by Joan Smith
I knew that somewhere, hidden so well she had not come to light in over a month, my poor Miss Empey was holding Miss Grafton captive, waiting to receive orders from me. What must she have been thinking all these weeks? No wonder the note had taken so long to come. My amnestic state had badly interfered with my plans. And that, very likely, accounted for the feelings of anger that swelled up in me upon occasions. I couldn’t help Miss Empey or the Grafton girl—hadn’t a single clue where they might be, but I could help myself and Sir Ludwig by a timely disappearance, and hope that eventually Miss Empey would turn Lorraine Grafton free.
I don’t know how Sir Ludwig spent his day. He went into the village at one point, and came back with the story that the mysterious man of undistinguished appearance had been seen again. He claimed this was the reason I must leave, but I think he had actually done some sober thinking and knew, or suspected, that I was Mrs. Knightsbridge. Knew I was a criminal and wanted to hide me somewhere I couldn’t be arrested when Mr. Williker showed up, as he must very soon now. In any case, he put forward a plan that suited my ends very well. I was to be taken to a small farm he owned on the south coast of England, only forty miles away, but that was far enough away that, if done with secrecy, I would not be found. He mentioned the man’s attack in the garden, but I doubted he had even heard the man was back in Wickey. Who could that man have been? Another teasing little riddle within the puzzle of Mrs. Knightsbridge.
“We’ll leave tonight, after dark,” Ludwig said. “In that way you’ll be safe till Williker gets here and we can get this thing sorted out. Try not to worry, Rose. I would stay with you if I could, but I must be in touch with Morley about the ransom. I plan to go to see him tomorrow. The housekeeper and her husband will be with you. It is a holiday house for us in the summer, right on the coast. Not the best time of the year for it, in January, but you’ll be safe there.”
In my eagerness to be away, I snatched at the offer. It would be easier to slip away from a housekeeper and her husband than himself. I’d get away, somehow, and never have to face him again. “Do I go alone?” I asked.
“I’m taking you. Would you like Abbie to go for company?”
“No—it might be best if things go on as much like normal as possible here,” I answered quickly, wanting no impediments to my flight.
“That’s what I thought. I planned to have Abbie go into Wickey tomorrow and mention you are ill with a cold, to give the impression you are still here, in case that fellow’s still after you. She suggested stopping at the pharmacy and getting some medicines for you. I didn’t suggest Annie as a companion. She rattles on so.”
“I’ll take my paints and do a seascape to pass the time.”
“Do it from the window. Don’t go out, just in case. It will be cold and damp and very breezy there on the coast, in any case. It will be only for a day or two, till I see Williker, and arrange about the ransom for Morley. I mean, by hook or by crook, to follow whoever picks up the money and find out where Miss Grafton is put away.”
I packed up my belongings, eked out to require a small valise by this time, and went belowstairs to say goodbye to Annie and Abbie. They were excited, but not distressed, not aware then of my true identity. There wasn’t an opportunity to borrow money—how should I account for needing it, stuck in a cottage from which I was told not to budge? I must make do with the few bits of change I had left over from other shopping trips. I just noticed, sitting on the edge of a hall table, a note left by me to the cook regarding some supplies ordered for that elaborate fiasco of a New Year’s party. The flowing script caught my eye. That it should be out here, where it had not been before, told me the matter had been under discussion between Ludwig and the ladies. They knew who I really was, then, but did not guess the whole, of course.
I wondered just how much Ludwig had figured out. This trip told me he at least suspected I was in trouble with the law. If only I had been informed of all his doings that day, of Morley’s return, for instance, I might not have engaged in my precipitous flight from Bay House, as his seaside home was called. I wonder how things would have turned out if I hadn’t. My memory must have come back sooner or later; I would have learned the truth, and some unpleasantness might have been avoided. I personally deserved any unpleasantness God or Fate chose to heap on me, but there was no earthly reason Sir Ludwig should have received such a quantity of it.
