A Distant Sound of Thunder

by Anne Mather

  ‘Blankets,’ she said, looking up at the men. ‘Piers! Those blankets—or rugs in the back of your car. Could you get them?’

  Piers nodded abruptly and turned and strode away, while Rebecca examined the girl. She had a nasty-looking wound on her head that seeped blood on to the ground around her, and a bone protruded from her arm just above the elbow. Apart from these injuries she was a mass of minor cuts and bruises, and there was a puffy swelling beside her ear. Rebecca wiped the blood from her face with her handkerchief, and tried rather unsuccessfully to make a pad of it to press over the wound. Glancing round, she said: ‘Do either of you men have a handkerchief?’

  They both had, and she made a thick pad and pressed it firmly over the wound on the girl’s head. Then, as Piers returned with the rugs, she gently but firmly eased them round her, wishing the ambulance would come quickly. It was quite possible that one of her legs was broken, and she might have any number of inner complications that could not be diagnosed out here on a foggy road.

  Piers went to speak to the lorry driver and Rebecca got up and said: ‘Where is the other man?’

  Harman moved restlessly. ‘Still in his car, miss. You don’t want to see him, do you? There’s nothing you can do.’

  Rebecca sighed. ‘There might be. I must be certain.’

  Harman looked at Paul for guidance, but Paul merely shrugged, and with obvious reluctance, Harman showed her the way over to the mangled wreck. After a brief glance Rebecca turned away. Harman was right; no one could help Michael Meredith now.

  Presently the whining of a siren came to their ears and Piers came striding back to them. ‘That sounds like the ambulance. That chap over there’—he indicated the lorry driver—‘he’d better go with them to hospital. He’s badly shaken up.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Harman nodded politely. ‘You can go on home if you like, sir. Leave this to me.’

  ‘I’d like to stay and speak to whoever they send out with the ambulance,’ said Rebecca at once. ‘They may need help.’

  Paul sighed. ‘Oh, come on, Rebecca. This is ridiculous! I’m frozen. There’s nothing else we can do.’

  Piers frowned at his son. ‘If you want to go, take the car,’ he said impatiently. ‘I will bring Rebecca home in Harman’s Land-Rover.’

  ‘Like hell you will!’ Paul hunched his shoulders. ‘Come on, Rebecca! I could use a drink—something short and strong!’

  Rebecca pressed her lips together. ‘No, Paul, I’ll stay here. You—you go back, as—as your father says.’

  Paul stared at her angrily. ‘What do you hope to prove by staying here? That you’re as efficient as they are?’

  Rebecca flushed. ‘Don’t be silly, Paul.’ She knelt down beside Diane Howarth again. ‘I just don’t like leaving her, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, blast you then!’ muttered Paul childishly, and stamped off towards the car, muttering to himself. Rebecca bit her lip, looking up into Piers’ face anxiously, and he said:

  ‘I must apologise for my son. I have the feeling he is allowing his imagination to run away with him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rebecca frowned, glancing at Harman who seemed oblivious of them as he lit a cigarette.

  Piers shook his head grimly. ‘Later,’ he said briefly, and went to watch for the ambulance.

  It was all over quite quickly. The police arrived and as the inspector knew Piers he seemed to act with greater speed and efficiency. Firemen arrived to free what was left of Michael Meredith from the ruined car and the ambulance whined away with its three casualties. Floodlights were set up and the whole mangled mess was revealed to their appalled eyes. The lorry was lodged partially in the ditch at the side of the road and the men from the fire service, assisted by Harman and Piers, tried to lever it out. But in spite of their equipment it was awkwardly placed, and a certain amount of physical manpower was required to help the machinery.

  Rebecca watched anxiously. This was something she had not expected, and seeing Piers half in the ditch, thrusting his shoulder against the heavy mass of the tipped lorry, was frightening. There was a moment when the whole thing seemed certain of collapsing on top of him, but then with a lurch it moved and swung almost effortlessly out into the road. Rebecca breathed a sigh of relief, and Piers vaulted out of the ditch rubbing his shoulder with his other hand.

  ‘I think that’s it,’ he said, his gaze flickering over Rebecca before resting on Harman. ‘Where is the Land-Rover, Harman? I’ll send Baines back with it in the morning.’

