Something Wicked

by David Roberts

  Harry looked at him and the loathing in his eyes chilled Edward to the core.

  ‘I came back to this rotten little country to finish things off,’ he said, for the first time showing some true feeling. ‘I never thought I would be able to until that lucky inheritance made it possible.’

  Edward was appalled and Violet Booth momentarily lowered her gun. Against such evil what was there to do? As the lion senses the moment to spring on his prey, Harry made a grab at the gun. He was much stronger than Mrs Booth and, even in her bitterness, she had never been sure she could pull the trigger. Now, as he tore the weapon from her hand, it went off. Whether she had squeezed the trigger as she tried to cling on to it or whether Harry had done so in his rage, it was impossible to tell but there was a loud report, amplified in the small cabin. Harry was flung back against the wall. A look of surprise and indignation crossed his face as he slid down on to the floor.

  Edward took a step forward and knelt beside his body. He cursed himself for not having prevented this untimely death. Harry had cheated justice just as he had throughout his life. He had died an easy death and made no reparation for the damage he had done. More to the point, he had died without saying where he had imprisoned Verity.

  A wave of nausea made his stomach heave. Verity might be in terrible pain or even dead and the man who knew where she was lay dead in front of him. His brain refused to work.

  Fenton put his head round the cabin door and took in the situation. ‘Is everything all right, my lord?’

  ‘No, everything is not all right, Fenton,’ Edward said, overcome with weariness.

  Fenton knelt down beside Harry’s body and felt for a pulse. As he looked up inquiringly at his master, Edward answered his unspoken question. ‘He tried to grab Mrs Booth’s gun and it went off. He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘Quite dead.’ Fenton turned to Mrs Booth who had collapsed on a chair and was breathing stertorously. ‘I don’t like the look of her, my lord. Shall I call an ambulance?’

  ‘Yes, and then call the police.’

  As he went off to summon help, another face appeared at the door. It was Dr Booth. He took one look at his wife and hurried over to take her pulse. ‘What’s happened here?’ he demanded. Edward explained and he groaned. ‘I tried to stop her. I told her to leave it to the police but she gave me the slip. Did she kill him?’ He nodded in the direction of the body on the floor.

  ‘It was an accident. In the struggle . . . her gun went off.’ Edward shrugged helplessly.

  ‘I don’t doubt it. She could never have killed anyone – even filth like him. Help me carry her up the steps, will you? I need to take her into the fresh air. Gently now!’

  ‘Has she had a heart attack?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so but I must get her to hospital.’

  ‘My valet has gone to telephone for an ambulance.’ Edward said, as they laid Mrs Booth on the deck of the launch.

  Dr Booth put a cushion under her head and looked at his wife with undisguised love.

  ‘Dr Booth, forgive me, it’s Verity . . .’

  ‘Miss Browne?’

  ‘Yes, Harry has hidden her – God knows where – and, now he’s dead, he can’t be made to tell me. All he said was it was somewhere to do with water. Since we are on the river, that doesn’t help much. It can’t be far because he didn’t have very much time. Assuming he took her somewhere in this launch, I doubt he could have gone further than Phyllis Court or . . .’

  ‘Temple Island?’ Dr Booth finished his sentence. ‘But isn’t it all sealed off?’

  ‘I don’t think so. When I was up there earlier, I couldn’t see any police.’ Edward was suddenly certain that Verity was hidden on the island. It would have been typical of Harry to play one last joke and hide her where Major Stille, had been killed by the man he blamed for ruining his life. To conceal her where the police would search last of all because they had so recently gone over it so thoroughly was just the way his mind worked. The terrible question remained – had Harry killed her before he imprisoned her or was she still alive?

  He looked round. He could hardly take the launch with Harry’s body down in the cabin and Mrs Booth so ill. The urgent bell of a police car broke the silence. He made a decision.

  ‘Look, Dr Booth, will you hold the fort for me? I don’t want to see Inspector Treacher yet. There will be so many questions and so much delay. For all we know, Verity may be in terrible danger even now.’

