by Lorna Gray
I turned my gaze to Matthew again and at long last, with a hint of a nod, he indicated the dark silence of the avenue behind. I cannot describe how glad I was to slip away from our station beneath the window towards the comforting isolation of the trees and on to the cold and stony gaze of the Eagle Gates beyond.
Chapter 18
We hid the car behind a hedge near the main road where it was less likely to be considered out of place if it was spotted before hastening down to the farmyard. The track with its worn Cotswold stone surface contrasted brightly with the darker tone of the patched hillside and it was only when at last we walked into the silent stone barn that I realised that I should have brought a torch. It had seemed dark enough outside, the smudged outline of the buildings looming like giants out of the night, but inside, the darkness was almost complete and, before I had gone many steps, I crashed noisily into a workbench. Matthew’s hand shot out to grip my arm as he steadied me.
“All right?” The word was a low breath on the air, nothing more.
“I can’t see a thing,” I hissed back, rubbing the spot where my thigh throbbed painfully. “And why we’re whispering I don’t know. If there was anyone here, they would have heard that.”
“Force of habit,” he returned softly. I heard a faint trace of a laugh.
“Do you often go sneaking about in the dark like a …” I searched for the word, “like a Lothario?”
“All the time.” He seemed to be fumbling his way along the workbench. “Anyway, what do you know about Lotharios?”
“Nothing,” I whispered cheerfully. “Nothing at all.” My foot nudged something and it gave a faint rattle as it rolled away.
“What, no lovers knocking at your door in the dead of night?”
“Not even a sonnet whispered under my window as I sleep,” I said, concentrating hard on not crashing into anything else.
“There’d be no point if you were asleep.” His muted voice came from somewhere over to my left.
“As I rest my eyes then.”
“And such pretty eyes they are too,” he said and then struck a match. “Here we go, I knew I’d seen a lamp somewhere.”
The ancient paraffin lamp spluttered reluctantly as it was goaded into life. It guttered and faded before growing again to cast all manner of crazy shadows across the barn as Matthew lifted his hand high and gave a slow turn.
There were three workbenches, the one I had already encountered and two others beyond, which were covered in an array of off-cuts and what appeared to be the beginnings of a hunting gate. A great stack of crude timber was leaning casually against the wall by the door and an assortment of tools lay strewn about, becoming a shocking reminder that until a week ago this barn had been in daily use. The compacted earthen floor glinted occasionally here and there, showing where a nail had fallen and been forgotten, but I could see nothing that remotely resembled the treasure of Freddy’s eager imagination.
With unvarying determination, we checked all the cupboards but bar finding something that looked like the broken-off corner of an old gilt frame and some tins which initially excited our interest before turning out to contain turpentine, the contents of each were resoundingly innocent. We even went up the ladder into the roof beams in case there was something hidden up there but again we found nothing except a few boxes containing what looked like the stained and pitted metal plates from an old printing press. I had joked that perhaps they were printing money but in reality the plates were probably for leaflets from some old political campaign.
Feeling increasingly despondent, I perched precariously on a stool while Matthew shone the lamp into the corners once more. Nothing. Perhaps we had been wrong after all. It was terribly hard after the optimism of feeling like we were getting somewhere only to return to the depression of knowing that now we had nothing once again.
Refusing to completely surrender to the gloomy thoughts, I drifted idly along to some wooden crates which were stacked in a grimy corner behind some half-made doors and, lifting a pile of rags and rubbish, I peered inside. Steadfastly ignoring the instinctive recoil when a large spider darted angrily for cover, I saw that the mess lay above a cluster of tatty rolls of paper and more from a desire to be doing something than any real interest, I reached in to pick one out. In the dim and flickering light I couldn’t make out anything bar a few lines here and there; it looked like it might be one of Jamie’s designs for his doors and I was just moving to put it back when Matthew appeared beside me.
“Anything?”
I shook my head, showing him the paper. He peered at it under the lamp before handing it back to me with a shrug.
