by Clara Benson
A few minutes later she descended the stone steps under the portico and struck out down the drive, with the vague intention of finding a suitable spot from which to gain a good view of the castle. It seemed to her that the best place would be the top of a nearby hill, but between here and her objective the road dipped and rose steeply, and she feared that her way would be blocked by snowdrifts. She tramped through the snow for several minutes, relishing the silence, which was almost complete save for the sound of her own breathing and the crunching of her boots, but soon found that she had been right about the impassability of this route when she unexpectedly sank up to her knees.
‘Oh dear,’ she murmured, as she extricated herself with difficulty and grimaced at the unpleasant wet and icy sensation that was now intruding itself into her boots. ‘Rather foolish of me, really.’
She scrambled back to safety and hobbled over to a nearby tree, where she balanced on one foot at a time and emptied the snow from her boots.
‘Perhaps it will be better to keep to the beaten track after all,’ she said to herself. ‘I don’t want to get buried in a snowdrift.’
She made her way back up the drive and onto the lawn, where she caught sight of a figure, swathed in shawls and wearing a rather odd broad-brimmed hat, who was standing and regarding the two snowmen with interest. It was Miss Foster. She looked up as Angela approached.
‘Hallo, Mrs. Marchmont,’ she said brightly. ‘Are you enjoying the snow?’ As Angela assented, she went on, ‘I am not fond of it myself, but I am a little stuck on my latest chapter, and so I thought a turn in the fresh air might provide food for my imagination.’
‘And has it?’ said Angela with a smile.
‘Not exactly,’ said Miss Foster. ‘The first thing I saw when I came out was these two snow-figures, which distracted my thoughts from my work and sent my mind wandering down an entirely different path, since they put me in mind of a pair of tragic lovers, doomed to die together under the heat of the sun.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Angela, ‘but I suppose you’re right.’
‘All very romantic, of course,’ said Miss Foster, ‘but a little beside the point, since I am at present trying to solve a very different problem. I am trying to think of a way in which my heroine might escape from a locked room without leaving the door open and alerting her captors to her flight.’
‘A lock-pick fashioned from a hair-pin?’ suggested Angela.
‘Yes, I had thought of something similar. Unfortunately, however, in the previous chapter the lady was struck down by a dangerous bout of fever which almost killed her, and therefore had all her hair shorn off, leaving her without the need for hair-pins.’
‘I see,’ said Angela. ‘That’s rather inconvenient for the purposes of your story.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Foster, ‘and I can’t change the part about the fever because it is essential to the plot and explains why she was unable to meet her lover on the battlements as she promised. He is now under the impression that she has thrown him over for the evil Sir Willoughby Edgerton, and has gone off in despair to fight at Culloden. No,’ she went on, ‘I believe she will have to escape through the window, even though she is being held at the top of the North tower, one hundred feet above the ground. Perhaps I can have her climb down the ivy.’
‘What is the name of your story?’ asked Angela politely.
‘Lucinda of the Isles,’ replied Miss Foster. ‘It is a historical novel set during the Jacobite Rebellion.’
‘And do you hope to have it published?’
Miss Foster gave a genteel little laugh and put her hand to her mouth.
‘Oh, Mrs. Marchmont, you flatter me,’ she said. ‘I am a mere amateur. I don’t deny that it is a dream of mine one day to see my works in print, but that day is far in the future. My talents and skills are simply not up to the task at the moment.’
‘Does no-one read your stories, then?’ asked Angela, and immediately bit her lip, suddenly fearful that Miss Foster would take the opportunity to press one of her works upon her with an exhortation to read it. But Miss Foster did not appear to have such a thing in mind.
‘Oh, yes, I do have a select group of friends who read what I write, and for whom I return the favour,’ she said.
‘A kind of writers’ circle, do you mean?’ said Angela.
‘Yes,’ beamed Miss Foster. ‘That’s exactly it. We communicate by correspondence, mostly, although once or twice a year we do meet for an evening of literature and poetry, with perhaps a glass or two of home-made elderberry wine. No more than that, though,’ she finished, wagging her finger playfully.
