Watch the Wall, My Darling

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Locked? But Pete, if the children wake?”

  ‘To hell with the children. Just make up your mind, Madge. D’you want to keep her alive—or not?”

  “Oh, Pete, I do. Betty says—”

  “Damn Betty. Right, then. No nonsense, mind, and no talking. I’ll be back before dawn. With luck, she’ll be dead by then anyway.”

  Lying at once rigid and apparently limp, Christina heard the door close at last, the grinding of a heavy key in the lock. Odd to have a door here that locked. Or—not so odd? Had this room been used as a prison before? There were stories enough, she knew, of people who had crossed the smugglers’ path—and never been seen again. Faced with transportation for life, the gangs might well think murder a cheap price to pay for possible freedom. She shivered, and opened her eyes.

  The woman—Madge, he had called her—was standing close by the bed, candle in hand, looking at her anxiously. Once again, her first word was whispered. “Hush.”

  Christina nodded wordlessly. Sounds of bustle downstairs suggested that the gang were getting ready to leave. Now, voices were raised, apparently in argument—they came nearer—to the foot of the stairs? The woman—Madge—stood rigid, listening, the candle shaking in her hand so that great gobbets of tallow fell on the floor. Then the voices died away again, a door closed somewhere in the house and presently there were sounds of talk and movement outside.

  “Thank God,” Madge whispered. “They’re going. But—wait” She put the candle down on the window ledge and subsided limply on to a piece of wood that served as a stool. She was shaking all over, now the crisis was past, and Christina, watching her, realized what a risk she had taken. Nor was it over yet. They were locked in here, waiting for the man—Pete—to come back. Her eyes went to the window.

  Madge must have been watching her. “No,” she whispered. “It’s barred. Besides—he’d kill me.”

  “You could come too.”

  “And the children? Anyway, it’s hopeless. I know …”

  She moved over to listen at the window. “They’re gone now.” But she kept her voice low. “Pete said he’d be back at dawn. He’ll have to tell the new leader about you. He wasn’t there tonight. They’ll do what he says.”

  “Even if it’s murder?”

  “Oh—I hope it won’t be. Why should it?” She was trying to convince herself. “You didn’t see them, after all. That’s what Pete always tells me … don’t look, don’t hear, don’t know. I stay up here, when they come, with the children, and watch the wall—and pray. Betty’s my cousin,” she explained. “She’s talked about you. I’ll do what I can.”

  But what could she do? Christina made herself sit up, made herself think, defying the pain in her head. “Who is he?” she asked. “The new leader?”

  “I don’t know.” The quick disclaimer carried conviction. “A stranger. French, Pete thinks, an emigré—but for God’s sake don’t say I told you. I’m not supposed to know that, but Pete talks, sometimes, when they’ve been drinking.”

  “I won’t tell.” Had she managed to keep her voice steady? A stranger—and French. Don’t let Madge see what a blow this was. But—face it just the same. Every logic indicated that the smugglers’ new leader was M. Tissot himself. If he was—don’t think about that, but make sure, if possible. “Has he been leader long?” She made the question casual.

  “Oh no. There’s been so many. They keep changing, since they lost the Captain. This one took over after the attack on the Grange—the one that didn’t come off.”

  “I see.” She did indeed. M. Tissot had betrayed the gang’s plans, and taken advantage of the consequent panic and confusion to get control. Useless to tell Madge this—but, her husband? Would he believe her? She had better be convincing … her life depended on it, and very likely his, too, and the rest of the gang’s. For if M. Tissot had taken control of the smugglers, it could only be for his own purposes—and Napoleon’s. Try to explain this to Madge? No—useless. Wait, and pray that Pete came back before he saw M. Tissot. Here was a glimmer of hope. With luck, M. Tissot would be busy looking for her. Ironically, Pete might not find him to tell him where she was.

  “How do you feel?” Madge’s question interrupted her thoughts.

