The Running Lie

by Jennifer Young

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘I’ll stay till you kick me out.’ He rubbed her back.

  Max kissed him. ‘I actually meant with the men, the search.’

  ‘The extra help will go, I assume. Your father’s guards will be doing double shifts, and Sir Marcus’s. I’m here and so is…’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘It’ll be okay.’ He kept up the steady slow strokes across her back, and her eyelids drooped. She jerked awake again. ‘Try to sleep, honey.’

  ‘Will you stay?’ Max murmured.

  She drifted off to sleep on the current of his voice, but when she woke hours later, he was gone. The counterpane had been folded around her, and she still wore her dressing gown. When had he left?

  Max opened her room door. A person sat outside. Not John. She blinked, but Victor still tilted back in that same bloody straight back chair. He banged the front legs down on the floor.

  ‘Morning, sleepy head.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Watching out for you. John was here till seven, but I insisted he get some sleep. You okay?’

  Max wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Honestly, no.’ She slid down the wall until the chill of the wooden floorboards crept through her robe. ‘What did my mother say?’

  ‘Lord Bartlemas handled that, thank God.’

  ‘John really thinks I need a guard at my door?’ She was the one who insisted he stay.

  ‘He’s in love. And you’re scared, with some reason.’

  ‘Even at ten in the morning?’ She pressed her fingers to her eyes. Her head ached. He hadn’t stayed. In the morning light, of course it was rational and right, but…

  ‘Please, for the love of God, and all our sanities, tell John yes.’

  ‘Victor.’ Max tugged her robe more tightly around her body, and something rustled. She reached in the pocket and found a folded sheet of paper. Notepaper from her bedside table’s drawer.

  Dearest Max,

  Say yes because you want to marry me, not because we got caught.

  I love you.

  John

  She folded it again. He was right, of course he was. But…

  ‘From John?’ Victor asked. She frowned at him. ‘Nobody’s been in or out. It’d have to be him. Most people just leave notes on pillows.’

  Had she slept so deeply she hadn’t felt him slide it into her pocket? Spy skills? ‘Why can’t he be normal?’

  ‘You wouldn’t like him so much.’ Victor laughed. ‘Kiddo, you work in a field mostly populated by men. Your mother throws eligible bachelors at you. I’ve paraded every man I know past you. Hell, I’ve introduced myself to some just to set them up with you.’

  Max could only imagine what those men had thought.

  ‘You could be married to that lieutenant in Scotland by now, but you didn’t want any of them. Stop fighting so hard.’

  Footsteps sounded at the end of the hall, and Victor stood.

  ‘It’s a busy house,’ Max said. She should move, and she would as soon as she could pry her aching body upwards.

  ‘You’re telling me. I’ve been out here for three hours.’

  Lady Bartlemas came down the hallway, and Victor remained standing.

  ‘Hello, Mr Westfield. Max.’

  ‘I’ll get dressed.’ She rested her hands on the floor for just a moment before she pushed herself upright.

  ‘I was going to suggest you go back to sleep, actually. You look exhausted.’

  Max smiled. ‘Thanks. Happy birthday, by the way.’

  ‘Do you say happy Fourth of July?’ Victor asked.

  ‘You can.’ Mother laughed. ‘I realise I’m unusual in celebrating so fiercely, but it can make one feel very American to have a birthday on the Fourth.’ She wrapped an arm around Max’s shoulders.

  Had the conversation yesterday made such a difference? Maybe Max should thank Catherine.

  ‘Darling, do get some more sleep. You don’t want to nod off during the dancing.’ She squeezed her.

  Victor raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Shall I leave you two?’

  ‘Not if she’s going back to sleep,’ Mother said. ‘If John thinks this is necessary, I’m willing to believe him.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. It’s broad daylight.’ But it’d been broad daylight when the tree fell too.

  They spent the rest of the day quietly. Mother liked her sculpture, and the perfume Max had bought for Charlie to give her. John gave Mother a new biography of Abraham Lincoln. Max didn’t remember even telling John it was Mother’s birthday before they left. Catherine and Tommy disappeared all day, and Max decided to consider this a comfort rather than something to worry about.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MAX DRESSED CAREFULLY in a creamy Dior gown. Gold and silver embroidery and beads formed flowers across the strapless bodice and drifted across the full skirt. She half expected John to be waiting for her at the turn to the stairs, but she headed downstairs alone. Couples already spun around the ballroom as the string quartet played ‘Unforgettable’. She found Emma and Victor.

