The House on the Fen

by Claire Rayner

  It was Elizabeth who was the real threat; she knew that, knew that Marcus, for all his blustering, his charm, his apparent control of the situation, was little more than an instrument in her determined hands.

  As she ran, Harriet thought confusedly— all these years, I’ve wanted relatives, and now I’ve got one, and she’s chasing me across this nightmare toward the marshes and the sea, and I’m frightened, I’m frightened—

  As the thought of the marshes came to her, she sheered away, changing the direction of her headlong panic-stricken run. How long she had been running, how far she had come across the bleak open country between the house and the sea she had no idea, and she certainly couldn’t look back to judge, not with those pounding feet so close behind her in the darkness. But the marsh couldn’t be far in front, the deceptive soft green, shivering ground that covered unknown depths of thick salt mud an long-lost ships and long-swallowed men and animals who had been stupid enough to trust the smooth, smiling, vivid greenness of those inviting stretches

  She ran head down, holding her injured arm against her body, almost bent double with pain, not knowing which hurt most, her shoulder or her aching straining ribs, heaving in an attempt to fill her lungs with the cold biting air that seemed to shred her to ribbons of pain and pain and more pain—

  They seemed farther away now, her hounds, seemed to be running straight forward, not realizing she had sheered off to the left, and she risked raising her head to look back a little, to see if she could see them, now that her eyes, weeping though they were with the effort she was making, were accustomed to the darkness. But before she looked back, she looked ahead.

  And then she saw how stupid she had been, how clever they had been, how much more they knew of the district than she herself who had lived in it for so many miserable years, had walked so many lonely miles across it.

  The spring tides— those high tides they were going to use to tidy up the loose ends of their plot, the tides to which they had planned to consign her— Harriet herself, stupid, weary, aching, crying Harriet had cooperated with them in a way they could not have hoped was possible.

  There ahead of her, shimmering in the darkness, creaming with a rich, serene, moonlit beauty that hid so much terror in its loveliness, was the first tongue of water. A long narrow tongue that came pouring up in front of her so fast that what now looked like a small river would soon— within minutes— be a wide lake, a lake, of creamy suds of foam covering icy green depths of salt water over the thick odorous mud; mud now, but only a little while ago it had been semifirm ground, firm enough to run over to the sandy spit that became, eventually, the firm land that led to the village and safety.

  But she would never reach that, not now. For the only way to be safe from the water was to run off at an angle again, turning to her right, alongside that widening tongue of water that was already curling behind her to cut off her retreat. She would have to run forward, and that line would bring her full tilt to her pursuers, who somehow seemed to know that this was her only path, were waiting for her with strong hands— two pairs of strong hands— to push her down, deep under the creamy salt water, deep into the clinging, soft, greedy mud so that it would fill her mouth and her nose with softness and the sickening reek of long since rotted bodies and dead ships, and peace and freedom at last— maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all, wouldn’t be do dreadful to sink in that clinging mud, feel it get warmer as it wrapped itself around her weary body that was one huge horrible pain—

  She heard sounds now, a remote keening, a harsh rasping noise that was so close and so loud that it almost hid the other sounds— shouts, human voices, lots of them, shouting, coming from the bobbing lights far away. It was the lights that were shouting, that had eyes and mouths, that made shouting noises and she was glad the lights had come to make the noises and wanted to tell them to shout louder and louder to stop that keening wail that was so hateful, that rasping harshness that hurt her so close it was— and then she realized the rasping was her own breathing, the keening was her own voice, walling and crying, the voice of a frightened child lost in the dark—

  And she turned and ran again, back through the water that was now all around her, feeling it tug at her feet, at her ankles, feeling the mud suck at her toes and it was like a dream, running in the mud, each step taking eons of time, the whole in slow motion— slow, slow motion—

  And then the shouting lights came closer, got bigger, almost as big as she own widely stretched mouth, the mouth she had opened ready for the creamy water and the thick mud that would comfort her. And one of the lights shouted, “Call again— call again— give us a bead on you— call again—”

  I can’t, she thought, I can’t, because the mud and the water will be angry, angry if I fill my mouth with sound instead of them. But the shout came again, and others came, and angered her, angered the water so that it came closer to her mouth and nose, for she was lying down now, lying in the water and it was warm and kind and so gentle— and still the lights shouted, ill-mannered stupid lights—

  “Be quiet— be quiet—” she cried, and her voice was so weak the water snatched it from her mouth and threw it away, high over the lights, and they called again— “That’s it— once more— just once more and we’ve got you— once more—”

  And again, he called as loudly as she could, above the sound of water and sliding mud, “Be quiet— the water— be quiet—”

  The mud was stronger now, had grown thick and strong hands and arms, was pulling her— lifting her holding her close, and whispering in her ear. “Bloody little fool— you daft wee fool—”

  Only of course, Harriet told herself, surprised, it wasn’t mud at all that had the arms and that was whispering. She moved a little, felt her cold face rub against something warm and rough, and the arms around her tightened, and said huskily, “Harriet? Are ye fit, lass, are ye fit?”

  “Fit?” Harriet murmured, her voice thick in her throat, and peered up in the darkness at the face above her, too close to be seen clearly. “That’s a bloody silly question—” And then she was crying, luxuriously, enjoying the warmth of her tears, clinging tightly to the strong warm arms and enjoying her crying more than she had ever enjoyed anything in her whole life.

