Gale Warning (25 page)

Together we paid out the rope as fast as we dared: and sooner than I would have believed, we had the second signal to pull it up.

With no one to help him, Mansel lowered me down; for he dared not take Carson from his duty of watching the house.

My passage was easy enough, for Rowley was waiting to help me and a life-line had been rigged from the last of the dogs to a tree: but, as I was descending the crag, the tempest broke and the rain fell down in a fury such as I never saw – amid I could not help thinking of the work which remained to be done and of Mansel and Carson, who must cling to the face of the cliff and fight to remove the handhold which kept them there.

Mansel had said that day that the danger was not in putting Barabbas to death, but in approaching the fastness in which he lay: though I needed no proof of his words, I had it that night; for, though I am a strong man, without the life-line and Rowley I should have been utterly powerless against such wrath and such cold. Between these things and the dark and the uproar the water made, I never felt so much confounded in all my life, and when Chandos put out a hand and hauled me on to the bank, I felt as though he had plucked me out of the jaws of death.

The crossing of the river was nothing after a passage so rough, and the five of us stayed together until we came up to the Vane.

There Chandos spoke in my ear.

“Come what may, Audrey must change at the barn. If not, she’ll be seriously ill. Ask Rowley for a sweater and trousers, and rub her down yourself before letting her put them on: while you’re doing that, Rowley must take her own things and shove them against the engine away from the fan. By the time you get to the Lowland, they ought to be fairly dry. There she must change again, so that Rowley can bring our things back.”

“I’ll see that’s done,” said I.

He put us into the Vane and raised his voice.

“John Bagot takes charge from now on. I trust you Audrey, to do whatever he says.”

“I promise,” said Audrey, quietly. And then, “You’ve taken such care of me: if you’d like to make me a present, take care of yourselves.”

Ten minutes later we came to the lonely barn…

As if to prove Chandos right, Audrey was trembling all over when I lifted her out of the car.

Rowley moved before us lighting my steps with a torch; then he found a flask of brandy and a blanket, to serve as a towel.

Whilst he sought for a sweater and trousers, I helped my lady to strip – for she could not have stripped herself, and since the devil was driving, decency had, of course, to go by the board. Then I wrapped her up in the blanket and rubbed her down, while Rowley poured out some spirit and held the cup to her lips. Then he took her things out to the car, to do as Chandos had said, after which he came back for the hacksaw, with which to cut off my cuff.

By now she was, at least, dry: so I helped her into the clothing which Rowley had brought. Then I put on her shoes again, wrapped her once more in the blanket and carried her back to the car.

By the time we had reached the Lowland, she was as warm as toast; and since she had, as usual, a skirt in that car and since her silk shirt was now very nearly dry, the change which she had to make was of slight account. As she was now herself, I let her make this alone, because we could not go on until Rowley had cut off my cuff.

Before this work had been done, Audrey had changed and the Lowland was out on the road, for the steel of the gyves was tough and Rowley was fearful of snapping the blade of the saw; but after a minute or two, he had his way, and I shook his hand and ran for the other car.

But Audrey would not leave until she had spoken to him; and so he came round to her door and she put out her hand for his.

I did not hear what she said, for she spoke very low: but I heard him thank her and say he was very glad.

Then she let in her clutch, and we started the last of our laps.

As before, the rain and the darkness conspired to cut down our pace, but we managed to make Castelly before eleven o’clock. And that, I think, was well done, for Barabbas’ death had occurred at five minutes past nine, and, apart from anything else, we had covered thirty-five miles on the open road.

The good people who kept the inn had been very much concerned, because we had not come in on so wicked a night, and the honest burst of relief which our arrival touched off was quite embarrassing. At least, it would have been so: but there and then Audrey took charge, playing up in a way which I could never have done and telling such a tale of continuous engine-trouble and loss of way that I had nothing to do but to put the Lowland away and care for myself. (The deluge, of course, explained the state of our clothes, and my broken head, said Audrey, was due to a fall in the darkness, whilst I was trying to find out which road to take.)

Although I was now quite warm and my clothes were beginning to dry, she made me take a hot bath before she would do the same: and then we sat down to a supper which, but for her brave example, I could not have touched.

