Watch the Wall, My Darling

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Gag her?” asked one of them. An Englishman. A stranger, with an accent she did not recognize.

  “No.” M. Tissot had taken a moment to think about it. “She is a young woman of good sense. She does not wish to be shot in the leg. Do you, mademoiselle?”

  “Frankly, no.” She kept her voice casual, while concentrating all her attention on her hands, which one of the men had pulled, with a kind of firm courtesy behind her back. It seemed several lifetimes ago that her Indian blood-brother had showed her the trick. “You hold them—thus.” His English had been as quick and fluent as her own. “They tie you up, and, look, when you wish it, you are free.” Did she remember? Had she done it right? Don’t test it now, and risk discovery. Wait. Wait …

  “Not a very long walk,” M. Tissot was saying. “And we know what a good walker you are, mademoiselle. I was beginning to think you would never come. Imagine our discomfort. A whole week in that deplorable hut.”

  A whole week. Now she was cold with fear, not for herself, but for Ross. They had been waiting for her since he left. They must have seen her start off with him. What did they know? What did they want to know?

  Don’t show you’re afraid. Don’t show you understand anything. She swallowed a lump of something in her throat, and said, “A whole week in that place! Waiting for me! M. Tissot I am excessively flattered, but, do tell me, why?”

  “All in good time. She’s safely tied? Véry well then, allons. One on each side, and, mademoiselle, I am three paces behind you, with the gun in my hand. If we should meet anyone, we are taking you to see an old woman, who is very ill, in her cottage on Dungeness. If you value your questioner’s life, you will let him go.”

  But they met no one on that walk that seemed as if it would never end. This was a path she had not known existed, cutting right across the marsh to somewhere inland from Dungeness. Once, they all stopped for an interminable few moments, before crossing the road that ran down to the gun emplacements on the shore. For an instant she let herself hope. Lieutenant Trevis, if they should encounter him, would never believe M. Tissot’s story. But Tissot was taking good care that they meet no one. Her hands were tied; she could not even drop her handkerchief as they crossed the deserted road and plunged back into the dark heart of the marsh.

  “Faster, mademoiselle.” M. Tissot’s voice, courteous as ever, from behind. “We do not wish to be benighted here.” And then, a few minutes later. “Halt!” And to the men who had walked silently on either side of her. “Blindfold her now. You see, mademoiselle, I hope to be able to set you free, presently. The less you know, the better.”

  He hoped! But there was nothing for it but to stand passively while a silk scarf was bound tightly around her eyes; to submit to being led forward again, more slowly, along the rough track.

  Surely they would have missed her at the Grange by now? But what good would that be? They would go down to the beach and find nothing. What on earth would they think? Her mother, she knew, could be relied on for quick, sensible action. She would send for Lieutenant Trevis. And, by the time he arrived, it would be full dark. Any traces they might have left on the muddy paths would be invisible till morning.

  “Bien.” Tissot might have been reading her thoughts. “It is starting to rain again.”

  So much for that. There would be no tracks in the morning. So—she was on her own. Think … plan … don’t waste a moment on fright; there’s no time for that. And even with the thought came inspiration. Of course, she ought to appear frightened. Could she manage hysterics, quietly, so that M. Tissot would think her negligible, a panic-stricken woman. But—the thoughts were surging through her brain now—it would be difficult to convince Tissot of this. A pity he knew her so well. Still—give it a try, just the same.

  She slumped heavily against the man on her right. “I can’t walk another step.” The quaver in her voice was too convincing for comfort. “Where are you taking me? My grandfather will pay you well, if you will only let me go. I promise you he’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “Not money, mademoiselle.” Tissot’s voice, skeptical, from behind her. “Something much more valuable—information. Oblige us with that and you shall go free in the morning.”

  “Information? What can you mean? I don’t understand!” And then, “In the morning? But you can’t keep me all night. Imagine my reputation!”

  “Your reputation, mademoiselle? Be thinking, rather, of your life. I should be sorry to see you come to harm, but I warn you …” He let it hang, ominously, in the darkness, and she knew that here, at last, was the real Tissot—a man who would stop at nothing.

