by Mary Stewart
The blackness was intense, so that to move at all was to thrust one’s body, wincing, against palpable darkness. But she dared not stop. She dared not even look behind, for fear of seeing a blacker shadow moving under the trees, of feeling another breath than the breath of the cold wind on the nape of her neck. She ran on.
And then she was out of the trees, racing up the steep track which led to the farm.
The track, rocky enough and treacherous at all times, was tonight like a scree of hell’s mountain; a dozen new-filled rivulets had spilled into it, so that, instead of a track, it was the bed of a new stream, a shallow treacherous torrent that poured over the smooth-worn rocks, or slid in slabbed mud between them. On and on … up and up … no longer running, but slipping in the mud, dragging herself up the steepest bit, heaving her weighted limbs over boulder and stump …
On … up … now she was above the main source of the stream and running over rock wet only with the rain … on, on … to pelt, gasping, round the last shoulder of rock …
And there before her, huddled low under the leaping wind was at last the farm, its lighted windows blinking behind flapping shutters.
‘Stephen!’ cried Jennifer, and flew across the cobbles with the tears of relief stinging her eyes.
She thrust open the cottage door and plunged inside. Warmth met her, and the smell of stew and new bread.
She gasped again: ‘Stephen!’ and stood, blinking in the little room’s lamplight, while the door slammed shut behind her.
Across the table she met the startled and questioning gaze of the girl with the grey eyes.
There was nobody else in the room.
20
Conte Fantastique
The girl was sitting on a high stool that was drawn up to the table in the centre of the little room. She still looked very pale; her face was drawn and tired, and the movements of her hands were clumsy and badly controlled. She had been engaged in cutting a crusty loaf into thick slices, and beside her on the table was a pile of sliced meat. The remains of a hasty meal still littered the table, and the rest of the room showed every sign of hurried preparations for departure. There was very little furniture; the table, a few chairs, a couch piled with blankets under the window, and, oddly, an ancient English grandfather clock in a corner. An open door opposite the window gave on to what appeared to be an empty bedroom.
So much Jennifer noticed in the shocked, half-dazed second before the girl spoke. She put down the knife she was holding, and said: ‘Mademoiselle?’ She seemed considerably startled – as well she might.
Jennifer said breathlessly: ‘You’ve not gone. It’s all right! You’ve not gone!’
‘No.’ The girl spoke in French, on a note of puzzlement. ‘I was ill, and then he found the mule was lame so we couldn’t leave. But what—?’
Jennifer went forward a little shakily towards the table. ‘Then it’s all right! Oh, Gillian!’
‘Mademoiselle?’ The grey eyes held nothing but bewilderment, and then apprehension in the swift glance they flung at the door. ‘Why have you come back? You saw how angry he was this afternoon. If he comes in and finds you here—’
Jenny’s hands groped for the back of the nearest chair, gripped whitely. ‘D’you mean … they’ve not been here yet? He – they’ve not taken him—?’
‘They?’ The other’s voice sharpened. ‘Who are they?’
‘The Englishman.’ Jennifer answered automatically, her tired brain whirling anew with frightened conjectures. ‘The police.’
‘Police?’ The grey eyes narrowed, then flared wide with alarm. ‘Police? Why?’
But Jennifer was not watching her. She, too, had turned her head towards the door. She said shakily: ‘Something must have gone wrong. We’ve got to get out of here – now … That woman may be on her way, and Bussac – where’s Bussac?’
‘At the farm in the next valley. Corentin’s. I couldn’t have managed it on foot, and he went to borrow a mule. He’ll be back any minute.’