  “Better.” Surprisingly, it was true. “But you look exhausted. lie down here and rest.” She was only a little unsteady on her feet as she moved over to the window. “I’ll sit here and watch. I must speak to your husband the moment he gets back. I think I can tell him something about his new leader. Something he should know at once.”

  “Something bad? Pete said no good would come of a Frenchman …” Her voice dwindled off. She had indeed been exhausted.

  Christina blew out the stub of candle and settled herself as comfortably as she could on the floor below the window. She, too, was tired out—or would be if she let herself think of it. The scratches on her face hurt, her bruised feet ached and the clammy touch of her drenched skirts sent an occasional long shiver through her. But she had more urgent things to think about. She must work out how to convince Pete that his new leader was, in fact, a French agent. More lives than her own depended on that. For she did not like to think of the part M. Tissot and the smugglers might play in an invasion. Not that the men would intentionally act the part of traitors, but they might easily not understand what they were doing until it was too late. So—at all costs—she must convince them. She sat stiffly upright to keep awake, and marshaled her arguments as time dragged by, punctuated by little gurgling snores from Madge and the occasional cry of a night bird out there free in the dark.

  She must, in the end, have dozed off, for when she opened her eyes gray daylight was filtering into the room through the broken panes of a filthy window. What had waked her? Now she heard it again—cautious movement downstairs. Pete? Or M. Tissot? In one silent movement, she was by the bed, shaking Madge awake. “Someone’s downstairs,” she whispered, but the woman only groaned, and muttered something, and buried her face more deeply in the ragged bedclothes.

  Footsteps on the stairs, now, and the sound of the key in the lock. “Madge?” Pete’s voice, surely—who else would call her by name?

  “She’s fast asleep.” Christina moved over to the door. “You’re her husband? I must talk to you. It’s a matter of life and death—yours.”

  “Dammit, you’re alive then. What d’you mean, life and death?” He swung the door open and stood facing her, a huge shadow in the half light. “No tricks, now.”

  “Of course not.” If she could only see his face. “Have you seen your leader yet?”

  “Our leader? Goddamn the bitch. What’s she been tattling about?” He moved threateningly forward into the room and a pale ray of light caught his face. It was coarse, but not brutal—and, thank God, not stupid either.

  “You’ll live to be grateful to her.” Take and keep a tone of command. “You’ve not seen him, have you? He wasn’t where you expected him to be?” His expression told her that she was right. “I’ll tell you why not.” She pursued her advantage. “Because he’s a French agent, using you and the gang for his own purposes. No—listen! You remember the attack that was planned on the Grange? And that I was the one who gave the alarm?”

  “Yes—what of it?” She had his attention now.

  “It was a Frenchman who told me about it. M. Tissot, he called himself. He was wounded on the beach last autumn. Mr. Ross brought him back to the Grange and I nursed him in the cloisters. Only—he tricked me and escaped. A slight man, with a sallow face, speaks English perfectly, with the faintest trace of an accent, poses as an emigré, of course, but, I tell you, he’s Boney’s agent. He’s making you traitors, the lot of you. You’ll find yourselves helping in the invasion.”

  “No!” It was an automatic reaction and he followed it with a string of oaths, covering, she suspected, desperate thought. “You’re sure?” he asked at last.

  How to convince him? Aware all the time of the minutes running by, she made herself go over all the ev
idence with him, patiently and slowly. “It must be him,” she concluded. “Don’t you see? It all fits together.”

  “I dunno.” He scratched his head dubiously. “I’m sure I dunno what to do for the best. If he’s really playing Boney’s game …” Another string of oaths underlined his position as a loyal Englishman. “Hanging’s too good for him. But”—a gleam in sharp little eyes—“he brings in the stuff all right, and tight. We’d need to be precious sure—”

  “Of course he brings in the stuff. More than you’ve ever had before?” she hazarded.

  “Yes—and cheaper.” A doubtful note in his voice here. Had this caused speculation already in the gang?

  “Well, naturally. It’s the bait—and you’ve taken it, hook, line, and sinker. What has he asked you about the defenses, here on the marsh?”

