Having disposed of the motor car to his satisfaction, Manners came back to Dorice and, taking her by the arm, led her up a fieldpath towards the white cross. He stopped by some bushes near it and, pushing them aside, showed Dorice a hole in the ground.
“Get down there,” he commanded.
“I won’t,” cried the girl.
Manners looked fiercely at her and then, with a quick movement, pushed her roughly forward. She fell sprawling down into the tunnel, cutting her hands and knees. He followed her in a more leisurely manner.
“Get up,” he said, “and quick about it. I can’t waste any time on you.”
The girl struggled to her feet, and Manners pushed her in front of him with one hand while he flashed an electric torch with the other. At the mouth of the tunnel she stopped, her eyes wide with horror.
“I can’t go along there,” she cried, pointing to the ledge of rock which seemed to overhang a bottomless pit. “I can’t, Francie, I can’t. Be kind to me, Francie, and don’t make me do that.”
“You are going across with me, and now,” answered the man.
The girl trembled violently as the man took her hand and, for a few moments, was strong enough to hold back, but she was soon following him, picking her way with half-closed eyes.
“You see,” said Manners, when they had reached the other side, “it is not so bad after all. just a little pluck.”
Dorice looked back at the ledge and shuddered. Her legs were almost giving way under her. Again Manners pushed her forward, and she found herself in a cave lit by a lamp standing on a wooden table. In the comer was a camp bed on which was lying Clem Tarrack, sleeping peacefully.
“Sit down there,” said Manners, pointing to a wooden chair.
Dorice obeyed.
“Now,” he went on, turning to go back the way he had come, “you can wait until he wakes.”
“You’re not going to leave me alone with him?” cried the girl, her eyes large with terror.
“I wouldn’t make a noise, if I were you,” said Manners. “Better let him have his sleep out. He might be bad-tempered if you don’t.”
“But you couldn’t leave me here, Francie,” the girl gasped, with a frightened glance at the sleeping man. “You couldn’t be so cruel.”
Manners did not answer, but went out into the tunnel. The girl ran after him and he pushed her roughly back. He had reached the lodge by the time she was able to recover herself and follow him.
“Take me with you, Francie,” she wailed as she saw him start to cross the ledge.
“It’s simple,” he answered, with a sneer. “You have only to follow me.”
Dorice took one step onto the ledge, but her head whirled and a feeling of dreadful sickness surged up within her. She moved back again, crying, “I can’t. I can’t.”
“Very well,” said Manners, who had now practically reached the other side. “You have had your chance, although you didn’t deserve it. You tried to betray Frances Manners and now you are going to pay for it.”
He flashed his torch back on her agonised face and was then lost in the tunnel on the other side. Left alone, Dorice began to collect her thoughts and wondered whether, if she stayed where she was, the monster might not realise she was there at all. But if Manners had told him he would find her on waking, he had only to come out and look for her and then, with her back to the horrible ledge, she would be in the worst possible position. Besides, the darkness was getting on her nerves already. She would never be able to stand it—and it might be for hours. Whatever happened, the light was a comfort.
Very softly she found her way back through the tunnel to the cave. Clem was still sleeping like a child. Dorice crept to the chair and sat down. She was now feeling much calmer. She felt happier for the company of the light, and somehow even of the sleeping Clem. Breathing gently like that, he seemed more like a big baby, reassuringly human.
Dorice was true to her type. She could feel the most violent panic on the anticipation of an event, but, somehow, when she was finally face to face with a difficult situation, she could settle down to face the facts like every other sharp-witted Cockney, girl or boy. She recalled how Manners had told her she was to give evidence at that dreadful inquest and how terribly worried she had been; but once in the witness-box, facing the coroner and having to answer questions, she had been perfectly calm and on the alert. Indeed, she had almost enjoyed the experience.
Now she felt rather the same way. She was “up against it” properly. What was she going to do about it? First she must take stock of the place. There was obviously only one way out of the cave, and she had not the pluck to try it. Once she started on that ledge she would be over the side before you could blink your eyes. That wouldn’t do. There was the door in the wall. That might be a way out. But it had a thick bar across it and that was padlocked. She wondered what was behind the door. Better not think too much about that. It was no use giving yourself the willies.
She looked round the cave, taking in every detail. The table and the lamp, a wooden cupboard, the camp bed, that seemed to be all. There was certainly something in the dark corner by the door. She could not quite see what it was, so on tip-toe and holding her breath like some nurse at the bedside of a dangerously fevered patient she moved across and looked. With the same caution she regained her chair and gave a sigh of relief to see that Clem had not been disturbed.
The object was a thick crowbar. A useful sort of weapon, even for a woman to wield. She could knock Clem on the head with it. She would have to do it while he was sleeping. She would stand no earthly chance once he was awake. Hit is sleeping man? Why not, if it was in her own defence. But if she did, what happened next? He would have to be unconscious or it would be no use. She might kill him then. And what would happen to her? Sit alone with the dead body until the lamp burned itself out? She couldn’t get out of the place by herself, that was certain. So she would just stay there and go mad. That wasn’t a very bright solution.
