A Candle in Her Heart

by Emilie Loring

  Too late, he thought. Too late. But where is Charlie? Where is Nors? How did they let themselves be taken off guard like this?

  Whoever had stolen the formula had got away with it. That was Donald’s sick conviction. The laboratory was empty. He threw open the front door, heard a car motor race, heard a car move off. All this had happened before, he thought.

  There were running feet. Someone cannonaded into Donald, veered away from him and was off like a deer. There was something dark on the ground, a long bundle. This had happened before, too. Donald stumbled, nearly fell over it. He dropped to his knees, bent over the prostrate figure, raised the shoulders, pushed back a hat from a face streaked with blood.

  “Nors!” he cried. “Nors!”

  Feet pounded toward him and a flashlight pinned Donald against the darkness as he bent over the unconscious man.

  “That you, Shaw?”

  Donald recognized the voice. “You’re right on the spot, thank God! Lieutenant Varelli, they’ve got away with it and Nors—”

  The lieutenant knelt beside him, turned the man over gently. “That’s not Swensen. That’s the head chemist, Mr. Harrison.” His fingers groped over the man’s head, came away sticky with blood.

  Oliver opened his eyes, blinked at the light, stared at the two men bending over him.

  “I—saved the formula,” he said with an effort, “It’s in my pocket—no, the other side.” He waited while Varelli retrieved the papers. Then Harrison looked at Donald. His voice was stronger, clearer. “Arrest this man. He’s the one who attacked me.”

  Varelli put a whistle to his lips. Two more troopers came running. “Get him to the hospital,” he said. “He may have concussion or even a skull fracture.”

  “We’ll have to go the long way round,” one of the troopers said. “The barge had wedged against the center support of the covered bridge and the thing is on fire. Only way back is Route 13 behind the Company.”

  Varelli grinned broadly. “Well, well,” he said. “Someone sure miscalculated this time. Have roadblocks set up on Route 13. This is going to catch someone off balance.”

  One of the troopers ran back to the radio car to carry out his orders. Varelli told the other one to guard Harrison until they could move him.

  “Someone,” he explained, “doesn’t like this guy very much and may possibly come back for another try.”

  The lieutenant turned for a long look at Donald, who was standing beside him. “Waiting for something?” he asked gravely, though his eyes were dancing.

  “I thought, after Harrison’s accusation, you’d put me under arrest.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “No, of course not. I found him like that, but—”

  “Then suppose you run along and help the boys with that barge. The firemen can’t reach it with their equipment from that side. What we need is a fireboat. The whole bridge is going to go. Too bad. I like to see these old landmarks.”

  Donald’s reactions were slowed by fatigue and the shock of Harrison’s statement. “Then you aren’t going to arrest me?”

  The lieutenant shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “Fingerprints, Mr. Shaw,” the lieutenant said gently. “Very interesting things, fingerprints. And a report from the War Department.”

  Harrison had lapsed into unconsciousness by the time the troopers had lifted him into their patrol car. Nors Swensen came running up.

  “Who got hurt?”

  “Harrison,” Donald told him.

  “Good,” Swensen declared heartily. “It’s serious, I devoutly hope.”

  “Where were you when the laboratory window was smashed.”

  “Out here conferring with Varelli.”

  “You mean he’s been on duty here all evening?”

  “Every night this week. We’ve been expecting trouble. Only that burning barge threw us off at first.” Nors chuckled. “It was meant to provide a distraction. Instead, it is burning the bridge and the only escape route straight back to the village, unless they swim for it. Now they’ve got to take Route 13 and cross the river eight miles up the road. Roadblocks are probably up already.”

  “Had it all worked out, didn’t you?” Donald said, open suspicion in his voice.

  Nors grinned. “I told you I’m a good guard.”

  Donald found himself grinning reluctantly at the man’s sheer impudence. “Smart guy, aren’t you? But where is Charlie Turgen?”

