Dearest Enemy

by Alexandra Sellers

  “Oh, but the cases are so different,” Vinnie said soothingly.

  They weren’t, though. From Math’s point of view—from any point of view—they were far too alike.

  * * *

  She must concentrate on work, on The Mabinogion. Whatever happened, it was still a great chance for her. She’d be a fool to mess that up.

  She pulled out all the sketches she’d made, the ones she had packed away the other night when Rosemary had come to her room, and hadn’t looked at since. Perhaps if she set them out around the room, they would inspire her.

  But they would never inspire her again. Someone had taken a black felt marker to them, defacing them with wide, ugly scribbles that all but obliterated each carefully drawn, delicately watercoloured sketch. And in the marks she read a violence of anger that was chilling in its intensity.

  * * *

  “Look,” she said helplessly. “Don’t you see there might be danger?”

  “You’re getting tiresome,” he said. “What is it you want?”

  The door was unlocked. She had walked in and found him at his desk.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Have you thought about this at all—if it wasn’t, as Davina keeps insisting, the ghost who put the coal on the rug and broke the tap, who was it, and why did they do it?” She took a deep breath. “And how did they get inside a locked room?”

  “Accidents do happen.”

  “Did you ask Evan about that tap? I did. He said it had been deliberately smashed. And tell me how an ‘accident’ gets a burning coal five feet from the fireplace when there’s a screen in front of it.”

  “Leave it alone,” Math said. “There’s no reason for you to concern yourself, and wouldn’t your employers prefer it if you concentrated your efforts on establishing me as the guilty party?”

  “I’ve quit. I don’t have any employers,” she said quickly.

  “No doubt you are of less use without your cover.”

  “You may think so,” she said hardly. “Someone else isn’t so sure.” She lifted her hand and dropped the spoiled sketches on the desk in front of him so that they spilled out in all their grotesque ugliness.

  His face was wiped of all expression as he saw them. He cursed under his breath. “Unless you were the one who did that,” she said coldly.

  He looked at her then, and she saw that this destruction had shaken him as nothing else, perhaps, could have. For one unguarded moment, she saw the real Math. Then his eyelids dropped, his jaw clenched and his expression was hooded again.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Did you do it?”

  For one minute, when she had first looked at them, she had believed it, had thought of Math’s fury and believed him capable of this. But that had been her own guilt talking.

  “No,” he said coldly. “I did not do it.” They were silent for a moment, and his hands were firm on the thick pages of the sketches as he gathered them up. His eyes rose to hers. “Did you?”

  She breathed as if he had struck her, reached out and snatched them back from him. “What would I do that for?” she demanded furiously.

  “I don’t know,” said Math. “I don’t fool myself any more that I understand how your mind works. But if you thought this would help you slip in under my guard, think again.”

  She had never come so close to hitting anyone in her life. Never come so close to hating. “Believe me, I do not want to get anywhere near you,” she said, spitting the words at him as if they were poison darts. “I’ve had enough of that kind of lie to last a lifetime!”

  He sat unmoved. The darts didn’t get near him. “Good,” he said. “I suppose if I’ve saved some other sucker, it ought to be enough for me.”

  Sucker. I guess I’m the sucker this time. Fury seized her. Without volition, her hand flashed up, but his own hand moved just as quickly. He stood, and her wrist was caught in a strong, lightning grip that sent all the sketches flying, his chair falling back with a crash. The cat skittered madly from the room.

  “Don’t even think it,” he said, and at the look in his eyes now, as he stood so close over her, something in her shrank back in fear.

  “If it came to a fight, of course you’d win,” she said bitterly.

  “Be sure of that.”

  For a moment they stood silent, unmoving, facing each other like adversaries. The sense of threat she felt was familiar, and she remembered what she had felt at the beginning—before she had fooled herself into thinking she loved him—that somewhere, sometime, he had been her enemy. She twisted her wrist out of his grasp and he let her go.

  She was panting. She said, “I don’t care what happens to you anymore. But I’ll tell you this anyway. ‘The Dream of Rhonabwy'—the tapestry watercolour—is missing from that.” She indicated the swirl of vandalized sketches lying across the floor and his desk with a contemptuous jerk of her head.

  He said nothing. She laughed without mirth. “I guess they were hoping I wouldn’t notice. Quite a history your enemy has, of trying to disguise the theft of that tapestry with another crime.”

  Math said tiredly, “Why don’t you leave it alone?”

  She ignored that. “I guess they were afraid I’d give the sketch to the police. We were looking at it in the restaurant awhile ago, you and I. The restaurant was busy that night, but maybe if you think hard, you can remember who was there,” she said coldly. “Because someone who was there that night and saw that sketch is your enemy. And whatever they’re after, they haven’t stopped yet, have they?”

  * * *

  She no longer knew what drove her. Not any desire to protect Math, not even any need to prove anything to him. She hated him now. He had lied as much as she had—more, and with less reason. He had said he loved her. He had said she was beautiful. That was worse than any lie she had told.