She looked again at the sleeping Clem. He didn’t look as bad as the imaginary picture she had carried about with her ever since his visit to the flat. Not nearly as bad. In fact, clumsy and large though he was, he looked almost presentable. Of course, things would be quite different when he woke up. Still, she might be able to manage him. The idea did not seem so absurd now she was face to face with the situation and had had time to think about it.
She did not know how long she had been sitting there. Possibly she had dozed a little. The atmosphere was very stuffy and her head felt heavy. She was, however, very much on the alert again when the figure on the bed stirred. Clem muttered to himself for a while and then sat up and rubbed his eyes. It seemed an interminable time to Dorice before he realised she was sitting there, looking at him.
“Sorry,” he said, jumping up from the bed and standing in front of her. “I was asleep.”
“I saw that,” answered Dorice, brightly, “I suppose you were tired?”
“I was. I still am,” he said, sitting down wearily on the side of the bed.
“Why don’t you go to sleep again?”
“Not while you’re here. I was dreaming about you, and when I saw you I didn’t believe it. I thought I wasn’t awake.”
Dorice smiled. It was all so different from what she had expected. In her panic-stricken flights of imagination, she had pictured the monster making a terrific rush at her, with gleaming eyes. She would fight him for dear life in what would inevitably be a losing battle. But there he was, calm and quiet, with gentle, kindly eyes, and, to all appearances, somewhat shy with her. Her self-confidence increased. She had more chance of handling the situation than she had ever hoped.
“So he brought you here?”
“Yes, you wanted him to, didn’t you?”
“And you wanted to come?”
Dorice looked at Clem. There was a look of pathetic appeal in his eyes. “Why not?” she answered.
“You are very kind to me,” he said, gratefully.
; “And now we are here, Goliath,” she asked, “what are we going to do about it?”
“Don’t call me Goliath,” cried the other, angrily.
“I’m sorry,” answered Dorice, in some haste, worried at having made a false move. “That’s what Francie calls you. Don’t you like it?”
“I hate it, I tell you, I hate it,” he cried. “Mr. Manners calls me that to annoy me. I know I’m big and ugly and not like other people, and he calls me that to make me remember it.”
“I didn’t know that. What shall I call you?”
“Clem. That’s my name.”
“Very well, I’ll call you Clem. It’s a nice name.”
A huge smile spread over Clem’s face.
“And you can call me Dorice,” went on the girl.
“That’s what Mr. Manners calls you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Clem, with almost imbecile happiness, “Clem and Dorice. Lovely.”
“How can we get out of here?” asked Dorice.
“You don’t want to go away yet, do you?” answered Clem, in disappointed tones. “I could sit and look at you for ever.”
“Not yet,” said the girl. “But we must get out, sooner or later.”
“He didn’t tell me I could. I must wait till he comes back.”
“He’ll never come back,” said Dorice, emphatically.
“He will,” answered Clem, with almost equal emphasis.
Obviously a useless line to follow at present, thought Dorice; better not press it.
“When I came to see you that day,” said Clem, “I envied Mr. Manners.”
“Did you?”
“For having such a beautiful friend as you.”
“You’re joking, Clem.”
“I’m not,” was the vehement reply, “I mean it. I’d do anything in the world to have a friend like you.”
“Shall I tell you something, Clem?” asked Dorice.
“Yes, please.”
“You think I like Mr. Manners very much, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And you envy him?”
“I said so.”
“Now suppose, Clem,” said the girl, slowly and in even tones, “suppose I said I liked you much better than Francie?”
“Now it’s you who’s joking.”
“I said ‘suppose.’ What would you say?”
“I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“I don’t know you very well yet, Clem, but it might happen.”
Clem rose to his feet excitedly. Dorice had a moment of panic. Had she gone too far? Here was the test, at any rate. “Sit down, Clem,” she said, calmly. “I didn’t say it had happened, but it might, really it might.”
Clem sat down at once, to Dorice’s unutterable relief. She could manage him, after all.
“I’m thirsty,” he said, suddenly. “I want a drink.”
Dorice looked at the bottle and glass on the table. They were both empty.
“There isn’t any,” she said.
“Oh yes, there is,” he replied.
Her eyes went to the wooden cupboard.
“No, not there,” he exclaimed, and then pointed to the heavy wooden door, guarded by its padlocked iron bar. “Behind there. The drink. Real drink.”
“But it’s locked up,” she said.
“He always keeps it locked up. There are bottles and bottles in there, Dorice, enough for both of us. He only opens it to give me some, and then he locks it up again.”
Dorice gave a sigh of relief. Here was another dangerous corner turned.
“I’m so thirsty,” repeated Clem.
“Poor Clem,” said Dorice. “Why not get out of here then?”
“I must wait for him,” was the definite reply.
He looked round the cave, and his eye fell on the crowbar near the door. Jumping up, he dashed across the cave and waved it triumphantly.
“This will do it,” he shouted with delight.
“Don’t,” cried Dorice, standing by the door as if to guard it.