  “Well—o’ course he needed to know what to expect.” But she had him shaken now; his slow brain was coming around to accepting the idea of M. Tissot as an enemy agent. “What’s to do?” he asked at last.

  “If you were to catch him, and hand him over to the army …” She knew at once that she had gone too far.

  “Us! And be transported for our pains? Thank you, no.”

  “Let me go then and I’ll—”

  Again she had gone too far. “So that’s your game.” He backed away from her, his hand on the door, “Not likely. You may be right about the frog—I won’t say yes, I won’t say no; but one thing I do know and that’s that you’re staying right here. My life wouldn’t be worth a minute’s purchase if I let you go. You’re worth money, see—”

  “But how long? What are you going to do? You’ll not tell him?”

  “Not yet anyhow. Here …” A sudden lunge caught her wrist and held it in a grip of iron as he dragged her over to the cot where Madge lay in deep sleep. Still holding Christina in a grip that hurt, he shook his wife roughly awake and told her to stir herself and get some breakfast. “I’m starved. As for you”—he gave Christina’s wrist a last warning squeeze that brought angry blood to her face—“just keep quiet, will you, and thank God you’re alive.”

  He slammed the door behind them and Christina sat down shakily on the bed. Had she achieved anything? Impossible to tell. A little time, perhaps? Fatigue washed over her in great waves. Give up? Lie down, and sleep and sleep and sleep. No, there was one thing to do first. She moved over to the window to peer out into the dim gray morning. A derelict farmyard, and beyond it, all awash with mist, the marsh. And, on the window, heavy iron bars. No hope of escape this way; the room had indeed been used as a prison before. Well then … she moved like an automaton back to the bed, fell across it and was asleep.

  When she woke, evening sunshine showed up in the film of dust over the room. She was stiff and chilled, but her head had stopped aching and she was ravenously hungry. It was agony to put her feet to the floor, but she made herself do so and moved stiffly over to listen at the locked door. Silence. No—somewhere a child was crying. A door banged and she heard a man’s voice raised in anger. Almost certainly, Madge’s husband, Pete. She tiptoed back to the bed. This was no time to call attention to herself.

  Much later, there came a little tapping at the door. “How are you?” Madge’s voice.

  “Starving.”

  “I’ll tell him.” She came back a few minutes later. “He says”—in this house there was obviously only one “he”—“he’s got to go out. I can feed you, but if you escape, he’ll kill me. D’you understand?”

  “Yes, of course. I promise I’ll do nothing.”

  “He said I could trust you. If you promised—word of a Tretteign—I’ll bring you something. When he’s gone. You’re to stay up here, though.” She anticipated Christina’s next request. “Safer, he says.”

  Safer? Had he at last believed what she had told him about Tissot? Madge, when she returned had no idea. “He tells me nothing. Not when he’s sober. I’m sorry it’s no better.” She put down a plate of bread and cheese and a mug of filmy water.

  Both plate and mug were cracked and filthy. Christina, concentrating on making herself eat slowly, hardly noticed. As she was eating, a boy and girl came and peered cautiously around the corner of the door. Unlike their mother, they were almost clean and their hair showed signs of careful combing. Madge might have given up for herself, but for her children she still had hope. “They’re too young to talk about you,” she explained. “Not that there’s anyone for them to talk to, down here on the marsh. Oh—how I hate it.” It was a cry from the heart.

  “You don’t come from round here?”

  “No—I’m London-born. If I’d only known …” She saw that Christina had finished and reached out to pick up the plate and mug. “Pete says I’m to lock you up again between whiles,” she explained. “Safer so. You don’t mind?”

  Christina could not help smiling. “I won’t have to. But could I have some water? My feet—”

  Madge exclaimed with horror at sight of them and went off to fetch a bucket of water from the well and a handful of fairly clean rags. “You should have the doctor. I wish I knew when Pete would be back.”

  Or what he’s doing, thought Christina. “He gave you no idea?” she asked.

  “No. He often leaves us like this. I hate it …” She shivered. “I hate the marsh, and the quietness, and that everlasting sea. Oh, I wish we was back in London!”