‘Naturally,’ said Angela, suppressing a shudder at the thought of home-made elderberry wine. ‘And do you criticize each other’s work?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Miss Foster. ‘That is an essential part of the arrangement. Each of us agrees to complete one chapter every month. We then send it to another member of the circle, who reads it and gives a considered opinion on the chapter itself and its place in the story as a whole.’
‘What sort of people are in the circle? Are you all women?’
‘Not at all. As a matter of fact, the idea was thought up by a man. Mr. Adams runs a small publishing house in London, and he began the circle with the idea of helping aspiring authors polish their talents, and perhaps become good enough one day to be published.’
‘I see. I would say that that was very kind-hearted of him, but I should imagine he has another motive too,’ said Angela with a smile. ‘No doubt it is of benefit to him to watch over your progress—for then he may get some new books to publish.’
‘Indeed, you are right,’ said Miss Foster. ‘However, even if nothing happens in my case, it is an enormous privilege to receive criticism from such an expert.’ She gave a little sigh, and went on, ‘It’s a pity the snow is so deep. My latest chapter is almost ready to send off. No matter, though—perhaps I can make some changes in the meantime.’
The sound of loud, childish voices was heard in the distance just then, and the two women turned to see Gus and Bobby running towards them, carrying an odd assortment of objects.
‘We’re a search party,’ announced Gus breathlessly in reply to Miss Foster’s inquiry. ‘We’re going to hunt for Professor Klausen. He’s got lost.’
‘I dare say he’s buried in a snowdrift somewhere,’ said Bobby. ‘He’s probably freezing to death. We’re going to rescue him before he gets encased in the ice like a woolly mammoth.’
‘Goodness,’ said Angela. ‘We don’t want that, do we?’
‘Don’t you think it’s more likely that the professor saw the weather and decided to remain at home rather than try to get to Fives Castle?’ said Miss Foster more practically.
‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ said Gus doubtfully, ‘but it’s probably best to make sure.’
‘Would you like to come, Mrs. Marchmont?’ said Bobby, who had taken rather a liking to Angela.
‘Why, I should love to,’ said Angela, judging that she had better tag along in order to make sure the boys did not get into any difficulties.
‘Oh, good,’ said Gus. ‘We’ve got all the equipment we need, I think.’
‘So I see,’ said Angela, trying not to laugh, for the boys were indeed laden with the most extraordinary assortment of tools and ironmongery. Gus had a length of rope coiled around his waist and held a torch in one hand and a coal shovel in the other, while Bobby carried a hammer, some nails and an axe. ‘Why do you need a hammer?’ she said.
‘Once we’ve dug him out we’ll need to build him a shelter,’ Bobby explained. ‘We’ll cut some wood with the axe and build a den for him. I’ve got some matches in my pocket too, so we can light a fire.’
‘The snow is very deep,’ said Angela. ‘You’ll have trouble keeping your balance with your hands full like that. Suppose you leave some of it behind. We can come back for it if we need it, but you’ll need your wits about you for a while and it won’t help if you’re
loaded down.’
The boys were eventually persuaded to leave behind everything but the rope, the torch and the matches, and they prepared to begin. Miss Foster murmured something about being expected by Lady Strathmerrick and returned to the castle.
‘Which way shall we go?’ said Angela. ‘I suppose the obvious place to search is along the drive, but I tried to go that way a few minutes ago and got stuck. We’d need skis to search properly in that direction. Shall we try somewhere else first?’
Gus thought for a moment.
‘There’s the path through the woods,’ he said. ‘It goes to the village. He might have come that way, I suppose, but wouldn’t he have had a motor-car if he was coming from London?’
‘He might have left it in the village and done the last half-a-mile on foot,’ suggested Bobby.
At length it was agreed that they would try that way first, and they set off. The path led through a tunnel of bare-branched trees which was bounded by a fence on one side and a dark, rushing stream on the other, and their progress was delayed for some minutes as the boys occupied themselves with throwing sticks into the water and trying to overturn an interesting-looking rock.