Jennifer straightened up as if at the crack of a whip. Her face was a white blaze of excitement. ‘Then we must go now! Quickly! Don’t wait for anything – there’s no time! It’s pitch black outside, and the storm’ll hide us …’ Then, as the other made no move, ‘My God, Gillian, what’s the matter? What is this? Are you trying to tell me you still don’t recognize me? I’m Jenny, Gil, your cousin Jenny! Don’t you know me now?’ She put out an urgent hand across the table. ‘There’s no time for explanations, Gil, but you’re in danger here, and this is our chance! Believe me, whatever you’ve got involved in, it won’t matter! Just come with me now and we’ll sort it out later. But you’ve got to come!’
But the other girl drew back from her desperate outstretched hand, and in her face bewildered apprehension had deepened into naked fear.
‘I – I don’t understand. Why should I go with you? What are you talking about? Who are you?’
A gust of wind sent the shutter crashing back against the wall outside. But Jennifer never heard it. Gone was the storm, gone the dangers that might even now be converging on the cottage. Blue eyes met grey across the cluttered table. In the stillness between them the lamp sang.
‘I’ve told you. Your cousin Jenny.’
‘My – cousin?’ The girl was as white as the tablecloth. She shook her head. ‘I – don’t understand.’
‘Are you … trying to tell me … you’re not Gillian?’
‘I don’t – I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am Marie Bussac. I don’t ever remember any cousins.’ Her hands shook as she moved a plate on the table.
Round Jennifer the little room seemed to swell and darken, while the lamp shrank to a hissing point of light. She began to tremble. She said, stupidly: ‘Marie – Bussac? Marie?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle. But of course. His wife.’ She picked up the knife in an unsteady hand, as if to continue her task, but held it slackly, staring at Jennifer with a pale, almost dazed look on her face. ‘Please, mademoiselle. You must explain. The police – why should they come here? What have they found out about us? For God’s sake, mademoiselle, you must tell me what this is all about! And who are you – really? Why have you come here?’
Jennifer groped shakily for the nearest chair, and sat down. She pushed the wet hair back from her face and gazed dumbly at the other girl. The latter, almost mechanically, reached for a bottle of red wine, tipped some into a glass, and pushed it across the table. Jenny took it and drank greedily. The harsh tang of the stuff steadied her, and seemed to set the chilled blood flowing again to brain and fingers.
She said, ‘I thought I was your cousin, Jennifer Silver, but now I don’t know. I – I—’ She looked at the other again and said unsteadily: ‘You wouldn’t do this to me, would you, Gil? Surely you can trust me? If you’re mixed up in this game of Bussac’s, living with him here – and – oh! what does it matter? I swear I’ll help you.’
The pale face opposite her seemed to freeze, and fear touched in its lines and shadows.
The girl said rapidly: ‘I don’t know you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Jenny said in a whisper: ‘Then you’re her double. And she’s dead. But you’re still alive, Mademoiselle Lally Dupré!’
* * *
The pale face opposite her never changed.
‘What did you call me? Another name? Are you crazy, with your names and your cousins and—?’
But Jennifer with a cry had jumped to her feet. ‘Of course! What a fool I am! We said there couldn’t be more than one who looked like you!’
She stepped aside into the full light of the lamp, and pulled open the draggled skirts of her coat. ‘Marie Bussac, Madame Bussac, what you will – what colour is my dress?’
The girl looked at her as if she were mad. ‘I – I don’t understand. You must be crazy!’
‘No. Just answer me that one question, and if you get it right I’ll go.’ She thrust the damp folds forward in the lamplight. ‘What colour is it?�
�
The grey eyes glanced, faltered. The straight brows drew together. ‘I – is it grey? A pale yellowish grey?’
The tears stung behind Jennifer’s eyes, and brimmed over on her cheeks. She said, shakily: ‘No. No, it’s not,’ and let the blue folds fall. She put cold hands to her cheeks and scrubbed away the tears with a childish gesture. She looked across the smoking lamp at Gillian.
She said: ‘I knew it was you. I don’t get this, Gil. Why don’t you trust me?’
