Red Stefan

by Patricia Wentworth

  When Stephen began to sing she relaxed a little and opened her hand. Her palm was bleeding. It felt damp and sticky. She took the rings one by one and slipped them on, the pearl and the diamond solitaire together on her left hand, and the big emerald on her right. She pushed the long rope of pearls down inside her blouse with the other two rows. Then she drew a long breath and looked about her.

  The narrow place was quite dark except for a single glimmer to the right. Just beyond the panel which held the picture there was a knot-hole in the wood. It was no bigger than a shilling and the light that came through it was of the faintest, but if she could get close up to it she would be able to see what was happening in the room beyond.

  Very slowly and carefully she moved to the right until her eye was on a level with the hole. No doubt it had been convenient to leave a spy-hole in order that Prince Boris’ visitors should make sure that he was alone before they opened the secret door.

  Elizabeth pressed her right hand against the wall and looked into the room. She saw Stephen on the bench between the two guards, and the sergeant and another guard warming themselves. She looked right down on the back of the sergeant’s neck as he stooped forward over the fire. She looked down on the top of Glinka’s head and the sullen set of his shoulders.

  And then Stephen stopped singing and they all looked at the door. She did not hear the footsteps, but her heart began to beat heavily. She did not know what they were all waiting for, but its approach made her feel sick with terror.

  Then she saw Irina.

  She came through the broken doorway and stood just inside it looking into the room with its mixture of firelight and candle-light, and dusk. There was a man with her—someone from the village. He had brought her here because she insisted. Now he hung back, having no wish to be mixed up in affairs of state.

  Irina stood looking into the room. The play of light and shadow confused her after her passage through the darkness of the shuttered house. She saw at first only a group by the fire. Then the group split into Glinka, the guards, and the man who sat on the bench between two of them. She began to come slowly across the hall, whilst they all looked at her—all except the man on the bench. His hands were bound, and he looked down at his bound hands.

  So it was Irina and not Petroff—Irina come all the way from Tronsk to identify him.… He wondered if they would shoot him out of hand. He looked at her without appearing to look, and saw how pale she was—pale not with any faintness or fatigue, but with the burning pallor of emotion. Her eyes blazed. Her lips were a scarlet line. She had opened her sheepskin coat at the neck, and he could see the throat muscles tense and straining.

  She came to the end of the bench and stood there, her head a little thrown back. When Glinka began to say something she ignored him.

  “You have been a long time,” she said to the sergeant. And then, “Who is this man?”

  The sergeant coughed, drew himself up, and put his cap straight. He was conscious that Irina was a handsome young woman, that he resented her presence, and that he must be careful to keep on the right side of her. A complicated frame of mind and bad for the temper. He spoke gruffly.

  “Well, that’s for you to say, isn’t it, Comrade?”

  Irina kept her eyes upon him. Big blazing eyes he thought them, but his own taste was for something softer—a bit more melting, as you might say. Anyhow, damn women when you were out on a job. Why couldn’t she stay down at the village until she was wanted? He saw the treasure-hunt receding.

  “Who is he?” said Irina in an odd shrinking voice. She had seen broad shoulders and a black cropped head. Stefan’s hair was red. Yet something pulled at her heart. She said “Who is he?” and waited for the sergeant to answer her.

  He said with a good deal of impatience,

  “Comrade Glinka says he’s this Nikolai that we’re hunting, but he says he’s only Nikolai’s younger brother, Mikhail. And it doesn’t matter a damn which one of them he is so long as neither of them’s Red Stefan—and that’s where you come in.”

  He swung the lantern down from the mantelpiece and held it so that the light fell full on Stephen. “Here—stand up, my man, and let her have a look at you! Now, Comrade, here you are—and here he is. If he’s Red Stefan, you’ve only to say the word. If he isn’t Red Stefan, I don’t care a damn who he is, and I don’t suppose you do either.”

