by A. B. King
They had no choice other than to follow the man’s orders. Although the gun was in his holster, there was never any doubt that he had calculated everything to a nicety. If he had wanted to kill them, he wouldn’t have bothered to get them tied up first. Martin did what he could to assure his badly shocked companions that the whole ghastly business was nearly over.
When everything was done to Edwards’ satisfaction he placed the lamp on the top of the well, and then walked back to the steps leading out of the cellar.
“I now take my leave of you,” he said. “No doubt as soon as you think I’m out of the house you will start your escape efforts. You are a fit man, Mr Isherwood; it shouldn’t take you much more than ten minutes or so to wriggle up these stairs with your companions. Once you have reached your phone I’m sure a man of your ingenuity will think of a way to activate it. By this time of course I will be long gone. You may tell the police whatever you wish; it will make no difference to me. Please understand that I bear you no ill will.”
He paused, and looked across directly at Martin, and a sudden smile went across his features.
“I neglected to mention that, along with our late friend, all your phone calls since you came to this house have been monitored as well,” he said. “The lines were bugged soon after those of Buxted Security’s. Recalling one particular conversation, may I say that your friend Charles gave you some very sound advice in connection with an offer that cannot be refused; I should act on it with minimal delay if I were you!”
Without a further word he ascended the steps and then his footsteps faded away. Finally they heard the sound of the front door closing.
“Has he, has he really gone?” June asked in a shocked voice after a few moments silence. “Martin, I can’t believe this is really happening, tell me it isn’t real? Oh God, I think I’m going mad!”
“Get a hold of yourself,” Martin said savagely. “It’s all only too real but he’s gone, and we have to get out of here! Be thankful that we are all of us ok; now let’s see if we can get over to those steps.”
He nudged Beverley, who sat rigid as one paralysed, still in shock.
“Come on Bev,” he said encouragingly, “everything is going to be ok now, it’s all over!”
With an effort she pulled herself upright, took a deep breath, and then essayed a weak smile.
“I’m ok, Dad,” she said bravely. “Come on, I’ll race you to the steps.”
They wriggled round, and once in position they rolled their bodies over, and slowly and painfully they all managed to get upright. They then hopped and hobbled as far as the foot of the steps.
“Right, I’m going up first,” Martin said. “June, you come second, and Beverley can come last. The easiest way to do this is to sit down on the first or second step and then push upwards with you feet until you can bring them on to the bottom step. Come to think of it, I watched Beverley doing this when she was about two years old! So; think you can both manage it?”
They voiced their agreement, and gave Martin room to get started. Now that they were actively doing something the shock of the recent terrible events was wearing off, and they watched as Martin demonstrated the technique of ascending the steps to them. It was painful and tiring, but within a matter of a minute or so he was within a couple of steps of the top, from where the open door beckoned invitingly.
Martin paused in his ascent and glanced up at it, and at just that moment he saw a shadow moving across from outside. Someone was still out there! He heard something rubbing against the door, and then a ghastly face peered round it. It took a few seconds for him to recognise the pain-distorted features. Like a hammer-blow it suddenly dawned on him who it was. The one person he had totally forgotten about, the one person who no longer had any right to be there because he should have been lying dead on the floor. It was Collins!
“Ah, all trussed up like an oven ready chickens I see,” gasped Collins as he leaned against the door. “That’s just fine. I expect you thought that all you had to do was get up here and everything would be ok? Well, I’ve got news for you, you’re not going anywhere!”
He pulled himself painfully upright on the door, and Martin saw the huge stain of blood spreading across his chest. How he had survived Burton’s bullet he couldn’t even begin to guess, but the man had somehow recovered his senses after being left for dead. He must have heard their voices as they were trying to ascend the stairs, and come to investigate. One look at his face and it was obvious that helping them was going to be the very last thing he was thinking of.
“Don’t be a fool Collins,” Martin cried out. “It wasn’t me that shot you! Be reasonable man, I can help you! You’re badly wounded, if you don’t get help you will die!”
Collins just laughed, and then he coughed, and more blood flowed from his mouth. “Oven ready chickens,” he repeated, and then lunged forward with his foot, kicking Martin heavily in the chest with sufficient force to send him reeling back down the steps, dragging June and Beverley with him.
“You know what happens to oven ready chickens; they get roasted!” Collins shouted, and coughed more blood. “Enjoy your last moments, I’m off to light the bloody oven!”
The door slammed shut, and they heard the lock being turned, and then all went quiet.
Martin rolled to one side and got awkwardly back on his feet again.
“Are you both ok?” he asked anxiously, feeling that his weight descending on them might have broken a bone or done some other serious damage.
“Nothing broken,” June said, also struggling to her feet. “But how-”
“I don’t know, your guess is as good as mine
“What does he mean, Dad?” Beverley quavered as she also struggled to her feet. “What’s he going to do?”
“Probably nothing,” Martin lied. He knew full well what Collins meant; he was going to set fire to the house! Somehow they had to get out before the fire took hold!