  “I don’t know. He ran to call you and the volunteer firemen. Then he went back to the river. He yelled something. Sounded like he said there was someone on the barge. He was going to try to swim for it.”

  “Someone on the barge. Good God!” Donald looked at the blazing mass that rocked against the center support of the bridge. Sparks were shooting up from the top of the bridge now. On the far side, firemen were shouting, running, trying to direct a stream of water onto the bridge, since they could not reach the barge.

  In a moment a puff of wind tore the smoke aside like a flimsy veil. There were two figures on the barge at the end farthest from the blaze, a slim figure with rounded lines, a very small angular one. A girl and a small child.

  Donald bent to tear off his shoes, to strip down to shorts. Then he raced down to the river and plunged in.

  19

  “… after Scotland, Paris,” Doris said dreamily. “Then Rome and Venice and the Riviera and the Greek islands. Home by Christmas.”

  “Just about time enough for you to finish tacking that bunting,” Leslie said dryly.

  Doris laughed. “Well, if you were being married in three weeks—”

  “You get to work or I’ll step in and forbid the banns or whatever they do. Why, even Jane has done more work than you have today. She’s supervised the decorating of the tables, and got supplies of dishes and silverware and even arranged the seating. And that, let me tell you, is no small job. What with everyone in the village demanding to be given precedence and a choice seat. Now I know what it must be like for the State Department protocol people to seat a White House dinner.”

  “Hey,” Paul protested from the entrance to the Town Hall, “stop working my bride to death.” He took the hammer and nails from Doris and climbed the ladder to tack up the bunting. “If you want my considered opinion, for which you have failed to ask me, this Clayton Festival is wearing me to the bone.”

  Leslie, fanning herself with a paper plate, laughed at the young man, who was in the pink of condition.

  “And what civic duty have you been performing?”

  “I’ve been drilling the high school fife and drum corps. The fife is fast becoming my least favorite instrument. Have you heard about the Great Crisis?”

  “What now?” Leslie asked in resignation.

  “Miss Eustace wants to make the oration at the Festival because she’s an authority on the Clayton family.”

  “Oh, no,” Leslie and Doris wailed in unison.

  “Oh, yes,” Paul assured them. “There was a horrible and blood-curdling moment when I thought she’d got away with it. I could just picture the villagers fainting in droves from sheer boredom as she launched well into her stride in the fourth hour of her oration.”

  “What’s to be done?” Leslie exclaimed in despair. “This is disaster.”

  “Paul,” Doris said in excitement, “I know what. You’ll have to kidnap her. Just for the evening, of course.”

  “Hark to the wench! I always thought she’d have me embarked on a life of crime before I knew it. Anyhow,” he added dramatically, “the day is saved.”

  “How?”

  “Mrs. Blake.” Paul laughed. “You know, Les, that stepmother of yours is quite a gal. She has my vote. Everyone was looking pale and stricken and she spoke up firmly and said it would be a great pity to waste that wonderful material, and that, anyhow, no mere speech could do it justice. The audience would be too limited. She knew everyone would agree with her in thinking that Miss Eustace should put the whole thing in writing, have
it printed, and then it would attract the wide distribution it deserved and be of lasting historical value.”

  “Your stepmother deserves a medal,” Doris declared fervently. “Oh, dear, here comes Mrs. Hastings with some more of those ghastly prizes. I do wish she could remember what committee she is serving on. Now she seems to think the Festival is to be an athletic contest. What are we going to do with her?”

  “She can give prizes for the best fife and drum corps,” Paul said promptly. “That won’t strain her because there is only one of them, anyhow. Thank the lord! I’ll be a hero and sidetrack her.” He climbed down from the ladder and went to meet the woman who had her arms filled with oddly wrapped packages.

  “But who really will make the speeches?” Doris asked.

  “The Governor is coming over to make the oration. His son was in Douglas Clayton’s company. And Nors Swensen is going to talk informally, reminiscing about him as a boy.”

  “And your sculpture?”

