Weekend with Death (25 page)

She was in a courtyard formed by the two wings of the house and the connecting block through which the long passage ran. The kitchen premises were on her right, the haunted wing on her left. If she went forward she would get clear of the house and perhaps be able to see where the garage lay. It was not so dark out here as it had been in the passage. There must be a moon behind all that cloud, because there was light coming from it. She could see the walls of the house standing up black against the snow, which seemed to give out a faint, cold light of its own.

She went forward, but something puzzled her. The smooth, vague whiteness should have stretched on indefinitely, but it didn't. It was cut by a black vertical shadow. Her heart began to sink and turn cold inside her, because it wasn't a shadow, it was a wall. She came upon it and touched it with her outstretched hands. It was a rough stone wall closing the courtyard in. It ran from wing to wing almost level with the front of the house, and it rose at least two feet above her head.

But there must be a gate or a door. No one would enclose a place like this and not leave any way of getting in and out of it. She moved along the wall, feeling with her right hand. There was ice on the stone, as hard as glass. Her fingers burned on it.

Suddenly she saw the gap. There was a gate, and it stood open about a foot. She could see the opening, because the snow showed through it like a white stripe against the darkness of the wall. Wickham must have set the door open, because this was the way he had been going to bring her out. The ice and snow had been dug from about the gate-post so that the gate should open enough to let them through. She shut it behind her, because shutting it made her feel safer. She did not know that there was a bolt on this outer side or she would have shot that too. She was to know later. Now she never thought about it—just pushed the gate and went on in the snow round the end of the haunted wing.

She felt sure that the garage must be somewhere in this direction. She had a vague impression of the car driving on this way after it had set them down at the front door. It was only an impression, but she thought the old stabling of the house would have to be on this side. The windows of her room and of Joanna's room looked the other way, and there was no sign of stabling to be seen from them. No—the stables must be somewhere here.

She turned the corner of the wing, and knew that she had been right. A faint light shone ahead—the merest glimmer from a door that was not quite shut. She could distinguish a dark huddle of buildings across another yard. Barns, cowsheds, stabling, were what she guessed at. And, about midway, that welcome glimmer of light.

She hurried as much as she could, and found the car in the old coach-house, with the door swinging loose and a stable lantern alight on a shelf in the corner amongst old tins and bottles. The snow had been cleared here too, and the door swung wide without any trouble. If Wickham had done all this he would surely have seen to it that the gate to the road was open.

She stood for a moment and wondered what he had meant to do. He had cleared the snow and left this lantern burning as if he really meant to drive out of this horrible place with her and take her away. But why? She had told him that she had the papers. She could hear his voice again, quick and eager, “Clever girl—have you got them?” And she had said “Yes.” So there wasn't any need for him to take her away. When Mr. Brown came in on them he had only to say, “She's there—behind the curtain.” There wasn't any need to go on with the pretence that he loved her and wanted to get her away. There wasn't any need for him to pretend that she was still shut up in the haunted room. Her thoughts were puzzled and confused. There was a weight on her, and she felt it heavy to bear. Only there was no time to stand here thinking—

The car was a Vauxhall limousine. She had driven it before. Once on a fine October day on a long, straight road over a Surrey heath, with the colour fading out of the heather and the bracken brightening into bronze and gold. It came back to her in a brilliant flashing picture, as if a hole had been broken in the dark and she was looking through it. How vivid memory could be. For a moment the picture was more here than the dim coach-house and this cold twilight of the snow.

As she slipped into the driving-seat she had to wrench her mind from the feeling that Joanna was behind, with her hat slipping over one ear, and Wickham here on her left. “Oh, of course, my dear—if you would like to drive, I am sure.… Oh, yes, Wickham, Miss Marlowe will drive for a little. But you will be very careful, won't you?” That was when she had first begun to wonder about John Wickham—whether he had always been a chauffeur, and if not, how he came to be driving Wilson Cattermole's car.

It was Sarah Marlowe who was driving it now. A smooth, easy start. Wickham must have warmed her up—no cold engine ever started like that with the thermometer down to goodness knew where.

Out of the coach-house and across the yard, putting on pace but not too much, because she had to feel her way. She couldn't risk the lights.

She would have to risk them. She couldn't possibly round the house and clear the gate like this—and after all, if anyone did see them, what could they do now? Because she was off.

The light ran out over the snow—hooded to comply with the black-out regulations, but to eyes that had been a long time in the dark astonishingly bright.

As they slid past the courtyard, a man wrenched at the gate which Sarah had pushed to, and got it open. She saw him out of the tail of her eye. He came running over the snow, cutting in by the house where she had to swing wide, It was an awkward turn for the gate. If she missed it and crashed into the hedge she was done. She had to come close in to take the turn, and at her nearest he would be very near. He jumped for the running-board. The car jarred with his weight.

Sarah's heart jumped too, raced, and steadied again. She felt none of the things which an escaping heroine ought to feel when an arch-villain lands with a thud on the running-board of the car in which she is trying to escape. On the contrary the blood sang in her veins and her pulses drummed with triumph.

The gate loomed up—stone pillars, and a break in the hedge. The off-side bumper scraped and they were through.

Beyond lay the rough track over which they had jolted in the dark of their arrival. The snow softened its asperities now, but it was narrow—a mere cart track. She remembered bumping in and out of pot-holes—impossible to get up any speed.… And then at last the road turning right between its hedges—the road which led to the moor and safety.

John Wickham leaned in across the open window and said with a laugh in his voice,

“Well, that was a near thing—wasn't it?”

CHAPTER XXXIII

Sarah did not even start. It seemed entirely natural that he should be there. He leaned in a little farther and said,

“I should push her along a bit now. I'll take over as soon as we get clear, but the road keeps skirting the farm and we can't afford to stop till we're really away.”

