Run!

by Patricia Wentworth

  Jock laughed mockingly.

  “All right, if it opens, open it! I spent three quarters of an hour over it, broke all my nails, and completely lost my temper. By the time I gave it up I felt an inward conviction that Aunt Clementa was having us on.”

  “Perhaps she was,” said James.

  Sally shook her head vehemently.

  “Oh, no, she wasn’t. You didn’t see her—and hear her, like I did. She was in deadly earnest, and she only wasn’t afraid because she knew she was going to die, so she didn’t care. Besides, she was a Rere, and they’ve never been afraid of anyone. ‘Rere knows no feare’ is one of their jingling mottoes. If I was all Rere, I shouldn’t be afraid of slugs.”

  They spent half an hour over the panel without any result. Jock, declaring that he had done his bit, merely watched them with his hands in his pockets. Before the half hour was up he retired to the depths of a large easy chair and appeared to be sunk in slumber.

  “It’s no good,” said Sally at last in a despairing voice. “What next?”

  James got up from the floor and dusted the knees of his trousers.

  “Well, I think I had better put the Rolls away. I suppose there’s a garage?”

  “Oh, yes—round the left of the house to the back and straight on. Jocko’s car is there, but there’s plenty of room. I’ll come with you.”

  “Oh, no—I’ll find it. You get J.J. waked up and think out what we’d better do next. I won’t be any time at all.”

  Sally controlled a faint inward shiver. She wanted to go with him. She didn’t want to stay in this horrible dark house, in this horrible dark room, where the old shaky hand had clung to hers and the old shaky voice had whispered, “They don’t know that I get out of bed—and walk about the house—in the night,” and then, “Wicked people—wicked, wicked people.”

  Without opening his eyes Jock said, “She’s afraid to stay with only me to protect her—but he can’t hold your hand whilst he’s driving, you know.”

  “Better stay here,” said James.

  Sally stayed.

  XXXII

  James turned the Rolls and drove round two corners of the house. A brick archway at the far end of it took him into the big paved yard which went back to coaching days. He thought it was the same place to which he and Sally had come on that foggy afternoon which was, incredibly, only a fortnight ago, but they had come to it then by way of the front of the house and a flight of old steps.

  An open coach-house door showed him the back of Jock’s car with plenty of room beside it for the Rolls. He ran her in and got out. His mind for the moment was completely taken up with the question of whether there would be any means of locking the coach-house door. The Rolls was worth about two and a half thousand pounds, and since she was Colonel Pomeroy’s property and in his charge, he had got to make quite sure of her safety. His conscience was not too happy as it was, because he ought really to have put her away before he did anything else. It wasn’t to be supposed that Ambrose Sylvester was a mere car thief, but he might conceivably take the point of view that the enemy’s transport was fair game. James’s conscience accused him of neglect of duty. It took a nasty sermonizing tone to him as it enquired how he would have felt if he had come down to find that Colonel Pomeroy’s car had been stolen.

  It was, perhaps, because he was listening to this sermon that he did not hear either sound or movement in the dark coach-house. He tried to think afterwards whether he had heard anything at all, but he could remember nothing. There was neither footfall nor hurried breathing, only the sudden blow which sent him crashing into unconsciousness.

  The man who had knocked him out switched on an electric torch and turned it on the slumped figure. A voice spoke from behind him.

  “Take care—he mustn’t see you.”

  The man laughed.

  “Chérie, he will see no one—no one at all, any more.” He spoke in French.

  The woman’s voice said coolly, “Is he dead?”

  Henri Niemeyer was stooping, turning the body over. He let the beam play on James’s face, on James’s sightless eyes.

  “I think not—not yet. I got him under the ear. You see how useful it is to be able to see in the dark. And now we will put him in the hayloft.”

  “Why don’t you finish him?”

