Something tenuous and filmy covered her face. She gave vent to a little shriek.
‘Only a spider’s web,’ said Fen cheerfully as he shone his torch on her.
‘Sorry,’ she said, shamefaced. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’
They pressed on, and soon the rain began to fall, lightly at first, then hissing and rustling in the leaves above their heads. Despite her protests, Fen made her put on his raincoat. He turned up his collar and whistled the Funeral March from the ‘Eroica’ Symphony between his teeth. He noted that they had reached the third chapter of the Acts of the Apostles; at the Revelation of St John the Divine they would be compelled to stop and retrace their steps.
In the middle of the First Epistle of St Paul to the Corinthians, however, Mr Merrythought took action on his own account. His progress during the past few minutes had been perceptibly slower, and now he sat down on his haunches with an air of finality; it was clear that he did not propose to go any further. What was not clear was whether or not they would be obliged to carry him all the way back. They halted beside him.
‘And that,’ said Fen, ‘would appear to be that.’
‘I must apologize,’ said Elspeth stiffly, trying to keep the tears of vexation and disappointment from her eyes, ‘for bringing you on a wild-goose chase.’
‘My dear girl,’ said Fen gently, ‘there’s no need for apologies. I came of my own free will, knowing there was a possibility of our failing. You see—’
‘Shush!’ said Elspeth abruptly. They listened. Elspeth was alert, her superstitious fears gone. She realized with a fleeting surprise that even in her present coldly rational state the sense of some third person near them had not vanished, but for the moment such considerations were irrelevant. She strained her ears.
‘What is it?’ Fen whispered.
‘I thought I heard someone calling.’
Fen looked at her doubtfully. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t an owl?’
‘N— no, it wasn’t. At least, I don’t think so. Didn’t you hear anything?’
‘No. I didn’t.’
For fully a minute they stood motionless.
‘No good,’ said Elspeth at last. ‘I must have been imagining things.’
Fen sighed. ‘Home, then?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘What we’re going to do with Mr Merrythought I can’t imagine. He doesn’t look capable of moving, to me, and as far as I can see—’
‘Listen!’
And that time they both heard it – a thin, weak voice, not very far off, crying for help.
‘My God,’ Fen muttered. ‘You were right. What direction did it come from?’
But Elspeth seized the torch from his hand without a word; it seemed that she, at least, had no doubts. She went off at a run.
‘Come on!’ she called.
Fen followed. Mr Merrythought, tottering to his feet and fearing, probably, that he was about to be basely abandoned to starvation and the night, followed Fen, baying horribly the while. Brambles caught at their clothes, and they stumbled on tufts of grass and moss-covered roots. Fen fell into a puddle placed there by providence for the purpose, and arose from it spattered and grimy, only to be sent reeling again by Mr Merrythought’s headlong rush. An owl, alarmed at their trampling, rose with a shriek and a whirr of wings from the lower branch of an elm.
In less than a minute they had come out into a clearing bordered with larches, where the twilight still lingered. Small pools of daisies glimmered ghostly white. They paused uncertainly.
But Mr Merrythought did not pause. He marched straight to a clump of bracken and sniffed at it enquiringly. They joined him, and he lay down and gazed up at them with the fatuous complacency of a hen which has laid a particularly large egg.
Among the bracken a girl of Elspeth’s age was lying. Her gold hair was tangled and matted, her large eyes were red and puffy with weeping, there were purple bruises on her slender throat, and one black-stockinged leg was unnaturally distorted.
But Brenda Boyce, by a high mercy, was alive.
Elspeth kneeled down beside her. ‘Brenda!’ she said breathlessly. ‘It’s me – Elspeth.’
Brenda’s face was very white, and tears of relief and exhaustion were running down her cheeks.
‘Take me home,’ she whispered. ‘Please take me home.’
Elspeth swallowed; her mouth was dry. ‘Oh, Brenda, are you badly hurt?’
Fen touched her on the shoulder, and she moved out of his way. He had a flask of whisky in his hand.
‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘It will do you good.’