He hopped over to where June was standing.
“See if you can get your hands on the ropes around my wrists,” he said. “Standing back to back you should be able to make it.”
Gritting her teeth, she hopped round until they were both exactly back to back, and Martin could feel her fingers searching for the knots as he bent his knees to allow for the difference in height.
“Bev, go as far up the stairs as you can,” he called out, “and tell me if you hear anything.”
It wasn’t going to help them much, but he wanted to keep her occupied; it would reduce the terror that must be threatening to consume her.
Fighting back the fear she did as he said, and presently she called out; “There’s something going on outside the door; I think something has been put up against it.”
June continued to pick feverishly at the knots.
“I think that horrible man is stacking something there; I can hear a crackling sound,” Beverley called out a couple of moments later. “Oh Dad; there’s smoke coming round the edge of the door!”
“Get down here,” Martin called out. “As soon as I’m free we will get out of here ok, don’t you worry!”
June continued to pick furiously away at the knots, and presently he felt his hands loosening.
“You’re doing great,” he called out encouragingly. “We’re nearly there!”
The first whiff of smoke reached them, and they knew that time was fast running out. Martin wriggled his hands furiously, and gradually the bonds slackened, and with a final wrench he pulled one loose, quickly followed by the other.
He turned swiftly and grasped the ropes binding June’s wrists. In a matter of less than half a minute he had her hands free, and then he turned his attention to Beverley.
“Right,” he called out as his daughter’s hands became free, “each of you free your legs, and then we will see what we can do about getting out of here!”
They didn’t need any encouraging. Less than a minute later they stood together at the bottom of the cellar stairs looking up at the
smoke now seeping in all round the door. The crackling of flames could be clearly heard, and Martin knew that if they were to avoid slow suffocation by smoke they had to act quickly. He raced up the stairs and tried the door, but the ancient lock held firmly. It was time for brute force.
He retreated a step or two, and then launched himself forward, throwing the full weight of his body against the stout wood of the door. It shook, but nothing happened. He retreated again and made ready for a second attempt.
“June,” he called out. “As soon as the door gives don’t waste time with me; grab Bev and get through! Whatever you do, don’t stop, don’t look back, just get out!”
“But Martin-”
“There’s no time for arguments, do as I say!”
He launched himself forward, and this time the door gave with a splintering crash, and the force of his charge flung him head first across the intervening space under the now blazing stairway, and out into the inferno that was the hallway. He fell and landed heavily on the floor, banging his head on the solid wood of the shattered door. He was vaguely aware of June leaping over him, dragging Beverley with her.
“Dad,” she cried, “Dad!” and then she vanished in a whirl of smoke.
He scrambled groggily to his feet and at just that moment part of the heavy balustrading from the upper landing collapsed and fell directly on top of him. Part of it landed on his head, and now completely stunned, with his clothes already on fire he staggered a few steps towards the front door before his legs gave way as he fell heavily on his face again. He knew instinctively that he had to get up and escape, yet somehow it was now all beyond him. His brain was spinning and his limbs refused to work; everything seemed to be beyond his powers. He suddenly thought of Alicia; he felt she would be relieved to know that at least he had got Beverley out safely. His ears were filled with the crackling roar of the fire around him; he felt the heat of the inferno on his face and felt the acrid reek of the smoke in his lungs. Somehow he was no longer even concerned over what was happening. One part of his mind felt sorry that he would no longer be with Beverley, that he would never be able to be with June, yet another part almost looked forward to seeing Alicia again. He felt sure that she would understand, and then they would be together for eternity. His last impression was of hands grasping and pulling at him. Perhaps Alicia had come for him? It was a wonderful last thought.
When Martin came back to his senses he couldn’t at first figure out where he was or what had happened. If this was the afterlife, it wasn’t as he imagined it would be. The fantasies receded into the background, and he forced his eyes to open. As they gradually came back into focus he realised that far from being dead, he was lying in a hospital bed! Swiftly the memories came tumbling back, the dreadful time in the cellar, the desperate fight to escape the inferno, and the hands that had grasped and obviously pulled him to safety. But what had happened to June and Beverley?
He turned his head sharply at the thought, and saw a man in a white coat looking down at him.
“Are they safe?” Martin croaked, struggling to lift himself from the bed, “For God’s sake man, tell me that they are both safe?”
“Take it easy,” said the man soothingly as he pushed him gently down again. “Your daughter and your housekeeper are perfectly safe. You get some rest, and you'll see them presently.”
“Thank God,” Martin whispered fervently as he collapsed back onto the pillow, “Thank God they are safe!”
He wasn’t even aware of the injection that he was given a few moments later.
Epilogue.
When Martin next woke he felt much stronger and more in command of himself, although his throat was still sore from the smoke he had inhaled. He soon realised that his head was swathed in bandages, as were his hands. He appeared to be in the bed of a private ward in some hospital. Almost as soon as he opened his eyes he felt instinctively he was not alone, and glancing sideway he saw a familiar figure sitting in the chair by the side of the bed.
