A HAZARD OF HEARTS

by Frances Burke

  Sick at heart, she struggled to hide her revulsion. Any reaction at all might be dangerous.

  Suddenly he was on his knees beside the cot, his hands imprisoning hers, his expression wretched. ‘Elly, tell me you understand, that you can still be a friend.’

  ‘A friend! When you’ve made me your captive and tormented me!’

  ‘Can you not see why I did it? You brought me down; thus you must be punished. My honour demands such payment. But you must understand and forgive me.’

  ‘Did you ask forgiveness of all the men you had beaten to death?’ She tried to withdraw but his grip tightened, forcing the iron into her wrists. She paled and stopped resisting. His expression frightened her. The smooth assurance which characterised D’Arcy Cornwallis had gone, replaced with a half-crazed driving energy.

  ‘You have to die. Don’t you see?’ He looked up, his head thrown back in appeal.

  In the split second that he relaxed his grip on her Elly whipped her chain up and around his neck, pulling on it with all her strength. Caught off balance, he fell against the cot, his fingers gouging furrows in his throat as he tore at the links and wrenched them away.

  ‘Whore!’ He tugged the chain sharply. The iron bands cut into her wrists and she screamed, feeling the blood slippery on her skin.

  Cornwallis wrested the quilt from her, bundling it under his arm as he picked up the lamp. ‘You can do without comforts. Endure the cold in fear and darkness, before I end your suffering permanently.’

  He had crossed into insanity, thought Elly, watching the light disappear and darkness descend as the door banged shut. There was no rationality in his moods, changing from one minute to the next. He was a volcano ready to erupt, with her chained at the peak. Oh, God! What could she do to save herself?

  For a while she slipped into a state of despair, but soon roused. The cold was another, more insidious enemy, creeping in to stiffen her muscles, chill her flesh, and slowly paralyse her will. She made herself lie down and exercise her legs, driving the blood around her body until she could feel her extremities once more. If she were to have any hope of escape, she must be able to move quickly, to respond to whatever tiny fraction of a chance Cornwallis might leave her.

  It was a forlorn hope, given his state of mind. Whatever death he envisaged for her would be staged as a performance for his particular enjoyment. Mad or not, he would plan meticulously to extract the most from it, as he had from the hanging in the gaol. She would never forget his expression at the moment when he placed the noose around the unfortunate prisoner’s neck – so gloriously sated, as if he’d risen from a banquet. It was the nadir of indecency to dine on another human being’s terror, and it made him less than human.

  But as time passed and Cornwallis did not come, her courage began to fade, and she weakened in her determination to exclude from her mind all the things she cared about. Paul’s image pushed forward, claiming her attention. Dear Paul, who might never learn what had become of her, and certainly couldn’t know how much she loved him.

  Curled up against the cold stone, Elly tallied the attributes she most admired in a man who had lost everything yet built himself another world to replace the one taken from him, a man to be proud of. She loved his lop-sided smile inviting her in, yet keeping a distance; his incisive brain that cut through problems to the core and quickly found a solution; his grey-green eyes that could laugh at her yet quicken with sympathy; his heart that could pick a strumpet from the gutter, rave publicly over the rights of common men or simply win the adoration of a small dog. His strong physique excited her. The remembered touch of his lips and hands could make her tremble. Like his audience when he spoke publicly, she could be swayed by his charm.

  He was also a typically arrogant male, convinced that he knew better than any female, however hard he tried to hide it. He would go his own way in the end. She knew his easily wounded pride, and the thoughts of vengeance he had harboured over a lifetime. There would always be periods when he would withdraw, even from those he loved. These things were a part of him. There was nothing about him she did not love and dread to lose. Oh, Paul, Paul. Would she ever see him again?

  Sobbing, she laid her head on her drawn-up knees.

  It seemed only minutes later that the door was flung back with a terrific bang and Cornwallis erupted into the cellar, the oil lamp jiggling wildly in his grasp as he flew at Elly. She cringed in the corner, her heart slamming in her chest.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Whore! Did you set them on? How did you do it? Tell me before I shake the life out of you.’