“I can’t make anything out,” he said, and then added a soft long drawn out, “Oh.”
“What?” I whispered anxiously, wondering what he had seen. But he was not looking at the paper in my hands. Instead, he was lifting the lantern, casting its light along a shelf, across a few empty tins and finally onto the dusty reflective sheen of a photograph.
“How odd,” he said vaguely, reaching the curling and creased image down from the shelf. He was staring at it blankly and, curious, I peered over his arm. I understood then just why he might be feeling a little distracted.
The photograph was a torn and tattered print in grainy black and white, and it showed what appeared to be a typical military steel girder bridge across a non-descript river in what was probably Flanders, but may have been any flat part of the Continent given how little I actually knew about Europe. It was made more interesting by the dusty column of armoured vehicles that were labouring past with their heavy loads, complete with British and American insignia and some very fearsome weapons. But what brought the odd tightness to my throat was the sight of a pair of wearied and dishevelled soldiers standing grinning in the foreground, both stained and dirtied almost beyond recognition but nevertheless perfectly unmistakeable.
“This was taken after a particularly hairy incident at a particularly unpleasant spot for bridge-building near Lanaeken, as I recall,” he said slowly in a voice filled with wonderment. “How odd to see it again.”
“How so?” I asked hesitantly, unsure of whether to pry or not.
He glanced at me and then smiled gently, “No reason. It just explains a few things, that’s all.”
He turned it over and showed me the inscription written on the back in his own distinctive hand: Donald, Count on me to return the favour some time.
I understood then, and felt a wave of sadness for him and for his lost friend. “I see,” I said feebly.
Matthew set the photograph carefully back up onto the shelf. “Damned shame that I didn’t manage to, don’t you think?” He spoke with an edge that went far beyond grim purpose and then, as he felt me stiffen beside him, added; “What is it?”
“Did you hear a car?” The lamp was doused immediately and the sad little photograph with its record of a life saved was forgotten in the sudden urgency of our own immediate danger.
“Come,” Matthew whispered, taking hold of my arm and tugging me after him to the door. In the sudden darkness the paler outline of the doorway was both a guide and a blind as the flimsy light cast all kinds of improbable shadows. It rendered the solid barriers of the workbenches entirely invisible; we both stumbled in our haste, reeling clumsily through the maze of tools and obstacles, and the crash of something heavy hitting the ground reverberated deafeningly behind us. But then we were safely though and I felt a waft of colder air across my face as the night and freedom rushed forwards to meet us.
Unexpectedly, Matthew stopped abruptly in the doorway and he had to put his arm out to prevent me from tumbling out past him into the open. I staggered and gasped but he held me back. A blinding glare of headlights through fog hit the sky briefly as the car rounded the top of the rise, much closer than I had realised, and then there was the low hiss of tyres as it cruised steadily towards us.
“Not enough time!” Matthew turned sharply back to look into the barn. I suspect that had he been alone, he
would have chanced the dash across the wide expanse of open grassland surrounding the barn but encumbered with the responsibility of protecting me, he must have known that the bare rolling hillside could hold no hope of cover for someone so wholly untrained. Perhaps I ought to have decided for him in a demonstration of all I had learned since my early days of youthful feebleness, but I remembered my promise that I would defer to his judgement and my body ached at the idea of trying to outrun the car and that gun.
“In there. Quickly!” Matthew almost bodily shoved me into the dark void behind the door created by the lengths of rough timber that leaned there.
Matthew squeezed in next to me and I shuffled back as far as I could in the hope that he would be protected, but it was a painfully narrow space and I feared what would follow if they happened to look too closely. My breath was coming in short uneven gasps. They sounded deafening in our cramped shelter and as the car rolled to a halt nearby, I fought desperately to calm myself.