Gillian stared at her, her body hunched on the stool as if exhausted, her hands clutching whitely at the table’s edge. The lines of fear and weariness deepened in her face. She looked ill. She said uncertainly: ‘I don’t – I can’t—’ Then a hand went to her head with a sudden, almost frantic gesture. ‘Oh, mon dieu, que j’ai peur! Je n’y comprends rien!’
Jennifer stood quite still. She said, on a long breath: ‘I … see.’
She put both hands flat on the table-top and leaned forward. She said: ‘Madame Bussac, you don’t remember, anything, do you?’
Gillian’s head was in her hands. It shook slightly.
‘How long have you been here?’
Another shake.
‘When did you get married?’
‘I – a year ago. Why?’
‘Did he tell you that?’
The muffled voice said: ‘Yes.’
Jenny bit her lip, but her voice was still gentle: ‘But you don’t actually remember getting married, Madame Bussac?’
Gillian lifted her head. ‘No, mam’selle. That was before …’
‘Before the accident,’ said Jenny softly. ‘Yes.’
Across the hissing lamp the grey eyes met hers again, bemused, uncertain, the blank child-like gaze of the person whose past has been wiped out …
There was a little pause.
Then Jennifer straightened up, with a little shivering breath that was almost a breath of relief. At least, now, she knew where she was. And the issue lay before her in all its plain impossibility.
She had to get Gillian away. Whatever Bussac’s intentions towards her it was, of course, out of the question to leave Gillian with him. All other considerations apart, Gillian was ill … She must, somehow, be made to listen, and to trust. She looked down into the grey eyes, now so pitifully lost and bewildered.
‘Then you must let me remember for you, Marie. It’s true I’m your cousin, but never mind that now. You must trust me. There’s no need to be frightened of Bussac. If you’ll come away with me now—’
‘I’m not frightened of him. But the police—’
‘Why should you be afraid of them? You’ve done nothing. They can’t hold you responsible for anything he’s done.’
Gillian’s hands twisted whitely together in her lap. ‘They can. They can. They want me too. That affair in Bordeaux—’
‘So he told you you were mixed up in that, did he? I suppose that was one way of ensuring that you’d keep out of everyone’s way. I begin to see …’ She ran round the table and laid an urgent hand on Gillian’s arm.
But Gillian had turned her head at some sound outside. The storm slammed against the shutters, and, as Jennifer’s heart leaped into her throat there came, like an echo, another slam that was not of the storm.
The door opened on a gust of wind, crashed shut.
‘Eh bien, mademoiselle?’ said Pierre Bussac grimly, and slid the bolt home behind him.
21
Death and The Maiden
All at once it seemed as if the sounds of the storm had receded, leaving the kitchen still and quiet. A log hissed; the clock ticked quietly, the lamp sang; but the small sounds held the silence tensely, while Jennifer, dropping Gillian’s arm, backed away from the anger that blazed in Bussac’s eyes.
He said: ‘What have you come back for?’
Gillian put out a hand. ‘Pierre—’
He paid no heed to her. He looked at Jennifer across the table. ‘What are you doing here? What have you been telling my wife?’
She said, more bravely than she felt: ‘You know quite well what I’ve been telling her. She’s my cousin, Gillian Lamartine! And what’s more, you know it, Monsieur Bussac!’
‘That’s nonsense,’ he said roughly. ‘She’ll tell you herself—’
‘She can’t tell me anything, as you must be perfectly well aware. She doesn’t remember anything. But she’s my cousin and I can prove it!’
He took a quick step forward at that, and she saw a gleam in his eyes that frightened her. He said softly: ‘Can you indeed? And you came up here … alone, mam’selle?’
She licked her lips. ‘I – no, I—’
He said: ‘Where’s your friend? Where’s the Englishman I thrashed this afternoon?’
Gillian had been standing, supporting herself by the table, following the exchange with the same expression of dazed bewilderment. Now, when Jennifer did not answer, she said, soft-voiced: ‘She says he’s coming.’