  ‘Set on whom?’ She grasped his free arm as it sought her throat, and hung on with all her strength. The lamp wavered before her face, oil slopping, the chimney smoking.

  Cornwallis’ face was greasy with sweat as he panted, ‘The mob outside. They’re threatening to fire the house. Don’t you hear them?’

  Still desperately holding him off, she became aware of a distant sound like heavy surf. A mob? How had they known where to find him?

  ‘I swear to you, it wasn’t I who set them on. I don’t even know where I am.’

  ‘It had to be you. Bitch! I’ll finish you before they come for me.’

  Almost without thought, Elly brought up her knees and knocked the lamp flying. At the same time she jerked her chain forward, dragging Cornwallis across her. His face hit the stone wall along with the lamp, and flaming oil mixed with shards of glass jetted into his face. He fell back, screaming, tearing at his eyeballs, then began to stagger blindly about the cellar. Elly rolled frantically on the smouldering mattress, strewn with broken glass, and managed to extinguish the flames; but she couldn’t extinguish Cornwallis’ voice, screeching imprecations. The darkness terrified her. It hid them from each other, but she knew he’d come for her – for her throat.

  She held the chain taut so it wouldn’t chink and give away her position, and tried to still her heartbeat hammering in her ears. Cornwallis was quieter now, although still spewing words of hate and vengeance in a voice thick with pain. He had only to feel his way around the walls to find her. There was no escape this time. She could sense his groping hands, the long fingers clawing, seeking to meet around her throat and snuff out her life.

  The distant noise of the mob had become a roar, mingled with the sound of breaking glass and mysterious thumps. They must have broken in. But they wouldn’t know where she was, beneath their feet. No-one would come to save her. Then she smelled smoke and knew that a worse death might be in store for her. They’d fired the house. Cornwallis paused in his diatribe to listen.

  ‘Do you hear? They’re trying to burn me out, but they’ll fail. There’s a warren of cellars under the house, and an exit from the far end. They haven’t trapped me.’

  He was terribly close. He’d spoken almost above her head. Cowering back she felt his breath on her cheek, heard the brush of his sleeve sweeping by only a fraction of an inch away. She held her breath and stayed rigid.

  ‘Where are you? You can’t hide from me. Speak, why don’t you, dammit!’

  A mighty crash overhead shook the floorboards, making her flinch. Running footsteps followed, then the sound of doors flung back, a voice she knew calling her name. Fingers touched her chin and she let out a piercing shriek. ‘Paul! I’m down here. Quickly –’

  Hands around her throat... crushing pressure... no air... light searing her eyes... pain, terrible red raw pain... Then, quite suddenly the pressure was released and air flowed into her straining lungs. She lay breathing in great gulps. Torchlight flickered on stone, and now she was aware of new sounds, animal grunts, the hiss of breath expelled by force, the thud of a body hitting the door.

  Pulling herself up on her elbow she saw the two men grappling, bonded in hatred, hands clawing for eyes and throat. Now Cornwallis, who must still be half blinded by the oil, struggled to hold his adversary close, his arms tightening around Paul’s chest in a rib-cracking hold. Elly saw the strain in both men’s faces
, felt the tension of muscles ready to burst through skin. Then Paul broke free, landing a terrific blow on Cornwallis’ chin. The two staggered back against opposite walls, panting, gaining a few seconds’ respite.

  In the brief silence, Elly heard the fire raging above, the crack of exploding timbers and windows blowing out as Cornwallis’ house of treasures melted into a funeral pyre. She could smell the smoke more strongly, even thought she could see it sifting through the timbers overhead, imagined it billowing down the cellar stairs and through the open door. How long before they suffocated, before the building fell in upon them?

  Cornwallis made a sudden dart for the torch, still alight, lying inside the door. ‘You bastard,’ he snarled, swishing it before him like a flail, holding Paul off. ‘I’ll best you yet.’ He began edging around the wall to where Elly crouched on her cot. ‘I’ll set her hair alight, and you can watch her burn.’

