by Vicary, Tim
In the right direction.
The horrible thought struck her as she tottered around another bend and saw nothing in front of her but a further stretch of dark road between trees, with the puddles on the surface reflecting the lightening grey of the sky above. She sat down abruptly on the line of tussocky grass which ran down the centre of the lane, and dropped her head between her knees, while her legs trembled and the breath rasped painfully into her lungs.
What if I'm going the wrong way?
If I turned the wrong way when I first came into the lane all this effort will be taking me further away from the village, not nearer. I couldn't have done that, could I?
She knew she could. She had lived too long in a city and she had never had a good sense of direction. She had often got lost in the country, even around Glenfee. She remembered playful arguments about it with Jonathan on their honeymoon. It had been a joke, all those years ago, but not now.
If I can't be trusted to find my way in the daytime, how can I be sure I've got it right in the dark, in a rainstorm, when my body's broken because of prison and my mind's all hazy because we killed that man?
She dragged herself to her feet and took a few steps further down the lane. But it was so hard, and what was the point if she might be going the wrong way? She stood still, irresolute, wondering what to do. Rain still dripped down the back of her neck, and she shivered with cold. She noticed the grey hurrying clouds above were getting lighter, and realised she could see the track ahead more clearly than before. There were still dark trees on either side, but she could see a strip of grass running down the centre of the lane, puddles in the ruts on either side, a farm gate some fifty yards ahead. Dawn must be on its way.
Perhaps if she got to the gate she would be able to look out across the fields and catch sight of the village or the house. Then she would be able to work out where she was from that. But she would have to hurry. Dawn was around six o'clock, she thought and Deborah had told her that Charles's car was expected to leave for Craigavon soon after seven. Even when she got to the village it would still take time to round up the men to stop them.
But when daylight came, she might meet someone — a farm labourer, perhaps — who could help her.
With the dawn the wind had got up. Vast gusts of it blustered through the trees, setting them swaying and creaking beside her like the sea. As she lurched towards the farm gate an unusually large gust howled through a gap in the trees, caught her sodden skirts, and sent her staggering sideways into the ditch. I can't stand much more of this, she thought, my body just won't take it.
As she stumbled to her feet again a car came round the corner behind her, its headlights glistening through the driving rain. This is it, she thought. Someone who can help me at last!
She tottered out into the middle of the lane, waving her arms frantically. The car would have to stop; she was on the grassy patch in the middle of the lane and there was no way round. The driver saw her and applied the brakes, the back wheels sliding sideways through the mud. It stopped about ten yards away from her.
Sarah sobbed with relief. There were two men in the car, wearing leather driving helmets and goggles that covered their faces. One of them lifted a gauntleted hand, opened the door, and got out. His companion got out the other side.
She started to walk towards the car, then paused. There was something odd, something familiar about the car, she thought. What was it?
Fear crawled like worms in her stomach. That car — it was Charles's Lancia — the one the Germans were going to take to Craigavon! And one of the men — the one climbing out of the passenger seat — was holding a shotgun in his hand.
Shortly after dawn the rain stopped. But the grey clouds still scudded eastwards over the grounds, chased by a loud, boisterous wind that bent and tossed the tall trees near the road, and churned the waters of the lough into miles of white horses and short, choppy grey waves.
The wind rattled the windows of Glenfee Lodge, and piercing draughts hissed and scurried through the rooms. Werner stood with arms folded at the end of the library, scowling as he stared out into the cheerless light of day.
It was nearly seven o'clock. He would have to decide in the next few minutes whether to go ahead with his mission or abort it. They would have to leave on time — with a gale from the west like this the journey east to Craigavon could easily take longer than expected, to say nothing of the risk of the engine stopping if it began to rain again, or of the car sliding off the road in the wet. He had sent Karl-Otto and Franz in search of the chauffeur and the car. They would bring it round to the front door any minute now.