  ‘Go,’ Dr Booth told him, ‘but go quickly. The police will be here in a few moments.’

  ‘Tell Treacher . . . tell him I’ll explain everything later.’

  Edward ran as fast as his bad knee would allow towards where the umpires’ launches were moored. He cursed himself for not being able to move at more than an awkward trot. Before he reached them, he was hailed by Roderick Black and Guy on board the Hornet. Her engine was idling and they appeared to be waiting for someone.

  ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry,’ Guy shouted, ‘and why the police car?’ He waved towards Harry’s launch around which the police were gathering.

  ‘It’s Verity,’ Edward panted. ‘She’s been kidnapped. I need to go to Temple Island. Can you take me? I think she’s being held prisoner there.’

  ‘Miss Browne? A prisoner?’ Roderick Black demanded and then saw Edward’s anxious face. ‘Hop on board and you can tell us what has happened on the way.’

  The powerful launch cut through the water leaving in its wake smaller boats bobbing up and down, their occupants shouting protests. Edward, standing at the prow, saw nothing. His whole being was concentrated on finding Verity.

  15

  After Edward had left with Kay to take Cathy Herold home, Verity walked slowly towards the stands. She was feeling tired and wanted to sit down. Her cough was worse and she had a horrid feeling that her illness was as bad as ever. The elation of surviving the Tiger Moth’s death-defying dive had vanished. She wondered, even if she did recover, whether she would be left with unsightly scars, as she had been warned could happen. She tried to concentrate on pleasanter things – how much she loved Edward and had come to rely on him unquestioningly. She had become very fond of Kay too, even if she was slightly suspicious of her sexuality. She had the maudlin idea that, if she died, Kay and Edward would make a good match. She imagined herself lying, rather elegantly it had to be said, on her deathbed and giving them her blessing. She shook her head and laughed at herself. TB, the doctor had warned her, played games with the mind as well as attacking the body.

  She reached the stands and sat on a rather uncomfortable seat, gazing out over the river. She didn’t want to think about Cathy so thought instead of the race she had watched at Edward’s side. She would never forget seeing Eton win and his innocent delight in his old school’s victory. She turned over in her mind how fate had tossed her around like one of the pebbles in the water below her. Here she was in one of the most serene, most English of towns when she had expected to be in Prague – a city on the brink of destruction. How often in Spain, resting behind the front line, had her mind turned to England, green and pleasant land, and how she had longed to be back there. Now that she was, she felt only frustration.

  She tried to be honest with herself. Did she feel well enough to take up her profession again? Would she ever feel well enough? She had no idea how depleted were her reserves of physical and mental strength. An all-important appointment with Dr Tomlinson at the Middlesex Hospital was scheduled for the week after next. How could she bear it if he said she was not getting better and sentenced her to months or even years in a Swiss sanatorium? She coughed experimentally and found her chest did not hurt. She longed for a cigarette but dared not light one. The doctor had made her swear to give them up. She closed her eyes in a moment of silent prayer to whichever god protected atheists for the strength to resist temptation and, when she opened them, found Harry Lestern bending over her.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Browne?’ he asked with what so
unded like genuine concern. She was touched and then remembered what he had done to Cathy.

  ‘Quite all right, thank you. I was feeling a little tired, that’s all,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Would you like me to take you back to the clinic?’

  ‘No, thank you. Edward has just taken Mrs Herold home. He won’t be long. She had a very nasty bruise on her cheek. In fact, she was very shaken up.’ Harry made no reply and she was provoked into going further than she had intended. ‘Is that the way you treat all your women – hit them if they won’t do what you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know what she has been telling you. She hit her face on the corner of the cabin as she was climbing out of the launch.’

  Verity looked disbelieving. ‘I can’t see how she could have done that. She said you hit her. We suggested she go to the police but she refused.’

  ‘Of course she refused. She knew her story was a lie, if she really said I had hit her.’

  Verity was almost admiring of his brass-necked impudence. ‘Well, it’s nothing to do with me but I thought she was telling the truth. I think, if you hit women, then you certainly aren’t a gentleman.’

