by Charles Todd
We didn’t stop in Lower Dysoe, and I knew then precisely what Simon was planning.
We hadn’t spoken during the drive, concentrating on the road, still muddy from the storm, pools of water masking the deeper ruts and splashing up against our tires.
Now I said quietly, “I see why dark clothes were necessary, if we’re walking back to the farm lane.”
“Not we. I’m the only one going in. I can’t leave this motorcar in plain sight. It would draw attention if anyone looked out and saw it. Nor do I want to leave it unattended.”
He pulled to the verge just beyond the next bend. Behind us the village appeared to have vanished.
“I won’t stay here,” I whispered fiercely. “If you’re going to walk into the grounds of that house, I want to be with you. I want to see for myself what’s there.”
“One person can travel more swiftly that two. And more quietly. What’s more, one person has a better chance of escaping undetected.”
It was true. And Simon seemed to have no trouble seeing in the dark. He could move like the wind, avoiding obstacles—and people—with ease. Not only that, he kept his head in tight places. The Colonel Sahib had frequently used him to reconnoiter in dangerous situations.
Trying to bridle my frustration, I said, “Yes, all right. Go on.”
He flashed me a grin just as he cut the headlamps. “I know, Bess. I’m sorry.”
And then he was gone, only to return seconds later to fetch the packet from the floor in the rear.
I knew now what that packet was—meat scraps from the kitchen for the spaniel or any other dog he encountered. But if the spaniel belonged to Phyllis Percy, it would sleep with her. If that was so, then no amount of raw meat could stop it from barking. I could only pray that her room didn’t overlook the rear of the house.
I watched Simon out of sight, then settled back, grateful for my coat. But a few minutes later, my feet were beginning to feel the cold too.
Getting out, I walked a bit to warm them. Once as I paced, I went to the side of the hill to peer around it, but the road through Lower Dysoe was just as empty and quiet as when we passed through.
I got back behind the wheel, my mind trying to follow Simon. But I didn’t know the way. We’d just driven a little distance into the farm track, well short of the cottages. I could only use my imagination.
Restless and chilled again, I got out of the motorcar a second time and walked a bit, standing close to the bend, listening to the night sounds. Even in my dark clothes, I stayed well out of sight of anyone on the road or looking out a window. The high autumn grass was a perfect cover.
Back to the motorcar again.
And then in the distance I heard a dog bark drowsily, as if its sleep had been disturbed.
The sound had come from the town, not the estate. I was fairly sure of it.
Was it Simon, on his way back? I hesitated to crank the motorcar, but if he needed to move out of here in a hurry, I should to be prepared.
I hurried to my vantage point, looking toward the village.
And this time someone was coming down the road. Limping a little. Keeping to the deeper shadows. He’d just reached the wisteria-covered wall.
Simon? Finding himself in a tight corner and having to circle round?
I watched for a moment longer. No, whoever it was, his stride wasn’t as long as Simon’s. Nor was he as tall. At first I thought he would turn down the lane, one of the cottagers coming home late. But he didn’t.
A few yards closer. I could see now that he was in uniform.
I froze.
It couldn’t be the Major.
A soldier on leave? Walking from the nearest railway station?
Or Sergeant Wilkins? If so, where had he been—and where was he going?
If he was simply passing through the village, he’d stumble on the motorcar. What’s more, he’d recognize it. And me. I’d have to move it. Now.
I stood there a few seconds longer, all but holding my breath, hoping that whoever it was, he wouldn’t turn down the farm lane. Simon would be boxed in.
He passed the handful of shops, taking his time, moving as if he were tired. And he was being careful. Very careful. A night bird called, and his head swung instantly in that direction. For a moment he stopped, listening.
The last shop before the track was a tobacconist cum men’s wear. Half the size of one in Biddington.
I stayed where I was, debating what to do. There was no earthly way to warn Simon. Even if I dared to sound the motorcar’s horn, he could blunder right into whoever this was.