  * * *

  She had bought the most powerful flashlight she could find, another little pocket-size one, and a waterproof jacket and pants. And a strong rope. It was after midnight when she parked her car in the parking lot. No one was in sight anywhere. The summer night was warm, the sky full of stars, an owl hooting, a cow bawling. The moon was just off the full, and she climbed the footpath mostly without the use of the flashlight.

  The fortress looked eerie in moonlight, its jagged edges misty white against the black sky. Its shadow seemed to move as a cloud scudded across the moonlight, and the trees were waving softly in the wind.

  She was remembering Jess, and the woman who waited, and the rats. She did not want to be here, especially at night. But she was driven to find the answer, if only for the pleasure of throwing it in Math’s face.

  She had reconnoitred the entrance earlier in the day. More boards had been put up to keep people out, but she had worked a couple of them loose, and now they came away easily in her hands.

  The Romans had dug this as an air shaft, perhaps, but they had carved steps into the rock, too. These were steep and sheer, and she needed the rope she had brought. She left it hanging just in case, although she had no intention of coming back this way. She could come back and clean up the evidence early in the morning.

  There was water dripping somewhere, and she could feel the dampness on her face. The blackness was intense, and the beam of light seemed to do nothing more than create shadows. She walked carefully. The floor was rough and uneven, full of shadow.

  Her foot kicked something loose, and it went skittering away with a high, tinny sound that had her heart leaping in terror and goose bumps running all over her body. It was much worse than she had imagined. She was terrified.

  She went on again, playing the light around her at intervals. She didn’t even know what she was looking for. Evidence that someone had been here? Proof that it could have happened the way she imagined? Or perhaps—some evidence as to why someone wanted to destroy the White Lady?

  How many Romans had spent their lives down here? Someone had said they were slaves, all the Roman miners. Had some of them died do
wn in the tunnels?

  She had meant to explore them, but now, creeping along, she knew that it was impossible. She lacked the courage. This wasn’t a place to be in alone at night, with the sound of dripping water and another sound, like the moaning of wind far away, deep in the tunnels.

  What was she doing here? She must have been crazy. That terrible last meeting with Math must have simply fried her thinking processes. What could she possibly prove down here? Nothing—unless she ran smack into whoever was using the tunnels for whatever purposes they might have.

  How easy murder would be down here. How easy to make it look as though someone had fallen and hit her head, or slipped and drowned in the water she could hear somewhere....

  Should she go back? She turned and trained the light back the way she had come. It didn’t reach to the stone steps. Was she more than halfway? She must keep calm and continue to walk slowly. She mustn’t allow herself to panic, to try to run. It would be so easy to fall and hit her head, and how long would it be before they found the note in her room?

  She recognized the face of the rockfall with a feeling of drenching relief. The worst was over. The worst had been fearing that she wouldn’t recognize the wall when she saw it.

  It wouldn’t be long now. She pressed her way through the niche, and stumbled up the tunnel and into the passage. Thank God she’d soon be in the kitchens.

  The door into the cellar had been completely and solidly walled off.

  * * *

  She tasted bile in her throat, and her stomach was heaving with animal fear. No! She couldn’t go back! She could not go back into that gaping central chamber, with its ghosts and rats and the lurking terror.

  If she screamed loudly enough, would someone hear? Would someone come and break down the barrier and let her out? Once she let herself begin to scream, her fragile hold on her sanity would slip, she knew that. She would be reduced to the pure animal terror that was waiting to engulf her. And if they did not find her, if he didn’t come...

  Once he had come when she called, though she hadn’t known she was calling. But he wouldn’t come now. She could be screaming with all the hounds of hell at her heels, and Math would not come. She could be sure of that.

  She had to go back. There was no other way. She must turn and walk slowly, one step at a time. She must not run, or cry out, do anything to shake her control. It wouldn’t be long. She flashed the light over her wristwatch. Ten past one. She would be at the exit by twenty past, twenty-five past at the latest. Ten minutes, that was all. She could hang on for ten minutes.

  She was shivering with nerves as she pressed her way back through the niche, cold and sick. She must not throw up. Not yet.

  The darkness of the cavern terrified her now. She could feel another presence, as if her first passage had awakened the ghosts of the place; she was no longer alone. She stood for a moment unmoving, and peered around her, but it was useless to try to see anything. Her flashlight was half blinding her, casting huge rock shadows.

  She should turn out her light, but she was incapable of that. She had experienced the total blackness of the mine. It had terrified her then; it would kill her now.

  There was someone here. She could sense it, feel it, with every pore. If she left the protection of the wall, he might come up on her from any side.

  She could hear him breathing. “Who’s there?” she cried, her voice low and rasping, no more than a whisper.

  There was no answer but the drip of water and the sound of hollowness, as before. Elain moved a little into the chamber, and then she heard it again. She froze, and turned the light wildly in all directions, trying to see, knowing that whoever it was had all the advantage.

  Then, without warning, there was a huge, moving shadow, much, much closer than she had guessed. He was beside her in a split second as she screamed, and then there was an arm around her neck and a hand squeezing the wrist that held the flashlight, and against the strength she felt she knew she was helpless.