It may have been reaction: it may have been something else: but, as I sat there, glowing, and toyed with the tasty dishes which the servants were pleased to bring, I wanted to go abroad and feel the rain on my face.

I talked – for the look of the thing, as well as I could; but I felt that I could not digest the events of the last four hours, while the fortunes of Mansel and Chandos obsessed my mind.

That Audrey and I were safe, I had now no doubt. I supposed that they and the servants would disappear and successfully cover their tracks. But I wondered how they were faring and where they would go; and I wished that I could have been with them, to share the rough and tumble of speed and storm.

It was when the servants had gone that a question leaped to my lips – a question which I had smothered time and again that night.

I leaned forward and whispered to Audrey.

“How did Mansel know we were there?” Audrey opened her eyes.

“My darling, did no one tell you?” I shook my head.

“I never had time to ask.” Audrey drew in her breath. Then—

“D’you remember what you said in the deli, by the side of the spur? You referred to an instinct you had, and your words were these –
I shall be greatly relieved to know that Barabbas is dead.”

“Yes,” I said. “I remember. But what of that? This,” said Audrey. “Jonah respects your instinct. And when you said that, you shook him – more than you thought. So much, in fact, that when we left the spur for the Lowland, he sent for Rowley and told him to follow behind us and see us into the car.”

“My God, he didn’t!”

“He did – because of your words.”

“And Rowley…”

“Saw everything. He had no pistol, and so he dared not be seen. But he tried to get round the glade, to take Barabbas in rear. But, before he was round, you and I had been put in the car. So he ran for the spur like a madman…Bell said that when he got there, the blood was dripping out of his ears.”

So I think it may fairly be said that the stars in their courses fought against Barabbas that day. For, had Audrey and I escaped, whilst he was out of the room, he would, of course, have left Midian within the hour: and so would have saved his life, though Plato was dead.

“I’ve had a letter,” said Audrey. “Would you like to see what it says?”

“What d’you think?” said I, and put out my hand.

Four days had gone by, on every one of which we had driven up into the mountains or down to the sea. Neither of us was the worse for the wetting which we had received. If there was talk of what had occurred at Midian, it never came to our ears.

(The affair was not reported, except in the local press. If that may be believed, it was taken for granted that Barabbas had ‘fallen’ over the cliff and that Plato had dived to the rescue of his unfortunate friend.)

And now it was evening again, and the lovely world about us was black and green and gold. That is no exaggeration. The sinking sun was gilding all that it touched, and nothing could have darkened the lengthening, clean-cut shadows which all things threw: and the tilted meadows about us were all of emerald green, because they belonged to the mountains, and that is the livery mountain meadows wear.

We were sitting perhaps two thousand five hundred feet up, by the side of a leaping rill and under a chestnut tree, on a little ledge of lawn, which would have suited Horace because it was so retired. Behind us, a stout box hedge was keeping the mountain road: and there the Lowland was waiting, as she had waited so often, to carry us home.

Audrey took out the letter and put it into my hand.

Villa Carlos,

Freilles.

Dear Audrey,

We have taken this villa here for five or six weeks. William has done this for me, for the bathing is very good and I love that so. Please come to us here, and we will put you both up.

Your loving

Jenny.

Freilles is a little place, thirty miles north of Bayonne.

I put a hand to my head.

“All done in four days,” I said. “Tracks covered: drags laid: and a perfect excuse created for being in France. You know, that pair’s efficiency has me beat. Once or twice in my life I have done the ‘humanly possible’ thing. But they seem to do nothing else. It’s the way they live.”

Audrey smiled.

“It’s funny your saying that. I once heard Jonah say that if rogues could only be bothered to do what was humanly possible for forty-eight hours on end, instead of for five or six and then letting up, they could get away with almost whatever they liked.”

I nodded.

“He’s probably right. But you’ve got to know what to do.” I handed the letter back. “She doesn’t mention Mansel.”

“He’ll fetch up later on. Do you want to go?”

“Orders are orders.” said I. “What else can we do?”

“I didn’t ask you that.”

“I know. I should like to go. I want us to leave Castelly. Until we leave Castelly, the curtain will not come down. And I do want the curtain down. My mind is still obsessed with what happened the other day. And until we break with Castelly, obsessed it will stay. I’ll love to come back one day – when the break has been made; but I can’t…enjoy…all this…because we have got to go back to Castelly tonight.”