  But at all costs she must keep up the pretense of imbecility, remain the girl who, faced with death, thought only of reputation. “I’m frightened. Where are you taking me? I want to go home!” Once again, the quiver in her voice was too realistic for her own comfort.

  “Not much farther now.” At last, a note of contempt in Tissot’s voice. He thought she was cracking. Thank God for that. But—be careful. Pretended cowardice could so easily slide over into the real thing. She stumbled along between her two guards, keeping up her Aunt Tretteign’s kind of low, despondent monologue. And, always, the burden of it, “But, why? I don’t understand.”

  “You will soon enough. And—in good time—here we are.” The sound of a door creaking open. A smell of damp and dry rot.

  “Where are we?” She let her voice rise almost to a scream, and one of her guards tightened a warning grip on her arm.

  “Let be,” said Tissot. “No one can hear her now. Scream if you must, mademoiselle. There’s not a soul for miles.” He sounded pleased with himself. Doubtless he thought her spirit completely broken.

  Well, so it must seem. She sobbed convincingly all the way up the narrow, tumble-down stairway, for which, at least, they had removed the bandage from her eyes. In the room at the top, she looked about her with genuine horror, by the light of the lantern Tissot carried. “You can’t make me stay here! There’ll be rats!”

  “No need to stay. Just sit down, relax, calm yourself, and answer a few simple questions, and you shall be home before the search for you has really begun.”

  Her guards were tying her to a chair, and once again she had to concentrate, for a few moments, remembering what Little Eagle had taught her. Then she resumed her babble of inane protest, with its catchphrase, “I don’t understand.” And all the time, somewhere behind the simulated panic, a part of her mind was thinking coldly, clearly, at express speed. Even if she did answer his question—which she never would—she did not think M. Tissot would let her go. Why should he? It would merely increase the risks he ran. And doubtless this tumble-down farmhouse had cellars … a well.… No one would ever know what had happened to her.

  “There.” They had finished tying her up and stepped back from the hard chair on which they had set her. “She’s all yours, monsieur.”

  “Good. You’ll find food in the room below. No drink, mind you, and no lights. There’ll be work to do later on.”

  Yes—burying her. The shudder that ran through her was all too genuine, but she managed to make the most of it just the same: “Grandfather will be very angry.” Again that horribly convincing quiver in her voice.

  “He will, won’t he?” Tissot sounded amused. “All the more reason for telling me what I want to know and getting home quickly.”

  “Yes, of course, anything—but what do you mean? What do you want to know? Grandfather will pay—pay well—to have me back unharmed.”

  “I am sure he would.” She noticed the telltale use of the conditional, but gave no sign. “But I’m not a vulgar kidnaper, mademoiselle. I serve a great cause—the cause of France. And you, who are half French, should understand, should sympathize. We are going to make the world a better—a happier place. Freedom for all! Is not that an inspiring cry?”

  “Yes.” She managed a tone of simple perplexity. “But what has that to do with me?”

  “Why—everything, mademoise
lle. You are fortunate enough to be able to help us—oh, just in a small, an unimportant way, with a piece of information we could easily get elsewhere. But you are the nearest, the quickest, source. Tell me what I need to know, and you shall find yourself one of the heroines of the new empire.”

  Well—it was thin consolation—her acted hysteria must have convinced him. Otherwise he would never expect her to believe that. “I see.” She sounded puzzled. “There’s something I know that’s important? But what on earth? What should I know, living down here, a nun’s life, on the marsh?”

  “And suffering from a nun’s ennui, I’ve no doubt.… Tell me, mademoiselle, how would you like to find yourself carried across the sea and launched in society at Paris? You’d have twice the success your sister did.”

  How terrifyingly much he knew. But, “Paris? Could you? Oh, M. Tissot!” Would you really swallow that girlish enthusiasm?

  Apparently he would. “Of course I could.” His voice was patronizing now. “If I chose. But, first, you must show yourself ready to oblige me.”

  “And then you’ll untie me? Take me away from this horrible place?”

