With my scraped and bleeding fingers I began to tear at the slabs, but though I dislodged a minor avalanche of rubble, the dust from which rasped in my nose and throat, making me cough, there was no way I could move the stones that lay between me and freedom.
So near – and yet so far! To be able to see those chinks of light, know that fresh air and sunlight were just a few feet above my head, and not to be able to reach it, was the most exquisite torture. I hauled and hauled at the blocks, aware that if I succeeded in moving one that was supporting others I could bring down sufficient to crush or trap me, yet struggling still with a desperation that devoured me. But try as I might, I could no more move those slabs than I could have moved the chest that Gavin had placed over the trapdoor from underneath.
And then, to my utter disbelief, I heard what sounded like someone moving about in the ruins above my head. I could not think who could be here, miles from anywhere, unless it was a vagrant who had taken shelter or a child from the village, playing in the ruins.
I straightened up, holding on to the rubble, hope flaring.
‘Help!’ I shouted as loudly as I could, for my throat was dry with dust and with terror. ‘Down here! Help, please!’
The sounds ceased, as if whoever was there was listening, and I called out again. But after a moment I heard the crunch of footfalls once again, not coming closer, but going away at a run.
A sob broke in my throat. Someone had been there and now they had gone. If they had heard me at all they had likely thought they were hearing the spirit voice of some long-dead monk who haunted the ruins of his former abbey. There might be a chance that if whoever had been there spoke of hearing cries for help someone would come to investigate. But somehow I did not think anyone would. The vagrant or child who reported them would be dismissed as a superstitious fool.
There was nothing for it but for me to return the way I had come and admit defeat. Perhaps if I brought Antoinette to help me we might yet be able to shift those stones, but I had little hope that two women would have much more success than one.
I found Antoinette and Pierre where I had left them, Pierre sobbing softly from the pain of his leg, which I feared might be broken, Antoinette holding my father’s blunderbuss with steely determination.
‘Did you find a way?’ she asked.
‘It’s blocked, just as the stories tell,’ I said wretchedly, and ashamed almost of my failure. ‘Half the abbey has fallen into the tunnel, I should think. Boulders as big as travelling chests. I couldn’t move them.’
‘Oh.’ Antoinette’s voice wobbled, then rose hysterically. ‘What are we going to do?’
With an effort I kept my own rising panic under control for the sake of the children.
‘I don’t know… Have you heard anything of what is going on up there?’
‘No.’ Antoinette, too, appeared to be fighting to control her panic. ‘It’s all been quiet. I think they must have gone to another room…’
She broke off. Quiet it might have been, but now, suddenly, there were footsteps above our heads and the sound of the chest being dragged back from the tunnel entrance. Antoinette grasped at my arm as the trapdoor opened and Gavin’s voice reached us.
‘I’m sure you’d like to know, my friends, that Armand has been most co-operative. I now know the whereabouts of the French harbour where Louis’ ship waits for him. If they have yet failed to catch him, they’ll intercept him there, I have no doubt.’
My heart missed a beat. So Armand had, in the end, betrayed Louis.
‘And now,’ Gavin continued, ‘I am going to send the old man to join you in the tunnel. He’s not well, he seems to be having some sort of seizure, but I dare not leave him here. Puny and sick as he is, he might manage to remove the chest and help you to escape or at the very least raise the alarm. And I can’t risk Pierre living to inherit what I’ve worked so hard to gain. So you might as well all die together.’
The footsteps went away and a moment later the sound of something being dragged across the floor above reached our ears. It sounded like nothing so much as a sack of grain, but I knew it was not. Armand must have been taken ill and be unable to walk unaided; Gavin was hauling him bodily to share our underground prison.
‘Get back, both of you!’ I hissed at Antoinette and Pierre, and grabbed my father’s gun from her unprotesting hands.
With the trapdoor open, this was the chance I had prayed for! But supposing Gavin never came close to the tunnel entrance? Supposing he simply threw Armand in as I had thrown Pierre? Why, I might even shoot Armand by mistake, for I would be half blinded when the light from above came flooding in…
Somehow I had to ensure that I was able to make the most of this one opportunity to save us all.
‘Gavin, can I speak to you one last time?’ I called. ‘There’s something I have to tell you concerning Louis… something you do not know. If you do not listen to what I have to say, you will never be master of Belvedere!’
I held my breath, the heavy gun pointed upwards, steadied against my chest. And my ruse worked.
‘What then…?’ Gavin’s face appeared in the open trap.
I pulled the trigger, almost at point-blank range. The reflex of the shot barrelled into my shoulder, sending me crashing back against the tunnel wall; blood and gore sprayed all three of us. But I could feel nothing but overwhelming relief.
Gavin was, without doubt, dead.
It was over.
Seventeen
Except, of course, that it was not. Gavin might be beyond harming us, but we were still trapped. In vain I called to the old Marquis, thinking that if he fetched us some sheets from the beds and made them into a rope we should be able to clamber up. But my cries elicited no response. Clearly he was either unconscious or dead from the shock of what Gavin had done to him. We would have to help ourselves.