Jenny moved sharply, but Bussac only laughed. ‘Let him come.’
‘With the police. Now. Soon.’
He looked at Jennifer, his eyes narrow and dangerous. ‘So he did go for the police?’
‘Of course!’ Her voice was shrill with defiance. ‘He went as soon as we left here! What did you expect? You must be a fool, Monsieur Bussac, if you thought we’d do nothing.’
‘No. Not such a fool as that. I thought he might go. But you see there are no police to find on a Wednesday, mademoiselle. It’s Aristide’s day off, and he goes – in his car – to play in the pelota match at Luz. Your friend will find it’s a long way to Luz, when there’s no transport!’
‘There’s a telephone,’ said Jenny harshly.
‘There is also,’ he said pleasantly, ‘a thunderstorm. Corentin tells me that the lines have been out of action since three o’clock.’
He smiled down into her eyes, the smile deepening at what he saw in her face. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again, lifting a hand in a boneless little gesture which was poignant in the helplessness it conveyed. Something of this must have touched Gillian, for she seemed to rouse herself now from her weary apathy. She turned to Bussac and touched his sleeve.
‘Pierre – what is it, Pierre? What’s all this about? She said she knew me. She said I was her cousin.’ The eyes she raised to him had a lost, hesitating look that under any other circumstances would have been heart-breaking. Now, it made Jennifer want to scream. ‘What does it all mean?’ asked Gillian.
His hand closed over the one she had laid on his arm. The gesture was one of protection, even of tenderness, and his voice and look were gentle. Jennifer, though prepared for something of this kind, was startled by the suddenness and completeness of the change in him. Why, she thought, I believe the man loves her. That’s why he wouldn’t listen to Stephen’s proposals. And now I’m trying to get her from him … Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, it only needed that. What do we do now?
Bussac said gently: ‘It means nothing, ma mie. It’s she who’s confused. She’s mixed you up with somebody else. I’ve told you who you are. You belong here.’
‘But this cousin—’
‘Is dead. Dead, d’you hear me?’ His hand tightened over hers, but he was speaking straight at Jennifer. ‘She was the woman who died at the convent; I told you about her. Remember?’
Jennifer could stand this no longer. ‘Marie! Listen to me!’
‘Be silent, you!’ His voice blazed, as he turned, from gentleness to such fury that she shrank, and obeyed him.
He lifted Gillian’s hand gently from his own and held it for a moment, bending over her with an urgency in his deep voice that was uncommonly convincing.
‘Ma chère, you heard all this talk about police. It’s true. You remember what I told you before, that the police were looking for us over what happened in Bordeaux?’ She nodded dumbly. ‘Well, they’ve found us out. This girl and the Englishman have brought the flics down on us. That’s why we’re leaving. I didn’t tell you before becau
se I didn’t want to scare you. But that’s why we’re getting out, and fast.’ He patted her hand, smiled at her, and dropped it. ‘Now we must go. I think there’s probably still time enough, but the sooner we go, the better.’
‘What about – her?’
He was smiling at Jennifer again. He looked huge in the lamplight, a big, confident, handsome brute whose shadow dwarfed the room. He said softly: ‘She wanted to meddle in my affairs. She mayn’t find it quite so easy to get out of them again …’
Gillian made a sharp little movement. ‘You’re not to hurt her, Pierre!’
He said, not taking his eyes off Jennifer: ‘Oh, no, I shan’t hurt her …’ But his eyes were dangerous.
Jennifer said desperately: ‘We’ve told you we’ll forget about your affairs. We don’t want to interfere with you. All we want is for my cousin to be safe—
He said roughly: ‘Your cousin’s dead, you little fool, and the sooner you realize that the better it’ll be for you. As for my wife, she’s safe enough with me.’
‘Where are you taking her?’
‘That’s my affair.’ He swung round on the other girl.
‘Now, enough of this foolery: it’s time we went. Are you ready, Marie?’