  ‘Have you seen John?’ Max asked. ‘I love your dress, Emma.’ Emma’s rose red chiffon gown flattered her dark hair.

  ‘He went back upstairs to get something,’ Victor said. ‘So, what does one do at a Fourth of July party, particularly if you’re a nasty redcoat?’

  ‘Drink, dance and help me avoid Catherine?’

  ‘I am accomplished at each of those things. Anybody else to watch out for?’

  ‘Somebody named Betsey Vander. For similar reasons.’

  ‘Are you worried…’

  ‘No, sorry. She apparently was also very well acquainted with Daniel.’

  Charlie bounded up to them. ‘There are girls here.’

  ‘What did you expect, giraffes?’ Victor asked.

  ‘No, real girls. My age.’

  Max looked across the room and saw Miss Wheatley with three teenagers. ‘They’re from the dig in Thetford. You’ve met them—you could just go talk to them.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Victor, you might want to meet Miss Wheatley too.’ They snagged drinks as they skirted around the dancing couples. Max welcomed them, and one of the girls asked Charlie to dance. He looked stiff with terror, but they walked onto the dance floor together. Max smiled. When Mother and Dad stopped by, she introduced them to Miss Wheatley and the students.

  They chatted easily, but Max kept glancing at the door. Guests whirled in a blur of bright colours. She didn’t see Catherine anywhere, but Tommy danced with a friend from Vassar.

  ‘Where is John?’ Mother asked.

  ‘Still upstairs, I think.’ Max touched Victor’s sleeve. ‘What is John getting exactly?’ she murmured.

  Victor shrugged. ‘Ask him when he gets here. I suspect you’ll like it.’ He pulled back his cuff and tapped his watch. ‘It is taking him a while, isn’t it? Should I go check on him?’

  ‘I might go. Maybe he’s unwell.’ She’d been downstairs for forty minutes. And John had never been late before.

  Tommy approached them. ‘Max, you look lovely. Could I have this dance?’

  What reason could she give? ‘Of course.’ She let him take her gloved hand and lead her towards the dance floor. She’d go upstairs as soon as this dance finished.

  ‘I’m sorry about the other day in the library. The fight, and well, my proposal. It wasn’t just the money.’ His arms closed around her. ‘I do like you.’

  She nodded and let herself relax into the dance. ‘What’s wrong, Tommy? If it isn’t just financial…’ Victor and Emma danced at the other side of the room. Where was John? What could be so important upstairs?

  ‘Let’s not talk about it now.’ He steered her towards the open French window, although so slowly she didn’t realise it at first. ‘How is your archaeology work going?’

  ‘Fine.’ They’d just reached the doors and he whirled her out through them onto the terrace. ‘Tommy?’

&nbs
p; His grip tightened around her, and suddenly the ease of the dance felt more like force. ‘Tommy, let me go. Now.’ She tried to slide out of his arms, but he proved stronger than he looked. And then they spun towards a row of plant pots on the side of the terrace. Bobby had called them a jungle, just this morning, and darted in and out of the foliage. But behind the thick leaves now stood a large man Max had never seen.

  Tommy propelled her into the arms of the man, who smiled at her with fleshy lips.

  ‘Tommy, this is ridiculous.’ How could no one else be on the terrace? The ballroom had been warm. She took a deep breath, but the man slapped a hand over her mouth before she could scream. Tommy tugged at his bow tie, and then the silk filled her mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry, Max. But we don’t have a choice.’

  The other man pinned her arms behind her, and he quick marched her down the steps to the grass.

  Victor or Emma would look out the window and see her. Or John would return and wonder what had happened to her. Anybody even glancing outside would realise something was horribly wrong. She struggled against the tight grip, but the man didn’t yield.