Certainly enough had gone wrong already for him to justify aborting the mission. Charles wounded, Simon dead, several of the servants and that other woman, his wife's sister, apparently vanished — he had been able to trace neither the butler nor the housekeeper so far this morning — and the boy's mother was completely intractable. No one could blame him if he estimated the risks were too great at this point to continue, and withdrew with his three subordinates still unharmed.
But failure will not further my career, Werner thought. There will be no medal. No presentation from the Kaiser. Charles Cavendish will live to laugh, and mock me again.
But if we go ahead, what can I do with the boy's mother? She had not let go of Tom once since she had come into the house, and Werner's men had been reluctant to prise them apart. Werner had been about to order them to do it once, when they had brought her a clean dress, but she had marched upstairs with the boy's hand gripped tightly in her own, and he had seen a look in his men's eyes which had made him change his mind and order them to follow her and stand guard outside the door instead.
They were brave men, but sentimental. They would kill Carson or Cavendish without a thought, but a mother and a child was a different matter. I ought to shoot her myself, he thought. After all she's a murderess, she killed Fletcher. But if I do I may have a rebellion on my hands, just when I need maximum obedience and devotion to duty.
In the next few minutes I shall have to decide. If we go ahead we can't take her with us, and I daren't leave her behind.
He glanced over his shoulder at the far end of the library, where Charles, Deborah and Tom sat together round a small fire which Franz had lit. Like the ideal happy family, Werner thought bitterly. Guarded by Franz, watching them quietly with a cigarette in his mouth and a cocked rifle resting on a chair in front of him.
Charles had not thought it was possible to feel such pain. Not the pain from the bullet that had grazed his skull. That was an ache, merely. Ferocious, but bearable. He had born many worse wounds in his time. In battle, in skirmishes on the North West Frontier, even in falls from polo ponies. They had all been wounds he had born with honour.
The pain that hurt him was in his whole body, behind his eyes and in every muscle of his face and especially, deep in his chest. It was unbearable. It felt as though his face were melting into tears that ran down inside his skin so that every tube and sinus and pore was suffused and bloated with ugliness. It felt as though a red-hot wire brush was scraping the lining of his lungs. It felt as though he was standing alone in the middle of a regimental square of sand, watched by all the soldiers he had ever commanded and by his parents and grandparents and family to the twelfth generation, while his badges of rank were stripped from him and his ceremonial sword was broken and flung in the mud at the feet of his son.
The name of the pain was shame.
His son sat opposite him, his dark eyes haunted by fear, clutched in the arms of Deborah whose eyes were hot and dark with anger. Charles was ashamed to look at either of them.
I wanted my son to see me as a hero, he thought, but I do not deserve to have a son at all. None of this would have happened to him if it had not been for me. I was so blinded by lust for Simon's beauty that I saw nothing of the monster within. Even now I am grieved for his death!
I am not even a competent soldier. Only Deborah — Deborah! — has managed to
fight back. Even now, Charles could scarcely believe it.
Awkwardly, only briefly glancing up from the fire, he asked: ‘Did you mean to kill him?’
‘Does it matter?’
She was not looking at him; all her attention seemed divided between Tom, at her side, and Werner, brooding by the window near the door.
‘No, not really. Only . . .’ he drew a deep breath, through the pain of shame in his lungs and his face. ‘. . . I suppose I should say that you were perfectly right to do it.’
She glanced at him briefly, and tears started in her eyes. ‘There was no time to think of what would happen. Of course we would have avoided it if we could. There was . . . so much blood, Charles.’ She shuddered and glanced at Tom, then lifted her head determinedly to stare warily at Werner. ‘And there will be more, if these devils have their way.’
He nodded, and forced himself to look at Tom. ‘Don't worry, old son. Chin up. We'll beat 'em yet.’
Tom forced a brief, pale smile which wrenched his heart. Do the old lies still work for him, then? Surely even Tom is old enough to recognise disgrace when he sees it.