  As soon as she had spoken the words, she regretted them. They were weak and silly. ‘Not quite a gentleman’! The phrase sounded old-fashioned and priggish and, as a Communist, she didn’t believe in the concept of ‘gentlemen’, a species expected to behave differently from other men. However, her words had certainly riled Harry. They looked at one another with mutual distaste. He was absurdly handsome, she was forced to admit. True, his complexion showed the wear and tear of living in a hot climate and, she knew from what Edward had told her, of drinking too much and taking too many drugs. And yet his eyes . . . There was something commanding about his eyes and the deep lines around his mouth seemed to map an interesting and eventful life. But there was cruelty there too – or was she just imagining it?

  ‘You are looking tired. Verity. You said I might call you Verity, did you not?’

  ‘I did,’ she agreed.

  ‘And will you call me Harry?’

  ‘If you like,’ she replied carelessly.

  ‘My launch is over there. Come and rest for a moment.’

  ‘I had better wait here until Edward returns.’

  ‘You’ll be able to see him from the launch. Here, let me take your arm.’

  Mesmerized, Verity allowed herself be led away from the stands. After all, Harry would hardly try anything on. He knew she had seen through him. When they reached the launch, she made one final protest but he took no notice and half-lifted her aboard. She made to sit on one of the chairs on deck but suddenly found herself propelled down the steps into the cabin.

  ‘Harry! Please! What are you doing?’ She began to panic. Surely this friend of Edward’s wasn’t planning to subject her to some kind of sexual attack? It wasn’t as though he liked her and, anyway, he knew she had TB. ‘Let me go. Why have you brought me down here? I shall shout for help if you don’t take me back immediately.’

  ‘You’ll shout for your dear Edward, will you?’ Harry mocked. ‘You really think that man of yours will come to your rescue? I don’t think so. Now keep quiet, you little vixen . . .’ he snarled as Verity tried to bite the hand which he had placed over her mouth. It was dark in the little cabin but she was aware that her attacker was trying to open something and she struggled even more fiercely. ‘Keep quiet, you bitch,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘or I’ll punch that pretty face of yours. I’d really like to do that, you know.’

  Shocked, Verity momentarily stopped trying to free herself from his grasp. At that moment she felt the prick of a needle in her arm and was almost immediately unconscious. She collapsed on to the floor but Harry made no effort to break her fall. He stood there surveying her. She was pretty – he had to give her that.

  ‘Better than a cosh, no question about it,’ he muttered, bending over her. He then did something which, had she known of it, she would have found more hateful than any physical violence – he kissed her. Her lips were dry and he felt his damp upon hers. He held her face in his hands and kissed her again. It meant nothing, he told himself. He had always had more than enough women. He really didn’t want this one. He merely wanted to take her from Edward and make him suffer. Expertly, he tied her up and gagged her. When she came to, he didn’t want her calling out – not until it no longer mattered.

  He went back on deck, started the engine and took the launch out into midstream. It had all taken just a few minutes and, as far as he could see, no one had observed him. It was all going according to plan.

  Verity opened her eyes – and wondered if she had. The darkness was impenetrable. It was the most terrifying moment of her life. She was lying on her side, trussed up and gagged, on a damp, hard floor. She had never been happy in enclosed spaces. When she was in Spain, she minded the bullets far less than the fear of being trapped beneath a collapsed building after a bombing raid. It had never happened but now her nightmare seemed to have come to pass. In a state of literally blind panic, she struggled against the ropes that bound her but seemed only to make them tighten. She felt hardly able to breathe. With a great effort of will, she made herself cease her futile wriggling, and rubbed her cheek violently against the rough wall until the gag was pulled away from her mouth. She felt the pain from the scratches and tasted blood mixed with moisture from the wall. Oddly enough, the pain brought some relief from her claustrophobia. At least the pain was real and gave her a sense of her own actuality.