  Stephen stood up when he was bidden. A tight place—a most uncommon tight place. Well, well—“de l’audace, de l’audace, et toujours de l’audace.” A sound fellow Danton. He looked straight into Irina’s eyes with a smile.

  There was a pause. For two women it seemed as if everything in the world had stopped. Elizabeth could see Stephen’s face, but not Irina’s. She saw him smile with his eyes. She waited for the word that would be his death warrant. Everything stopped whilst she waited—even her heart, even her breath, even fear.

  Irina looked into Stephen’s eyes. They smiled. It was whilst they smiled that for her the world stood still. She wished that it might never go on again, for then she would have no choice to make.… If she said that she did not know him, he would go away and she would never see him again. If she said he was Red Stefan, he was as good as dead. She pictured him gone away. She pictured him dead. A man who went away could come back again. The dead never came back.

  “Well?” said the sergeant.

  “Where is the woman?” said Irina quickly.

  She had not said that he was Red Stefan. She had not said that he was not Red Stefan. If he was alone, perhaps she would let him go. But not with Elizabeth Radin. It would be easier to see him dead than to let him go to Elizabeth.

  “What woman?” said the sergeant.

  She turned on Glinka.

  “You said there was a woman with this Nikolai. Where is she?”

  “He says the wolves got her,” said the sergeant.

  “My poor brother Nikolai and the woman—the wolves got them both,” said Stephen in a mournful voice.

  Glinka came pushing in, beside himself with impatience.

  “But you haven’t said who he is! You ask where’s the woman, but you don’t tell us about the man.”

  “Now, now, schoolmaster,” said the sergeant—“this is my job, not yours.” He turned to Irina. “It’s my job, and he’s no call to take the words out of my mouth. But we all want to know, do you recognize this man, or don’t you? There, you’ve got it in a nutshell—is he Red Stefan, or isn’t he?”

  A gust of rage whipped the colour into Irina’s cheeks.

  “Well, here’s your answer!” Her voice rang in the empty room. “Red Stefan? No one but a fool would ever have thought he was Red Stefan!” She flung round on Glinka, who recoiled in physical fear. “Only a fool would have thought it! And only a double fool would have dragged me here whilst the real man got away!” She stamped her foot with violence and repeated, “Fool!”

  The sergeant looked relieved. Glinka was getting it, not he. When she had stormed herself out she would go back to the village and they could get on with this treasure business. He supposed they would have to let the schoolmaster come in on it, if only to stop his mouth. When Irina drew an angry sobbing breath, he said briskly,

  “Then you don’t know him, Comrade?”

  Irina stamped again.

  “I never saw him before in my life!” she said.

  This suited the sergeant’s book well enough. If the man wasn’t Red Stefan, there was an end of it—so much the better for him, and so much the better for everyone else. Irina had had her say, he and the men had done their duty, and Glinka was a meddlesome busybody. And that was the one thing he had felt sure about all along. Let the man stick to teaching his village brats and be damned to him. He squared his shoulders and addressed Irina.

  “All right, Comrade, that settles it—you don’t identify him. Very well then, we needn’t keep you. You’ll be more comfortable in the village.” He lifted his voice and hailed the nervous peasant by the door. “Hi, you there! Get a
move on! The Comrade has finished her business here, and you’d best be getting along whilst the daylight lasts.”

  Irina turned an angry stare upon him.

  “And you stay here?”

  “We stay here.”

  “Then I stay too.” She sank down on the edge of the bench and called to the peasant, “You heard what the sergeant said? Hurry along, or the wolves will get you. We’re staying here.”

  There was a silence of dismay. The peasant looked from one to another and then slipped away, glad enough of the excuse.

  Stephen laughed a little.

  “And what about me?” he said.

  The sergeant made the best of a bad job. He knew an obstinate woman when he saw one. Since Irina meant to stay, she must either be squared or hoodwinked. It could be done.

  “Aren’t you going to let me go?” said Stephen.

  He got the sergeant’s most martial frown.

