by Vicary, Tim
‘So what do you intend to do?’
Charles leaned forward intently, his elbows on his knees. As though it was important to convince her of some academic point.
‘I think there may be a solution. A way of fighting back while minimising the risk, at least.’
She strode to the window frantically, staring out into the night. Hurrying low clouds had hidden the moon again and there was a spatter of rain, the rustle of wind among dark, shadowy trees. She pressed her hands against the glass.
‘Tom's out there somewhere, Charles. We've got to get him back!’
‘Yes, of course — I'm trying to do that. But not at the price of betraying my conscience! Listen, Deborah, von Weichsaker says he has the house surrounded, but I don't entirely believe him. He can't have that many men, and they won't know the grounds. So it might be possible for me to get away from the house and go down to the village and summon help. And if I could do that, I would have enough men to surround the house. Men who know this area very well indeed.’
She gazed at him helplessly. It all sounded futile to her. A boy's game of soldiers. That was the world Charles lived in. ‘But how would that help Tom? If you do that, they will kill him. Tom says that in his note, doesn't he?'
‘Yes, but nothing will happen to Tom until tomorrow night, he said. Only if he, von Weichsaker, doesn't come back safe from the operation against Carson, then something will happen to Tom. Not before. That may prove to be their mistake. You see, if I can get to the village tonight, I can get Sergeant Cullen to organise a detail to arrest von Weichsaker and his men when they come here and try to get in the car with me at seven tomorrow morning. It might be dangerous for me, but it won't hurt Tom. And then, if von Weichsaker sticks to what he says, nothing will happen to Tom until eight tomorrow evening, when Werner fails to turn up where they're holding him. Which means we'll have over twelve hours to look for that hiding place — and try to persuade von Weichsaker to tell us where it is. My guess is that when he realises he's been beaten, he'll understand there's no point in killing an innocent boy.'
She looked at him coldly. ‘And so you intend to leave me alone in the house with this monster, and go down to the village to collect your soldiers. What do you think this Werner von Weichsaker will say when he finds out you're not here? He'll probably take me hostage, as well.’
‘That's why you'll have to keep quiet tonight. When it gets light I want you to warn all the servants, tell them to stay inside the house. I'll be back by morning — I'll have to be. It'll only take me a couple of hours at most to get to the village and back.’
‘And if you're wrong? If you're shot by the men surrounding this place?’
‘That's a chance I must take. At least it'll mean von Weichsaker's scheme will fail; it can't work without me in the car. So again, there's a chance they'll release Tom or that he'll be found in time.’
There was a long silence. They stared at each other, conscious suddenly of the sounds of the house at night; the fire burning in the grate, the occasional creak or groan of old rafters, the wind siffling around the eaves, a slight patter of returning rain on the windows.
‘Charles, I don't like this! It's too risky. I think you're making a mistake.’
Charles got to his feet, a thin smile on his face. ‘Don't worry. I am a soldier, after all. I've moved past the Matabele at night before now. I'll be gone in a few minutes, and I should be back well before daylight. I didn't come for your advice, but to tell you what's happening because you have a right to know and in case anything goes wrong. And also to say, whatever happens — I am sorry.’
‘About what? You couldn't have known.’
‘No . . . Of course not. Wish me luck then, my dear. Goodbye.’
He walked past her to the door. He did not touch her and she did not speak. Then he was gone, and she sank slowly into a chair by the fire.
‘And if he doesn't come back?’
‘He will. He's a soldier, of course he will.’
‘Soldiers get killed. All the time. In a way, I think he wants to.’
‘Debbie! What do you mean? That's not like Charles.’
‘No, I know. It's just . . . something he said. Oh God, Sarah, I hope I'm wrong! He seemed so grim — resigned, almost.’
‘Don't talk nonsense. You're imagining things.’
The two women sat huddled together in Sarah's bedroom, whispering earnestly together by the light of a candle. The window was open, and they could hear the soft hissing of the rain on the grass outside, and the sighing of the wind. So far, no sound of what they were listening for — the sounds of a fight, whatever that might be. A shot? Shouts? A scream? Deborah didn't know.
Deborah was not sure how long Charles had been gone. It was difficult to measure time when your mind was in such turmoil. For a while she had stayed in her own room, but the sense of utter helpless panic had been intolerable. She knew it was wrong to burden Sarah with things like this, but what else could she do? Call the cook? Run out into the garden herself? Go and plead with that man Werner in his room?
At least Sarah had not fainted. Indeed she seemed excited more than anything else. More alive than she had been since she came here. And she saw the problem with slightly more detachment than Deborah could manage.
Now she asked: ‘What made you think Charles wanted to die?’
‘He apologised to me, Sarah. He never does that.’
‘About what?’
‘This man kidnapping Tom, I suppose. I don't see why it's his fault except he brought that awful young man Fletcher into the house.’
‘But why did he do it?’
‘Oh, I don't know. Sarah, I don't know!’ Deborah shook her head hopelessly. ‘I just want my son back!’
‘Of course. Of course you do.’ Sarah's mind was racing, trying to think of a way out of this appalling deadly puzzle she had woken into. ‘There are guns in this house, aren't there? We could go downstairs, find some, kill this German . .’