  Chapter 18

  Her scream had been involuntary, a purely animal response. She didn’t waste time or breath on another, but devoted her energies to the battle. If she could get her wrist free, she could smash his head with the flashlight. Elain stamped wildly backwards, and felt the walking boot she wore connect with his ankle.

  She twisted her wrist then, but there was no give in his hold. He squeezed her wrist more tightly and twisted until she was forced to open her hand. The flashlight fell and smashed against rock, and then there was pitch blackness and she knew she was going to die.

  Fear gave a fury to her muscles that she did not recognize. She began to punch and swing at her assailant in the darkness, to kick and smash blindly, struggling so that she could not be held. He grabbed at her, and they tripped and fell to the hard floor. She heard him grunt as she landed on him, and used her advantage to smash a fist down. It landed all but uselessly on his chest or upper arm, and she punched again, and again, seeking his neck and head, all her terror released in the violence.

  They fought in silence, broken only by grunts and the sound of gasping breath. He was stronger than she, but he could not afford to let go of her, for if he did she might easily escape in the darkness, and she knew that he did not want that to happen. And she had the animal strength that fear gives. Time and again she twisted out of his hold to land a kick or a punch.

  She was hampered by her thick waterproof suit, but it gave her protection from the sharp stones that he did not have. At last he reared up, grabbing her, finding her arms, her wrists, holding her helpless.

  Then it was as if time shimmered in the darkness, and some border was passed. She recognized him then, as an ancient, terrible enemy, and knew that this battle had been waiting to happen for whole lifetimes.

  Dread seized her, for he was too strong for her. She fought, but he dragged her down, flattened her under him. Now it was a terrible, animal fight to the death. She twisted and writhed, tried to bite and kick, and all the while she felt him reaching out with one arm, groping for something. He was trying to find a rock, a stone, and he would smash her head as soon as he found it. She knew that these were her last seconds of life.

  One second stretched out, and she saw, in the clear light that approaching death brings, that the only important thing in life was love. She saw, too, with awful heartache, how little she had loved. All her life she had hidden behind fear, protecting herself from the one urgent task given to humankind. How little store she had laid up for herself in heaven!

  But at least she had loved Math, completely, wholly, from an overflowing heart. Perhaps that would weigh in the balance. Maybe love was so strong that...oh, what she would give, now, for more time to love! For time to love him as she knew she could, through a life span and into eternity!

  She dragged in air. “Math!” she screamed, loudly, desperately, stupidly, knowing nothing except that she loved him, and that she could not bear to leave him yet. “Math, help me!”

  Her assailant went still on top of her, and she heard a wild curse. “Elain?” His voice rasped terribly, as if he were dying. “Elain? My God, what the hell is going on?”

  * * *

  “Math?” she whispered, her voice raw in her throat. “Math, is it you? Oh, God, oh, thank God!” She began to cry, tearing sobs of reaction. “Oh, God, Math! I thought I was going to die! I thought you were going to kill me!”

  He said, his voice shaking, “I nearly did.”

  * * *

  They made their way out using the small flashlight she had put in her pocket, then simply lay on the grass in the moonlight. For a long time they did not speak.

  Nothing had ever been as sweet as the night air, and just being alive. “Where did you come from?” she asked quietly then.

  “I saw you from the study window, coming over the wall. I thought it was...whoever it is, going to make more mischief. But I knew he wouldn’t get into the hotel. I went to wait for him. You’re hurt. You’re bleeding.” His hand reached out to t
ouch her face. It was trembling. “What were you doing there, Elain? What in God’s name—”

  “I don’t know. It was just an—instinct I had, that there might be something down there, something that would prove something.”

  A helpless breath of laughter, but not of mirth, escaped him, and he shook his head. “Did you find anything?”

  “No. When I got down there I was too scared to explore. I just wanted out. But you—the doorway is blocked.”

  “I didn’t recognize you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I thought you were a kid from Pontdewi and I was going to throw the fear of God into him...and then it seemed as if you were someone else.”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “My enemy. I felt that.”

  “If I’d found a stone, or the torch— I wasn’t in control then. How hard would I have hit you?”

  * * *

  The moon was high, and they stood up to go. In spite of her oilskins, she shivered in the breeze. “We need a brandy,” said Math. Then they walked in silence.

  Suddenly, as they neared the hotel, Math grabbed her arm and hissed a warning in her ear. Elain stopped dead; the mystery and uncertainty of this night were all around her.

  “Someone moving around in the lounge,” he whispered in her ear, so softly she could hardly hear. “Get down.”

  They crouched down and moved into the shadow of a couple of trees. Now she paused to look. Through the arched leaded windows of the lounge, she could clearly see that there was a very dim light moving around. “What can they be doing?” she whispered.

  “Let’s find out.”

  He led the way carefully through the shadows, from tree to tree, and at last in against the inner wall of the burnt wing. He went quickly along the wall, and she silently followed, to the corner where the two wings met and along another few feet to the sitting-room windows.

  Here they were no longer in shadow. Math slid up beside the window and glanced in, then came down again.

  “What are they doing?” she whispered.

  “Can’t tell. Moving very erratically.”