Look to the Lady (28 page)

He lowered his voice still more. ‘That secret room at the Tower has a window, but no apparent door, as you know. Now, on the night of the heir's twenty-fifth birthday there's a light burns in the window from sunset to cockcrow. You see,' he hurried on, ignoring Campion's smothered exclamation, ‘in the old days there was always a big party on, so that every window in the house would be ablaze, but this time there isn't any party. The position of that room will be clear to anyone who cares to look from ten o'clock till dawn. Get me? That's not all, either,' he added. ‘There's sure to be special preparations made to disclose the door tonight. If anyone raided the Tower now they'd find pretty clear indications of where the Room was, I'm thinking, provided they knew on what floor and in what direction to look. It may be thirty years before this opportunity occurs again. I think you ought to be on hand.'

Mr Campion was silent for some moments. ‘I guessed there'd be a light, of course,' he said at last, ‘but it never dawned on me it'd be on for so long. I didn't know the tradition. You're right. It's the time I've misjudged.' He hurried to the window. ‘I suppose they've gone already.'

The stable-yard was deserted, but he caught a glimpse of the big car still standing before the house. ‘We must get out,' he said. ‘We'll go the way you came in.'

The Professor led the way down the ladder in the adjoining loft and into the empty box below. Next moment an exclamation of annoyance escaped him.

‘We're bolted in,' he said. ‘We shall have to nip back and get round on the top storey. If we're fixed in here we're sunk.'

‘There's a window in that front room over the gate,' said Campion thoughtfully. ‘I've been locked in there all day. I could get out of that, I think.'

Fortunately, the communicating doors between the two storey lofts were unlocked, and they pushed right round the square until they emerged once more into the room over the gateway. Here Mr Campion stopped dead, and the Professor, panting a little, caught up with him. From somewhere outside there had arisen a most extraordinary noise.

‘Heck!' said the Professor. ‘What's that?'

But Mr Campion was already at the window.

‘Good old Mrs Sarah!' he said breathlessly. ‘I thought that was all guff about turning them off the heath.' He caught the Professor's arm and dragged him to the window. Together they looked out over the scene below.

The sight was an extraordinary one. The remains of a lurid sunset still blazed across the heath and the wind was rising. At the moment when they first peered through the window together an immense dark object silhouetted against the sky was bearing down upon the buildings at an ever-increasing rate. As it came nearer they were just able to discern what it was. The decrepit char-a-banc which Penny had noticed in the Gypsy encampment the morning before charged upon the stables, bristling with an overload of wildly gesticulating figures.

They disappeared from the view of the watchers from the window beneath the outer wall, but the next moment a shattering crash echoed through the buildings as the iron gates were burst open. The char-a-banc swung into sight, churning off the near wheel of the Delage in its path and coming to a full stop in the gateway above which they stood. The noise was fiendish, the shrill Gypsy voices, their musical sibilance entirely vanished, mingled with the shrieking of brakes and the infuriated swearing of the members of Mrs Dick's peculiar household who came swarming out to attack the invaders.

Pandemonium broke loose. In her stable Bitter Aloes added to the increasing confusion by kicking at the woodwork in a frenzy. Innumerable figures tumbled out of the juggernaut and swarmed over the house and stables.

Mrs Dick's adherents defended themselves and their property from this unexpected attack with a savagery of their kind. The Professor, with his hands on the bars of the window and his eyes glued to the pane, whistled under his breath.

‘Gee, this is the dirtiest fighting I've ever seen,' he said.

Mr Campion did not reply at once. He was wrestling with the other window whose fittings he had tentatively loosened during the day.

‘They got my signal,' he said at last, between vigorous wrenches at the bars. ‘I put them on to this weeks ago. I never dreamed they'd do the thing so thoroughly. When they got the signal they were to attack. If there was no signal then they were to arrive at ten. Lugg took them the sign yesterday, so they've been waiting all day. They're old enemies of this lot. Gypsies and race gangs hate each other.'

‘I haven't heard any guns,' said the Professor as he watched the battle with almost boyish enthusiasm.