‘And condemn Tom to death? As Charles may be doing right now?’
‘Yes, I see. Well, where could they have taken him, do you think?’
‘How should I know? A house, an empty cottage somewhere — there must be hundreds all over Ulster. Perhaps a barn up in the hills.’
Sarah sighed. ‘And all you've got is this note?’
‘Yes.’ Deborah sat with her head in her hands. Her chest ached and the tears trickled pointlessly through her fingers. She had never felt so useless.
Sarah looked at the note, hoping it might tell her something. What would you do, if you were a young boy scared out of your wits, forced to write a letter like this, she wondered. Write a note on the back, perhaps. Or the envelope. She turned the paper over. Nothing. Just the blue printed lines and the red of the margin — normal exercise book paper. ‘Have you got the envelope?’
‘No. Charles must have it. I never saw it.’
So much for that. Sarah studied the writing. Nothing useful there. Just an uneven, pencilled scrawl. ‘Poor boy. He must have been terrified.’
‘Yes, of course he was.’ Deborah got up and took the note out of Sarah's hand — almost possessively, Sarah thought. She stared at it closely, then crumpled it in her hand. ‘Wouldn't you have been?’
‘I was,’ Sarah said, very softly to herself, glad that Deborah couldn't hear. The Black Maria, she thought, the cell, the day I was shut in that basket. The poor little boy — how old is he? Eight? He must be scared out of his wits. At least I knew what I was doing it for, but even I nearly went mad. He's just a victim, doesn't know anything at all. Probably they haven't even told him what it's all about. ‘The worst thing is not knowing when it will end.’
Sarah hadn't realised she had spoken the last thought aloud, but Deborah turned as though she had heard.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Being imprisoned, as I was and Tom is now. You can bear anything if you know it's going to end, but when you're at someone else's mercy you can't know that. Anyth
ing longer than a day seems like forever.’
‘Don't!’
‘I'm sorry.’ Sarah got up and walked quietly across the room, put her hand on Deborah's shoulder. She was still in her nightdress and even walking was still not so easy for her. But if I could find a way to do something about this, she thought, I would find the energy from somewhere, whatever it cost later. It's like those little girls in London, only this is a boy, even younger.
‘When he was about four or five,’ Deborah said softly, compulsively. ‘We used to play hide-and-seek round the grounds. It's a good place for it, there are lots of hiding places. And then one day I couldn't find him, the little beggar. I looked for hours. I called and called — I thought he was just being naughty — but in fact when I found him he'd lost the key and was nearly frozen to death.’
‘Why?’ Sarah stroked her shoulder softly. ‘Was it winter?’
‘No. It was nearly May. He was in the ice-house.’
Tom had been given two blankets but he was still cold. He sat on the steps most of the time, with the blankets wrapped around him like the pictures of squaws he had seen in books about the Wild West. They helped, but not much. The steps were cold and damp and there was a draught that came whistling under the door and made his back and legs ache. But at least it was better than the ice in front of him.
He couldn't see the ice because it was dark, but he knew it covered all of the floor. It was at least a foot deep, maybe more — he had thrust his hand down into it as far as it would go, and had not found bricks. Goodness, it was cold! His hand went numb afterwards, so that the bones ached right through to the wrist; and even when that had warmed up he felt he had lost some warmth which he couldn't afford. His teeth were chattering most of the time and he could feel goose pimples all round his knees. He was wearing grey flannel shorts, long grey socks, a bright orange jumper and a school blazer — and it was not warm enough, not by a long way!
He wondered if he was meant to die in here, and told himself not to be stupid. People go to the Antarctic, and that must be much colder than this. Some of them die there, of course, like poor Captain Scott. But at least he reached the South Pole first, and he didn't whinge about the cold — no Englishman would. His men probably trained in places like this. I'm lucky, really. I'll be able to lead an Antarctic expedition when I get out!
If I get out.
To stop himself getting into a funk and thinking panicky thoughts like that he got up every ten minutes or so and walked around the floor of the ice-house. He tried to pretend he was on an Antarctic expedition and sometimes it worked. The floor of the ice-house was perfectly circular, and it was about six yards in circumference. It was quite dark in here, and the ice scrunched and slithered beneath his feet, but that was all right; it just helped him to pretend he was in the cold and dark of an Antarctic winter. Anyway, he knew what the ice-house was like; he had been in here before in daylight. The walls were made of brick and quite thick, and the whole thing was sunk several yards below the ground for insulation. That was why there were steps, winding down from the door, which was locked. Even to approach that door from outside you had to open another door first and go down a little cold tunnel. The roof was well insulated, too, and since the house was in a wood under trees which never let through any sunlight, it was very, very cold.
Cold enough to keep ice in throughout the summer. Ice that was used to cool bottles of wine and champagne in buckets, or to pack around meat and fish which cook wanted to keep fresh for a few days before cooking.
It was a luxury that only a few country houses had, and Tom knew his parents were quite proud of it. Sometimes they bought ice to fill it, from fishing trawlers which had been up to Iceland in midwinter; in other winters, when it was cold enough in Ulster anyway, they had it chopped out of the local ponds and water-butts and brought it up here in a cart.