  ‘Just parked along here, sir,’ indicated the bailiff respectfully. ‘I’ll hang on until these chaps go and then I can give you a full report in the morning.’

  ‘Fine,’ Piers nodded, lines of strain appearing on his face. ‘Eh bien, come along, Rebecca. We will go.’

  They walked in silence down the track to the vehicle, and Piers slid behind the wheel almost thankfully. Rebecca looked at him curiously. During the last few minutes he seemed to have lost all his energy, and she wondered whether he had strained himself pushing the lorry.

  However, he started the Land-Rover and turned it quite expertly before driving back past the wreck and on down the track towards Sans-Souci. He seemed to be driving with one hand only, however, and Rebecca’s suspicions increased.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked finally, and he gave her a brief glance.

  ‘Naturellement,’ he replied bleakly. ‘I expect you are cold.’

  ‘No, I’m not cold. This coat is very warm.’ She sighed. ‘Piers, are you sure you’re all right? You would tell me if something was wrong?’

  Piers’ fingers tightened on the wheel. ‘And what would you do?’ he asked tautly.

  ‘I’m a nurse,’ she answered impatiently.

  He uttered a scornful exclamation. ‘Of course! I had momentarily forgotten.’ He leant forward staring through the windscreen. ‘This damn fog seems to have thickened.’

  Rebecca heaved a sigh. It was obvious that whatever was wrong with Piers he was not going to confide in her. She wondered why she should feel so hurt. After all, Sheila was waiting at the house. No doubt he would rather consult her if something was wrong. She chewed at her lips. She had got to stop thinking like this. The sooner she got away from here the better. Piers brought the car to a halt at the side of the house, and they entered through a door set in the wall which led into a small hallway where wellington boots and mackintoshes were stored, along with golf clubs and other sporting equipment.

  Rebecca waited for Piers to shed his sheepskin coat, but he did not, merely indicating the door which led into a passage which in turn led into the main hall. ‘You go ahead,’ he said abruptly, and she pressed her lips together and walked quickly across to the door. But as she reached it she happened to look back and her breath caught in her throat as she saw the agony on his face.

  Piers’, she exclaimed tremulously. ‘What’s that stain on your coat?’

  He raked a hand through his hair impatiently. ‘For God’s sake, go!’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Do you think I want you to see me like this! Go!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  REBECCA ignored him and dragged off her own coat, throwing it aside carelessly. Then she went across to him, touching the stain on his coat and feeling its sticky warmth. ‘In heaven’s name, Piers,’ she cried unsteadily, ‘what have you done?’

  Piers shook his head grimly. ‘I don’t need your pity,’ he muttered violently. ‘It’s just a cut, that’s all. That damn lorry was torn to ribbons!’

  ‘Oh, Piers!’ Rebecca stared at him helplessly. ‘Please—take off your coat. Let me look at it!’

  Piers hesitated a moment longer, and then he unfastened the jacket and pulled his good arm free of it. It was obvious from the strain on his face that it was agony to remove the other sleeve. His dinner jacket came next, and Rebecca was horrified by the amount of blood he had lost. But she said nothing, knowing that any inconsequential remark from her might prevent him from allowing her to examine him. Finally he u
nfastened his shirt, pulling it free of his trousers, his eyes constantly watching Rebecca’s expression.

  His chest was tanned and muscular, and liberally covered with hairs, and Rebecca tried not to be aware of him as a person as she examined his shoulder. But it was terribly difficult when the heat of his skin was so close to her and her whole body ached for a closer contact.

  The wound was in the flesh of his upper arm, but although it bled copiously it had not severed the main artery. ‘I need some water and antiseptic—and some bandages,’ she said at last, her hands unsteady. ‘Do you have any?’ She shook her head. ‘You really should see a doctor.’

  ‘There’s a first aid cabinet in my bathroom,’ he said huskily. ‘Will you go there?’

  Rebecca moved away, wiping her hands on a paper tissue she had taken from her handbag. ‘I—I suppose so,’ she agreed.

  ‘Or would you rather I asked Sheila to do it for me?’ he asked, his eyes mocking her.

