward-bound commuters gave me camouflage and kept me hidden. In order further to escape notice I didn’t keep the same distance between the two cars either, but often allowed myself to drop back so that I’d never be constantly visible in the Rover’s rear-view mirror. And so the nightmare journey went on.
After what seemed an age I got to Exit 18 and watched, unsurprised, as the Rover moved off the motorway. I followed it at a safe distance onto the A46, the main Bath road. I had no doubt now that Woolvercombe House was the car’s destination and my certainty helped to allay some of my fear, for on the narrower country roads I could no longer allow myself to follow so closely behind. Dropping back further and further until I was quite sure that I wouldn’t be noticed I soon lost all sight of the car ahead.
Beyond Bath I took the A367—the road I had driven on my first journey to Woolvercombe House—and then turned off to the right, following the Whitefell sign. Soon after that I was driving through the little village of Whitefell itself and heading for Woolvercombe House beyond.
* * *
When the high wall surrounding the grounds of Woolvercombe House came in sight I drove the car off the road and parked it in the shelter of a small copse. Taking off the dark glasses and the cap I got out, pocketed the keys and set off on foot towards the wall. I reached it in just a few minutes and stood beneath it, gazing up. It rose up several feet above my head and I could see no obvious way of getting over.
Turning, I moved alongside the wall, all the time getting further away from the road and deeper into the surrounding meadows. I was looking for the place by which Catherine had made her escape. The wall seemed to be going on forever, though; there was no sign of any break in it. After a time I found myself running in panic and desperation. There had to be some way of getting into the grounds.
And then at last I came upon a row of tall elms at the edge of the meadow, close to the wall. They were all dead or dying, victims of disease. Two of them had fallen, one lying alongside the wall while the other had fallen against it, pushing it out of line and reducing part of the structure to rubble. There had been an attempt to stop the gap with barbed wire, I found, but this wasn’t enough to keep me from getting through, and in a couple of minutes I was on the other side.
Standing with my back to the wall I told myself that I should have called the police. It was too late now, though; I was over and would have to go on; every second that passed was vital. I moved away, pushing into the tangle of the overgrown greenery
, seeking some landmark that would set me on the path to the house.
After a while I saw ahead of me in a clearing a cottage. For a couple of seconds I froze, concealing myself in the shadows, but then, seeing no sign of movement anywhere, I moved forward.
The door wasn’t locked. I opened it, went in and stood for a moment in silence, listening. There was no sound, though, and as quickly as I could I ran from room to room. There were a kitchen and two other rooms downstairs, and three bedrooms on the floor above. All empty. I saw five beds upstairs, each one bare of its mattress. This must be where the nuns had stayed, I realized. Glancing swiftly about me I saw signs of their occupancy; there were clothes hanging in an open wardrobe, and on a nearby chair I saw a gaping handbag, its contents of snapshots, compact, lipstick and loose change spilling onto the cushion. The sight brought panic surging in me again. Those young women, I was certain, had not only left their rooms, they had left this life as well. I turned and, mouthing Simeon’s name, dashed down the stairs, out of the house and away into the trees.
For some minutes I just seemed to be going round in circles, but then I saw rising up before me the tall shape of the tower. Now I had my bearings. The two paths to the house were over to my left. I ran on, ignoring the first, more frequently used one, and came at last to the one which I’d discovered on my first expedition into the grounds. Once on it I moved silently and carefully along its narrow way, over the precarious, makeshift bridge that spanned the stream and through the thicket towards the house.
When I reached the house I could see no sign of any movement. Peering out from behind a screen of leaves I stood gazing at the rear of the building. Was Simeon here?—or had they taken him somewhere else?
Keeping in the cover of the wild-growing foliage I moved to the left through the thicket, crossed the other path and made my way by the outside of the kitchen gardens and around the house. I came to a stop. The foliage in which I concealed myself grew up close to the house itself, affording me a view of both its front and west side. There was still no sign of any movement. But that didn’t dismay me any longer, for there on the forecourt stood the Rover. I knew now that Simeon must be nearby.
But how was I to get him away? If the house had its usual number of occupants there would be far too many for me to deal with. I felt I could cope with the women there and with McIntosh, but Carl and Hathaway were a different proposition. Both in appearance fit and very able-looking, they constituted a major barrier.
I looked at my watch. It was after seven-thirty. I couldn’t just stand there and wait for something to happen. Precious time was going by. I had to do something.
As I stood, perspiring in the fear that had never left me for a moment, I saw Carl come down the steps from the front door carrying two suitcases. From his handling of them they appeared to be heavy. I watched as he lifted the lid of the boot and stowed the cases inside. Preparations for a departure . . . But who was leaving?—and did they plan on taking Simeon with them . . . ?
Carl had left the lid of the boot up and was opening the rear passenger door and leaning inside. When he emerged and straightened up he was clutching odd scraps of paper, an empty cigarette carton and other sundry items—the usual debris that accumulated in a car’s interior. He stuffed the things into an old plastic bag, opened the front passenger door and leaned into the car again. And then there was a movement beyond as the figure of Mrs. Weldon appeared in the front doorway.
It took me a moment or two to realize that it was she who stood there. No longer wearing the ordinary day clothes in which I’d seen her before, she was now dressed in a long, dark-red robe with full, loose sleeves and a hem that almost touched the ground. There was a sash of a darker red about her plump waist and her hair was covered by a hood. Only her hands and face were visible.