The ice-house was always supposed to be kept locked, but everyone knew the key to the outside door was kept under a slate near a yew tree, and the key to the inner door hung on a hook in the tunnel. Once, when Tom was younger, he had taken the first key, gone inside, locked the door from within, and then taken the second and opened that door too. It would have been all right if it had gone to plan — he had only meant to fool his mother. The trouble was that he had lost the key to the outside door under the ice somewhere, and nobody could hear his shouts. He had only escaped when he had found the key after nearly two hours, and then by a superhuman effort unlocked the door and staggered down across the lawn to the house, his legs almost rigid with cold.
The memory of that day encouraged Tom and frightened him too. You can escape from this place, he thought. I did it before. Only then when I came in here to hide from mother, I had the key, and now I haven't. That man Simon Fletcher has got it and he didn't say when he was coming back. And if he doesn't come back I will die of cold. People do. Scott did . . .
No, Father will rescue me because I hid a secret message in my letter. That was very clever of me — just like Sherlock Holmes. When Father comes to let me out he'll say I'm a plucky little chap, especially when he learns I didn't cry. I'll tell him I walked halfway to the South Pole while I was waiting.
The only thing that troubled Tom about the message he had sent to his father, was that really it was the sort of message his mother was more likely to understand. And, knowing his father, he might not want to upset his mother by showing her what he had written.
The best thing to do with thoughts like that is to ignore them, he told himself. Think about what Father would say. Chin up, old man. That's the spirit. Never say die. Play up and play the game. Show the world what an Englishman is made of.
Shivering, he dragged himself to his feet, and for the fiftieth time began to stumble around the floor of the ice-house, a tiny figure shrouded in blankets.
South, towards the Pole.
It was true that Charles had once crept through the lines of the Matabele but that was twelve years ago now. And even then he had had the services of a skilled African tracker who had led the way. This time he was on his own.
When he left Deborah he went back to his own room and took off his riding boots. The leather would creak and they might shine in the moonlight, he thought. Instead he put on an old pair of marching boots and puttees, and then pulled a thick pair of grey socks over the boots to muffle the sound of the nails.
The rest of his clothes would do, he thought. Khaki jacket and trousers would not show up in the dark, but he left off his officer's cap with the gleaming brass badge and put on a long, dark, riding coat against the rain. He spun the chamber of his Webley service revolver to check that it was fully loaded, and slipped it into the holster on his Sam Browne belt, leaving the flap loose so that it would not get in his way if he had to draw it quickly.
But a shot would make too much noise. If he really did come across any of Werner's men then the last thing he would want to do was call down all the rest by firing a gun. A knife would be better. He glanced quickly around the room and took a knife from the wall. Hardly an ordinary knife: it was a kukri, one of a pair that he had bought from a Ghurka in India. The blade was nearly a foot long, curved, very heavy especially towards the point, and razor sharp — he had once seen a diminutive Ghurka soldier slice the head off a bull with one in a single blow. Smiling grimly, Charles buckled it on to his belt. A kukri is not supposed to be taken out of its sheath unless it draws blood, he thought. And if one of these bastards tries to stop me tonight there'll be enough blood to float a ship.
He stepped quietly down the back stairs to the kitchen door. This was some way from Werner's room, so it should be all right, but still he moved slowly, cautiously, listening to every creak and groan of the floorboards. He had forgotten how deafening silence could seem when you were listening for every sound — he could even hear the singing of blood in his ears.
Outside, darkness enveloped him. He moved quickly through the yard towards the stables, and then past the walled kitchen garden behind. So far,
so good. None of the horses had whinnied, his boots had not sparked on the cobbles. This far he knew the way without thinking, so he had moved quickly; from here on he would have to go more slowly, with care.
He waited under a tree, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. There were two obvious ways to the village: either down the drive at the front of the house, or along a cart track that ran from the stables at the back, west and north around the outskirts of the estate, eventually going past a small wooded rise and down onto the loughside road a mile further on than the drive. It would be foolish to take either of these; if there was any truth in Werner's claim, then both would be guarded.
There were three other routes. He could go straight across the park and down to the road that way: it would be quick, and quite easy if the darkness held, because there would be nothing in the way but a few hedges, grass and cows; but if the moon came out he would stand out clearly, an obvious target. He could go west, away from the house in the opposite direction to the village. There were quite a lot of hedges and small hills here, good cover; but he would have to make a long loop round to his right after he had crossed the track, four or five miles across country in order to return to the village from the north, and that would take time.
And time was what he did not have. To be sure of taking Werner by surprise he wanted to give his orders to Sergeant Cullen and be back in the shortest time possible, so that Werner would have the least chance of realising he had gone. The less Werner suspected, the safer it would be for Tom. So he had to go quickly.
He decided on the third route: north through the mile and a half of woods and coppices that led directly to the junction of track and road, half a mile outside the village. The woods were thick in places, but he knew them well. And, when he approached the road, the trees would give him good cover to look out and see if anyone was watching.
When his eyes had adapted well enough to distinguish the trunks of trees ten or fifteen yards away, he set out.