  “Will ye whisht, wumman— all this hysteria—” the voice above her said, and the face came closer still and put itself against hers, and it was warm and rough and infinitely kind. “Will ye whisht—” And she stopped crying reluctantly, holding her face close to the warm one, and said softly, “Andrew—” and it wasn’t a question.

  “And who the hell else would it be?” Andrew said. They were moving now, he holding her close and warm as he plodded through the darkness over the water, splashing a little. There were other sounds near them, other splashes, voices and shouts from farther away.

  It was the shouts that reminded her, and she clung to him with her good arm and said desperately, “Marcus— and the woman— Elizabeth— there were trying to—”

  “Whisht,” Andrew said again. “No need to talk now. We can sort it out later. They’ve got him, anyway—”

  “But it’s the woman— Elizabeth— she’s the one—”

  His voice was sober in the darkness. “They have her too— but she’ll no’ be talking. The marsh made sure of that. But they’ve got her.”

  He moved his shoulders a little sideways, still plodding forward and she could see beyond him, see figures and more lights in the darkness, and two of the figures were walking head down, through the last shallows of the water, carrying a hurdle between them. A humped hurdle, heavy and laden.

  She closed her eyes then and rested her head on Andrew’s shoulders and closed her eyes. After a moment she said softly, “You smell so good— tobacco, and warm, and you—”

  “That’s more than you do, my girl,” he said dourly. “You stink of mud—” And he held her even closer.

  It seemed a long time later, long after the apparently interminable swaying walk with An
drew carrying her, while they were settling her in a car of some sort, wrapping her in blankets, when she was surrounded by friendly Saxon faces and friendly Saxon voices burring and tutting away at her torn knees and hands and the state her beautiful new dress had got into, that she remembered.

  “Andrew— how did you know— find me? The boy from the station— did he come?”

  Andrew laughed, a short rich laugh she found comforting to hear. “Aye— he did that— not that he needed. He turned up as I was leaving the house after you called me— to get the police and get down here after you and get you out of trouble, seeing you hadna’ the sense to keep yourself out of it— And the wretch demanded ten bob of me, said you’d promised him— You’re a sight too free with your largesse, young lady.”

  She ignored that, but went on trying to sort out the sequence of events.

  “You were coming anyway before he delivered my message?”

  “Umhmm.”

  “But I couldn’t tell you where I was before she— Elizabeth— cut me off—”

  “I have my methods, Watson. I got the call traced. Even on subscriber trunk dialing you can manage to do something along those lines, with police authority to help you. It wasna’ easy, but I managed it—”

  “You’re rather marvelous, aren’t you?” she said, and now she was feeling very sleepy, what with the warmth of the rough blankets around her and the brandy someone had made her drink and the movement of the car speeding through dark roads.

  “Andrew L. Peters, I’m very grateful to the child who thought aeroplanes were helicopters. Very— grateful— Andrew L. Peters.” She yawned hugely suddenly. “Andrew. What does L. stand for?”

  “It’s no' important,” he said gruffly, and settled his arm around her shoulders more comfortably, so that her head fell against his own rough shoulder in blissful comfort.

  But something in his voice roused her from the edges of delicious sleep, and she looked up blearily and said again. “What does the L. stand for, Andrew? I want to know—”

  “An, damn it all, wumman— my mother was aye a sentimental type. It’s no’ important—”

  “It is,” she insisted with the stubbornness of extreme fatigue. It absolutely is.”

  “Ach, if you must know then, it’s Lancelot. Now will you go to sleep, you naggin’ female?”

  “Yes, Andrew,” she said obediently and giggled and then fell asleep with the sudden abandon of a child.

  She stood staring out through the glass doors of the foyer into the dark street outside, wet now with a light rain that made the pavements gleam satin black, reflecting the lollipop color of the traffic lights and the bright shopfront windows. She felt cold suddenly, and shrugged on the coat that she had been wearing over her shoulders—

  Across the crowded foyer now milling with people making their way back to their seats, for the one-minute bell was urgently pealing, she could see him in the phone booth, see the back of his head over the crowds

  And she shivered and closed her eyes as memory came rushing back, standing still and silent so that she jumped when he touched her shoulder.

  “Come on, lass— we’ll miss the start of the second act—”

  She shook herself back to the present again, and smiled up at him.

  “Are they all right?”

  “Daniel’s out like a light— been asleep ever since we left. And that villain of an Adam has had her telling him stories for the past two hours. It’s no good Harriet, we’ll have to get a new sitter. That woman’s ruining him.”

  “All four-year-olds like stories—” she said happily, linking her arms in his as they followed the crowds back into the theater. “And I keep telling you we could afford a nannie, a real old-fashioned one who wouldn’t spoil them one bit—”

  “I’m no’ using my wife’s money to run my household, and that’s flat— Look, would you like an ice, seeing we didn’t have time for a drink in the interval?”

  “Mmm— please,” she said. And when they were sitting side by side again in the hushed expectant darkness, waiting for the curtain to rise on the second act, she leaned over to him as he licked strawberry ice off the little wooden spoon and whispered, “Not a bit in character for a sour-faced solicitor.”

  “Bloody little fool,” Andrew whispered back very lovingly, and scowled at the man in front who turned round to tut irritably at them.

  “That’s better,” Harriet said approvingly and tucked one hand into his. “I’m enjoying this play. Whodunnit, do you think?”

  “How on earth should I know? Now, will ye whisht, wumman?”

  So she did.

  THE END