* * * *
The trip was almost pleasant, except that I kept thinking I would never see him again. We left at ten, traveling the better part of the night, averaging under seven miles an hour over the icy roads despite a team of four. It was cold, but bright, with the moon picking out eerie scenes, black trees etched against the silver sky. Within, we had our fur rugs and hot bricks for our feet, and best of all, for these few hours, we had each other. It was no great magnanimous decision on my part to admit my knowledge of who I was. He already knew, or strongly suspected from that piece of my handwriting. Still, to clear the air between us, I told him my theory.
“I know that is what you have been thinking. You may be right,” he allowed. And all that time he knew, and didn’t tell me. “I went to see Gwynne today. I don’t believe I mentioned it to you. He knows Mrs. Knightsbridge—by reputation I mean—and he has the notion she is a widow. That is possible, you know, Rose.”
It was almost heartbreaking to see him so determined to make me eligible, clutching at any straw. Heart-wrenching too for me to wish so hard he were right. “Where did he get that idea?”
“He doesn’t know exactly. It is mostly that all references to the museum in Scotland mention Mrs. Knightsbridge. The husband never crops up at all. One would think that if there were a Mr. Knightsbridge still alive he would feature more prominently in its doings. Williker too, you recall, mentioned a secretary—this Soames fellow—but never a word about Mr. Knightsbridge. I really think he is no longer living.”
“It would be easy enough to find out,” I said, half allowing myself to hope. But wife or widow, I was still a criminal.
“Williker will know. If you had a husband, surely he would have been making enquiries for you. He wouldn’t let you be gone over a month without any word, without looking for you. He must have known where you were headed, and there have been no notices in any papers saying you are missing.”
“And that would explain Ivor!” I said, trying eagerly to blot out any of my sins I could.
“How would it explain him?”
“Well, Ivor is not J. F. Knightsbridge, and I thought it was pretty horrid of me to be saying Ivor would be concerned about my petticoats when I had a husband, but if I am a widow . . .”
“He’s a lover, you mean?” The voice in the darkness was harsh.
“Don’t say it like that, Ludwig! It’s not as bad as a married woman having one. I hadn’t met you then, you know.”
Across the space between the banquettes his hands reached out for mine and held them. “Let it be firmly understood, Mrs. Knightsbridge, I have first bid, if it turns out you are a widow.”
“We had better wait and see what else I am first,” I suggested, growing despondent again to consider it all.
“No, love, I am convinced you would not keep so close a tab on what you owe me if you were a hardened crook,” he answered, trying to cheer me.
“It’s you who is always keeping track of my bill.”
“Keeping you at Granhurst by indenture, you see.” We talked for the first hour, then as the swaying of the carriage and the late hour combined with darkness to induce drowsiness, I curled up in a corner to sleep, and Ludwig did the same. I awoke, perhaps an hour later, to find he had removed to my banquette and had an arm around me. It was very comfortable, having his chest for a pillow.
“Rose, are you awake?” he asked softly. I must have stirred and awoke him.
“Half,” I mumbled.
“Try to sleep,” he suggested, tightening his arms around me. I let on I was. I knew, married woman that I was, that he really wanted to m
ake love to me. The gentle, stroking of his hands on my back and arms was far from sleep-inducing. A single move would have him telling us I was a widow, and I would be obliged to make him sit on the other bench, when I wanted at least the comfort of his arms around me. Some time later I did doze off again, and didn’t awaken till the horses pulled up in front of a cottage set back a hundred yards from the sea.
It was roughly four o’clock in the morning when we arrived, yet the place was lit up. “Oh, they are expecting us,” I exclaimed, surprised. I had the impression our coming here was taken on the spur of the moment.
“I sent word on ahead,” he answered, helping me down from the carriage, while a cold blast of air from the sea warned me how the weather would be in this area.