  “None of your lip, my lad! You haven’t told us how you came by that ring yet—not to my satisfaction anyhow. Unlawful possession of a gold ring, and making up a silly lie to account for it—that’s what I’m charging you with. Now you listen to me—and Comrade Irina will bear me out, and so will the schoolmaster—treasure belongs to the State.”

  “Treasure!” said Irina contemptuously.

  Glinka’s eyes sparkled.

  The sergeant repeated the word in a weighty voice.

  “Treasure. I say this man’s found treasure that belongs to the State, and that being so, we’ve got our duty—we’ve got to make him say what he’s found and where he found it. Now you, Mikhail or whatever your name is, own up! You’ve found a treasure.”

  “You’re joking, sergeant.”

  “It’ll be no joke for you,” said the sergeant grimly. “What did you find, and where did you find it? Come—find your tongue, or we’ll see what a touch of fire will do to make you speak.”

  Behind the panel Elizabeth straightened herself. The hand on which she had been leaning was numb, but her mind was suddenly quick and clear. She knew exactly what she must do, and she knew without a shadow of doubt that she would be able to do it. First three silent steps to the left and her hand feeling for and finding the knob which opened the panel. She had to set the door ajar, and she had to do it very steadily in case anyone in the room beyond should see—anyone except Stephen.

  Her right hand was too numb. She couldn’t depend on it. She put her left hand on the knob and turned it a fraction of an inch at a time until she could feel that the catch was free. Then she pushed the panel outwards for about a quarter of an inch and released the latch again. It caught on the wood instead of sliding into its groove. At a touch the door would open.

  Stephen saw the panel move, and had a sickening throb of fear. What was Elizabeth doing? The movement was so slight that even his sharp eyes could not have sworn to it if he had not been looking that way—measuring the distance—whilst the sergeant expatiated upon the most effective methods of making refractory prisoners find their tongues.

  The movement ceased, but he thought that the panel was ajar.

  Ajar. What did that mean? Had it been done to attract his attention? Had it—

  He continued to gaze abstractedly over the sergeant’s shoulder.

  Elizabeth lifted her hand from the knob. The panel stayed, neither open nor shut. A touch would open it, a touch would close it. It stayed. The faintest, narrowest thread of light just showed at its edge.

  She turned from this thread of light and moved soundlessly towards the open mouth of the secret passage. She mustn’t hurry, because if she made any noise at all, it might kill Stephen. When the life of the person you love most in the world depends on your not making any noise, it is astonishing how quiet you can be. The strange clarity and calm that had come upon her gave her perfect control of every movement.

  She reached the passage, and remembered that it took a circular turn to avoid the chimney. She kept the fingers of her right hand upon the wall and felt before her with her left. After the circular turn there would be steps going up. She felt for the bottom step with her foot and climbed up in the dark. It was very, very dark. The air was heavy with the smell of decay. At any other moment the place would have filled her with horror. To be alone in the dark in these old passages would only an hour ago have brought her to the edge of panic. You might die here and turn to dust before anyone found you. She had thought of that when she passed this way with Stephen. Now she thought only of Stephen, and of the sergeant’s voice as he talked about torture.

  She came to the top of the steps. Now the passage turned sharply to the left. Her hand moved up and down on the wall as she walked, feeling for a handle. Somewhere here there should be a knob and a bolt. Stephen had shone the candle on them as they passed, and she had remembered them when the sergeant began to talk about torture. Up and down, up and down went her hand. Sometimes the wood it touched was rough, sometimes her fingers slipped on it. Suppose she couldn’t find the handle. Suppose she had passed it in the dark. Suppose—

  The knob was under her hand.

  She faced the wall and felt for the bolt. It moved a little and then stuck. She had to take both hands to it and wrench with all her might before it moved again. It creaked, and her heart thumped. That was stupid, because she was too far from the room for anyone to hear the creaking of a bolt.