‘Please, I only want…’
‘Come along now,’ he said, amiably but firmly. ‘I want you nicely drunk, in as short a time as possible…And keep the torch steady, Elspeth. No, bless your heart, don’t shine it into the poor girl’s eyes…’
He raised Brenda’s head, cradling it in the crook of his arm, and put the flask to her lips. She gulped the spirit down. It seemed to revive her a little, for she attempted to smile through her tears.
‘Whisky always did make me feel sick,’ she murmured. ‘I wish you had a gin and lime.’
‘You’ve got guts, young woman,’ Fen told her with real admiration. He turned to Elspeth, whose nervous reaction was issuing in floods of silent weeping.
‘Stop that ridiculous boohooing,’ he said sternly, ‘and do something useful. You must get to a telephone straight away.’ Elspeth dabbed at her eyes and nodded. ‘Take Lily Christine if you think you can manage to drive her. Ring up the police station and tell the superintendent what’s happened. If he isn’t there, insist that they get in touch with him immediately. Say we need a doctor and an ambulance without a moment’s delay. Then wait in the road and lead them back here.’
‘Shall I leave you the torch?’
‘Good heavens, no. You’ll need it to follow the paper trail…Just a minute. Take off that coat, please.’ Elspeth obeyed, and Fen spread the coat over Brenda. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘For the love of God, Elspeth, stop havering and run away.’
‘But is she—?’
‘She’s perfectly all right.’ Fen laid the back of his hand against Brenda’s forehead. ‘Not even feverish. There isn’t the slightest danger, and she’ll be completely recovered inside a week. At the same time, we don’t want to sit about on damp bracken any longer than we can help. So be quick.’
Elspeth got hurriedly to her feet. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’m going. Bye-bye for now, Brenda. Shan’t be long.’
She ran off into the wood, and Fen turned back to Brenda, slipping off his jacket and folding it to make a pillow for her head. She was a damnably attractive child, he thought, with a finer and more delicate beauty than Elspeth’s, though more definitely leggy and coltish; but that would pass in a year or two, and in the meantime Fen inwardly applauded the enterprise and good taste of J. H. Williams. Of course, it was a miracle that she lived, and he could hardly be blamed for not knowing that the murderer had muffed his job. Strangulation was a risky business, certainly, those marks on her throat…
The rain, heavy in that exposed place, was soaking through the thin silk of his shirt. He moved his shoulders uncomfortably.
‘You’ll catch cold,’ Brenda whispered.
‘Not a chance,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You must be cold, though, after being here all last night.’
‘And h-hungry,’ she answered weakly. ‘My throat’s not so bad now, and the cut on my leg’s healing up, b-but my other leg hurts terribly. I think it’s b-broken.’
‘May I look?’
‘Yes. Yes, I s’pose so.’
Fen felt the leg, very delicately, in the darkness.
‘Not broken,’ he diagnosed presently. ‘You’ve dislocated your knee, and that’s not quite so bad, though I know it’s hellish painful.’ He smiled at her – a futile exercise, since they could barely see one another. ‘Would you like me to put it back?’
There was a long pause before she
said, ‘W-will it hurt?’
‘It may,’ said Fen with candour, ‘and it may not. You can never be sure.’
And after another pause, ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I s’pose it’s got to be done some time, so it may as well be now. Go ahead.’
She closed her eyes tightly, bit her lip, and waited, drawing a little confidence from the feel of his firm, careful hands on the projecting bone. There was a moment of rebellion as he began to straighten the leg, but she stifled it. Every separate muscle and sinew shrieked in protest; she yearned to cry out, but would not. Then, quite suddenly, there was an audible click, followed by a blissful sense of normalcy and well-being. She opened her eyes gratefully.
‘It hardly hurt at all,’ she said wonderingly to the dim form kneeling beside her.
‘Good,’ said Fen briskly. ‘It’s very swollen, of course, and you’ll have to stay in bed for a few days, but otherwise you’ll be all right.’
He took off his tie, and bound it round the knee. ‘There. That’s the best I can do for the moment. Damn this rain. But we’ll soon be out of it.’