  “It will be delivered and set up in the morning. Jane, of course, is going to unveil it,” Leslie said rather dryly.

  “Her big moment,” Doris commented. “She is out riding with Horace Fletcher right now. Trying to mend her fences.”

  “Why? Anything wrong between them? I thought he adored her. Treated her as though she were made of Venetian glass.”

  Doris grinned. “So he did. But he’s a child specialist. Remember? And he has eyes in his head. He has begun to see that Jane doesn’t really care a fig for Jack. When you are too busy to play with him, or Paul and I go off somewhere, he just wanders around by himself. I don’t believe the doctor likes it much. Poor little mite! Jack needs other children to play with but Jane doesn’t want them around. They make too much noise. So Captain Blood has to depend on imaginary companions.”

  * * *

  When Leslie got home, she found a note on the hall table:

  “Leslie dear, your father and I are dining alone at Litchfield tonight to get away from all the problems. I’ve let the maids off for the day and evening because they have volunteered to help serve at the Festival supper. There are chicken salad, cucumber sandwiches and iced tea in the refrigerator. Love.” The note was signed “Mother.”

  Leslie smiled as she read it. Perhaps Agatha Blake would never take the place of her predecessor but she had made a real place of her own. She had acquired a new radiance and a new softness. And Corliss Blake had changed, too. He was happier, more confident and expansive than Leslie ever remembered him to be. All of a sudden he and Agatha had discovered a host of mutual interests, their conversation had a new eagerness, they caught each other’s eyes to share thoughts and impressions.

  When she had eaten her cold supper, Leslie went out on the lawn. Usually there was a cool breeze in the evenings by the river, but tonight not a leaf stirred. The air was still hot and sultry. It had an oppressive, foreboding quality.

  She curled up on the lawn. Even that felt dry and warm. She looked down at the barge, remembering the night, a week before, when she had discovered Donald Shaw there and found love with all its grandeur, all its simplicity. Some day, he was coming back for her. Some day. Any day. Perhaps tomorrow.

  A light flickered on the barge. She scrambled to her feet. He was there now! She began to run. Then there seemed to be a dozen lights burning at once. Flames were shooting up from the river. And above the roar of the flames came the high desperate scream of a panic-stricken child.

  Jack Williams was trapped on the blazing barge. She was at the water’s edge, but the barge had broken free from its mooring, there was a widening expanse of water. She slipped out of her shoes, unzipped her dress, stepped out of it, and plunged into the river.

  Again she heard that shrill, terrified scream.

  “Captain Blood!” she called, lifting her head out of the water. “Captain Blood!”

  “L-Leslie?”

  “I’m coming to report, Captain. The crew is on duty. You stand guard. Don’t move.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said the small, frightened voice.

  A few more strokes and her fingers touched the side of the barge, clawed at it. She got a toehold, heaved herself up, gathered into her arms the shivering small boy, giving him the comfort he so badly needed.

  He clung to her, shaking. “I came here this afternoon and brought some lunch because there was no one home. I was just playing pirate by myself and then it began to burn and I can’t swim. Leslie, I was so scared.”

  “It’s all right, Captain Blood. You were doing fine.” She kept her voice calm and under control. “This is a real adventure, isn’t it?”

  “I g-guess so. But adventures are nicer in books and stories, aren’t they? When they are real they are kind of s-scary. W-what are we going to do? The water’s dark and it seems such a long way down.”

  So far, only the front of the barge was on fire. “We’ll wait back here and see which way it is drifting. Then, if we have to, we’ll swim for the nearest bank.”

  “But I can’t do it.”

  “You just hang on to me, Captain.”

  She stood with the small hand clutching hers feverishly. Already the wood under bare feet was hot. The fire was spreading. They’d have to swim for it. Then she halted, staring. They were drifting past the Company grounds. Two men were running from the laboratory toward a car whose motor was racing. A third man, with drawn revolver, stood beside the car. Leslie watched, petrified. Even Jack’s terror faded in his absorption in the strange activities on the river bank.