‘They don't use guns.' Mr Campion had to raise his voice as the crashing of windows and splitting woodwork was added to the turmoil. ‘They've a prejudice against them. Makes it worse if they're caught. Their own methods are quite as effective and slightly more filthy. Who's winning?'

‘Hard to tell,' said the Professor. ‘They all look alike to me. It's smashed up the attack on the Tower all right, I should think. I don't see Mrs Shannon anywhere.'

He broke off abruptly as a pistol shot sounded above the general uproar.

‘That's Sanderson, I bet,' said Mr Campion. ‘That man'll get hanged before he's finished.'

‘Whoever it is,' said the Professor, ‘they've got him.' He paused. ‘Can you hear a car?'

‘Can't hear anything through this din,' Campion grunted as he detached a bar from the window. ‘Sounds like an early Christian idea of hell to me.'

‘Say, Campion,' said the Professor, suddenly turning for a moment, ‘there's murder going on outside. Won't your Gypsy friends have some difficulty in getting away with it?'

‘More disabling than killing.' Mr Campion was edging himself through the window as he spoke. ‘You don't know Gypsies, Professor. There won't be a trace of them in the morning. They'll have split up and scattered to every corner of the country by dawn. Some of them just live for fighting. This is one of their gala nights. Look here,' he added, as he prepared to lower himself out of the narrow aperture, ‘your best plan is to stay here. I'll unbolt the door downstairs and let you out. If anything happens to me, you're Orlando's friend, and any Gypsy will see you clear. Don't forget,
Orlando.
I'm going after Mrs Dick. I'll never forget what you've done for me tonight, Professor.'

The old man returned to his window. ‘Boy, I wouldn't miss this for a fortune,' he said. ‘It's an education.'

‘Going down,' sang Mr Campion, and disappeared.

He dropped into the very centre of the char-a-banc, which was at the moment an oasis amid the tumult, and groped about him for a weapon. He kicked against something hard on the floor of the vehicle, and putting his hand down came across a bottle. He bound his handkerchief round his hand and seized the glass club by the neck. Then, still keeping low, he dropped gently out of the car and slipped back the bolt of the stairway to the lofts.

‘All clear, Professor,' he called softly up into the darkness. Then, stepping out gingerly once more, he was just about to work his way round to the house when he caught sight of a figure bearing down upon him, hand upraised. Campion put out his arm to ward off the blow and spoke instinctively.

‘Jacob?' he said sharply.

The arm dropped to the man's side. ‘Orlando?'

‘Himself,' said Mr Campion, and added, drawing the Gypsy into the protecting shadow of the box: ‘Where's the donah?'

‘Scarpered,' said the Gypsy promptly. ‘Went off in a little red motor. The finger with the gun was going with her, but we got him.'

‘Scarpered?' said Mr Campion. ‘Alone?'

The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don't know. I think not; she went in a red motor that was standing by the side door when we came in. Been gone ten minutes. Took a coil of rope with her. Some of the boys started after her, I think, but she's away.'

Mr Campion's scalp tingled. Mrs Dick had nerves of iron. She had nothing to lose, and once the genuine Chalice was in her possession she was safe. Moreover, the calmness with which she had attempted to dispose of him dispelled any doubts of personal squeamishness on her part. There was nothing she might not do.

He returned to the Gypsy. ‘I'm going after them,' he said, ‘though Heaven knows how. I say, Jacob, there's an old finger upstairs, a great friend of Orlando's. See he gets out. Give Mrs Sarah my love. I'll see you all at Hull Fair, if not before. Round up this lot now and scarpa yourselves.'

The Gypsy nodded and disappeared silently up the stairs to carry out his instructions as far as the Professor was concerned.

Most of the fighting had by this time spread into the house whither the majority of the gang had retreated.

Mr Campion sped across the yard, which was now a mass of broken bottles, blood, and odd portions of garments, and made for the heath. It was still far from dark outside the walls. The wind was rushing great wisps of cloud across the pale sky and the stars seemed very near.

As he passed the groom's cottage a dark figure detached itself from the shadows and leapt at him. He swung his weapon which he still held and brought it down on something hard. His assailant went down. He was vaguely aware of the ‘Major's' red face gaping at him from the ground, but he hurried on, one thought only clear in his mind: Mrs Dick and a coil of rope.

