An Affair to Remember (27 page)

Phase One of the plan and the first setback. Downstairs he discovers the door to the office, where the casket and its precious contents is being kept overnight, is locked. Of course Sel would have locked it, it was obvious; so why, fool that he is, had he not made preparations for this? Fine general he’d make! Never mind, no use wasting time backtracking, or he’d never get anywhere, and it shouldn’t be too hard to find some sort of tool in the kitchen with which to break the lock. He’d just have to hope against hope they hadn’t tightened up security even more and put the casket in the office safe. If they had, then he’s well and truly up the creek. Not to worry – he’ll jump that fence if and when he comes to it.

After a prolonged and fruitless search, however, the kitchen refuses to yield up any suitable tools, and he has to make do with a miscellaneous assortment of utensils he finds in a drawer next to the fridge. Armed with these – a knife, an ice pick and an instrument used for the purpose of extracting flesh from the claws of a lobster – he hurries back up the passage to Sel’s office, thanking heaven that years ago he’d done an army course in undercover activities. Back then he remembers feeling this to be a complete waste of time and no doubt it was, however everything comes round in the end. Included in the curriculum had been a session on how to force locks, enabling him – despite the lack of proper tools and the complicated locking system, Sel was obviously taking no chances – to force this particular one with the practised ease of a master burglar. Once inside the room, using the torch brought with him from the kitchen (better not use the lights) the first thing he sees is the casket, covered in a cloth, reposing on Sel’s desk. Offering up a silent prayer, he embarks on Phase Two.

Phase Two consists of checking the object is still in the casket – it is, although the torque round the baby’s neck and the two coins have been removed – and then packing the whole thing safely and securely in the canvas satchel he found in the downstairs cloakroom on his way up to bed earlier. The bag, of the sort used by sportsmen as a receptacle for any game they may be lucky enough to have slaughtered, turns out to be just the thing, and it’s only a matter of minutes before he has the casket, packed tightly round with the contents of Sel’s overflowing waste paper basket, a couple of dusters from a drawer in the desk and a copy of yesterday’s
Times
safely inside it and the bag itself slung securely round his shoulders.

Now for Phase Three and by far the most complicated exercise; namely, the kidnapping of Beatrice. He re-checks his watch. Half an hour on the job already, but still on schedule. Will he make it before dawn? He must, there’s no option, once morning comes it will be too late.

Beatrice’s bedroom door too is locked; Dr Moss was obviously taking no chances. Not to worry, he’d soon have it open. And despite the horrendous clatter made when the ice pick accidentally slipped out of his hand on to the polished floor outside Beatrice’s door – he’d stood, frozen, waiting for someone to appear in a dressing gown and ask what was going on; no one did, thank God – it doesn’t take long before he’s in.

For a moment, when he sees the inert figure on the bed, her blonde hair spread out over the pillow, such a wave of love, and pity at her vulnerability, catches at his throat, his courage fails him. But he remembers Clarrie’s words and knows that he must carry on whatever the outcome, there really is no other option. Carefully divesting himself of the precious satchel, which he places on a chair by the door, torch in hand, he approaches the bed.

“Piss off, you oaf!”

“Beatrice, darling, it’s me, Sam. Please don’t be afraid, I’m here to rescue you.” Far from being afraid or for that matter pleased, his words have the effect of releasing a stream of obscene invective from the figure in the bed, some of which he can make out, some he’s glad he can’t. Luckily the words come out in a sort of harsh whisper – has her voice gone, or is it the drugs? At least she’s not going to wake up the entire household. Crouching beside the bed, unable to think of a way of stemming the flow, he lets it wash over him until gradually shock and incredulity at his beloved’s behaviour gives way to a proper understanding of what he’s up against. Sure, he’d accepted the fact his self-appointed task would be difficult, but he somehow hadn’t banked that in the early stages of his plan at least it would be Tavey, not Beatrice, he’d be dealing with. Again of course, he should have done. OK. If that’s how she wants to play it, then that’s how it’s going to be played – when in Rome and all that. So… here goes. Accepting the fact that any efforts on his part to calm her at this juncture will be useless – how come she knows such filth? – as quietly and efficiently as he can, under what can only be described as pretty trying circumstances, Sam gets on with the job.