  ‘Not after I choke the life out of you.’ Paul lunged, and the flaming torch arced down, narrowly missing his face, the heavy wooden stave connecting with his shoulder to throw him off balance. His shout of pain coincided with Elly’s horrified gasp.

  Cornwallis sprang at Elly and she kicked out, hitting him in the chest. Before he could raise his arm Paul was on him. The two men swayed, locked in an embrace that this time, Elly knew, could only end in one way. Cornwallis was like a bull, powerful, mad with rage and lust to kill. He used his fists and knees, gouging, tearing at Paul’s hair, even trying to sink his teeth into his flesh.

  Paul, just as powerfully built, fought with his mind as well as his body. She could see him accepting the blows without attempting a defence, all his concentration on cutting off his opponent’s wind. His long, strong hands ripped aside Cornwallis’ collar and closed around the massive throat, and began to squeeze.

  Paul’s shoulder’s hunched as he gathered all his energy, pouring it into the muscles of his hands, his fingers digging deep into the flesh. Cornwallis fists battered at Paul’s head, then clawed for his face. But Paul now had him bent back over the end of the cot, locked in a position where he could bring all his strength to bear. Cornwallis, his face engorged, blood dripping from his nostrils, frenziedly tore at the strangling hands. Elly could smell his terror. She covered her face. The cot shuddered as a weight lifted and she peeped between her fingers to see Cornwallis heave upwards with a mighty effort, bringing both men erect before toppling to the floor. A beam overhead creaked, floorboards sagged. Smoke and hot ash billowed into the cellar.

  Elly screamed, ‘Paul, the fire’s breaking through.’

  He staggered to his feet, swaying, the key to Elly’s fetters in his torn fingers. Cornwallis lay still at his feet, his eyes turned up in his head.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Elly searched Paul’s face as he undid the cuffs then hugged her to him, his face buried in her hair.

  A moment later he released her, saying hoarsely, ‘No, not dead yet. But we’ll all die if we don’t get out of here immediately. Can you walk, Elly?’

  The body on the floor stirred. Paul swept Elly up in his arms and headed through the door into the adjoining cellar. Here a doorway high in the wall stood open, a gateway into a hell of flame. The steps leading up to it were alight and the floor above crackled. Even as Paul dashed through another opening opposite, burning boards fell behind him, sending sparks in all directions.

  They were in a narrow corridor with several openings on either side. Elly felt Paul hesitate. Remembering Cornwallis’ boast, she said urgently, ‘There’s a way out through the end cellar. Keep going.’

  A curtain of smoke poured in to envelop them. Coughing, Elly hid her face in Paul’s coat as he rushed up the corridor, with the sounds of destruction following close behind. When he stopped and set her on her feet, she saw their way was blocked by another door, locked.

  ‘Stand back, Elly.’ He launched himself at the panels. The door shuddered, but stood firm. This time he smashed at the lock with his booted foot and wood splintered.

  ‘Hurry, Paul.’ Elly could hear another sound, mingled with the roar of flames, a voice that raised the hairs on her body, the howling, inhuman voice of a creature treading in their footsteps, almost upon them.

  Paul’s boot smashed once more into the lock and the door sprang open, creating a suction and drawing smoke and burning debris upon them as they hurried into the next room. The furnishings and other comforts showed it had been Cornwallis’ lair, but now it, too, was alight. In one corner, the ceiling had given away and a heavy marble-topped table had smashed its way through. Fire licked overhead and dropped onto the floor. Everything that could catch alight had done so. They stood amid a forest of leaping flames.

  ‘Where in God’s name is the way out?’ Paul scanned the walls feverishly. ‘The house above is an inferno. It’ll collapse any minute.’

  ‘There. In the far corner. Quickly. He’s right behind us.’ Elly dashed through the flames licking at her skirts, beating at them with her bare hands, making for a narrow iron door tucked almost out of sight behind the remains of a book cabinet. This was burning strongly, with the volumes smouldering and feeding the flames. Paul caught up the bedding and used it as protection for his hands, thrusting the cabinet aside to get at the door, slamming back the bolts, top and bottom, then flinging the door wide.