‘Look out for signs,’ said Gus as they reluctantly moved on. ‘He might have tied his handkerchief to a fence-post, or left a trail of breadcrumbs. That’s what I should do if I were lost in the snow.’
‘There’s no use in looking for footprints, anyhow,’ said Bobby. ‘Why, this whole path has already been trampled all over by people coming from the village to help get things ready for this evening.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Gus, staring in disgust at the many sets of footprints which indicated that a steady stream of people had passed towards the castle that day. ‘They’ve ruined any chance we might have had of finding the professor’s tracks.’
‘And wouldn’t someone have found him by now if he’d come along this way?’ said Bobby. They stopped and stared at each other uncertainly.
‘Perhaps we ought to try somewhere else, then,’ said Gus.
‘Oh, but look,’ said Angela, who had seen something just ahead. She pointed.
‘Oh!’ said Bobby. ‘Footprints!’
In this particular spot the stream moved away from the path to take a sharp detour around a large alder tree. Most of the footprints continued straight along the footpath towards the castle, but one set broke away and crossed the snow towards the stream.
The three of them gazed at the marks. Judging by the size of them, they had been made by a man.
‘Look,’ said Angela. ‘They continue on the other side of the stream. He must have tramped about a bit here while he held onto the tree for balance and used that rock as a stepping-stone.’
The boys were excited.
‘It must be the professor!’ exclaimed Bobby.
‘And look, he fell in the stream!’ said Gus. He pointed to the other bank. There, the mess of tracks did indeed indicate that whoever it was had jumped from the snow-covered rock to the other side and then slipped backwards into the water.
‘He must have got soaked,’ said Angela.
Bobby snorted.
‘What a duffer,’ he said, and before Angela could stop him, leapt lightly onto the stepping-stone and then to the other side of the stream. Gus followed.
‘I don’t know if I can do that,’ said Angela, in some embarrassment. ‘I’m not as sure-footed as you two.’
‘Oh, but it’s easy,’ Bobby assured her, jumping back and forth several times to demonstrate.
‘I could tie the rope to this tree here and throw it across to you, in case you lose your balance,’ suggested Gus, after a moment’s thought.
Angela agreed to this, and Gus immediately fastened one end of the rope to a sturdy-looking tree that overhung the water.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s fast enough. Now, look out.’
He threw the line across the stream to Angela, who caught it and, taking a deep breath, sprang as lightly as she could onto the stepping-stone, and then to the other bank without mishap.
‘You see, you didn’t need it after all,’ said Bobby kindly. ‘If you got a little more practice you could do it as easily as we do.’
‘I dare say you’re right,’ said Angela. ‘Now, which way did he go?’ She did not suppose for a second that the tracks really did belong to Professor Klausen, but she was caught up in the game now and was curious to know where they led.
‘This way,’ said Gus, who was busy coiling the rope around his waist again.
On this side of the stream the woods grew more thickly, shutting out much of the light—which in any case was starting to fade as the afternoon advanced. Here and there the ground was less thickly covered or even bare where the snow had been unable to penetrate through the trees, but even so, it was still easy enough to follow the tracks of their mysterious quarry. In some places the footprints headed one way only to turn back on themselves after a few yards as the man came up against an impassable thicket or other obstacle, but always they headed in the same general direction: towards Fives Castle.
‘I wonder why he came this way rather than keeping to the path,’ said Bobby.
Angela thought the tracks most likely belonged to a poacher or someone of the sort, but she merely said, ‘Perhaps he had a fancy to take a more circuitous route to the castle, in order to get a better view of the place before he arrived.’
Bobby looked unconvinced.
‘But the best view is from the other side of the stream,’ he said. ‘You can’t see anything from the wood.’
This was true enough, and Angela was forced to admit her theory was unlikely.
‘I think the professor got lost in the dark,’ said Gus. ‘It would have been pitch-black last night, and he might easily have wandered away from the path.’