First and foremost he must keep her quiet. She’s plainly still partially drugged with whatever fiendish potion Dr Moss has dosed her with, but the effect of the drug is beginning to wear off, and to get her out of the bed, let alone dressed and out of the house, is undoubtedly going to be some struggle. She’s already trying to sit up. Half lying across her he manages to hold her down, and using his handkerchief and several tissues from the box conveniently placed on the bedside table, he succeeds in making a gag. This, although far from satisfactory, for the time being at least, manages to successfully shut her up. Beneath him Tavey lies rigid with shock and fury, her long fingernails reaching out for his eyes.

The ensuing scuffle leaves Sam breathless and limp, but somehow or other victorious. Halfway through it he’d genuinely lost his temper, a thing he very rarely did, and this had undoubtedly given impetus to the struggle. Certainly from then on Tavey seems to accept the fact that despite his role as much reviled interloper, he is now her master, and as such must be given, albeit grudgingly, a certain respect. Indeed, as he struggles with the zip on the skirt he finds in a pile of clothes on the bathroom floor – it looks as if Moss too must have experienced a struggle before giving his patient the knockout drops – he fancies he detects a spark of admiration in her eyes.

It’s nearly 3.30 am by the time Sam, leading his prisoner, now fully clothed and attached to him by a belt fastened round her waist, emerges at last into the yard. The wind has started to rise; the storm, having rumbled away over the hill for an hour or two, is on its way back. Amazingly, despite the racket they made getting downstairs, and him having to rummage in the cloakroom for suitable outdoor gear, including a woolly hat for Beatrice which she instantly took exception to, no one in the household seemed to have woken up. He looks doubtfully at her, docile now after the struggle over the hat, and staring up at the great barn and trees behind it as though she’d never seen them before. Would she manage the walk in all this weather? Well, she’d have to. To take a car would be out of the question; there could be trees down, anyway it would be impossible to drive safely and cope with her as well.

Phase Four at last then! They’d made it so far; they’d bloody well make it to the end. Turning up his coat collar, Sam tugs smartly on the belt and in his best military voice orders his prisoner to follow him. Behind them in Tavey’s tree the rooks, their frail perches swaying dangerously in the rising wind, feathers fluffed out, their eyes bright with fear and foreboding, await the coming storm.

By the time they reach the Grove it’s after four. The rain had started just after they’d crossed the bridge, bringing with it the storm, this time angrier than ever. Sam’s never seen such lightning, even in the tropics, and as they’d struggled up the lane lashed by the full force of rain and wind, he’d looked wonderingly at his companion, trudging stoically behind him, her face obscured by the hood of her duffle coat. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left Brown End, but gave no sign of being frightened by the force of the storm. Indeed, after one particularly bright flash of lightning, she’d taken a quick look up at the sky and he’d seen quite clearly that she was smiling.

On reaching the Grove they shelter under the trees for a few minutes, in the hope the rain might let up. Sam lights a damp cigarette while Tavey squats on a log muttering to herself. Please God, he prays, as rain drips down his face, and thunder crashes overhead, she’d turn back into Beatrice soon. However, like the storm, there’s as yet no sign of change. His cigarette having gone out, and unable to light another as the matches are now wet too, he decides to push on. They’d better get going anyway, or they’d never make it before daylight. He gives a tug at the belt: “On your feet, Sunshine, it won’t be long now…”

Downhill is better; the hedges bordering the lane are higher and help to shelter them from the worst of the wind, although there’s a sticky moment when a sizable branch crashes across the road only a few feet away. To Sam’s relief, Tavey seems unfazed. Perhaps, he finds himself thinking, as they weave their way through fallen debris, happenings such as this were the norm in her world. Certainly, despite her well-heeled background, whichever way you looked at it ordinary, everyday life must have been one hell of a lot tougher than it is today.

Just before they reach the village, they leave the lane and take a footpath leading across the fields between it and the river. He’s almost sure that if they follow it, at some point they should come to one that heads uphill to the churchyard. They don’t want to be seen by anyone and he’s taking no chances. The storm now appears to be more or less directly overhead; thunder following lightning in quick succession with no gap between, great gusts of wind tearing viciously into the trees. The ground squelches beneath their feet and leaves, having not yet reached their autumn fall, whirl teasingly into their faces. After a few hundred yards he’s beginning to think he’s made a mistake; there isn’t a path to the church after all; they’ll have to follow the one they’re on to the far end of the village, then walk back; when he sees it. At right angles to their path is a narrow, well-trodden track leading uphill across the field to a small wicket gate set in the boundary fence of the church yard. Thank God for that!