  “At once. There are rats, by the way. You’d hear them soon enough if I were to take away the light—and feel them too, I’ve no doubt. Have you ever seen a prisoner from Newgate, with his ears all nibbled away? Not exactly the beauty treatment for a handsome girl like you.” The contempt in his voice was open now.

  “Ugh …” She managed a long, low convincing shudder. “Only tell me what you want of me, quickly.”

  “A trifle, no more. But first, as a token of good faith, tell me something else. Something, I warn you, that I already know. Answer me truly in this, and I shall know I can trust you on the more important issue.”

  “Trust me!” She made it almost a squeak. “But of course you can trust me! I don’t want to have my ears gnawed by rats.” How difficult it was to sob convincingly when one could not put one’s hands in front of one’s eyes. But she did her best. And all the time, the undercurrent of rapid calculation continued. What was his game? What was this question of which, he said, he already knew the answer? Was this not, in all probability, a trick to make her think it unimportant?

  The next moment, she knew this guess was right. “Very well, then,” he said. “If you are ready to help me, tell me, first, where M. Ross Tretteign has gone. Answer that right, and I shall know I can trust you.”

  Ross! There it was. And no time for thought either. “Ross?” A triumph of childish amazement in her voice. “But that’s too easy! He’s gone to London. Mr. Pitt sent for him in a great hurry, last week, and he went off without more than a clean shirt in his saddlebag. And left me with all the worry of the lambing, too.” Now she was plaintive, ill-used …

  But M. Tissot’s face had hardened, set to stone. “Come, mademoiselle, you can do better than that.” He moved toward her, as she sat, helpless, tied to her straight-backed chair, raised his hand, watched her eyes follow it, and struck her, with cool violence, full across the face.

  Now the tears came easily, tears of rage and pain and fright. If it had not been already decided, that blow had sealed her fate. He could not let her go now, whatever tales he might tell of trips to Paris. What a fool he must think her! Well, so much the better. “Why did you do that?” She looked up at him with, she hoped, the expression of a child unjustly punished. “I said I’d tell you whatever I know. Ross rode away last Tuesday. I rode with him almost as far as East Guldeford, but then he made me turn back because he said I was slowing him down and he must reach London as soon as possible. Cousin Ross doesn’t like women much, you know. He let me come that far because he had things to tell me about the estate. He thought Mr. Pitt had some special service for him. Is that what you want to know about?”

  Thank God, he was looking at her doubtfully. “Is that really all he told you?”

  “What else was there to tell? Do you know more about it than I do? If so, I wish you would tell me, because Grandfather is getting very impatient about Ross’s being away again. If I could tell him … explain to him …” She let her voice dwindle away.

  “Sapristi!” He was angry now, but as much with himself as with her. “He told you nothing?”

  “But—I keep asking you … what was there to tell?”

  “And you pretend you don’t know a closed carriage was waiting for him on the other side of Rye?”

  “A carriage? But where’s his horse?”

  “Stabled at the George.”

  How careless of Ross, she thought, and how like him. But she must keep up her part. “At the George? M. Tissot, I don’t understand anything. I suppose Mr. Pitt might send a carriage for Ross, if he wanted him in a great hurry—but why not send Arab back to the Grange? Grandfather hates paying livery bills—he’ll be very angry.” She managed to make this sound the most pressing of her worries.

  “But the carriage did not go to London, mademoiselle.” He was watching her more closely than ever. “It took him to Portsmouth.”

  “To Portsmouth?” What a fool she sounded, parroting his words. But that was what she wanted. Folly was her only hope. “Good God!” Here, suddenly, was inspiration. “I knew he was restless, since Mr. Pitt said he was no use down here any more. Can he have decided to join the navy instead of the army? M. Tissot, you don’t think that? Oh—Ross—we’ll never see him again.”

  He had turned away from her and was pacing up and down the room. Now he turned suddenly to loom over her, hand upraised. “He told you nothing?”