  She lay quiet for a moment and tried to make sense of what had happened. The last thing she remembered was struggling with Harry Lestern in the cabin of the launch. He must be the murderer, but why had he not killed her there and then? Of course! He wanted to hurt Edward – hadn’t he said as much? She had nothing to do with Edward’s investigation, at least as far as Harry would be aware, so she was no threat to him. But Edward might have told him – or Harry could easily have discovered – that they loved one another and even that they were engaged to be married. He hadn’t killed her because he wanted to use her against Edward. That idea gave her hope. For whatever reason, Harry needed her alive. But what if he forgot her, or abandoned her, or was killed by Edward before he discovered where she was? She tried not to terrify herself. She had to stay calm and work out a way – if not of escape, then to call attention to herself.

  It was so dark and airless that she decided she must be in an underground room and the idea made her flesh creep. Again she told herself to stay calm. Panic was her chief enemy, after Harry of course. If there was a way into this dungeon, there must be a way out and – now that she had loosened the gag – she could scream. She tentatively tried a cry for help but it sounded so weak that she gave up. She must conserve her voice until she heard someone outside.

  She strained to hear voices, anything at all, but there was nothing. Where had Harry taken her? She had no idea how long she had been unconscious but guessed it wasn’t long, or she would have been even colder. She imagined Edward’s consternation when he returned to the stands and could not find her. As soon as he missed her he would institute a search. The idea gave her comfort. It was odd how visualizing his face made her feel calmer and even warmer. She loved him and she trusted him to find her. If he did find her and if he still wanted to marry her, she would even if she had to do so from a wheelchair. She managed a fleeting smile. But what if Harry did not tell anybody where she was? What if he left her to die? He was mad, quite mad, of that she was convinced. And she was buried alive. Would that drive her mad?

  She shivered and, with a great effort of will, stopped herself weeping. Where was Basil when she needed him? He was a big dog. He wouldn’t have allowed his mistress to be kidnapped by a madman. But he was miles away at Mersham Castle and had probably forgotten all about her. She closed her eyes and tried to listen. There must surely be some sound which would give her a clue as to where she was imprisoned. Why had her cry for help sounded so weak? There was no echo and the wal
ls were thick and damp. Was she in a cellar? She had an idea. Moving her feet experimentally against the wall, she sensed that it was curved but she couldn’t be sure of it. She lay still and listened intently. There was another reason why her voice had failed to carry – why had she not heard it before? – the cold, rippling sound of water. Of course! She was on the river!

  This small victory over her panic made her feel less hopeless. Even here in this coffin, she was still part of that sunlit world outside. She told herself she must be quite close to where she had been kidnapped. She was now even more certain that she had not been unconscious for long. For one thing, she was not yet hungry although she was thirsty – perhaps the after-effects of whatever drug Harry had given her. And her bladder was not yet uncomfortable. She must be on the river quite near to Edward and that conviction gave her hope.

  She relaxed and even slept for a moment or two. She was aroused by the wetness and the chill. Was it wetter than before? Suddenly, she shivered. Yes, it was cold but that was not why she had shivered. There was a definite pool of water beneath her which had not been there before. The river! Was it tidal? She did not know but there must be some sort of ebb and flow. What if . . .? She could hardly bear to think about it. What if her prison was flooded? She had heard of people drowning in just a few inches of water. What if she slowly drowned in this horrible dark hole? What if this dank dungeon was some sort of well? And what if . . .what if it were to be her tomb? She shuddered and despair gripped her.

  Again, she rubbed her face against the wall and the pain, as she had hoped, made her stop frightening herself. She remembered how, in Spain, she had discovered that the reality of pain was not as bad as the fear of it. She must stay calm, she told herself for the twentieth time. She must use her intelligence. She must not panic. The sound of a small rodent scuttling across the floor broke in on her consciousness. She stiffened. She had a phobia about rats. She had seen too many disgusting rats feeding off corpses when she was in Spain and it had always been her particular fear to be in the same room with one and not be able to escape. She shuddered, imagining its damp nose on her flesh. Her two worst fears – to be trapped in an underground tomb with rats for company – it was almost too perfect a revenge. If only Major Stille had been alive to savour the joke.