From the darkness, I felt Matthew reach silently for my hand. It was only when the intense gloom was punctuated by an odd crinkling noise that I remembered the paper still held in my fist and I am afraid to say that with every instinct still urging useless panic, it didn’t even occur to me to be brave. Instead, I hastily stuffed the roll into my waistband before finding his hand again and clasping it tightly.
The engine’s dull roar was followed by an unbearably long period of suspension. The air was so still and dry that it felt like we might suffocate in our dusty little cocoon and I could not see a thing except for the faintest impression of Matthew’s profile silhouetted against the paler wood. But in this weak light he seemed startlingly calm and where I caught the soft whisper of his breathing, the slow intakes of air were perfectly steady. I tightened my hand again and his thumb stroked mine soothingly before stilling abruptly as heavy footsteps scuffed the rough gravel outside.
“That man Hicks is such a jerk.”
The sudden rare sound of Davey’s voice came so close to the raw timber by my ear that it felt like he must be in our little space with us.
“Jerk?" A snort from somewhere outside. "Been spending much time with Yankee GIs, have you? But yeah.” His dull sneer floated in on the breeze. “Stupid fool, wittering on about that girl – as if that stuck-up bitch could make trouble for us. I plan on paying her another little visit before we go, and maybe not just to mess about with the horses…”
Davey gave a horrible little laugh in reply and Matthew’s hand closed painfully on mine. In the muddy gloom I could just make out a muscle working in his jaw; he looked angry and, I realised with a jolt, extraordinarily dangerous. Suddenly I did not feel quite so afraid.
“At least we shouldn’t have to wait too much longer; we’ll be out of here soon enough. Although if the boss hadn’t lost his head and caused all that mess,” a scuff of Simon's feet as he stepped inside and then a pause while he spat, “we’d have been out of here long ago. Bloody amateurs.” The acrid scent of a cigarette being lit was followed by an odd rasping sound as he inhaled deeply.
Then there was a pause, a very long pause, and a sharp curse as the match burnt his fingers. I flinched from the sudden snap by my ear as another match was struck and then, after an impossibly tense silence, Simon’s voice came on a soft note of enquiry. “What have we here?”
The temperature dropped by about ten degrees.
“Did you do this? Did you knock this over?”
Footsteps drifted past barely an inch from where we were hiding and Matthew’s hand held mine in determined calm. I could feel the flicker of his pulse beating beneath my fingers, definitely stronger now but still unhurried.
“Dunno. Don’t think so.”
“Someone’s been here.” The voice lowered to an ugly snarl. “That damned Croft – He’s been poking about while you were making eyes at Hicks’ wife. Find him. Find him and then finish him. Preferably slowly.”
“Er …”
“Use your brains, man!” snapped Simon impatiently. “You check the road and I’ll check the house. Now move!”
There was a creak as the car doors were opened followed by the startlingly innocent sound of a shotgun being broken, quickly loaded and snapped shut. Then a door slammed and the muffled sounds of their heavy footsteps softened as they touched grass, separated to a whisper and then slowly receded convincingly to silence. Somewhere, quite oblivious to the hunt, a fox screamed for its mate.
I felt horribly afraid that somehow they were still waiting outside but clearly made of sterner stuff, Matthew slowly released my hand and slid noiselessly out from behind the timber to peer cautiously around the door. “Come,” he breathed.
I eased myself out of my cramped position and followed as closely as his shadow as he slipped out of the barn to crouch behind the car. He touched my hand and pointed across the grass to the dip with its great oak trees and dry streambed which I knew led down to the ford near the old bridge. The expanse of open space was still wide and deadly, and I loathed the prospect of trying to cover the distance with those men and their guns so close by, but our car was uselessly hidden far along the roadway and with the path past the house equally impossible, we had very little choice.
There was no sign of either man as we darted out from our hiding place. Keeping low, we ran soundlessly across the grass, compromising between stealth and speed, and were very nearly at the trees before a bellow told us that we had been spotted.