  Henri’s tone mocked her as he said,

  “Dear Hildegarde, what a soft heart you have! But you shouldn’t let it run away with your head. This good James will be found with a broken neck. He will have ditched his car, smashed into a telegraph-post, and been thrown through the windscreen. The injuries he receives must occur before he is dead. There must be nothing to raise a doubt in the mind of a meddlesome police surgeon. My blow under the ear will pass very nicely, and if he survives his little affair with the windscreen, it will be quite easy to finish him off. For the moment he has enough. Now if you will take his feet—”

  James came to himself some time later. The process was an unpleasant one. Henri had hit very hard, so hard in fact that but for the unusual toughness of his skull there might have been no awakening. As it was, he blinked, wondered where he was, wondered what had happened to his head, and sat up. He at once became very giddy and fell over sideways upon a rough, tickling mass of hay. He found himself with straws in his mouth still wondering where he was.

  His next effort was more successful. Having sat up, he remained sitting, and after some minutes his head began to clear and he began to remember. He remembered that he was at Rere Place—and he had come out to put away the car—and someone had knocked him out—

  Instantly his mind was filled with a furious anxiety about the Rolls. In his present state of pain and confusion he could not get past the Rolls. If she had been stolen or damaged, his name was mud. He got up on his knees, groaned, and subsided again upon the hay. Car thieves—and he hadn’t even had time to lock the doors—no, no time—the open coach-house door—another car—J.J.’s car—plenty of room—ought to have put her away before—ought to have … He could get as far as that, and then he couldn’t get any farther, because other wasn’t any farther to get. The crash came next—blackness, and pain, and this waking—troubled—frightfully difficult.…

  He stayed still, and things got clearer again. It was like a space clearing in a fog. Into this clear space Sally came, looking at him with a glint of green between her lashes. And that was the first moment in which he realized Sally’s danger. Sally in that enormous, dark, rambling house. Sally with only J.J. to look after her.

  Quite suddenly everything became terrifyingly clear. Not car thieves—no, nothing so easy and safe as car thieves. It wasn’t the Rolls that was aimed at. It was James Elliot, who knew too much, who was thought to know too much. And it was Jock and Sally West, who shared a dangerous knowledge, and who had six thousand a year between them which would go to Ambrose Sylvester—if they died. The last three words stabbed like forked lightning. James groaned aloud, and at the sound of it he made a great effort and got to his feet with a stumble which bruised his shoulder against the wall. He had to stand quite still for a minute, and at once the thought of Sally was there again. He must go to her—without any delay—because nobody knew—what might be happening—nobody—Sally—but he must know.…

  He began to grope with his hands along the wall. He had been in a hayloft with Sally. If it was this one, there was a door in the gable end—not a real door—more like a shutter—and a ladder running up to it from the yard. But he couldn’t find the shutter. It wouldn’t be behind the hay, and the hay was high on two sides of him. He moved carefully and felt at the other two walls. The hay would be lowest towards the gable end, so the door would be there. And presently he found it, a rough shutter. He could feel the hinges—but there wasn’t any handle. Well, that was absurd, because what’s the good of a door if you can’t open it?

  Bright and quick out of James’s mind jumped the answer to that—“There’s a handle on the other side.” And a lot of use that was to James Elliot
or to Sally West. Well, he ought to be able to burst the blasted thing open. He had a feel of it, and found it surprisingly firm. He measured the distance, lay down on his back in the hay, and kicked at the shutter with his heel. The only thing that happened was that the impact jarred his head so much that he nearly went off again. He waited, and had another try, and another after that. When his head had settled down from the third attempt, he was reasonably sure that the shutter was held by a bar on the outside. That last kick would have sent any lock to blazes. If there was a bar, he was done. You can’t break down a door with a bar across it when you’ve got nothing but your bare hands and no run back.

  He groped about on the off chance of finding anything helpful. The place contained nothing but hay. A brickbat now—and brickbats do crop up in the most unlikely places—or a pitchfork—there was no reason why there shouldn’t be a pitchfork. It was a bitter fact that there was neither brickbat, nor pitchfork, nor anything else except hay, and dust, and the dust of hay.