  All too quickly, they reached the edge of the woods, and no one had shouted at them. Her breath whistled oddly, and her mouth tasted like Tommy’s cologne and sweat. She’d be sick soon, and she refused to think about vomit and a gag. They propelled her towards the shed, the one she’d been in with John. The music didn’t reach this far, but instead regular thumps came from behind the door, and terror seized Max. Nothing good could be in there.

  Tommy threw the door open, and the man pushed Max through it. Lanterns lit the small space. One on the floor near the door, and one closer to a straight-backed chair. A chair with an occupant, facing away from her. Max stared at the bound hands, the ropes going high up the forearms. The fingers clenched into fists, the fingers she knew intimately. No jacket. His hair didn’t sweep back smoothly as usual. Nothing was usual. The damned bow tie kept her from taking proper breaths. Max wrenched her own hands from side to side, but she couldn’t break free. John didn’t move.

  Will Firmin stood beside Catherine. Will Firmin. His moustache bristled over his lips. He’d known the colour of the dress she wore in Berlin. And he must have been in her room. Max fought against dizziness.

  ‘I thought you might cry,’ Catherine said. She flicked the muzzle of her gun towards Max, as if indicating with a glass at a dinner party. ‘Maybe he doesn’t mean very much to you after all.’

  ‘She means a lot to him,’ Firmin said. He stepped closer to Max. Neither Max nor John moved, although the desire to run crawled up Max’s legs. ‘Isn’t this where you threaten me if I touch her?’

  ‘I don’t need to, since you already know it.’ John finally turned his head. Max’s gasp choked into Tommy’s tie, although she couldn’t say whether it came from John’s icy fury or his battered face.

  ‘Where are my manners? Will, get Dr Falkland a chair.’ Catherine paced in front of John. She wore the same red dress she’d worn in Berlin. The sharp points rising from her cleavage looked far more dangerous tonight. Her necklace glittered in the dim light. Paste. Their money must be tight. If Max could stay rational, if she could think about practicalities… Firmin placed a chair opposite John’s. He beat a cheery rhythm on the seat, then clicked his fingers. The man’s grip on her arms relaxed. Max ripped the bow tie out of her mouth and threw it on the floor. Her heels made dull impacts across the dirt floor, and she sat. Firmin traced just above her shoulders, close enough for her to feel the air moving across her skin but not quite making contact. Max kept her gaze fixed on John’s throat framed by the open collar of his shirt. Firmin moved into her field of vision, but she stared straight ahead.

  ‘Tell me, did you enjoy our kiss the other night? Pity about your cousin interrupting us.’

  Max shuddered, as hard as she tried to restrain it, and Firmin laughed.

  ‘Soon, Max. After I finish with your lover here.’ He lifted her hand and tugged off her glove, stroking her fingers. ‘I have such plans.’

  Max tried to focus on the room and ignore her second glove being removed. If she stretched out her legs, her feet probably wouldn’t quite reach John’s shiny shoes. It’d take her at least two strides to cross to him, and how could she undo that much rope without someone stopping them? Catherine held a pistol. A folding table had been set up between their chairs, closer to hers than John’s. A fabric roll rested on it beside more rope. Two more chairs in the corner. The blanket that had been so clean earlier in the week had disappeared. Firmin grabbed her chin and forced her face upwards.

  ‘What do you think you are, fucking Rapunzel? The big hero climbing up to your hotel room?’ He laughed again. ‘I reckon I can make you scream more for me.’ He dropped her face, and turned back to John.

  I suspect we’d be missed. John had said that about both of them leaving last night’s cocktail party. And they’d be missed tonight. Any minute now. Victor, lovely nosy Victor, would find them.

  Her fingers settled on an embroidered flower on her skirt, and she gripped it tightly, but she still flinched when Firmin hit John. The battery went on and on, the thuds mixing with her too fast breathing. The threads pressed into her fingertips. Blood dripped onto John’s collar, but she would raise her eyes no higher, even when Firmin’s fists descended to John’s chest for a time. And then John rocked backwards, and something white and blood-stained fell towards the floor. She looked up to John’s pulped face and the gap in his teeth and a keening sound frightened her. Catherine’s nails pinned her in her chair.

  ‘Max. Max.’ John’s voice pierced the cacophony. ‘It’s a crown.’