  Rebecca turned away. Even in pain he had to hurt her.

  Lifting his clothes, he slung them over his good shoulder and then indicated that she should precede him along the passage. When they reached the tower stairs he said: ‘We’ll go this way. I do not particularly wish to attract attention to myself.’

  ‘Very well.’ Rebecca preceded him upstairs, glancing round now and then to make sure he could make it. He was very pale, but his eyes glittered grimly, and she knew he did not really care for her helping him. The wound should really be stitched, she thought anxiously, wondering whether it was possible for her to obtain an anti-tetanus serum and administer it here. He obviously did not care whether he was poisoned or otherwise—but she did…

  He staggered as they reached the top of the stairs and on impulse, she said: ‘My bedroom’s here. You stay here and I’ll go and get the bandages myself. Just tell me where to go.’

  He regarded her contemptuously. ‘Thank you, but I prefer my own room,’ he said, fighting off waves of dizziness. ‘It’s not much further—’

  But even as he spoke, his knees buckled and he collapsed on the small landing.

  Rebecca gasped and went down on her knees beside him, but he was unconscious. The amount of blood he had lost allied to the tremendous amount of strain he had put on himself had robbed him of his strength and he lay there helplessly, the blood seeping from his wound into the carpet.

  She knew she couldn’t cope alone, and with a reluctant look at him she hurried back down the stairs, seeking the kitchen quarters and Gillean. Asking him to avoid alerting the household yet, she asked him to call Mr. St. Clair’s doctor and then between them they carried the unconscious man into the bedroom which had previously been allotted to Rebecca. While she waited for the doctor’s arrival, Rebecca sponged the wound clean and put on a dressing which Gillean brought to her. He acted on her orders without question and she thought how understanding he was. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions, nor did he get in the way. He simply helped her as quickly and as efficiently as he could.

  Of course, when the doctor arrived, Adele demanded to know what was going on and Paul came out into the hall to confront Rebecca impatiently.

  ‘Gillean says my father is unconscious upstairs—in your room!’

  Rebecca coloured. ‘That’s right, he is. Oh, Paul, it’s a long story, and one I can’t tell right now. He was hurt at the scene of the accident, that’s all, and he collapsed.’

  Paul shook his head and Adele who had wheeled herself out of the lounge to hear the tail-end of their conversation, said: ‘And why wasn’t I told immediately, instead of you taking over and behaving in this underhand manner? You’re nothing in this house, miss, not even a member of the staff, so don’t think you can give orders here!’

  Rebecca sighed. The doctor was mounting the stairs and she wanted to go with him, to be there when he examined Piers, to explain what had happened. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I didn’t want to worry you, that’s all. Your brother-in-law was helping the men to get the lorry out of the ditch and has torn his shoulder. He collapsed on his way upstairs.’

  ‘To your room?’ Paul was furious.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Rebecca’s cheeks were scarlet. ‘For goodness’ sake, Paul, this isn’t the time or the place to be arguing about what happened.’ She glanced towards the stairs. ‘I must go. Excuse me.’

  Turning, she ran across the hall and up the main staircase leaving Adele to stare after her impotently. But Paul followed her, and behind him came Sheila Stephens.

  Shaking her head, Rebecca crossed the gallery to the door which led into the tower landing. Her bedroom door stood wide and she found Doctor Mortimer in the process of undressing the wound. Piers had recovered consciousness, and was himself looking at the doctor with impatient eyes.

  ‘Mon Dieu, Mortimer,’ he exclaimed, as Rebecca came into the room. ‘You are wasting your time here. I don’t need a doctor!’

  Doctor Mortimer turned to look at Rebecca, and Rebecca looked at the doctor, avoiding Piers’ accusing eyes. ‘I understand from Gillean that you’re a nurse,’ Doctor Mortimer said. ‘Did you dress the wound?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Rebecca nodded.

  ‘And what happened? Do you know?’

  ‘I’ve told you what happened,’ drawled Piers, from the bed. ‘For God’s sake, man, I’m not dying. I’ve cut my shoulder, that’s all.’

  Paul and Sheila came to the door, standing looking in curiously, and Piers compressed his lips angrily. ‘Go away, all of you!’ he snapped fiercely. ‘If I must have a doctor, I don’t need a gaggle of sightseers!’