The man halted just before he reached the tobacconist. Looking back the way he’d come, he scanned the street. Then he looked in my direction. Satisfied, he settled into the shadows of a doorway—was it the tea shop?—and waited.
I was certain he’d stared longer than necessary toward where I was concealed, peering through the high grass. Even with cat’s eyes, he couldn’t see me there. But if he had cat’s hearing, could he hear my heart pounding?
Now what should I do about Simon? Was this man intending to stay where he was for the better part of the night? Was he intending to break into one of the shops? Waiting for someone? Or just taking shelter from the chill of the wind?
It felt like half an hour had passed before he moved again. Stepping out of the shadow of the doorway, he walked silently but swiftly toward the farm lane and almost at once was swallowed up in the deeper shadows of the trees.
Had he been making certain he wasn’t being followed before going on to one of the tenant cottages and to his bed? But who could he have thought was following him? Surely not Simon!
Or had he decided to move around the far side of the hill where I was crouched, and slip up behind me? Was that what he was doing even now?
I felt a shudder down my spine, as if I could feel him coming toward me in the dark.
I refused to believe it.
All the same, I went quickly to the boot and took a spanner from the tool kit. I had no other weapon, but that would do.
Then I waited behind the motorcar, counting to one hundred. If he’d come around the hill, he’d see the motorcar before he saw me. And that would draw his attention. Two could play at cat and mouse.
But he didn’t appear. I gave him another five minutes, and there was still no sign of him.
He could be a third of the way down the farm track now. Running straight into Simon. Simon, unsuspecting, unprepared for a threat from the rear.
Simon hadn’t survived countless campaigns without learning how to protect himself from the expected—or the unexpected. I knew I shouldn’t worry.
But as time went on, I did worry. I couldn’t see the hands on my little watch, pinned to my uniform inside my coat. But I had a fair idea that it must be well after midnight. Overhead the clouds had moved on, the wind was dropping, and the ambient light of the stars would soon make it brighter than it was now. And Simon had been gone for a very long time.
Still carrying the spanner, I walked quietly around the shoulder of my hill toward the village, where the track turned off the main road. Trees had been planted to form a park in this relatively treeless country, concealing the farm buildings from the house, and vice versa. I edged my way from trunk to trunk.
The night was still as silent as it had been from the moment Simon left the motorcar. No dogs barking, save for the one the soldier must have roused.
I strained to hear.
And suddenly I had the feeling that a quiet game of hide-and-seek was going on in these woods. I’d lived on unsafe frontiers, I’d served nearly four years close by the trenches in France. My position had almost been overrun by the Germans. That sense of imminent danger, of something about to happen, was so strong I took a few more steps into the trees. And then a few strides.
For all I knew, whoever had walked down that track had a revolver with him. And Simon was not armed.
At that moment I heard someone call, “Who’s there? Come out where I can s
ee you.” The voice carried but not clearly enough for me to know whose it was.
A light—a torch—flashed through the trees. It couldn’t reach me, but I instinctively stepped into the shelter of the nearest trunk.
“Come out and identify yourself. I’ve a shotgun here. I’ll use it if I must.”
Had someone in a cottage been roused by the same sense of danger and come to investigate?
Someone was shuffling about in the thick layer of fallen leaves underfoot.
I was too close to the track; if whoever held that torch came down this way, I could be spotted. But where had the soldier gone? And where was Simon?
The thought had hardly passed through my mind when a hand went across my face, covering my mouth, and I was being lifted bodily sideways, moving laterally toward a towering tree with a divided trunk, wide enough to hide both of us. I’d begun to struggle almost at once, kicking out with my heels and was just about to bite the palm across my lips when Simon whispered, “Bess!”
At once I ceased my efforts to free myself and he dropped his hand but not his arm around my waist.
I’d forgot the spanner. I lifted it and pressed it into his free hand.