  There was a jolt. The barge had wedged against the center support of the covered bridge. There was a roar of flames. Somewhere men were shouting and running. Motors throbbed. A spark touched the plank beside her.

  “Come on, Captain Blood.” Leslie’s tone was gay. “This is going to be a great adventure. Better than Robinson Crusoe. I want you to hold onto me. That’s right. Take a long breath and then hold it. Here we go.”

  They seemed to plunge straight to the bottom of the river. Then, unexpectedly, their heads were out of water. Leslie took a long breath, filled her lungs, looked toward the bank. Two men raced toward the bridge. Saw the flames. Halted, transfixed, in their tracks, and then ran back to pile into a car. The third man stood watching the barge. He had seen them. He must have seen them. He’d help them.

  Then the man crouched, watching them. There was an infinitely furtive quality about his stealthy attitude. He was watching them sharply but he wasn’t going to help. He was just—waiting.

  Leslie made for shore with long, sure strokes, keeping her head under water as much as she could, endeavoring not to splash. Her feet touched ground. She looked up cautiously.

  “Quiet,” she said, her voice a thread of sound. “We’re going ashore. Keep down and don’t splash, whatever you do.”

  “That man,” whispered Jack. “Wouldn’t he help us, do you s’pose?”

  Leslie was aware of such consuming rage as she had never known. A man who would frighten a child, endanger a child! She pulled herself onto the bank, drawing Jack with her. Looked around.

  To the left was the burning bridge. To the right a wide open expanse led to the Company buildings, to men who ran and shouted. To safety, if she could reach it. If.

  But the lurking man was too near. She’d never get away from him, hampered as she was by a small and terrified child.

  Straight ahead was the cut-off that led to Route 13, and beyond that were the woods. Slowly, foot by foot, she dragged herself along the ground, pulling, cajoling Jack along with her. They would have to cross that open space. There was no help for it.

  Then she said, “Now! Quick! cross the road and run for the woods as fast as you can. Don’t look back. No matter what happens, keep going!”

  Jack darted ahead and she followed, trying to keep her body as a shield between the boy and the man with the revolver.

  Then they were pushing through undergrowth, falling over tree stumps and the rocks that seem to push up endlessly in Connecticut soil, w
here within a few years a pebble seems to have grown to a boulder. The noise they made seemed terrific like an elephant crashing its way through a bamboo thicket.

  “Stop,” she whispered, clutching Jack’s hand.

  Behind them someone was floundering through the heavy underbrush. Under cover of the noise he made, Leslie pulled Jack down beside her. To judge by the thorns, they must be in a patch of brambles. But the discomfort was of small importance; all that mattered was to conceal a small boy from the man who followed.

  The pursuer stumbled over some obstacle, so near him that he lashed at the blackberry bushes. He must have scraped his face, because he began to curse viciously.

  “Damned near got an eye,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough of this. But I need the girl and the kid. We’ve got to have ’em now.”

  Leslie’s arm held Jack close, pressing his head against the ground. A motor throbbed. A car coming toward the cut-off to Route 13. The man hailed it.

  “Why, that—” Jack whispered.

  She put her fingers over his lips.

  There was a murmur of words. The car was turning, backing. What on earth was it doing? It was clear off the road, at the edge of the woods, nearly upon them. Surely it wasn’t going to run them down!

  Headlights stabbed the undergrowth, reached like clawing fingers for the girl and the small boy. They lay prone, flattened against the ground.

  “Even if they are in there, we’ll never find them,” a coarse voice said. “It would take a dozen men with searchlights to comb these woods. Anyhow, I don’t like woods, particularly at night. Snakes and animals and things. And poison ivy, maybe. I’m allergic to poison ivy.”

  “You’d think these were the Maine woods with bears in them,” scoffed the voice Jack had recognized. “Nothing bigger than foxes or maybe deer. They’d be more afraid of you than you are of them.”