  It creaked again, and shot back, pinching her finger. She turned the handle, and the door opened outwards. Twilight filled the opening. It was at once a shock and a relief to find that it was not yet dark. It seemed so long since she had asked Stephen whether it was day or night.

  The door opened on to the great stair just where it turned. She could see the heavy black line of the gallery above her, and the huge shadowed hall below. The door was like the door of a cupboard. It opened a foot above the floor, so that she had to step out over the panelling.

  She was now on the flagged landing from which the stair ran down to the hall. There was dust and rubble everywhere—dust, rubble, and the great broken lumps of masonry which she had seen by the light of Stephen’s torch when they had crossed the hall—how long ago?

  There had been pillars guarding the stair, and a stone balustrade—thrown down and wrecked by the insensate fury of a drunken mob. One pillar was in fragments, the other leaned drunkenly against the wall with splintered capital and broken base. In the dusk all this ruin had a most terrifying aspect. It seemed as if the tilted pillar were in the very act of falling, as if the wall swayed and at any moment the roof might come crashing down. She really did feel as if the stone were moving under her feet. Perhaps it did move. Perhaps it was only she herself who was shaken by cold, and fear, and strain. It didn’t matter. Even if the house fell in, she would do what she had come here to do.

  If there was a sudden noise in the hall, the men who were guarding Stephen would surely come to see what it was. If she could make enough noise, they would surely come.…

  Just where the stair met the landing there lay a huge rounded lump of stone, part of the capital of the broken pillar. Elizabeth came across the landing and looked down at it. It was so near the edge that if she could move it ever so little, it must overbalance. But could she move it? She went down on her knees in the dust and pushed. She thought the stone moved, but she wasn’t sure. She braced her feet against another piece of the pillar and pushed again.

  If the broken capital had really been lying on the flat surface of the landing, she might have pushed and strained for ever, but in its fall it had smashed away the lip of the step. It hung there tilted, balanced, ready at the slightest shock to lose its equilibrium. Elizabeth’s first push faintly disturbed this balance. Her second set the stone rocking. She put out all her strength, and felt it leap away from her hands as if it were some gigantic ball which she had thrown. It was all she could do not to follow it. She felt herself pitching forward, and just managed to save herself by clutching at the balustrade.

  She scrambled to her feet, shaking and
catching her breath. The great piece of stone had gone rolling and bounding down the stair. It smashed another step, broke through a fallen length of balustrade, and carrying dust, rubble and debris with it, crashed down upon the echoing flagstones of the hall. The noise in that silent place was overwhelming. The echoes came beating back against her ears and dazed her. She stood for a moment, steadying herself. Then she ran back across the landing to the secret door.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  In the octagonal room the fire blazed up. The sergeant glanced from his prisoner to the reddening embers and back again.

  “Well?” he said.

  Stephen was silent.

  Irina stared at them both. She did not mean to allow Stephen to be tortured, but the nearer he came to it the more he would have to be grateful for when she stepped in with a flourish of trumpets to save him. There was a smouldering anger in her eyes—anger with Elizabeth, who had escaped; anger with this stupid bully of a sergeant; and deepest anger of all with Stephen, for whom she had lied, and who sat there looking as if he didn’t care a fig for any of them. It wouldn’t do him any harm to be taken down a peg or two.

  Stephen, on his part, had no intention of being tortured. For one thing, he wanted his feet to walk over the frontier with. Burnt soles would be extremely inconvenient. No—the minute things really began to get hot he would have to pitch that tale about the cellars and trust to luck and his wits for a chance of getting away. Meanwhile he kept a still tongue in his head and looked over the sergeant’s shoulder.

  The panel had not moved again. But it had moved; he could swear to that. It had moved outwards, and it had not moved back again. Therefore it was ajar.

  At this point he thought he had better answer the sergeant with becoming politeness.

  “You, and your rings and your treasure!” he said. “What’s the good of my telling you anything? You don’t believe me when I tell the truth. Do you want me to make up lies?”