  “If I escape from here alive, I’ll see you get there. What would you like to do, you and Pete, if you could?”

  “Oh—run a little inn, miss. On one of the main roads out of town. He’s that good with horses, and I’m a fair cook. But what use is that down here on the marsh? We were mad when we came here. He don’t want”—she lowered her voice and looked around nervously—“He don’t want to smuggle, miss, but we were starving when the offer came. What could he do? You can’t just listen to the children crying, not when you know it’s hunger. But, miss, you’re not having me on? You might really be able to set us up in London, where they couldn’t get at us?”

  “The gang, you mean? I think you’d do better to leave with their consent. From the stories one hears …” No need to finish the sentence. “But as to setting you up in an inn—yes, if you get me out of here alive, I promise you, I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, miss! To get away from the marsh … back to town, where there are people, talk, lights at night. You don’t know what it means. I hardly dare think about it. But—could you?”

  “You’re wondering if I can afford it.” This was no time to beat about the bush. “I promise you, I can. My father left me some money of my own. You shall have your inn wherever you choose. I promise—word of a Tretteign.” And then, “Good God! How could I forget! Do you know what the date is?”

  “No, miss.” But Christina was not listening. A date she had been looking forward to all winter had slipped by unnoticed. She had been six months at the Dark House and was free, at last, of her promise to her father. When she got back, everything would be different. When? If she got back.

  Chapter Twenty

  Night again, and the moon a mere rag among hurrying clouds. Alone in the dark little room, Christina jumped up suddenly, alerted by a sound below. Merely the clink of metal on stone—a simple little domestic sound, but it must mean that the moment of crisis had come. The gang were here, digging up their second load of smuggled goods.

  Was Tissot with them? If he was, she might as well say her prayers; he could not afford to let her survive. If he was not, she had a chance, a slender one, if she could only convince them as she thought she had Pete. Well, at least it would not be long. She felt along the window ledge for the broken-toothed comb Madge had lent her, and tidied her hair as best she might. The look of a lady and an air of command might help her—if she was not already beyond help.

  Time ebbed by. Presently there was a commotion in the yard below. The train of borrowed pack animals must be getting under way. Many a marshland farmer would wake tomorrow morning to find one of his horses missing�
��and the next day find it back, with an offering of brandy or tea as pay for its use. Would she wake tomorrow morning?

  Could they have forgotten all about her? There were unmistakable noises now of the convoy getting started. Or—was M. Tissot waiting, so that the smallest number of men would witness her murder, before he disposed of her? Now—now there was a noise on the stairs, the key turned heavily in the lock, Pete stood outside, lantern in hand. “Come,” he said, “we want to talk to you.”

  “And about time too.” Behave as if nothing was the matter. Sweep past him and walk downstairs, head high, as if he was bound to stand back for her.

  He did. She led the way, pushed open the door at the foot of the little stairs and found three masked men waiting in the main room of the house. Her heart leapt. Surely the masks spelt hope? And at least from their build she was sure that none of them was Tissot. Having observed this, she moved forward with apparent calm into the room. It looked unwontedly comfortable, with a fire blazing on the hearth, tallow dips in bottles casting a comparatively good light, food and a squat bottle on the makeshift table. A quick glance at the three men showed them flushed under their masks, but probably not drunk—yet.

  She moved over to the room’s one passable chair and sat down. No sign of Madge. Doubtless she had been shut in with the children when the gang arrived. “Well?” she said.

  “These are my friends.” Pete had closed the door of the stair behind him and put down his lantern. “They want to hear what you have to say—about him.”

  “The Frenchman? Gladly.” She told it over again in full, calm detail. At last, she spoke directly to the tall mask she had recognized as the leader among them. “I’m a Tretteign. I know my friends. I’ve promised Madge”—here a glance for Pete—“I’ve promised her an inn on one of the roads into town. If we can all forget what has happened, I think I can offer you something still better.”

  “Prove it.” This was, comparatively speaking, an educated man, and her task so much the easier.