‘I’m going to try to hoist you out, Antoinette,’ I said. My voice, like the rest of me, was trembling, but my head was surprisingly clear. ‘You must fetch some blankets to cover Pierre and then run for help. Try not to look at Gavin. He won’t be a pretty sight.’
‘I’m glad of that!’ she returned spiritedly. ‘And I hope he burns in hell!’
‘Don’t say such things,’ I begged her. ‘He was mad, I think. Now look, if I cup my hands, put your foot in them and I’ll try to lift you…’
Though Antoinette was a slight little thing, she was still a great deal heavier than she looked, and it took several attempts before I managed to hoist her high enough for her to get a grip on the boards surrounding the trapdoor. Then I got a hand underneath her, shoving with all my might whilst she scrambled, and at last, in a flurry of dusty petticoats, she wriggled out on to the kitchen floor.
‘Oh Flora…’ I could hear the panic in her voice again as her eyes met the scene there, for though I had warned her, I believe she had still almost believed she was living in some adventure story. ‘Flora, it’s terrible! And Uncle Armand… he’s not moving either! I think he’s dead!’
‘Just get the blankets and then run for help as fast as your legs will carry you,’ I instructed.
To my relief, she pulled herself together and did as I had bid.
All Gavin’s talk of how the Revolutionaries would catch up with Louis was clearly playing on Pierre’s mind.
‘Papa will be safe, won’t he?’ he whispered to me as I tucked the blankets Antoinette had fetched around him. ‘I didn’t tell Gavin where Mama really was, truly I didn’t.’
‘You were very wise,’ I said. ‘But then, I expect you learned to trust no one after the Terror came.’
He was silent, and I realized for the first time how little he had talked about his experiences. Perhaps when this was all over I would try to encourage him to do so. For now, however, I thought that what he was most in need of was comfort.
‘Gavin is dead now, so anything the Marquis told him won’t help them to arrest your father,’ I said. ‘Soon, God willing, he will be home, and bringing your M
ama with him.’
We settled down to wait for help to arrive, clinging together for warmth. It would take Antoinette some long while to reach the village on foot, I knew. But to my surprise in a very short time there were sounds of life from above our heads, doors banging, voices calling, and George and several other Monksmoor men came bursting into the kitchen, a panting Antoinette close behind.
‘They were already on their way,’ she gasped. ‘Someone had seen Gavin heading for the inn and when George heard of it he organized a posse…’
‘Flora! Oh my Lord, this is a pretty pickle… But you’re safe. We’ll have you out of there in no time…’ Never had I been so glad to hear George’s steady, homespun tones.
I had quite forgotten my father’s old ladder, kept in one of the outhouses and used for making necessary repairs to the inn, but George had not. He fetched it and I was able to scramble up, then two of the men went down for Pierre. As they gently raised him I steeled myself to look around the kitchen. Gavin was a hideous sight; my stomach turned to see him lying there, and I fetched a tablecloth to cover him with before Pierre was brought up from the passage. One of the village men was examining the old Marquis for signs of life; he shook his head, pronouncing him dead, and I found another cloth to cover him too.
When Pierre was gently lifted up into the kitchen we were relieved to discover his leg did not appear to be broken. It was, in all likelihood, merely a bad sprain.
And then the shock and horror of all that had happened came washing over me in a torrent. My legs turned to jelly, my whole body was trembling, I felt quite faint.
‘Oh George, I shot a man!’ I whispered. ‘God help me, I killed him!’
And George merely nodded and put an arm round my shoulders.
‘Good for you, Flora. And now you look like you could do with a drop of your father’s brandy.’
* * *
They took charge of everything then, my good friends from Monksmoor. One man had already ridden for the constable, and George assured me that he would see the bodies were removed for decent burial. ‘Though whether Mr Gavin can be laid to rest in hallowed ground, I’ve got my doubts. I think it’s outside the village for him,’ he said.
‘Like Tucker.’
‘Aye, like Tucker. The inn will be renamed Fletcher’s Grave, if you ask me.’ Kind and honest and good as he was, George never stopped to give a lot of thought to what he said.
At last the necessary formalities were completed. George wanted to take us to his home, where Alice would look after us, but I declined his offer. I felt it was only right for Antoinette and Pierre to be at Belvedere. And it was there, too, that we would receive the first news of Louis. George said he would drive us in his trap, so that was decided upon.
This time, as I closed the door behind us and turned the key in the lock, I felt no regret at leaving. Too many terrible things had happened here. It no longer felt like my home.
As the trap pulled away, I did not even look back.
* * *
I kept as busy as I could. One of the first things I did on returning to Belvedere was to clear all evidence of Gavin’s occupation from Louis’ room. I could not bear to think of them there, defiling Louis’ private space and the place where we had shared our brief, wonderful loving. I asked Walter to package them up and have them distributed amongst the poor and needy. The lodge, however, I left untouched. It would be for Louis to deal with that when he came home. And if he did not… I pushed the terrible thought aside.