‘Leave it,’ she called peremptorily down the steps, and Carl drew his head out of the car and looked up at her.
‘I’m nearly through,’ he said.
‘Leave it.’ Her voice was more stern. ‘There’s no more time. Do it afterwards.’ Without waiting for any further word from him she turned on the step and, the folds of her red robe swinging, disappeared back into the house.
Carl slammed the car door and, carrying the plastic bag, went up the steps after her. The forecourt was deserted again.
It was time now, I decided. Whatever the consequences the moment couldn’t be delayed. It was time to act.
I looked on the ground about my feet, moved a couple of paces to the left and, bending down, closed my hand around a solid piece of a fallen branch. I pulled it free of the clinging overgrowth. It measured about a foot and a half in length. I spread my fingers and gripped it tightly; then, stepping out from my cover, I moved past the car and up the steps.
The soft soles of my shoes on the thick carpet in the hall allowed me a swift and silent progress. My heart thudding, I turned to the right, listened for a moment outside the drawing room then softly opened the door and peered in. All the furniture was covered with dust-sheets. The stale, slightly damp smell gave the impression that the room hadn’t been used in months.
The same with the dining room, the library and Mrs. Weldon’s study. I went from room to room, my movements increasingly hurried, driven by mounting panic, growing less and less careful about maintaining my stealth. Moving along the corridor of the east wing I softly turned the handle of Miss Stewart’s door. Locked. I crouched, peered through the keyhole and saw nothing beyond but darkness. The smell of her was there, though—heavy and fetid, and I straightened up and turned away. At the end of the corridor I saw the door to the clinic. I moved towards it. That also was locked, and no sound came from within.
Looking from the windows I peered out over the courtyard to the wild formal garden and the encroaching woodland beyond. There was movement there; a glimpse of red amid the green. For a split-second I had a fragmentary view of figures moving along the path. The next moment they were gone from my sight.
I hurried back to the hall and tried the door that led onto the courtyard. It was unlocked. I pushed it open. And then stopped. From somewhere over my head I’d heard the sound of movement. Footsteps were hurrying down the stairs.
Silently closing the door again I stepped back into the shadow of the staircase. The descending feet were right above my head now. I gripped the piece of wood in my right hand. My body was suddenly drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest.
The footsteps had reached the bottom of the stairs and were moving towards me; they made a loose flapping sound, like that of sandals. I raised the branch above my head. A moment later Carl appeared, only three feet away from me, reaching out for the courtyard door.
For the briefest moment he seemed to hover there, quite unaware of me, but as if somehow held by my terrified gaze. Into the horror of the moment came my realization of what could happen. It didn’t have to, though; he could go on through the door . . . I stood there, transfixed by fear and willing him to continue on. And then he turned and saw me.
As he reached towards me my moment of choice was gone and I brought the weapon down with all my power on his red-hooded skull. There was a loud, dull crack. Without a murmur he fell to the floor.
I stood over him, the weapon raised again, tears streaming down my face. My breathing sounded hoarse and hollow in my ears and I was dimly aware of the wide expansion of my lungs as I gulped at the air. I lowered the piece of wood and leaned down over him. Blood was oozing from the unseen wound and slowly staining a darker red the fabric of his hood and robe. Placing my hand on his chest I felt for a heartbeat. I could detect nothing.
I straightened and stared down in disbelief. I was shaking from head to foot. It had come to this. I had killed a man.
Forcing myself to move again I found that I couldn’t get the door open with Carl’s body against it. Stooping, I took hold of his ankles and dragged him clear. As I did so the scarlet robe rode
up to reveal his bare thighs and genitals. I let his feet go, stepped over his body and opened the door. Then, still clutching the branch, I ran into the courtyard, up beside the kitchen garden and into the thick of the woodland.
As silently and as quickly as I could I moved along the path and over the bridge. Beyond that I hurried through the dense thicket till I came to the stretch of grass where the tower rose up from the bramble patch. There was no sign of movement. I knew, though, that they were there.
I didn’t go straight to the door but worked my way along the wall till I stood beneath the window I had looked through before. There, finding the same foothold, I hoisted myself up and peered over the sill. I could see nothing at all except a heavy black curtain that covered the glass. I could hear something, though—the faint murmur of voices.
Five seconds later I was back at the door. Flinging it open I burst into the chamber.
Chapter Twenty-four
As I kicked the door shut behind me all eyes in the room turned as one in my direction. Hathaway, clad like most of the others in scarlet, took a step towards me. I raised the branch above my head.
‘If you come any nearer I swear I’ll kill you.’ I ground the words out through gritted teeth. I stood with my back to the door, my legs apart. I recognized, besides Hathaway, the red-robed figures of Mrs. Weldon, Miss Harrison, Abbie the maid and Dr. McIntosh. There were others there also—two old men whose faces were unknown to me. They were all standing motionless in the window-darkened chamber, staring at me, an unholy-looking gathering eerily lit by the flickering blaze of four flambeaux held in sconces on the curving walls.
It was the centrepiece of the tableau, though, that riveted my attention. There at the far end of the chamber was the ornate lift. At the side of it lay a stretcher, empty. Inside the lift sat Miss Stewart in her wheelchair and there, next to her, lying on the floor, was a blanket-wrapped bundle. Staring through the fitful light I saw the dull shine of Simeon’s blond hair. I said into the hush:
The Reaping Page 18