“Charles,” he exclaimed hoarsely. “You are the last person I expected to see!”
“Hello Martin, I came to Wellworthy as soon as I heard what had happened,” Charles said. “I've only been here a few minutes as it happens; the doctors told me you would awaken almost any time soon. How are you feeling?”
“I've felt better,” Martin admitted groggily. “How come you're here?”
“Oh, it’s simple enough. As I expect you can imagine, there has been quite a lot for me to do. Still, I must say you look surprisingly well in the circumstances; by all accounts you’ve had a very lucky escape.”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that,” Martin admitted ruefully. “To be honest I don’t remember much about the end of everything. All I remember right now is being in a fire and something pretty heavy landing on my head, after that it is all a bit like a dream. I vaguely remember somebody pulling me out, God knows who.”
“I understand that you need to thank the redoubtable Mrs Brent, or Collins as I suppose she should be called, for that. She pulled Beverley out, and then plunged straight back into the flames to find you. I spoke to the local Fire-Chief about it, and he said it was a completely suicidal thing for her to do, because by this time the place was an inferno. Somehow she found you amid the smoke and flames, and dragged you out. Suicidal or not, what is absolutely certain is that without her, you would never have made it.”
“June did it?” Martin echoed. “You’re telling me that it was she came back and dragged me out?”
“That’s right; she has to be some sort of heroine I think.”
“Is she, is she ok?”
“Unsurprisingly she’s a bit singed and blistered, and she also suffered quite a bit from smoke inhalation. I expect you will see her soon; she’s in the next ward.”
A huge wave of relief flooded through Martin. “And Beverley?” he asked.
“She was kept in overnight for observation; once they cleaned her up they realised that she was not physically injured and she was told she could be released any time. She’s in the next ward with your housekeeper right now; they seem to have become really good friends. I saw her only about ten minutes ago and I can assure you she’s suffered no lasting harm from this. What it is to be young! Anyway, she is clamouring to be allowed to come along and see you, but I told her I needed to see you first and when I’m finished she can have you all to herself!”
“You have no idea how relieved I am to know they are both ok!”
“I can imagine.”
He looked at Martin for a few moments, and then added; “She isn’t at all like I imagined; Mrs Collins that is. I expected to encounter a real acid hatchet-faced battle-axe. I guess an experience like you shared must change people quite a bit?”
“I’m sure it does.”
There was silence for a few moments.
“What about Collins?” Martin asked at last. “Did you know that he was the one that trapped us in the cellar?”
“Yes, I heard the story from Beverley and Mrs Collins. I’m afraid he didn’t make it. His body was found a few yards from the front entrance; he died from loss of blood. I’ve also heard that the body of the man called Buxted or more properly Burton, has been recovered from the cellar, along with the gun which the police suspect is the one he used to shoot Collins. In fact Springwater House appears littered with bodies; another man with a long criminal history was found in the grounds. It seems he was shot also, and unofficially it seems likely that the gun found with Burton was the one used to kill him. The real mystery, which is explainable by the tale that Beverley and Mrs Collins have related, is that the gun used to kill Burton is of an entirely different calibre.
I’ve had a long discussion with Chief Inspector Davies who is charge of the investigation of all this, providing him with what you had uncovered about this unfortunate business, along with the stories of Mrs Collins and Beverley. Its early days of course, and no doubt you will be interviewed, but that will be a formality.”
“I’m not surprised,” Martin said. “It’s been a rotten business from beginning to end. Look, Charles, if you can find my coat, assuming it hasn’t been burnt to shreds, tucked into the inside pocket you will find the letter left by my late uncle. When you have read it, perhaps you had better pass this on to Davies as well”
“A letter you say?”
The solicitor stood up and rummaged in a clothes locker and finally drew out a charred coat. He fumbled inside and with a small grunt of satisfaction he pulled out the letter that Martin had put there the previous night, yet now seemed a lifetime ago.
“I’ll study this later,” Charles said, resuming his seat.
“What about Edwards,” Martin asked, “or whatever his real name is?”
“Ah, yes. Well, Davies was a bit cagey about that, I was left with the impression that he knew of the man by reputation. Naturally ‘Edwards’ is an alias. Nobody knows who he really is, all he would admit was that over the years there have been many deaths linked to him. It would seem that what you heard is essentially true; he is a professional assassin of the highest standard, and only works for the world’s wealthiest people. Needless to say there has been no trace of him since you last saw him. Personally, I doubt that he will be traced.”
“And the house?”
“Not much left of that I’m afraid, and what there is will have to be pulled down. If you can get Mrs Collins' agreement re the flat, which is intact, I suggest you just sell the site. Hopefully, she will not want to stay on there after all this.”
“I agree; fortunately there will not be a problem; she has already agreed to surrender the lease.”
“Now how on earth did you manage that?”