The torch light swept the woods two or three times, then suddenly stopped. “Patches? What the devil are you doing out here? Come on, back to bed, you naughty cat. It’s the middle of the bloody night.”
The light moved away, was cut off, and after a moment I heard a door shut.
I stirred, but Simon held me close, not setting me free.
We stayed where we were for what seemed like a quarter of an hour. I could feel his breathing, slow and strong. And then finally Simon released me.
Gripping my hand, he led me through the wood, taking his time, avoiding the open track, choosing his path, always keeping trees between us and the cottages. When the tree line thinned at the edge of the estate, he stopped again, waiting, listening. Satisfied that we were alone, he pressed my fingers to warn me that we were close to the wall, then helped me over it. Again we stopped and listened. At length we walked on to the motorcar, and while Simon turned the crank, I took my seat.
We drove off, away from Lower Dysoe without turning on the massive headlamps, neither of us speaking.
We’d gone two miles, perhaps even three, when Simon stopped.
“What were you planning to do, Sister Crawford?” he asked, retrieving the spanner from under his feet and tossing it onto the rear seat. “Break his skull with this? And then bandage it tidily?”
“If need be,” I said calmly. “You were in trouble and unarmed. What happened?”
“There was no warning of course—but let me start at the beginning. I moved off the track before I came to the first of the cottages. Someone had built a fire on the hearth, and I could smell the woodsmoke. The second cottage was dark as well, but when I stood outside one of the windows, I could hear someone snoring. By a roundabout way I made it as far as the third cottage without any problem. It took longer than I anticipated, because I had to be careful of the kitchen gardens. I didn’t want to leave footprints there to be discovered later. When I reached the cottage at last, it was dark, quiet. Nothing to indicate whether it was occupied or not. I did put my hand on the chimney, but it was cold. I took a risk, trying the door. It opened, and I listened, but there was a mustiness about the air, as if the cottage had been closed up for some time. I didn’t step in, I didn’t know what I’d find. I shut the door and moved well clear of the cottage before starting back.”
He shifted in his seat. “Just then I had a feeling that I was being watched. I couldn’t say why.”
There it was, that sixth sense.
“Go on.”
“My first thought was, you’d grown tired of waiting. But the feeling went deeper than that. I heard something in the direction of the house and almost at the same time there was a brief flash of light. I could see the kitchen door from where I was standing. It was almost as if someone had opened it, realized the light was spilling into the yard, and shut it quickly. That’s probably true, because it opened a second time, and the lamp had been turned down. I could just see someone step out of the door and start down the path. I expected him to go to the cottage, but once he was well away from the kitchen gardens, he turned and walked around the house, toward the front drive. I followed, and he continued down the drive to the gates. Only instead of opening them, he scrambled over the wall. My last glimpse of him was on the lane, walking toward the road.”
“But I saw him—” I began.
“When?” Simon asked quickly.
“I don’t know. You’d been gone quite some time, and I was trying to warm my feet by walking about a little. I found a place where I could watch the village street without being seen, and suddenly there he was, at the far end, by the old wall. I’d swear he hadn’t come out of the lane.” I described what the man had done. “My first worry was that he’d seen me. That’s when I took out the spanner. But he’d disappeared down the farm track, and for all I knew, the two of you were going to meet in the dark.”
“Why did he walk in a circle?” Simon asked, almost to himself. “That’s odd.”
“For the exercise? Or had he seen you by the cottages and decided to come around and cut you off?”
“I’m sure he didn’t. He would have searched there and then, for one thing. I think he uses the kitchen door because it’s quieter. I never expected him to come back the other way, I can tell you that. He wasn’t strolling, he was moving with a purpose. Nevertheless, I had no warning he’d returned. I hadn’t followed him out into the lane, you see. I decided it was best to return the way I’d come in. And there he was, in the clearing around the cottages. Barely visible, but I saw him before he saw me. He looked tired, something in the way he was standing. Just then the blasted cat found me, sniffing out the meat I was carrying. I’d expected the spaniel or another dog. She was weaving in and out around my feet, and he must have caught the movement. I managed to give her a few of the scraps just as he started looking for me. We began to shadow each other, and that went on for some time. The cat finished her food and went to him, expecting more. I thought that satisfied him because he went on to the last cottage and stepped inside.”