The car’s headlights flicked on and for a moment I was hopelessly disorientated as my shadow plunged ahead of me. The sudden brightness bounced back off the fog and thinly streaked snow, distorting the ground horribly and throwing deep shadows so that I stumbled and would have fallen but that strong hands caught me and heaved me back to my feet again. Then we were in the shade of the dip and gratefully scrambling for the shelter of a broad tree-trunk where we could pause for a moment while Matthew squinted into the light, trying to spot our pursuers.
The hard report of a gun broke across the open space like a thunderclap. A shot whipped past making Matthew jerk sharply back with a curse. Then a shadow lunged across the grass, stretching long and deformed towards us as a figure passed in front of the headlights and, distinguishable even at this range, I could see the dark line of a gun-barrel hanging blackly from his hand. Matthew muttered something under his breath and, turning, took my hand once again and tugged me after him down the gully towards the deeper cover of the strip of woodland below.
At some point the fog must have broken a little because through the thinning trees I could see pale moonlight glinting off the overflowing waters of the ford and I don’t know why but in my mind I had marked this out as some kind of boundary, beyond which we would be safe. I was wrong of course.
As we splashed through the knee-deep icy water, Matthew tripping and nearly taking me down with him, a great roar betrayed Simon’s close pursuit behind. The crude animal cry came from the rough woodland above the river and I realised, with a frantic reawakening to fear, that he must have predicted our path and was gaining on us with unrelenting ruthlessness. There was a crash and a sharp twang of wire as he leapt the flimsy fence and then a scattering of dirt as he plunged recklessly down the steeper slopes towards the grassy clearing by the ford. He was nearly upon us.
With a sob of dread, I scrambled up the scrubby valley sides towards thicker woodland and a distant hope of escape. Matthew’s hand was firmly on my hip, keeping with me and pushing me ever onwards, but I heard the splash as Simon Turford hit the water no more than twenty yards behind and I knew he was far, far too close.
Then, unexpectedly, there was a foul oath and a crash and, daring to throw a glance back over my shoulder, I saw that he had missed his footing as he leapt for the bank. The sodden earth had given way beneath him, sending him sprawling painfully facedown onto the grass. But it wasn’t enough. Even as I turned once more to the tangled chaos of young and mature trees ahead, he was pushing himself up onto his knees again and then the gun lifted
to glint black and deadly in his hand. I was running to the very limit of my endurance but I knew even that would not be enough to outpace the bullet that must surely follow.
Suddenly Matthew’s hand was hard on my elbow. Moonlight and darkness blurred into a dizzying spin as his grip snatched me round into the cover of an ancient beech. Then his arms came protectively around me. They closed tightly and my head buried into his shoulder just as the gun fired.
The sharp report was not the dull crack of a shotgun. It was the angry snap of a rifle and the bullet smacked past us to leave devastating silence in its wake. The gun fired again, and then twice more making me flinch and cry out with the expectance of sudden pain. Only then there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of my breathing and the crush of Matthew’s arms holding me close.
The woodland was stunned to silence, no birds or animals moved, no sounds except my own but then, slowly, horrifically, I became aware that a coarser breathing was matching mine. The hoarse and laboured panting seemed to be nothing more than an extension of my own rapid breath but twigs cracked beneath a stealthy tread and the sounds grew louder as Simon stalked steadily closer. I felt Matthew prepare himself for renewed flight, his stance shifting into a state of readiness for the necessary ambush, and the thought of what little he would be able to do against such a man very nearly made me cry out again in terror. But then his hand soundlessly tightened in my hair where it rested on the back of my head and the shock of his warning was enough to silence the sob that threatened to escape.
The stealthy footsteps stopped. There was a pause, an endless wait filled with that irregular coarse breathing as he listened for us to give ourselves away and it felt like I only had to open my eyes to find him standing there, staring at us with that ugly smile playing about his mouth. I kept my eyes pressed tightly shut.
Then there was a crash and a distant bellow, and Davey’s voice penetrated the agonising silence. “You got him?”