‘I feel much better,’ said Brenda. ‘Tell me who you are, and how you managed to find me.’
‘My name’s Gervase Fen.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Brenda, whose voice had grown stronger, raised herself on one elbow. ‘Elspeth’s always raving about you. She’ll be excited, all right.’
Fen searched about for a more comfortable position in the bracken. ‘Nature,’ he observed gloomily. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever had very much use for it.’
‘And was it Elspeth who told you about the blood trail?’
‘It was,’ said Fen, pushing aside a frond which appeared to be seeking entry into his mouth. ‘Only she didn’t remember about it till late this afternoon.’ He grabbed at something on the back of his neck and cast it into outer darkness. Brenda sensed the movement.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Spiders.’
‘Yes, they’ve been crawling all over me. They make me yell normally, but I felt so rotten I hardly cared.’
‘More whisky?’
‘Yes, please.’
Fen handed her the flask. ‘Sottish wench,’ he murmured. ‘Still, you deserve it.’ She drank moderately and returned the flask.
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘You know, I didn’t think anyone would remember about the blood trail business, but I had to do something. And what I was really afraid of was that people’d take that blush-making letter for gospel.’
‘I don’t think anyone believed in it for a moment,’ Fen told her.
‘Why not?’ she asked, curious.
‘The general opinion was that you had more sense than to go off with a man. And besides. Miss Parry maintained that the style was all wrong.’
‘Yes, baby stuff, wasn’t it? Bad psychology.’
‘Peg’s Own Paper,’ Fen agreed.
Brenda was silent for a time. ‘I thought no one was ever coming,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t move, and I shouted and shouted and it wasn’t the slightest use. And I’ve fainted God knows how many times, and been sick twice.’
‘All over now,’ Fen consoled her. ‘In an hour or so you’ll be safe at home…Smelling like a distillery,’ he added, and she laughed.
The rays of the torch which Elspeth carried had long since vanished among the trees. Pitch darkness was all about them, and the small noises of a wood at night were dominated by the hiss of the rain, which was falling more heavily now.
‘If you leaned on me,’ said Fen, ‘do you think you could hop a yard or two? We’d be more sheltered under the trees, and I don’t want you to develop pneumonia in addition to all your other troubles.’
‘Rain won’t hurt me,’ Brenda answered rather scornfully. ‘But we’ll try if you like.’
‘Right.’ Fen stood up. ‘Wait just a moment while I do a little reconnaissance.’
He took a few steps away from where she lay, groping in his pocket for matches. What happened then took him completely unawares.
He heard a stealthy rustle in the undergrowth close by.
Danger.
For an instant he stood paralysed and incapable of thought, gazing helplessly into the darkness. He had no weapon, no light but what a match would give. He could not locate the direction of the sound. But he knew that a killer was close at hand, and that he himself was responsible for it. He cursed aloud.
The beam of a powerful torch shone out suddenly from among the trees, dazzling him. The rain slanted across it like needles. But it illuminated him only momentarily, moving quickly away until it rested on Brenda’s supine form. At its source he glimpsed the sheen of black metal, and he saw Brenda look towards it and open her mouth as if to speak.
For a second the tableau held, transfixed as though graven in stone. Then suddenly it was broken. Mr Merrythought, baying savagely, launched himself at the light. There was a violent detonation and a streak of flame. Brenda screamed. Then the light vanished, and there were footsteps racing away through the trees, with the dog in pursuit.
Fen stumbled back to where Brenda was.
‘Are you all right?’ he called. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and relief surged through him. ‘I – I’m all right. I’m frightened, though. What was it? What happened?’
‘Someone took a shot at me,’ Fen lied. He felt for her hand and grasped it firmly in his own. She was shivering.
‘No,’ she said in a small voice whose clarity he mistrusted. ‘It was me. It was me they were shooting at. Will they come back?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘They will, you know. Oh God, why can’t they leave me alone?’ Brenda broke into hiccupping sobs. ‘I can’t stand any more. I can’t stand it…’
‘Steady.’ Fen squeezed her hand in a deliberate attempt to hurt. ‘Try and hang on for a bit.’