Half way across the field, following a flash of lightning that illuminates the landscape in such a way the church ahead looks as though it’s floodlit, there’s such a crash of thunder that even the intrepid Sam cries out. The noise reverberates round the hills, seemingly coming from the direction of Brown End. Tavey whimpers: for the first time showing fear, and Sam, unable to stop himself, risks putting his arm round her. “We’re almost there, my love,” he shouts into the storm, “no need for worry.” She turns to look at him and in the ensuing flash of lighting, he’s almost sure she’s smiling.

A few minutes later, a wild and ragged dawn beginning to break; the wind, if not the rain, at last showing signs of abating; they reach the gate into the church yard and, following the grassy path that winds its way between the graves, arrive thankfully (or Sam’s thankful, he doesn’t know about Tavey) at the church porch. Once there, he sits her down on the stone bench inside and with little hope that it will have been left unlocked, tries the handle of the ancient, nail studded oak door. It is locked; the vicar, a careful man, had locked it that morning before he’d left for Brown End. And no doubt he’s taken the key to bed with him, says Sam to Tavey, who to his considerable surprise, nods, and although he’s not sure of this, it could be rain gurgling in the downpipes above their heads, giggles.

Nothing for it but to break in. Still leading his prisoner, although he has to admit she seems to be becoming more amenable by the minute, Sam reluctantly leaves the comparative shelter of the porch, and follows the path round to the vestry. The vestry door too is locked, well it would be, and he’s pretty sure it’s bolted from the inside, so no hope there. Nothing for it, though he’d rather not have to, but to break a window. And he’d better get his skates on, it was becoming lighter by the minute. Providentially, someone’s left a spade propped up beside the vestry door: several hefty blows with this – luckily there aren’t any houses in the immediate vicinity so no one’s going to ring the police – and he’s managed to smash the glass of the nearest window. This done – feeling more like a criminal by the minute – having first taken the precaution of tying Tavey’s belt round a handy tombstone, after a prolonged struggle in the course of which he cuts his finger on a shard of broken glass, he succeeds at last in squeezing himself through the window and into the vestry. Then, pulling back the bolt and unlocking the door (mercifully the key’s been left in the lock), dripping blood onto the linoleum, he unties the belt and gently leads his beloved inside.

With the help of the torch he locates a light switch, but unsurprisingly the storm has put paid to any electricity. Never mind, there’s a box of matches on the draining board by the sink, and after a search through various cupboards he finds a couple of candlesticks and a brand new box of candles; anyway daylight is beginning to seep through the windows. Also rain. Well there’s nothing he can do about that now, but he’d better sweep up the broken glass.

Meanwhile Tavey has picked up a Save the Children pamphlet from a pile stacked on the scrubbed table in the centre of the room and appears to be studying the pictures. She no longer mutters to herself and seems, at least outwardly, calm. It’s almost, Sam thinks, as though in an extraordinary way the fury of the storm has somehow managed to wash away her own fury. He smiles at her encouragingly and gives the thumbs up sign, then, and he knows it’s risky, but somehow also knows it to be the right thing to do and that she won’t run away, unbuckles the belt round her waist. He’s right, she makes no attempt to escape, merely shakes herself like a dog, scattering raindrops, and smiles back at him. It’s OK! Has he really done it? Hard to credit, but he thinks he might. No time, though, for self-congratulation, Mallory; the final task is yet to come, and who knew how that would play out. Taking Tavey by the hand, he leads her through the vestry door and into the church.

It smells of damp and must mixed with polish. There’s a vase of pink chrysanthemums placed on the altar, and a bird, trapped inside the church when the vicar’s wife arranged the flowers that morning, disturbed by their entrance, flutters about among the hammer beams in the roof. Grey dawn light filters through the chancel window. Shivering a bit at the prevailing damp, Sam leads Tavey up the aisle and sits her down in a pew at the front. She looks about her with interest, but makes no attempt to escape. That done, he carefully divests himself of the satchel containing the casket. The satchel itself is of course soaking, but after examination, to his heartfelt relief, the casket and its precious contents remain undamaged. Carefully placing it on the seat of a nearby pew, he removes his dripping duffel coat and hat and generally tries to tidy himself up a bit.