He stepped hopefully into the garage and looked about. To his dismay it was empty, save for the recumbent and unconscious figure of Matt Sanderson. The Delage, now completely beyond repair, and the red Fraser Nash, in which Mrs Dick was speeding towards the Tower he had no doubt, were the only vehicles it had contained. His own car, besides being some distance off across the heath, was, according to the Professor, completely out of action, and the char-a-banc in which the Gypsies had arrived would take the concerted efforts of at least a dozen men to get out of the yard. There remained the Professor's bicycle, which was hardly fast enough even could it have been found.

The problem of transport seemed insoluble, and speed mattered more than anything in the world. Even telephoning was out of the question, as he knew from experience that to cut the wires was the first care of raiding Gypsy parties. It dawned upon him that the only chance he had was to make for the camp and borrow a horse from Mrs Sarah.

He set off across the heath towards the camp at a good steady pace, taking a diagonal course towards the north-east. Almost immediately he was conscious of footsteps behind him. He stopped and turned.

A man leading a horse was coming swiftly up. Mr Campion's lank form and spectacled face were recognizable in the faint light. ‘Orlando!' the man called softly.

‘Who's that? Joey?' Campion recognized the voice as that belonging to Mrs Sarah's son Joey, the horse expert of the Benwell tribe. He came up.

‘Jacob sent me after you. The old finger with him said you wanted to get off. I'll lend you this.' The Gypsy indicated the horse with a jerk of his head. ‘Careful with her. She's all right for half an hour. She may be a bit wild after that. Lovely bit, though, ain't she?'

Mr Campion understood the insinuation perfectly. Joey, who had ever more an eye for business than for warfare, had taken the opportunity to raid Mrs Dick's stables, an act in which he had been detected by his kinsman, and straight away dispatched to Campion's assistance.

As he turned gratefully to take the bridle, forgetting for the moment the impoverished state of the lady's stables, a white stocking caught his eye. Instinctively he started back.

‘Good Lord, you've got a nerve,' he said. ‘This is Bitter Aloes. They keep her as a sort of executioner,' he added grimly.

‘She's all right,' Joey insisted. ‘Run like a lamb for half an hour. You can trust me. I've fixed her with something.'

Mr Campion glanced at the proud silky head with the ears now pricked forward, and the wild eyes comparatively mild. The mare was saddleless. It seemed madness to attempt such a ride.

The Gypsy handed him a broom-switch.

‘Hurry,' he whispered. ‘Turn her loose when you've done with her. I'll come after her with something in me hand that she'll follow for miles. To Sanctuary you're goin', ain't you?'

Mr Campion looked over the heath. Sanctuary was five miles as the crow flew. Even now Mrs Dick might have reached her goal. He returned to the Gypsy.

‘Thank you, Joey,' he said quietly. ‘Sanctuary it is,' and he vaulted lightly on to the gleaming back of Bitter Aloes.

—

I
T WAS
a light summer's night with a strong wind blowing. Strips of indigo cloud scored the pale star-strewn sky, and the air was cool after the intense heat of the day.

The heath ticked and crackled in the darkness, and the broom bushes rustled together like the swish of many skirts.

It was not a night for staying indoors: everything seemed to be abroad and the wind carried sounds for great distances, far-off sheep cries, voices, and the barking of dogs.

Most of these things were lost upon Mr Campion as he thundered across the countryside. Whatever horsewitchery Joey had practised upon Bitter Aloes, her temper had certainly subsided, but she was still very nervy and inclined to be erratic, although for the moment her innate savagery was subdued. Campion, his long thin legs wrapped round her sleek sides, trusted devoutly that for the promised half-hour, at any rate, it would remain so.

After the first breath-taking dash across the heath he forgot her vagaries and concentrated upon his goal. As he reached the road, a church clock from Heronhoe village struck eleven, and he abandoned his original intention of sticking to the road. Time was too precious. He turned the mare at the hedge which bordered one of the wide stretches of pasture-land which lay between him and the Tower. Bitter Aloes took the jump like a cat. As she rose beneath him the notion flashed into Campion's mind that she probably enjoyed the hazardous journey. Her curious twisted temperament was best pleased by danger.