  Paul flushed. ‘I’m training to be a doctor, Father, and Sheila is a nurse!’

  ‘Please!’ That was Doctor Mortimer. ‘This young lady can assist me. I’ll speak to you when I come down.’

  With an angry exclamation, Paul slammed the door behind them, and Piers turned to Rebecca. ‘She can go, too,’ he muttered grimly. ‘I don’t need a nurse.’

  Doctor Mortimer ignored him. ‘Hand me my bag, would you?’ he requested Rebecca, and smiled as she complied. ‘Take no notice of him,’ he advised, noticing Rebecca’s tense expression. ‘Piers is not a man to take kindly to dependence upon anybody.’

  Piers raised his eyes heavenward, but Rebecca felt slightly relieved. Obviously the doctor was not at all perturbed by his attitude.

  Even so, she knew Piers hated her to see him gritting his teeth as the doctor applied a local anaesthetic to the wound before stitching it. It took twelve stitches and afterwards he was given an injection for tetanus before the doctor was satisfied that he had done all that could be done. Piers swung his legs to the ground and sat up, but Rebecca could tell from the pallor of his face that he was not completely recovered, and Doctor Mortimer put a hand on his uninjured shoulder firmly.

  ‘You must rest,’ he insisted, frowning. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood and if you behave stupidly you’ll land yourself in hospital.’

  Piers shook off his hand and stood up, swaying a little. ‘You’re an old woman, Mortimer!’ he retorted impatiently. ‘Nothing has ever prevented me from getting around and nothing ever will.’

  ‘Let us hope not.’ Doctor Mortimer was dry. ‘Do you intend going back downstairs?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mortimer shrugged. ‘You’ll collapse again, I warn you.’

  Piers pressed his lips together, but there was exasperation now in his gaze. ‘You’re not serious,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Aren’t I?’ Doctor Mortimer regarded him wryly.

  ‘Diabolique!’ Piers glanced down at the neat strapping of his wound. ‘Are you telling me I am an invalid, Mortimer?’

  ‘No.’ Doctor Mortimer shook his head. ‘I’m just telling you you’ve got to take it easy for a couple of days. If I were you, I’d go to bed now.’

  ‘We were playing bridge,’ Piers exclaimed.

  Doctor Mortimer shrugged again. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your game!’

  Piers raked his good hand through his th
ick hair and glared at Rebecca as though blaming her for everything. ‘All right—all right,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll take your advice.’ He walked slowly towards the door, and then looked back at her. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’ His words brooked no argument and Rebecca said nothing.

  After he had gone, Doctor Mortimer looked resignedly at Rebecca. ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ he asked anxiously.

  Rebecca bit her lip. ‘To begin with. But Paul and I go back to London tomorrow.’

  ‘I see.’ Doctor Mortimer gnawed at his lip. ‘I don’t like the look of that cut, do you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mortimer shook his head. ‘The lorry that he was pushing: do you know what it carried?’

  Rebecca frowned. ‘I’m afraid not. I don’t even remember what the name was on the side of it. Harman would know.’

  Mortimer nodded. ‘Well, we’ll see. Your immediate cleansing of it with an antiseptic may have avoided any poisoning, but I’ll come back tomorrow anyway. I’d have liked to know you were here to keep an eye on it.’

  Rebecca ran her tongue over her upper lip. ‘Miss—Miss Stephens is a nurse, you know.’

  ‘Adele’s companion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mortimer put his equipment back into his bag and closed it with a snap. ‘I don’t care for that young woman. If you ask me, she’s only here for one reason. She has an eye to the main chance.’

  Rebecca felt the familiar coldness invade her stomach. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? She turned up here just after Jennifer’s death, and whenever Piers is around she’s more concerned with him than with her patient. At least, that’s what I’ve observed when I’ve visited Adele.’

  ‘I see.’ Rebecca swallowed hard. ‘Even so—she would be of some help…

  Mortimer smiled for the first time. ‘I’ve told you, I’ll come back myself, until I’m sure it’s okay.’ He lifted his bag. ‘Shall we go down?’