Between one breath and the next everything was changed. The effort of despair was gone. She felt a rushing joy, an invincible sense of life and hope. They went quickly and without words until they were clear of the stable buildings and well away on the cart track. He kept his arm through hers and held it close. Then he said,
“I had to get the car out of the ditch. It’s been a job.”
Sarah said in a dreaming voice, “I thought you were dead.”
“Well, I wanted them to think so. Anyhow there was no harm in trying it on. I wasn’t quite sure whether they’d think I was trying to stop you going off with the car, or aiding and abetting, and if they thought that, it was all up with us both. So I thought I’d be a corpse. I really was a bit knocked out to start with, but fortunately I came round before they got a torch on to me, because I was able to do a very useful imitation of a broken neck. I reckoned they would want the smash to look as natural as possible, in which case they would do just what they did do and leave me be without touching me. I let them get well away and then started in getting the car off the bank. The front wheels were hitched up, and I was afraid they’d drop when I began to back her away, so I had to fill in the ditch with snow and ram it down to make a track. I couldn’t go at it too hard—I was afraid of starting that damned scratch again.”
“Are you all right?” She turned to peer at him, seeing only height and blackness against the snow.
He laughed.
“Don’t be a fool! You know, I’m tired of telling you that. I told you it was only a scratch.”
An almost unbearable happiness warmed her.
“I don’t believe everything I’m told.”
And then they were coming out between the pillars on to the road and the car loomed up.
To remember in what desolation she had stood there no more than an hour ago was strange.… It must be less than an hour.… The earth had broken under her feet and the sky had fallen in. Now she was back in a safe world. It was the nightmare which had broken and let them through.
As the car moved and the hedges began to slide away on either side, she thought, “It’s true—we’re going to get away.” There was nothing to say about it. She leaned back and saw the beam of the hooded light make a shining path for them.
When they came out on the moor she drew a long sighing breath. Now they were safe. Now surely nobody could catch them. This time she spoke her thoughts.
“They can’t catch us now.”
“I don’t know about can’t—they won’t.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Hedgeley, I think. Look here, is there anything you can charge them with if we go to the police? I want them pulled in, and at once, but I don’t want to play my stuff in a local police station. But if they used any force to you—”
Sarah looked straight in front of her.
“They took away my clothes and shut me out in the yard to freeze.”
His left hand came down hard upon her knee.
“Sarah!”
“They reckoned I’d be unconscious by the morning. When I was almost dead they were going to put me to bed and send Grimsby for a doctor. They weren’t sure how much I knew about those papers. And then of course there was Emily Case. I suppose one of them killed her.”
He nodded.
“Yes—Grimsby. Sarah, have you got those papers? They’re awfully important.”
“Yes, I’ve got them. I threw a sham packet down the well when they were taking me back, and they think they know where they are, so they’re not bothering. I tore some pages out of a book in your room and wrapped them up in the lining-paper out of a drawer and my neck-handkerchief. I threw them down the well, and Mr. Brown laughed and said it was a nice safe place. So then they didn’t bother me any more—they just wanted to be rid of me, and to make sure I’d freeze in the yard.”
He said, “Sarah!” again, and then, “How did you get out?”
She told him.
“Mrs. Grimsby saved me really. You won’t let her go to prison, will you? She thought they’d kill her, but she helped me all the same. John—what is it all about? What are those papers? They tried to kill you for them, and they did kill Emily Case, and they were going to kill me. What is it all about?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then he said,
“Can’t you guess?”
She said soberly, “I’ve been guessing ever since Emily put the packet into my bag. Now I want to know.”
“Did you look at the papers?”
“Of course I did—a lot of names and addresses all over the place, and a photograph of a bald man called Paul Black or Blechmann.”
“A photograph of the Reverend Peter Brown.”
Sarah cried out.
“Oh! Joanna said that Wilson called him Paul! But he isn’t bald—he’s simply smothered in hair.”
“You can get away with a hairy wig much better than one with a civilized hair-cut. Paul’s as clever as they’re made. Lots of hair, lots of beard, untidy clothes—beard, tobacco, folk-lore—don’t you see how it all hangs together? Professors and parsons are his long suits. But didn’t you notice that he hadn’t any eyelashes? That’s why he wears glasses. He doesn’t need them, you know—his eyes are as good as mine.”
“Who is he?”
“Head of Hitler’s Fifth Column over here. And the names and addresses are those of his agents—key men. I had a fake attack of influenza and went over to get them. Thanks to another man’s extraordinarily clever work I succeeded. But I hadn’t much start. I passed the packet to Emily Case after I was stabbed, because I wasn’t sure of keeping my senses and I knew they’d be on the look-out for me in Paris. They’d have had me too if a friend of mine hadn’t turned up in the nick of time. As it was, I couldn’t get on until next day, and the first thing I saw when I landed was a headline about Emily Case.”
Sarah took a moment. Then she said,
“Who are you—really?”
“Well, my name is John Hamilton, and I expect you can make a guess at my job.”
“Then you didn’t rob a bank?”
“No. The real John Wickham did though.”
“Oh, there was a real John Wickham?”
“Oh, yes—dossier as given you by Wilson Cattermole. He died in prison, and I was discharged in his place. The same general description would fit us both. You see, my employers thought it might be a good thing to keep an eye on Wilson Cattermole. Wilson was all set to give some poor criminal a second chance, so it was arranged that I should be that criminal.”