  Her face burned where he had already struck her and it was easy to flinch. “He told me to ride over to Pett and see how the lambing was going there. But it’s rained so hard, I could not venture. I’m afraid he’ll be angry when he gets back.” Oh, Ross, she prayed, if you only do get back …

  “Goddamn!” In his fury, he swore in French and English equally. “You really don’t know?”

  “Don’t know what, M. Tissot?” Here was the crisis. If she contrived to convince him that she knew nothing, would he not kill her on the spot, so that she could be buried before morning? She must fight for herself, as well as for Ross. Living is pleasant, the sun in the morning, and small flowers in the grass, sea winds, and cloud patterns at dusk.… Think, think quickly, think for your life. “He did say one thing.” She brought it out doubtfully, as if searching back through memory.

  “Yes?” He was close above her now, hand poised, reminding her of the blow that still smarted across her cheekbone.

  “Let me get it right …” Her mind was racing. M. Tissot knew Ross had gone to Portsmouth. He would inevitably have deduced that this meant France. Right—she had it. “He said—something I did not understand. Something about the beach. I walk there most evenings you know.” Of course he knew. Why else had he waited for her there? But keep up—at all costs keep up the pretense of stupidity.

  “The beach?” His voice was contemptuous. “When he was going to London?”

  “That’s what I did not understand. He said something about my evening walks—about waving to me. Oh … ”She looked up at him, all eagerness, as if it had just occurred to her. “You say he went to Portsmouth? Can he have been going to France all the time? To somewhere round Gris-Nez?” And then, on a note of horror, “Oh—I should not have told you. Oh, Ross … you’ll not hurt him?”

  “Hurt him? Of course not.” He had what he wanted now. “We just want to talk to him.”

  Yes, she thought, as you are talking to me. Oh God, let this be right … let them search as hard as they please for Ross on the northern coast, while he was picked up safely from some Brittany beach.

  “Anything else?” He had turned away to conceal, she suspected, a look of triumph. “What about when he was coming back? He must have said something about that.”

  “Let me think.” A week, Ross had said, “If I’m lucky.” Well, then, “He did say something to Grandfather. It made him angry, I remember. Things do make Grandfather angry these days. He’s getting
old, you know, and it’s a mistake to cross him.” She was a silly babbling girl who might betray a man’s life in innocent gossip. Had she done it right?

  His expression as he turned impatiently to stand over her again told her that she had. “Yes … yes … I know all about your old fool of a grandfather. But what was it that made him angry?”

  “Why, Ross planning to spend a whole month in London. Drink, and gambling and more debts, Grandfather said, and probably no commission to show for it in the end. Ross wants to go back into the army, you know, now Pitt thinks he’s no use down here any more.” And then, on a note of hysteria, “Oh! I should not have said that.” And, gathering some tattered shreds of would-be dignity about her, as a girl might, “That’s all I can tell you, M. Tissot.” Let a little doubt creep into her voice. It might mean one more night of living. “I won’t say another word. And now, you promised you would send me home.” An artistic trembling on the last word. “Aunt Tretteign will be so cross.”

  “Yes, yes. All in good time, mademoiselle. I have some arrangements to make first. You shall have something to eat and drink—you must be famished. And then, when I return, I will see you safely home.”

  “Oh, thank you.” He was going to organize the hunt for Ross. Meanwhile—what did he plan for her? Already, she could see, his mind was far away, weaving a net for Ross.

  “You won’t be long? I don’t like it here …” A nervous glance around the room, trying, at the same time, to make a note of every detail, in case he should take away the lantern. And then, as he picked it up, “Oh, please, leave the light. I’m so frightened!”

  He shrugged—“If you like”—and opened the door. “Here,” he called down the stairs. “One of you come and keep mamselle company. She’s frightened on her own.”

  “Oh, please!” She made it a girl’s plea. “I’m scared of them. Can’t I lock myself in and wait till you get back?”

  “Well.” As he pretended to consider it, something sardonic in his expression told her that he was not coming back. He would leave the job of disposing of her to the others. Now he pretended to come to a decision. “The trouble is”—he said it with an engaging frankness that might have deceived her once—“the door does not lock. Don’t worry, they won’t molest you, I promise. They have their orders.”