“Then he must be living there.”
“But he didn’t shut the door, you see. I listened for that. Having closed it myself, I knew the sound. He just stood in the dark of the open door. Just then a light came on in the first cottage. He walked toward it, and I thought he might be asking for help finding me. But he’d picked up the cat and set her down by the cottage door. He must have startled her, because I think she scratched him. I heard a muffled oath. That brought whoever was awake in the first cottage outside with a torch.”
“Yes, I saw it, probing the trees. He called to whoever was out there to step forward and identify himself.”
“I expected the other man to do just that. I was busy emptying the rest of the scraps where I’d been standing, and then I set out in the general direction of the track, but staying among the trees well clear of it. Thank God the cat’s owner found her and took her inside and shut the door. That kept the other man pinned where he was a little longer and gave us the chance to get clear. You know the rest.”
“But, Simon, did he know for certain that you were there? Or was he just starting at shadows?”
“I’m not sure. I rather think he was only half convinced that he’d seen the cat, not an intruder. He was taking no chances.”
“Why didn’t he raise the alarm, when he had the chance?”
“While I’m very happy he didn’t, it puzzled me as well.”
“Did he think you were the police? The Army? Or a passerby looking to find something he could sell for a few pence?”
“God knows.”
We sat there without speaking.
It had been a close call. I didn’t think Sergeant Wilkins, wounded and still not fit, was a match for Simon physically. But there was still the revolver. The question was, at
what point would he have used it? Would he have dared to shoot and claim he’d stopped a thief? But of course that would have brought in the police. He couldn’t afford that.
My feet were really cold now, not just chilly. Simon must have realized that, for he took off the brake and began to turn the motorcar. “You can see now why I didn’t want you with me.” Then he smiled as he flicked on the headlamps. “Still, you had the spanner.”
A spanner was no match for a revolver.
He must have been thinking the same thing, because his smile faded and he kept his gaze on the road.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I THOUGHT I would lie awake until first light, cold as I was, the lump on my forehead throbbing. But once I was in my bed and the coverlet drawn up to my chin, my eyes didn’t stay open for very long.
My last thought, as I drifted off, was amusement at the night clerk’s expression when Simon and I slipped into the inn and started for the stairs.
Simon nodded to him and said simply, “Owls.”
The poor man was still gazing after us in bewilderment as we reached the top of the stairs and turned toward our rooms.
The next morning we walked up and down the High Street, where there was no danger of being overheard, and planned what to do next.
“It could be Miss Percy’s lover, escaped from the Army,” I said. “We can’t prove it’s Sergeant Wilkins. We could try to waylay Phyllis Percy. She walks to Upper Dysoe nearly every day. We might be able to persuade her to tell us who this man is. If he walks in and out of the house that freely, she must know who he is. Unless,” I added as the thought occurred to me, “he belongs to one of the servants. A son, brother.”
“If that were true, she could send someone else to do the marketing.”
And so we set out for Upper Dysoe, in search of Miss Percy.
We’d only reached the burned-out barn when Mrs. Neville all but stepped out in front of our motorcar and commanded us to stop.
“I’m surprised to find you still here, Sister Crawford,” she said, coming around to my side of the motorcar. “Still, it’s a bit of luck and I won’t concern myself with why. Maddie has just refused to have a word with my stepdaughter. It’s really most annoying. He’s not actually a doctor, is he? A charlatan at best, however good he is. The problem is, she pays him. In pounds. And I suppose he’s reluctant to lose a good living. One can eat only so many hens, I daresay, or so many eggs or cabbages. And one can’t barter them for lamp oil or medical supplies.”