But apparently not. It seemed that Tom trusted him, even now. Of course Tom had no idea what hold Simon had had over his father, or why Werner had chosen him of all the officers in the UVF to blackmail. Not yet. He still thought his father could do something to save him. With honour.
Abruptly, Charles stood up. Franz cocked his rifle warningly but Charles ignored him. He strode unsteadily across the room towards the door until Franz barred his way physically, holding the rifle across his chest.
‘Mr von Weichsaker.’
Werner turned to look at him. He had unfolded his arms and slipped his left hand inside his pocket for the pistol.
‘Yes? What now?’
‘I want to talk to you.’ He jerked his head back over his shoulder at Deborah and Tom. ‘Just you and me together.’
Werner considered. His lips curled in a sarcastic smile. ‘I would be loathe to part you from your beloved family, when they have just brought about such a remarkable improvement in your health. A little while ago you couldn't even stand.’
‘That's what I want to talk about.’ For a long moment Charles watched his enemy, taking in the startling pale blue eyes, the raised mocking eyebrow, the sarcastic insolent smile. Does he want me to plead with him? he wondered.
At last Werner shrugged. ‘All right.’ He nodded to Franz, who moved his rifle aside. ‘Step outside into the hall, then. For a couple of minutes only. But remember — if Franz hears a shot or a shout, he will kill these two immediately. The woman first.’ He stared meaningfully at Franz, intent on beating down any suggestion of resistance or scruples. Once let those show and we're lost.
Outside in the hall, Charles shivered suddenly. The cold draughty wind whistled over the wooden floor. Or perhaps it was fear.
He said: ‘Look, Werner, I have a bargain for you.’
‘A bargain? Do you honestly think you're in a position for that?’
‘I don't think any of us are in a good position. You must realise by now that you can't go through with this.’
‘Must I?’ It was exactly what Werner feared, but he wasn't going to show it. Or allow Charles to defeat him.
‘Yes. You're a sensible man. Too many things have gone wrong. But look – if you call the whole thing off, and drive away from here, I undertake not to raise the alarm or come in pursuit for . . . two hours. That should give you enough time.’
Werner laughed. ‘And would this promise bind your wife as well? She seems the force to be feared, at the moment.’
‘She is my wife, of course she would agree.’ Charles flushed. ‘All she cares about is the boy.’
‘She would be even better behaved if we took the boy with us.’ Those cold blue eyes watched him levelly.
‘Oh no.’ Despite his efforts at self-control Charles felt his face flush, his hands clench by his sides. ‘You're not taking the boy.’
Werner watched, impassive, assessing the rush of emotion coolly. ‘So, the boy still matters most of all to you.’
‘You unfeeling beast . . .’
‘Please!’ Werner raised his right hand, the crooked fingers waving irritatingly in Charles's face. ‘No insults or shouting. Remember, Franz is in there with your son and heir.’
‘All right. But you are not taking Tom with you. I forbid it!’
Werner did not trouble to answer. He let the words hang in the empty hall between them, like the memories of pride and power that gazed down at them from the large oil portraits on the walls. Past, gone, irrelevant. Whatever happens, I have had part of my revenge already, Werner thought. This moment, in this cold, draughty hall. All the power has come to me.
And power is addictive. The more you have, the more you want. At that moment he made his decision. I will not go home with half a victory, he thought. Half is only the beginning. Forget Simon Fletcher, he was an irrelevance. I can still do it all, on my own.
His voice, when he spoke, was calm, clear, determined. Like the head prefect of a school talking to a junior fag.
‘Listen to me, Cavendish. I am not going to run away or take your son to Germany with me. So you can put your mind at rest about that. Instead, I am going ahead with the plan exactly as I described it to you, with a few minor alterations to take account of the, er, changed circumstances of this morning. I will tell you these alterations now.’
Charles said nothing. Werner even detected a faint, almost imperceptible nod. The sense of power tingled in his veins like champagne.