“What do you mean?” said Sarah. “They couldn't catch us now.”

He said in something like his old impassive voice,

“That depends. If anyone saw your lights and had the gumption to think of it, they could cut us off by taking the cart track from the stables—it comes in about a quarter of a mile farther on. Let's hope they didn't see your lights. You shouldn't have put them on.”

“I couldn't drive without them.”

He put a hand on her shoulder for a moment.

“Look here, I'll tell you when we're getting close to where the track comes in. If there's anyone there, you'll have to rush them. Go as fast as you can and don't stop whatever happens. They may shoot.”

Sarah said, “Oh!” and heard him laugh.

“I shouldn't expect old Cattermole to hit a haystack, but I'm not so sure about the parson.” His hand pressed down upon her. “Why did you run away?”

“Did you expect me to stay?”

“Yes, I did.”

“After hearing with my own ears that you were in with them?”

One bit of Sarah was so happy and confident that she could enjoy letting the other half say these things. You don't mind reading a sad book when you are happy. It is only when you are sad that you can't, can't bear it.

He said, “Silly of me, but I really did think so.”

“I heard them talking to you in the study. I heard them planning to frighten me, and you were to pretend to help me so as to get the papers.”

“Don't you think it was a very good plan? It seems to be working out all right. I wanted you, and I wanted the papers, and it looks as if I was going to get away with them. And now step on it! That's where the track comes in—just at the corner. Rush it, and don't stop for anything!”

The road had been bearing all the time to the right. They would not come out upon the moor until they were past the boundary of Maltings. There was a high hedge dropping to a ditch on either side. Ice rattled as the low-hung branches brushed the roof of the car. A flurry of snow caught the wind-screen and blurred it. The hooded light struck two rough stone pillars where the track came in, right on the corner. A man shouted with a great bull voice, a torch flashed. And, quick and sharp on that, two shots.

Sarah had a moment of exhilaration, a moment of agonized fear. There was a loud bang which felt as if it were under her feet, and the wheel was jerked out of her hands. The car gave a lurch and went skidding and crashing past the farther pillar into the right-hand ditch and the hedge. She was flung violently sideways. Branches sharp with ice came thrusting through the window where Wickham had leaned. But he wasn't there any longer. The car tilted and settled. She fell against the branches.

That was all in a moment. She had shut her eyes when the crash came. Now she opened them and saw the beam of a torch come flashing in through the window on the other side. It travelled across her face and dazzled on her staring eyes. A voice said,

“She's alive all right. Here—take this!”

And with that the beam was gone and she was being pulled up out of the tangle of branches.

The voice was Mr. Brown's, and the hands which pulled her out—very strong hands—must be his too. They set her on her feet. The voice said in a booming whisper,

“Any bones broken?”

Sarah said, “No,” and then wondered why she had said it, because she couldn't feel her body at all. For all she knew, it might be in pieces, or she might be dead. It came to her quite impersonally that it might be better for her if she was dead. Because if you are dead, you haven't still got to die, and something told her in plain, positive tones that these men meant her to die. They had murdered Emily Case, and they would murder Sarah Marlowe without any compunction at all.

Her mind was quite clear and she was not at all afraid. Fear belonged to her body, and for just this queer space between living and dying her body didn't belong to her. It stood there upon its feet, and it moved when she told it to move, but it wasn't her any more. She heard her own voice say,

“Where is he? What have you done with him?” And then, when no one answered her, it said again with a dreadful calm, “Is he dead?”

No one answered that either. The light from the torch went to and fro. She walked round the car, and did not know until afterwards that the Reverend Peter's hand was on her arm. The beam of the torch showed John Wickham sprawled head downwards in the ditch. His legs were under the car, his neck was turned awry, his face was down in the snow. He did not move. Someone went down into the ditch and jerked at his shoulder. The head fell over.

Mr. Brown called out in protest, “Don't touch him, you fool! It's got to be an accident, hasn't it?”

The voice which Sarah knew was her own said again, “Is he dead?” and close above her head in the darkness the Reverend Peter laughed.

“If he isn't now he soon will be. Neck broken, by the look of him.”

The word echoed in some empty place—“broken”. It echoed dreadfully. A broken neck. A broken body. A broken heart. There were so many things that you could break. And no way of mending any of them. John Wickham's body lay broken in a ditch, Sarah Marlowe's body stood here in the snow and felt nothing, and Sarah Marlowe's heart was broken.

It was then that she did feel something—the heavy compulsion of the Reverend Peter's hand on her shoulder. It brought her round so that she stood face to face with him. She could see him, huge and hairy against the snow. He said in a deep, threatening voice,

“What does it matter to you whether he's dead or not? He's the chauffeur, isn't he? What does it matter to you?”

Sarah said, “It doesn't matter.”

She said that because it was true. Nothing mattered any more. Everything had come to an end.

He shook her a little, but without hurting her.

“Of course it doesn't matter to you, Miss Marlowe—how could it? But I'd like just to know what he was doing on the running-board of that car. If he's nothing to you, you can tell me that.”

Sarah put up a hand and brushed it across her eyes, as if she could brush the darkness away. There was a darkness between them, and a darkness in her mind. But she could answer his question.

“I took the car out.”

“Yes—why did you do that? It's Mr. Cattermole's car, isn't it?”

She said, “I wanted to get away—” Her voice died.

He made her feel the pressure of his hand again.

“Go on. You were going to explain how Wickham came to be on the running-board.”

She stared up at him.

“He saw my lights—I had to put them on—I couldn't see. He came running—out of the yard. He jumped on the running-board.”

“Is that true?”

She said, “Yes, it's true,” in an exhausted voice.

After a minute he asked her sharply,