Audrey raised her eyebrows.

“I find that strange.” she said. “I knew it, of course. I knew that what had happened had got you down. But I never thought that would happen – I don’t know why… What’s so strange is that we have changed places. I was the one who begged for their lives to be spared: yet – think what you like of me, but I’m thankful they’re dead. To use your own words. I am ‘immensely relieved.’ Yet you, who demanded their death—”

“Do you really think,” I said, “that I am disturbed by the thought that I had the honour of splitting a blackguard’s skull?”

Audrey looked at me sharply.

Then—

“Sorry St John. But you did say just now—”

“I know I did. I wasn’t referring to that.”

“What were you referring to?”

With my eyes on the lovely landscape—

“I’ll try and tell you,” I said. I took a deep breath. “You remember that talk we had…the first night we spent at Castelly…when I said that I was uneasy when you were out of my sight?”

“Yes.”

“When I said that, I was putting it very low. Something greater than instinct – I don’t know what – was insisting that you were in danger, so long as Barabbas lived. The writing was there – on the wall: but, though I could see it was there, I could not read what it said. Only, I knew its purport… I told myself it was nonsense, time and again. But, down in my heart, I knew that it was not nonsense, but that something which I could not define was telling the truth. I ought to have gone to Mansel and spoken out. But he had enough to think of, as both of us know. Besides, you were in my charge. It was up to me to ‘watch out’ – and to break the back of the danger, when it appeared.

“Now, strangely enough, I felt it most at Castelly. It was always when we were there that the shadow was most pronounced. If you think things over, some creature of his must have watched us whilst we were there and must have made inquiries which we know nothing about. It may be that I sensed his presence…In any event, I was glad to get you into the Lowland and out of the place. The writing receded, when we drove into the hills.

“And then – you know what happened. The hammer fell… And when, on that terrible evening, I ran down into the glade and saw you standing still, with a hand to your throat…and Barabbas covering you…and Plato, beside him, laughing…well, that is the picture I cannot hound out of my mind. I sometimes wonder if it will ever leave me…if in all my life I shall ever be quite the same. You see, I had been warned. But I had missed the warning, and now you were sunk. And for me, as you know, the hairs of your head are numbered.

“Well, that is why I want to break with Castelly. I want to be shot of that picture and the writing upon the wall. Day and night they haunt me: every night I dream of that glade.”

Audrey sat very still. Then, looking straight before her, she spoke very low.

“I’ve made you tell me for nothing. I knew why you wanted to go.”

There was a little silence. Then—

“How did you know?” I said.

“Because, the last three nights, you’ve talked in your sleep…”

I bit my lip.

“I’m sorry for that,” I said.

Audrey was kneeling beside me, with one of my hands in hers.

“St John, my blessed, how can you?”

“Well, I am. It’s stupid, my lady. And I oughtn’t to be in your room. If I wasn’t, I shouldn’t afflict you with—”

A cool hand covered my mouth, and Audrey sat back on her heels.

“Why did I make you tell me – when I already knew?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m – not very good at women.”

“Because I wanted to hear you say the words. Not out of vanity, dear. But because… I’ve missed your love,”

“Audrey!”

I started round, but she let fall my hand and sat sideways, just out of my reach.

“Listen, St John. I’ve got to go back a little – I shan’t be long. We both remember Poitiers and how I told you the truth. So many men would have thrown the truth in my face…called me God knows what names…and firmly believed they were treating me as I deserved. But you – did none of those things…because you loved me so much.

“And then – we came to Castelly. By Jonah’s orders, we had to share a room. He was right, of course: Barabbas proved him right; if I was to stay on the scene – well, we couldn’t do things by halves… But I’m not a fool, St John. I know how men are made. And it wasn’t fair to you to ask you to carry that weight. In fact, it was outrageous. But you have never faltered. You’ve beaten every record that ever was made.”

“Don’t say that, my beauty. After our talk at Poitiers, I
had
to let you alone.”

“I don’t agree. Never mind. We came to stay at Castelly – St Anthony and Delilah, the strangest bedfellows. And then – we went down, together…a little later than this, four evenings ago.