‘First, you are obviously fit enough to walk and talk and lead Sir Edward Carson to the car. That is all you will have to do, and you will do it well. I congratulate you on your swift recovery. Second, not only your son but your wife will accompany us in the car to Craigavon. I see no alternative to that, because I am too much of a gentleman to shoot her — and after tonight I do not trust her to remain confined in any place I might leave her. Since you are so particularly attached to conventional family life, you may perhaps take some comfort from this.’
Still no reply. Charles stood quite still, almost like a soldier at attention before his commanding officer. Werner noticed a slight swaying in the legs, and thought: he will have to learn to control that, for his son's sake.
‘Third, when we come within a mile or so of Craigavon, I myself will get out of the car with your wife and precious son. That is because I regret to say I do not entirely trust my brave German sailors not to take pity on them, at the last moment. But I trust myself, absolutely. If you do not return with Sir Edward to the place where you leave us in a given time, I shall shoot them both dead, and make my escape alone. Do you understand?’
Charles shook his head. ‘No. I do not understand how any man could even think of behaving like this.’
The faintest trace of a flush crossed Werner's face, and was gone. ‘You are a soldier, you are not required to understand why. Only what you have to do, and what will happen if you disobey. Now, time is pressing. I suggest you go in and explain things to your wife, and be prepared to leave within a few minutes.’
As Charles went back into the library, Werner heard the car draw up on the gravel outside, and went through the front door to meet it.
It was the wrong car.
To his astonishment, Karl-Otto and Adolf appeared not in Charles's Lancia, as they had been specifically instructed, but in the black Daimler which Werner and Simon had driven here yesterday. And the two German sailors were alone — there was no chauffeur.
The car jerked unsteadily to a halt. Karl-Otto got out of the driver's seat, an anxious frown on his stolid boxer's face. Werner dashed down the steps towards him.
‘No, no, not this one! The Lancia, I said — where is the Lancia?’
‘Not there, sir. It has gone. And the chauffeur, too.’
‘What? God in heaven!’ No sooner was one problem solved than another arose, like the heads of a hydra. If the chauffeur had gone, Wer
ner thought, then he might be trying to summon help. He gazed wildly down the drive, as though a regiment of soldiers might appear there at any moment. Then he took a deep breath, tried to recover himself. ‘Are you sure? Did you look everywhere?’
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
‘But it can't be gone. We would have heard it go.’
‘Well, not necessarily, sir. You see there's some sort of bridle-path behind the stables that leads out between the fields. It probably joins that track where I was keeping guard last night. We went to look. There are tyre-marks in the mud.’
Werner swore again. He had asked Simon to call Karl-Otto in — when? It couldn't be much more than an hour ago. But an hour would be enough for whoever was in the car to get clear and pass a message to Craigavon. Had it all gone wrong?
He stood quite still for a moment on the drive, turning the possibilities over in his mind. Could they still go to Craigavon in this car instead of the Lancia? Yes, probably. People who saw Charles would expect him to be in the Lancia but he could cook up some plausible explanation for that, if forced to. Could they still get away from Glenfee? Yes, if they hurried. What would happen when they turned up at Craigavon? Ah, that was the problem. If the chauffeur had gone only to fetch help to Glenfee, then there would be no danger. But if he had known enough to pass a message on to UVF HQ at Craigavon, then whoever went there would be walking straight into a trap.
Whoever went there. That was the key to his decision, Werner realised. As the plan stood, it would be Franz, Karl-Otto, and Adolf who would turn up at Craigavon with Charles. Not Werner. He himself would be safely hidden beside the road some miles away with the woman and the boy as hostages.
So it's still a risk worth taking, Werner decided.
‘Right.’ He smiled at Karl-Otto and Adolf coolly, trying to dispel the anxiety on their heavy, honest faces. They looked to him for leadership and it was his duty to supply it.