  James sat down, put his head in his hands, and tried to think.

  It was tolerably obvious that the people who had put him here wouldn’t have put him here if they had thought there was a single earthly chance of his being able to get out.

  On the other hand, he was bound to get out.

  Because of Sally.

  If he didn’t get out, anything might happen to Sally.

  Also to the Rolls. They might damage the Rolls.

  He thought a little more, and perceived that they would certainly damage the Rolls. Now that they had got hold of him, they would certainly do him in. The obvious way of doing him in without any risk to themselves was to engineer a car smash. He almost forgot Sally in his rage at the idea of their smashing up the Rolls.

  He got up again and stood there leaning against the shutter which he hadn’t been able to budge and trying to think of a way out. The loft was very dusty and stuffy. He felt as if he could have thought much more clearly if there had been some fresh air. The hay dust made him sneeze, and it hurt like blazes to sneeze. He found himself on the floor again holding his head and vaguely remembering something—something about a hayloft—long ago—he, and Daphne, and Alice Cummins who was Daphne’s friend. It was Alice who sneezed. They had made a tunnel in the hay, and Alice stuck in the tunnel and sneezed. She was a bun-faced girl with freckles—very tiresome and always sucking peppermints.

  James let go of his head and remembered about the tunnel. The hayloft was like this one. There was a lot of hay in it. The tunnel ran through the hay to a little flapdoor which led into the next loft. It was very convenient if you were playing hairbreadth escapes and secret passages, and that chump Alice stuck in the tunnel and sneezed. Suppose this loft had a door in the wall behind the hay. If there had been one in the loft at Cranley, why shouldn’t there be one here?

  He began to shift the hay from the left-hand wall, which was where it was piled highest. Suppose it was fastened and he couldn’t open it. Suppose it wasn’t. He heaved at the hay, and got more dust in his eyes, in his ears, in his mouth, and down the back of his neck. And presently there wasn’t any more hay to shift. Just rough brick wall.

  He began to feel along the wall, and all at once there wasn’t any wall to feel, because his hand slipped through into a hole.

  He really hadn’t any idea of how hopeless he had been until his hand slipped through into that hole. With a sudden rush hope came back very bobbish and lively, and in an instant he had his head and shoulders through the hole. There wasn’t any door, just a rough arch through which the hay could be pushed from one loft to another.

  James went through on his hands and knees, and scrambling up, found himself in an empty place. No hay here, but an odd upward draught of cold fresh air. He leaned against the wall and drew in the air. Quite fresh, quite cold, and after a minute or two he began to wonder why. And then he guessed, and very nearly shouted for joy—a hayrack with managers below, and by the freshness of the air the stable door must be open.

  It was just as well that he had played at escapes in a hayloft at eight years old, because it would have been the easiest thing in the world to break a leg or even a neck by falling over the rack into the manger.

  He felt his way with extreme care and dropped safely into the tilted wooden trough. The stable door sagged from a broken hinge and creaked as he shoved it wide.

  Next moment he was running across the yard.

  XXXIII

  As soon as the sound of James’s footsteps had died away, Jock West came broad awake, sat up, and said with the bright fervour which Sally dreaded,

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  Sally felt cold all the way down her spine. She had a most horrible premonition of what the idea might be. She said hastily,

  “So have I. I was thinking it might be a good plan to go and cook something—for supper, you know. I suppose your Beatrice stove will cook?”

  “I shouldn’t fancy her myself. No—my idea was that we should search the cellars.”

  Sally knew it before the words came out, but her flesh crawled just the same.

  “Jocko, I simply won’t!”

  His eyes sparkled with malicious enjoyment.

  “My child, have I asked you to? No—you shall stay here, miles above ground, with a candle to help you see any family ghosts who may happen along, and if when I’m well out of earshot and it’s no use calling for help, that damned panel begins—very—very—slowly to open, don’t blame me.”