I hardly bothered to glance at the house’s exterior—it was of stone, with a large verandah running around the front which would be pleasant for sitting out in the summer. Snow had blown into the corners of it, and been glazed down to ice from the moisture-laden sea air and the bitter winds. Pitted ice, due of course to the salt in the sea air. The front door was wet with frost forming around the handle and lock, giving an odd feeling of entering a house made of ice. Within, it was cozy, with a cheery fire blazing in a huge open hearth in the main room. The decor was rustic, wood paneling without much in the way of carving, brightly colored sofas and chairs. It was a warm, inelegant family holiday house, that suited the Kesslers better than their regular home. What good times they must have here in summer, I thought, with a pang of regret that I would never be joining them.
The housekeeper and her spouse, the Peterses, were both in attendance. The latter went to the stable to see the grooms had what they required, while the former made us comfortable and went to bring food and something hot to drink. Mrs. Peters was a middle-aged, cheerful woman, a little inclined to stoutness, rather highly colored in complexion. She was a good cook, as her figure suggested. We enjoyed a filling and delicious pot au feu, which she humbly called ‘leftovers,’ with fresh-made bread. Mrs. Feilotter could learn a few tricks from her. It was odd how I still went on, in my mind, managing the household affairs of this family. As dawn began to break, I was told it was time for bed. Sir Ludwig was not to remain. He wanted to be back at Granhurst by a decent hour, for he had a full day ahead of him. I realized then, too late, what an imposition it had been for me to take for granted he would deliver me here. With Mrs. Peters looking on I could hardly tell him so. We left with no more than a mention that we would be meeting again soon. Ironic words! This was good bye, not au revoir.
I went to bed planning to cry, but was so tired I fell sound asleep within minutes. It was not till morning that the full sum of my loss hit me. It was just as well I had plans of my own to sustain me, for I wanted to do nothing more than turn my head into the fat pillow and bawl.
It is surprising how helpless one feels without money. I had not found an opportunity to borrow any, so I got out my change purse and counted up all my odd shillings and pence. It came to a little over two pounds—all accounted for in Sir Ludwig’s books, of course. To contemplate a long trip with such meager resources was a daunting experience. My first thought was still to leave—to get away and sort out my life. I wondered if I dared resort to Soames or my mysterious Ivor by letter for funds. But not from here. First I had to leave Bay House. With this end in view, I asked the Peterses for a map. There were extensive chartings of the local area available, including marine maps, but of the island as a whole, the island of England, I had to make do with a map in a geography book found in the schoolroom. London seemed a good spot to lose myself in. Williker had mentioned in his letter I had been heading there. I couldn’t imagine why, but once there, something might occur to me. I must have friends or business associates. Some doorway might beckon.
A careful but casual conversation with Mrs. Peters told me what I had to know. We were off the main road by two miles. In order to catch a stage to anywhere, one had to get to the main road. London was of no interest to her. I don’t think she had ever been there, but she occasionally got as far as Southampton, and told me readily enough how to reach it, from which larger center transportation to London would be available. I had not arisen till ten-thirty. By the time I had steered the conversation past the shoals of her being lonesome and cut off and getting ready to visit a friend, another hour had passed, and the coach would be passing any minute. The next would be at three in the afternoon. I must catch this one. I had no desire to wait for the night stage, to be standing alone in the middle of the road, frightened and freezing at two in the morning. My two pounds would more than get me to Southampton, and from there on I must improvise.