‘I don’t think the dark is to blame,’ said Angela. ‘These footprints were made after it stopped snowing—and most likely some time today. Didn’t you notice that they were on top of all the other tracks back there? That means whoever it was came along the path after all those other people who were heading for the castle.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Bobby. He looked at her, impressed. ‘That’s rather clever of you, Mrs. Marchmont. I should never have thought of that.’
‘It’s starting to get dark,’ said Gus. ‘We’d better get a move on if we want to find the professor and get back in time for tea.’
They tramped on through the trees. After a short while the woods began to thin, and soon afterwards they came out into a meadow and saw the castle, standing proudly before them on the ridge of the next hill. It was certainly a grand sight. The snow was deep again now that there was no shelter, and it was easy enough to follow the footprints. They led around the edge of the wood to a little hut, which was secured with a rusty bolt.
‘Look!’ said Bobby. ‘He must have tried to get in.’
‘Didn’t manage it, though,’ said Gus, glancing at the tracks, which led off again across the meadow.
‘No,’ said Angela. ‘This bolt is rusted solid.’
‘What’s that on the ground?’ said Bobby suddenly. ‘It looks like blood.’
‘So it does,’ said Gus excitedly. ‘Perhaps he’s desperately injured.’
‘Hardly,’ said Angela, as she regarded the two or three red spots at her feet. ‘There’s not enough blood for that. I think he probably just grazed his hand trying to draw the bolt back.’
‘Oh,’ said Gus, disappointed.
‘Still, though, I imagine he was in a bad enough mood, after falling into the water and then skinning his knuckles,’ said Angela, by way of consolation. ‘At any rate, we know now that he passed this way very recently. Those bloodstains are quite fresh.’
‘So they are,’ said Gus. ‘Let’s hurry. Perhaps we can catch him up.’
They pressed on, moving quickly now in excitement, for they sensed they were about to find the object of their quest. The tracks headed on doggedly in a straight line towards Five
s Castle, and for some way they were the only footprints to be seen. After fifty yards or so, however, the trail was crossed by two other sets of prints, which led off together into the distance, away from the castle. Bobby tramped over to look at them.
‘I wonder who this is,’ he said. ‘Look—one set is much smaller than the other.’
‘Probably a man and a woman, then,’ said Gus.
‘Where are we?’ said Angela suddenly.
‘In the West meadow,’ said Bobby.
‘Ah,’ said Angela.
‘Let’s see,’ said Gus. He followed the new tracks for a little distance, then bent to examine them. ‘They stopped here and turned to face each other,’ he said. ‘They must have been standing jolly close together.’
‘Perhaps one of them had something in his eye, and the other one was helping him get it out,’ said Angela. ‘Shall we get back to the professor? I don’t think these two need rescuing, and anyway it will be dark soon, so if we want to find him we’d better hurry.’
Gus ran back to join them and they carried on. After a few minutes, however, it became clear that their hunt had been unsuccessful, for they now found themselves very close to the castle and here, to their dismay, they lost the trail as it merged with hundreds of other footprints, which flattened down the snow and turned it into a grey, sodden mush.
‘What a waste of time,’ said Bobby grumpily. ‘We’ve followed him all this way and he made it to the castle without us.’
Angela was thankful to be back, for her feet were cold and wet and she was thinking longingly of hot tea and buttered muffins. The three of them went inside to find Lord Strathmerrick standing in the entrance-hall with Henry Jameson. The Earl gazed vaguely at his sons and eventually seemed to remember who they were.
‘We’ve been tracking Professor Klausen,’ burst out Bobby, still full of their quest, ‘but he got here before we did.’
The two men glanced at each other in surprise.
‘Did he?’ said Lord Strathmerrick. ‘Good Lord, why did nobody tell me?’ He accosted a passing manservant. ‘Robert, at what time did Professor Klausen arrive?’
‘He hasnae arrived yet, my lord,’ replied the man. ‘At least, not as far as I know.’