  A blast of chill air hit them in the face, just as Cornwallis plunged through the opening behind them, his eyes manic in a face so deformed with hate that Elly’s heartbeat stumbled. The three faced one another for a long moment. Then, simultaneously, the ceiling gave an ominous crack, Paul kicked down the burning book cabinet straight in Cornwallis path, before throwing Elly through the doorway and following, catching her up as he ran. A tortured howl rose, culminating in a shriek cut off by the thunder of tumbling brick and stone as the house collapsed behind them, burying the cellars beneath an avalanche of debris.

  Flames shot triumphantly into the sky, dimming the stars, while the band of men surrounding the conflagration scattered in panic. Elly burrowed into Paul’s embrace and drew in great breaths of blessedly frosty, fresh night air, savouring her freedom, her rebirth into a world she thought she’d never see again. Then she said a prayer of gratitude and sent it out into the darkness.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ‘There isn’t much to explain.’ Paul had been cornered by the women in the sitting room of the Woollahra house, watched by an amused J.G.. Ethan, with a sympathetic glance in Paul’s direction, sat down and prepared to be a spectator.

  A week had passed since Elly’s rescue, and Sydney had rocked with the news of the Hon. D’Arcy Cornwallis’ perfidy. Daily The Empire sold out every edition an hour after it came on the street, its banner headlines heralding J.G’s exclusive reports on the secret life and eventual dramatic end to one of the city’s most esteemed citizens. For Cornwallis had perished in his own cellar, and with him went the iniquitous ‘records’ holding so many people in thrall to him. Only Elly’s close circle of friends knew the truth of that night, and had agreed that it was best kept between them. To Elly alone J.G. had whispered, ‘I’d have locked the beast in the irons he had on you and left him to burn. Still, the scoundrel’s met his end, after all.’

  She’d realised that J.G. was in some ways a throwback to the Old Testament idea of an eye for an eye, much as Pearl had once been. Yet this man she thought she knew was as genuinely carefree as ever, fussing over her comfort, teasing Pearl, exchanging the latest gossip with Jo-Beth, nagging Ethan into teaching him bits of sea lore. Did one ever know a person completely, she wondered?

  Paul, for instance, had been more withdrawn than usual while visiting her over the past few days. Of course, she had been recovering from her ordeal and was in no fit condition to receive the many curious and concerned callers who knocked on Pearl’s door, only to be politely turned away. Today, however, she had insisted on a general conference to clear up all the details still troubling her.

  Paul held up his bandaged hands. ‘All right, I’ll explain. Ju
st what did you want to know, Elly?’

  ‘Firstly, how did you find me?’

  His gaze flickered to J.G. and Ethan. ‘Cornwallis’ town house was the first place we three searched, but it seemed deserted. The main cellar apparently had a false wall concealing others behind, so we found no trace of you there. It was... disturbing.’

  J.G. took up the tale. ‘Young Barty from the Alley put us onto the truth. He’d seen you go into the wretched Jenkins’ house – may she be despatched to the hot place when they catch up with her. When you didn’t re-appear, his inquisitive nose sensed dirty work. So he followed the cart taking you away wrapped like a roll of carpet to Cornwallis’ back door, then scampered home to report to his Grannam. She roused the neighbourhood and, the inhabitants of Durand’s Alley being what they are, they marched off to the rescue. If you ask me, any excuse for a mob demonstration and a bit of house-burning would have done, especially where the notorious Cornwallis was concerned. I suppose they searched the place for you, before deciding to fire it. If they thought at all.’

  ‘I’d come back to check for any news while the others were out searching, separately,’ Paul interposed, ‘And I found Barty’s Grannam had also sent word here, through the hospital. Thank God someone knew where to find me. Otherwise the mob would have unintentionally finished you off.’

  ‘Cornwallis would have done that.’ Elly shuddered.

  In a low voice Pearl said, ‘I’ve seen a great deal of violence lately, and none of it worth a single life. The rule of the mob is insanity, whether it be vagabond ruffians bent on mayhem, or soldiers and police licenced to murder in any way they wish during the heat of battle. It only achieves misery and destruction.’