To pass the next hours, I decided to go out and have a look at the beach, despite Sir Ludwig’s warnings. The weather had turned much milder. The glazing outside had melted in the sun, and the ocean breezes were not at all soul-destroying. Nothing would do but Mr. Peters must accompany me on my stroll. He was but a poor companion, having not a word or a single piece of information to relay unless one asked a direct question. He was an excellent watchdog, however. I could not so much as go for a look behind a rock without having him at my heels. Sir Ludwig, I assumed, had spoken to him about guarding me. This made my escape difficult indeed. Time to leave to catch the three o’clock stage came and went, with either Mr. or Mrs. Peters constantly hovering over me. In desperation, I went to my room at three, claiming fatigue, with the hope that I might get out by a window and flee. What must Mr. Peters do but station himself in the front yard, hammering on some box, but taking frequent peeks in the direction of my window. Had I been too indiscreet with my questions about maps and transportation? I had made it all sound logical, wanting to see exactly where I was, and so on. It almost began to seem they knew what I was up to. Even, the idea came to me, that I was a prisoner.
But if I were a prisoner, my window had no bars, and I was determined by some means I would get out it and meet the two a.m. stage to Southampton. I went to my room early after dinner, for the watching eyes of my two guardians were wearing my nerves thin. I lay on my bed, and thought in a disjointed and far-ranging manner of my predicament. At eleven, the Peterses retired. By twelve, there wasn’t a sound in the dark house. At the window, the moon shone mistily through a veil of clouds. I thanked God it was not pitch black, was not too cold, was not snowing, as it had been that other night I had to walk alone along dark roads, to a destination equally uncertain to my present one. At one, by the clock on the dresser, I put on my cloak and began working on the window. It was difficult to raise, but after a few tugs that hurt my shoulder joints it slid up and I felt the cool touch of the night air on my face. Peering into the front yard, I saw it to be free of Mr. Peters. I would not have been much surprised to see him there, still hammering on that box.
I clambered out the window, hung by my finger tips with my legs dangling down the wall of the house till they nearly touched the verandah roof, which slanted down to within jumping distance of the ground. I feared I had lost my footing on the roof and was about to tumble head over heels, causing a great racket, as well as giving me a sprained something or other. But my footing was regained fairly quietly. I shimmied my way to the edge of the roof, crouched to jump. It seemed suddenly a higher leap than I had planned on. I sat on the edge, steeled myself for it, and plunged. Nothing hurt. I was off and running, down the drive, out onto the road. No sooner had I taken four paces in the direction of the stage stop than I heard feet pounding after me.
Mr. Peters, standing on guard to stop me? Was I a prisoner then? In any case, I was a fleeing prisoner, and I ran as I had never run in my life before. There was nothing that could properly be called a thought in my head, just a great black ball of fear, panic, and determination to outrun whoever was coming after me, faster, faster, till I could hear him gasp for breath. The absurd, nightmarish notion cropped into my head that it was my past pursuing me. Or was it my foe from the chapel grounds? The road surface was perfectly treacherous. Wet with slush crusted
to ice in little peaks formed by wheels of carriages passing earlier, every inch holding a trap in the blind darkness. At least the disadvantage worked both ways. I heard my pursuer slip, curse, and regain his footing, and again he was coming after me, gaining inch by inch as my legs fought against clumsy long skirts. Another dark form darted out of the bushes by the roadside in front of me. It was Mr. Peters.
“Get her! Stop her!” the man behind me shouted in an angry voice. “Don’t let the bitch get away.” The sound of that voice brought me to a dead halt. It was impossible, but it was Sir Ludwig Kessler.
Chapter Fourteen
Once I came to a stop, it was no time till I was apprehended, of course. I stood there in the cold roadway, trying to see the face of this man I had trusted, had thought a friend, more than a friend. Vision was imperfect, but clear enough to show me a glowering white mask. “Congratulations, Mrs. Knightsbridge, on an excellent performance,” he said, then grabbed my arm rudely, while Mr. Peters wordlessly took my other, and in this manner I was dragged back to Bay House. They moved so quickly speech was impossible. I couldn’t think of a word to say, in any case.
“Lock her in her room,” Ludwig said in that hard voice I hardly recognized. “I’ll bring the police in the morning.” As an afterthought he added, “And Peters, nail some boards over the window. Do it now, at once.”