Two days later, the constable came to Belvedere and told me that two men, believed to have been working for Gavin, had been arrested. I was glad that my father’s murderers would be brought to justice, but it was of little consolation to me. My father was dead; seeing the two ruffians swinging on a gibbet at the crossroads would not bring him back. I had lost my taste for revenge when I pulled the trigger and despatched Gavin, I realized. He had been the instigator and the men who had worked for him, though bad, cruel men, had no doubt justified what they did as a way of improving the lot of their struggling families. Now nothing mattered except that there should be no more death, no more grieving, for I had had my fill of it; I could take no more.
But somehow, for the sake of Antoinette and Pierre, I had to remain strong. Nerves stretched to breaking point, I strove to maintain some sense of normality at Belvedere. But each day stretched longer than the one before, days when I woke with a sense of hope, and felt it die and drain from me as the hours passed. I could no longer run eagerly to the window when I thought I heard hooves upon the drive, for the disappointment at discovering it was not Louis was more than I could bear, yet I would pause in whatever I was doing, ears straining for the sound of his beloved voice, hands clasped in silent prayer.
Would I know, I wondered, if something terrible had occurred? Would not Sir Jeremy bring word? But if the ship had been discovered and all the crew taken, there would be no one to carry the news home. We would learn it eventually, I supposed, for the French would be so cock-a-hoop at capturing the Lynx they would be unable to resist spreading word of their success. And would I, in any case, not know in my heart? The love I felt for Louis was so strong I could scarcely believe he could leave this world and me not know it. But my torment was so great, my hopes and fears such a tempestuous sea, that I could no longer hold on to any one of them, no longer trust my own intuition.
The fifth day dawned bright and clear with a smell of spring in the air, and the early sun was warm through the windows of the morning room. When we had finished breakfast, Antoinette and Pierre went, as they so often did, to ride. I no longer worried that she might meet up with John; she had Pierre now for company and I thought that even if she did see the gamekeeper’s boy, she could not get up to mischief with her half-brother there, an unwitting chaperone. I was glad, too, of a few hours when I did not have to keep up the pretence at normality, for the strain of it was becoming unbearable.
I went to Louis’ room. Now that I had disposed of Gavin’s things it was once more the room where we had lain and loved and I felt close to him there. I ran my fingers over the silver-backed brushes on his dressing stand, I opened the cupboards and buried my face in his clothes, to which the faint smell of him still clung. It was of some small comfort, but it was also exquisite pain, and tears ached in my throat and pressed behind my tight-closed eyelids.
The rattle of wheels on the drive sounded above the roaring in my ears; my heart seemed to cease beating. I stood taut, the fine lawn of one of his shirts bunched between my hands, then, cautiously, I went to the window and looked out.
It was the same coach that had brought Pierre, and Sir Jeremy was climbing down. My heart gave another painful jolt. There was news! Oh, dear God, there was news. But why was Sir Jeremy here? Where was Louis? I caught my lip between my teeth, all my terror for him flooding over me.
And then I saw him. I gasped; joy burst in me like the sparking of kindling before the tinderbox. He was here! Climbing awkwardly from the carriage with Sir Jeremy’s help. I did not stop to register that he must have been wounded, gave no thought as to whether or not Lisette was with him. Nothing mattered but that he was alive, and he was here.
My feet flew me down the stairs. Nothing on earth could have stopped me. I rushed past a startled Walter and threw open the door.
‘Louis! Oh – Louis!’
I forgot all propriety and ran to him like the eager lover I was. Then I stopped, awkward suddenly. There was something different about him. A stiffness, a greyness. His face was gaunt with pain, both physical and emotional, the lines deeper than ever I had seen them. There was a stoop to his shoulders. My strong, upright Louis had become an old man who made no move towards me.
‘Oh Louis, you’re safe!’ I whispered.
His mouth tightened, the lines bit deeper.
‘But I could not save her,’ he said. ‘Lisette is dead.’
And to my eternal shame, I could feel nothing but relief.
* * *
We went into the house, Sir Jeremy assisting Louis for, as I later discovered, he had taken a gunshot wound to the right knee in a run-in with the Revolutionaries. We went into the house, where although it was not much past ten in the morning, Sir Jeremy poured cognacs for Louis and for himself, and they proceeded to tell me what had occurred.
Louis had found Lisette, but en route back to the harbour where the ship awaited them the Revolutionaries had caught up with them. There had been a gunfight, in which Louis had been wounded. And Lisette had been shot dead. They told me all this in the baldest terms, with no unnecessary detail, and all the while Louis’ eyes were bleak as a winter landscape where no sun shines.
‘Where is Pierre?’ he asked at length. ‘I have to break the terrible news to him.’
‘Out riding with Antoinette,’ I said, glad to have this little reprieve. ‘But there are things I must tell you, too, Louis. Terrible things have happened here too.’
‘I know,’ he said. Word had, it seemed, reached Dartmouth, as I should have known it would, and Louis and Sir Jeremy already knew what had occurred at Tucker’s Grave on the day that Gavin and Armand died. ‘I am so sorry, Flora, for putting you into such danger. I never for one moment thought that my own brother… I knew he was a rascal. I never realized it was he who was working against me, and that he would go to such lengths to see me dead – and Pierre too.’ His face was dark with this added pain.
Tucker's Inn Page 29