  Sally knew herself to be quite incapable of remaining alone in Aunt Clementa’s bedroom or anywhere else whilst Jock went down into the cellars.

  She followed him to the butler’s pantry, and experienced a really strong desire to stay there. With the candle on the shelf, and Jock’s candle, and James’s, and her own, the place seemed quite brightly lighted, and the oily warmth diffused by Beatrice produced a most comfortably unancestral atmosphere. She had a feeling that no ghost would long survive it.

  Jock crossed the room and opened a baize cupboard door on the far side. The door to the cellars lay beyond, very thick, very old, and deeply sunken in a still older wall.

  “Jocko, please don’t go down,” said Sally in an imploring voice. “Or at any rate wait till James comes back, because he won’t know where we are or anything, and if anything happened down there, nobody would know.”

  “Dry up!” said Jocko in an excited voice. “Sally, there’s a bat under the arch of this door—at least I think it’s one! Come and look!”

  They peered at the arch, and Sally said that it wasn’t a bat.

  “Well, what is it then?”

  “A broken brick and a damp-mark—that’s all. Goodness knows it’s damp enough to make marks come out on anything. Jocko, don’t go down!”

  But he was already half way down the worn stone steps. A horrible cold smell came up to Sally where she stood with her hand on the heavy door. What was it—petrol? How could it be? Then from behind her she heard footsteps coming down the passage. She called after her brother,

  “Jocko—here’s James. Do wait a second—I must just tell him where we are.”

  Jock called back, “All right,” and Sally turned and went through the baize door into the passage. The heavy cellar door fell to behind her. The baize-covered door fell too. She ran across the pantry with her candle in her hand and out into the passage beyond. She ran straight into the arms of Henri Niemeyer.

  The shock was so great that it stopped the processes of feeling. The candle tilted in her hand. She stared at Henri, who kept an arm about her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. It was his left arm which was about her. His right hand held a powerful electric torch. He passed the light across her eyes and she blinked at it. The candle guttered its boiling wax upon her wrist, and she let it fall. There was too much light already—cruel, unmerciful light in a cruel, unmerciful hand. She said in her own mind over and over, “Don’t let me scream. Don’t, don’t let me scream.” Because this was going to be the end—for her. Bu
t it needn’t be the end for Jocko—or for James—not unless she lost her nerve and screamed for help. If Henri shot this time, he would shoot to kill. The masks were off and the game played out. With every bit of her Sally was sure that this was the end.

  “Well, my dear, where’s Jocko?” said Henri Niemeyer in his light, pleasant voice. “And has he found what he was looking for, or hasn’t he?”

  Sally stared. She didn’t feel anything except a certain relief, because now that it had come to the point, she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t really anything. She was hardly Sally. She looked so blank that Henri shook her a little.

  “My dear child, wake up! Where’s Jocko?”

  She heard herself say, “Not here,” and from behind Henri she heard Hildegarde Sylvester’s hard, impatient voice.

  “He’s gone down to the cellars. I told you they were arguing about it when I listened at the door. What are you waiting for? Knock her on the head and get on with it!”

  Anger gave Sally a voice and words. She pulled away from Henri, and he let her go.

  “If that’s a joke, Hildegarde, it’s a very stupid one.”

  Hildegarde laughed.

  “Oh, it is not a joke, my dear Sally. I don’t think it will amuse you—Oh, not at all.”

  Sally had her back to the wall. She felt the cold of it right through her clothes.

  “I think it would be better for you if it was a joke, because it is known that I’m here, and if I don’t turn up, you’ll have something to explain.” She was listening, listening, listening for the click of the latch, the sound of the closing door, James’s step in the hall, and with all her heart she was hoping that he wouldn’t come. And yet—and yet—it was so very hard to go out just now—not to see James again—never to be his wife, to have a home with him, to have their children.… She began to feel, and the feeling was all pure pain.