“Why did he want a criminal? He isn’t a philanthropist.”
“Quite right. He wanted a criminal because he was engaged in shady business. Once a man’s been in prison he’s apt to shun the police. Wilson wanted a chauffeur who could be trusted to shun the police. A man like that would be in his power—if he accused him of stealing, he’d be done for. I was given a pretty strong hint of that sort the first time I took him to Maltings.”
Sarah thought about that.
“He pretended not to know Mr. Brown—they were carrying on a correspondence as strangers—”
“And meeting once a month down here. They’ve got a wireless installation in that haunted wing, you know. Very clever people, but I think we’ve got them now. Well, here’s Hedgeley. We’ll knock up the police and pull a string or two. Let me do all the talking, and don’t say your piece till I give you a lead.”
CHAPTER XL
Hedgeley police station had quite a busy time for the next hour. The wires hummed. A Chief Constable was got out of bed. There were conversations with London. And presently, after a longish wait, a car drove up from which Mr. Wilson Cattermole, Grimsby and his niece, and the Reverend Peter Brown were decanted.
Sarah found it all rather vague in her recollection next day. There was a very hot fire in the charge room.… If you sat close to it, you scorched, but if you moved away, the fierce cold that beat against the windows set an icy touch upon your spine.… There w
as a large red-faced policeman—he looked too big for his uniform—and there was a long, thin one with a beaky nose.… The Chief Constable had a bright striped muffler and a pair of keen blue eyes.… All their faces seemed to float in a thick white mist—they kept coming and going.… She made a statement, and when it had been read over to her she signed it—but she couldn’t see the paper, or the pen, or her own name.…
And then John was asking her about the papers and she was looking at him blankly, because the words were just words. When she tried to think about them they slipped away from her. There had been papers in an oiled-silk packet—John had been stabbed for them—Emily Case had been murdered—Sarah Marlowe had just escaped with her life.…
But the papers—that was what John kept on asking.… She had told Mr. Brown that they were at the bottom of the well, but that wasn’t true. “Sarah, where are the papers? You said you’d got them. Where are they?”
She had held them back from everyone for so long that it seemed as if she had no strength to let them go. Not now—not like this. The fire was so hot—her head went round.… She heard John say, “It’s no use—she’s all in. I’d like to take her over to the hotel and get them to put her to bed.…”
There was an interval, and then she was in a strange bed in a strange room. Someone had undressed her. There was a fire, and something hot to drink. Then sleep. She went down into it and lost everything.
When she woke up there was a cold daylight in the room. An engraving of Queen Victoria’s marriage hung upon the opposite wall in a narrow gilt frame. Underneath this picture upon the mantelshelf there were two large sky-blue vases with a raised pattern of gilt knobs. Between the vases was a clock in a wooden frame carved with edelweiss. The hands of the clock stood at half past ten. Sarah gazed at them. If it was half past ten on Monday morning, she had been asleep for about eight hours. The events of the last few days presented themselves to her with a curious effect of having happened to someone else, a long time ago.
She got out of bed, dressed herself, and went downstairs. As she turned towards the door of the stuffy sitting-room where she and Joanna had waited on the Saturday which seemed to have slipped so far into the past, John Hamilton came out. They stood for a moment and looked at each other. Then he took her back into the room and shut the door.
“I was coming up to see if you were awake.”
Sarah said, “I’m starving.”
She felt shaken—uncertain of herself and of him. The strange current which had always run between them was there, stronger and warmer than ever before. Sarah had met it with resentment, with resistance, with shame, and joy, and terror. Now all these feelings dissolved and were transmuted. The current flowed strong. And then all at once they were back where they had been yesterday. His hands fell on her shoulders and he was saying in an urgent voice,
“The papers—where are they? There simply isn’t any time to be lost. You were all in last night. You have got them, haven’t you? You said you had.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve got them.”
“Hand them over then!”
She stepped back from him and pulled off the little pill-box hat. The crumpled veil gave it a disreputable air. He stared at it, frowning.
“What’s this?”
“My hat. The papers are sewn into it—they’re the sides of the pill-box. It was the safest place I could think of, and nobody guessed.”
Mr. John Hamilton emitted a loud triumphant war-whoop and embraced her.
“Sarah, I’ve kept on calling you a fool. I take it all back. You’ve been clever enough to diddle Paul Black and get away with it, and there aren’t many people who can say that. When we’re married—”
Sarah disengaged herself. Her cheeks were burning and her eyes shone.
“Who said we were going to be married?”
“I did. You heard me. I’ll come back and talk about it later. They want these papers and they want them quick.”
He put an arm round her, tilted up her chin, gave her a long, hard kiss, and ran out of the room, banging the door behind him.
Sarah looked at it. He had taken her hat. He had kissed her without a with your leave or by your leave. Her knees wobbled disgracefully.
She sat down on the nearest chair and said, “Well!”
About the Author
Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1941 by Patricia Wentworth
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3352-7
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
EARLY BIRD BOOKS
FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY
BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—
NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!
The Web’s Creepiest Newsletter
Delivered to Your Inbox
Get chilling stories of
true crime, mystery, horror,
and the paranormal,
twice a week.
EBOOKS BY PATRICIA WENTWORTH
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia
Weekend with Death Page 23