“But it’s silly, Dorice,” cried Clem. “I am so thirsty. I must have a drink.”
“That’s what Frances expects you to do.”
“Very well, then,” answered Clem. “Then it’s all right.”
“It’s not all right, Clem,” said the girl. “Listen to me. Frances left that thing for you to open the door with. Then you would drink a lot and hurt me.”
“Hurt you? I wouldn’t touch a hair on your head.”
“Wouldn’t you, Clem? Not even when you were drunk?”
However slowly Clem’s brain might work, there was still at the back of his mind a picture of the woman in bed who had gone so limp when he had touched her. Mr. Manners had said she was dead, so he must have hurt her. She wasn’t Dorice, of course, and he would never hurt her, but he never wanted to hurt anyone, and yet something had happened to the other woman when he was full of drink. All the same his throat was terribly dry.
“Just a little, Dorice,” he pleaded.
Dorice noticed that he made no effort to force the door or even come any nearer to it.
“Once you start, Clem,” she said, “you may not know when to stop.”
“But, Dorice—”
“Put that thing down, Clem.”
Reluctantly he leaned the crowbar against the table.
“But, Dorice,” he went on, as a last resort, “Mr. Manners doesn’t want me to hurt you.”
“That’s just what he does want.”
“He knows I wouldn’t.”
“Frances knows a great deal,” said the girl. “He knows what drink can do to a man.”
“But hurt you, Dorice?” said Clem, as if persuading himself of the monstrous impossibility of such an idea. He even reached towards the crowbar.
“Listen, Clem,” said Dorice, seriously. “Seeing’s believing, isn’t it? Look at this.”
She showed him the marks on her wrist made by Manners when dragging her out of bed.
“Mr. Manners did that?” asked Clem.
“And more,” she added, showing her hands and knees, scratched and soiled from her fall at the entrance to the tunnel.
“Poor Dorice,” he said, gently.
“Now do you understand?”
“He hurt you,” said Clem, grimly. “He dared to hurt you. No one shall hurt Dorice.”
“Now don’t you think we might get out of here?” she asked.
“I must wait,” he answered, and his eyes went towards the crowbar. “I can’t go now.”
“What are you going to do, Clem?”
“I know what I am going to do.”
Clem picked up the crowbar and, going back to the bed, sat down with it across his knees. Dorice watched him apprehensively. There was nothing she could do. Her thoughts went round and round in circles. How to get out of the place was all that mattered. Clem said nothing, and the silence became unbearable.
“You know he won’t come back,” she urged.
“He will.”
“But he won’t, I tell you, he won’t. And when the lamp goes out what are we going to do?”
“We’ll wait till it looks like going out.”
“And after that?”
“He’ll be back before then,” said Clem, obstinately.
“But if he isn’t?”
“I’ll see you get out all right.”
“You promise, Clem?”
“He hurt you,” said Clem, as if he had not heard her but was impressed afresh with an enormity which was quite unbelievable. He looked at her with mute admiration while his grip tightened on the crowbar.
The minutes wore on and, to Dorice’s horror, Clem’s eyes turned continually towards the barred door.
“If I could only have one drink, Dorice,” he said. “You don’t know how awful it is. I swear I won’t do anything to you. Just one small drink.”
Again her wits were working fast. She must do something to distract him. His hands were twitching as
he grasped the crowbar. She had seen the symptoms before. As a very young girl she had watched an uncle with alcoholic craving twitch in exactly the same way. Then it had been rather fascinating to watch. But she knew it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened. If she could only delay it. One never knew. Somebody might come. Clem might even be right about Manners coming back.
Clem was getting even more restless, when she asked him if he had ever heard her sing.
“Do you sing for Mr. Manners?” he asked.
“Yes, and he likes it.”
“Then I shall like it.”
In a trembling voice she began to sing a melody which was enjoying great popularity and rejoiced in the name of “Love in Bloom”. Clem seemed to grow quieter as he listened, and this not only added to her courage but increased what little volume there was in her voice. With great relief she noticed that the fingers round the crowbar were now tapping time to the beat of the song.
Directly she had finished he demanded that she should repeat the song. She offered another, but he was so vehemently satisfied with “Love in Bloom” that she very hurriedly began again. As she sang, however, her heart fell, for his attention was drifting, and his eyes were again fixed on the door which barred him from relief.
Suddenly he jumped up and, rushing to the door, began beating on it with the crowbar.
“Don’t, Clem, don’t,” she shrieked and clung to his arm. Very gently he pushed her away from him.
“You needn’t be afraid, Dorice,” he assured her, beginning to beat on the door again. “Nothing will happen to you. But I must have it.” Then he added, with a look of imbecile cunning, “I shall be more ready for him when he does come.”
Dorice realised there was no hope of stopping him, and resigned herself, with her heart in her mouth, to watching the door gradually give way before him. The blows of the crowbar echoed with terrifying loudness through the cave, and each one of them seemed to beat on her head. At last an ear-splitting crash and Clem was standing triumphantly in front of a natural recess in the wall, the sole contents of which seemed to be a few bottles and a cask.
Methylated Murder Page 21