  Firmin’s hand descended again to John’s face, and something else fell. He bent to retrieve it and then tossed the tooth towards Max’s lap. ‘That one’s real.’ He laughed.

  Max stared at the tooth on her chiffon skirt. The tooth that had been in John’s head. The flecks of blood on the cream fabric. It didn’t look that different to the white beads, except for the blood and… A boom sounded, and red light washed into the room. Max heaved a breath. That brief moment of hope for a rescue, but of course fireworks would go off across the evening.

  ‘We should tie her up,’ Catherine said. ‘She’s desperate to run to him.’

  Tommy moved quickly. ‘I’ll do it.’ He snatched a rope from the table before Firmin could reach for it. He pulled her hands gently behind the chair. Firmin hit John again, and Tommy sniffed.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ Max whispered.

  ‘I do.’ Tommy looped the rope around her wrists, not seeming to notice she tensed them to make them as wide as possible.

  Max refused to look at John, but the thuds of Firmin’s fists beat against her ears. She had to concentrate. ‘Ow,’ she said as Tommy cinched the rope. He always was a rubbish sailor. ‘That hurts.’ She let a whimper creep into her voice. Tommy loosened the rope, only fractionally, but Max would take it.

  Catherine paced closer to John, and when Firmin paused, she ran her hand over John’s bloody shirt. ‘It would have been so much easier to just sleep with me, darling.’

  John laughed. Max tried to ignore the gurgle in it. ‘You’re as bad at this as you are at kissing. Why would I?’

  Catherine stiffened. ‘You think I’m bad at this? Tommy, get our other guests please. I suspect they are tired of waiting.’

  Another firework burst, illuminating the room with blue. How could there be a party just yards from the shed?

  Tommy dropped her hands, and she flexed them. He hadn’t tied her to the chair. As he left, he jostled the table, and it crashed towards her. The fabric spiralled loose, knives clattering and clanging to the floor. Max lifted her feet as they cascaded around her.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, Dinsmore,’ hissed Firmin. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t take your feet off.’ He grinned. ‘Or Max’s, not that that would be a loss.’

  ‘Watch how you talk to me,’ Tommy said. He started to pick up the k
nives, which had scattered along the floor. ‘Just because you’re fucking my sister…’

  ‘She needs somebody to actually man up in the family,’ said Firmin.

  ‘Go get them, for God’s sake, Tommy,’ Catherine said. Tommy slammed the knives he held to the floor, right around her chair.

  ‘In the family, Firmin,’ John said. ‘That’s quite something for a mercenary.’

  Max wiggled her wrists. It burned, but the rope slipped. Her skirt slid her lower in the chair, and her hands swung over the floor. Max brushed something with her fingertips. The butt of a knife that had landed point down in the dirt. John’s tooth skittered down her skirt.

  ‘Is this a different way of looking at death too, Firmin?’ John asked.

  Why did John want to bring up death now? Max’s fingers gripped the handle and lifted it. Her fingers slipped, but she managed to keep it in her right hand. Now to flip the blade up.

  The door slammed open, and Tommy came back in. ‘Here.’

  ‘See how bad I am at this, John?’

  Behind Tommy stumbled Max’s father and Uncle Marcus, both with their hands already tied behind them. Blood dotted the front of her father’s shirt, clearly from his swollen nose, and Uncle Marcus couldn’t open his puffy left eye. Catherine gestured to the empty chairs. ‘I lost the contact in Germany, but my friends in Moscow were quite pleased to hear about the Home Secretary and the head of the Intelligence Services. Apparently, Max is rather a desirable little commodity since some business in Scotland, and well, John, there was some excitement about you, for both of your names. Let’s just say you’ll solve all my problems when you’re delivered.’ Catherine shoved the men into the seats, and the guard behind Tommy tied their feet to the chairs. He looked up. Ken Marshall. He wouldn’t meet Max’s gaze. Had Ken really struck her father?

  John’s tooth sat pale and bloody on the heavy embroidery of her dress. If she got out, she would remember that swoop of gold thread forever. At last the knife’s tip parted the rope, one strand a at a time. Sweat made her palm slippery. She could not drop the knife. Her muscles burned.