The sobs subsided. ‘Oh, Christ,’ she whimpered. ‘What a bloody little coward I am…It was only…You see, I’ve been through all this once. It’s so bloody unfair…’
‘Come on,’ said Fen. ‘We’re going to make a move now.’
He helped her to stand. She staggered, one arm round his neck. The raincoat dropped unregarded to the ground.
‘All right?’ he asked.
She gave a little gasping laugh. ‘I can manage.’
On an impulse, he kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘Bless you, my child,’ he said lightly. ‘Now, as quietly as possible, and no talking, please.’
Melton Chart was silent again. From a snuffling, exhausted sound at his feet, Fen deduced that Mr Merrythought had returned. As they staggered – alas, too audibly – towards the shelter of the trees, he reviewed the situation, and a coldness seeped into his veins. Someone had tried to shoot Brenda; that person would not, in the circumstances, stop at a single attempt. He himself could not leave Brenda. She was incapable of the swift, evasive movement which was their only chance of escape. They would be hunted through the wood like maimed and helpless animals. Their assailant would return, track them, spotlight them from a safe distance, and take aim at leisure. They were completely at his mercy.
And the damnable, the sickening thing about it all was that he, Gervase Fen, had arranged it. He had set a trap and with blind, incredible folly walked into it himself, dragging Brenda with him. Weems had done his work well, he reflected; he had his proof now. But it seemed unlikely that he would live to demonstrate it. Perhaps Stagge would get there in the end, he thought, with the discursive lightheadedness which, as he had noticed on two previous occasions, extreme peril does sometimes evoke. If Stagge sat down and meditated for a week…if seven maids with seven mops…The point was to work out how long Elspeth had been gone. They might be able to hold out until help came. Half an hour? No. More like ten minutes…
The rain soaked into them. It seemed an aeon before they reached the edge of the trees, with Mr Merrythought panting noisily at their heels. Let it be done quickly, Fen thought. Better that
than a dragging, futile, undignified attempt to escape.
It seemed that his wish was to be granted. They stopped short as the light flared out again, at a distance – Fen calculated – which meant that if he attempted to rush it he would be dead before he was halfway there. And it was held in a very steady hand – the shadows which it threw were motionless, with the sharp, unreal contours of shadows in a stage set. Of the figure behind it nothing could be seen except the slim, well-cared-for hand which held the revolver.
Fen checked the instinct to flight, swiftly turning his back on the light to shield Brenda with his body. Futile enough, he knew; one bullet for him, one for her, and so an end. She looked up at him, and her shadowed face was strangely calm and untroubled, almost childlike in its innocence.
‘Never mind,’ he said.
But he had reckoned without Mr Merrythought. He had reckoned without Mr Merrythought’s recurrent homicidal fits. The labour and excitement of the evening had clearly had a baneful effect on Mr Merrythought’s constitution, for now, enraged beyond belief, he was foaming at the mouth, growling, yelping, and capering monstrously, with his eyes bloodshot and the hair standing up along his spine like a porcupine’s quills.
And for the second time he rushed at the light.
It shifted almost imperceptibly to keep him in view, and the shot rang out when he was halfway towards it. Turning, Fen saw him stagger at the impact of the bullet. With any other dog, and in particular with any other dog of Mr Merrythought’s venerable years, it would have been enough. But it seemed that Mr Merrythought’s apoplexy abolished his normal physical limitations. He went on, scarcely less swiftly than before. The assailant fired again, wildly, and missed. The next instant, with a blood-curdling snarl, Mr Merrythought was upon him.
The torch fell to the ground and rolled, creating a moving chiaroscuro among the tree trunks. Deafened by the uproar, Fen saw an indistinct shape racing out of the gloom. He went to meet it, and they came together with a jarring impact. Fen hit out at random, and pain flooded up his arm as his knuckles came in violent contact with the hard metal of the revolver. It struck his knee as it fell, and in that instant his antagonist eluded him and pounded away.
Love Lies Bleeding Page 17