“For you, that moment is a nightmare. By rights, it should be for me. And yet – it isn’t, St John. It’s…anything but a nightmare. I wouldn’t call it back for anything in the world. I was surprised and shaken – I’ll give you that. I knew who Barabbas was, and it shook me up. And then I realized something which I had been waiting to know…waiting and wondering if I should ever know it…wanting so much to know it – so very much. I realized, my darling, that
I was mad about you.

“Well, there you are. That discovery was so big that it made Barabbas seem small. I never had any fear. I knew it was a tight place but you were there, and I
knew
that we should come through. The strange thing is that I wasn’t afraid for you. But I never was – until he went out of the room. And then I was afraid. For I knew that his temper’d take charge, the instant he found that you’d lied about where Jonah was… Then I saw that that didn’t matter, because we were going to come through.

“You did it. I sat and watched you do it. Watched you side-track that monster, as if you’d rehearsed for a week. I could have sat up and shouted. You never put a foot wrong. And how did you get Plato down? By holding you fire – one of the hardest things in the world to do… And then you brought me home – and cared for me by the way, as if I was a little child and you were a hospital nurse… And then, the next day, when all I wanted to do was to tell you what I had found out – share with you the present
which Barabbas had given to me
, you gave me no chance. You were so quiet, my darling, so terribly quiet I put it down to reaction. After all, you’d been right through it; and you had had nothing, as I had, to lift you up. And so I thought, ‘Never mind: tomorrow he’ll be himself.’ And then…that night… I heard you talk in your sleep…

“It was the strangest thing. You spoke of the glade – nothing else. You dealt with those two or three moments before Barabbas spoke. And you cursed yourself, my blessed… And you kept on saying over, ‘My darling from the power of the dog.’
If you could, you would have cancelled the very event which had brought me my heart’s desire…

“Why did it bring me that? Because, when I saw your danger, I knew what you meant to me. And if we had done as it had been arranged we should do – returned to Castelly and left the next day for Bayonne, you would have been in no danger, and God knows when, if
ever
, I should have found out the truth.”

For some moments I made no answer – I think, because my heart was too full. My distemper was over and gone. For the first time for ninety-six hours, the scene in the glade had receded – and the fortune I had not sought had taken its place.

It was a strange experience.

The world about me was different: yet nothing had changed. The prospect was fair as ever – meadows and hanging forests and the rock-bound peaks of mountains, standing against the blue: a neighbouring brook was still making its pretty music, and the scent of mown grass was still lading the windless air; and the sunlight was no brighter, the heaven no clearer, the kingdom of earth no richer than it had been before. But now I seemed to have been made free of these things. Five minutes before, I had been aware of them, as a man is aware of some treasure shown behind glass: but now the glass had been lowered, and colour and warmth and fragrance were all my own.

I turned and looked at Audrey.

My lady was sitting sideways, as I have said, propping herself with one arm, her pointed fingers planted upon the turf. The pose was natural, and so most elegant. Bent at the knee, her slim, bare legs remembered Arcady – nymphs and fountains and pastures and shepherds’ pipes. Her slight, lithe body was neither stiff nor slack: it might have been that of some athlete, taking her ease. Her head was up, and she was looking before her, over the sweep of the valley and up at the heights beyond. Since she sat between me and the sun, her very lovely features were framed in the golden light: and this was passing through her delicate curls, turning the silk to a luminous haze of splendour, which suited her very well.

“I can stay on now,” I said. “Castelly has lost its sting.”

The eager head came round.

“I’ve given notice,” said Audrey. “I broke it to them this morning, whilst you were getting the car. I said we’d be leaving tomorrow – to stay with friends. But we will stay on…if you’d like to…my darling boy.”

I got to my feet. Then I stood over my lady and swung her up to her feet and into my arms.

“We must go, Madonna,” I said. “If you would like to, I’d love to come back later on. You have – redeemed Castelly. But ‘Mr and Mrs Kingscote’ can hardly be married there.”

Audrey put up her mouth.

It was half-past seven o’clock, before we got back that evening – that very beautiful evening, when earth was heaven and we were a king and a queen.

As Audrey brought the Lowland up to the door of the inn, the hostess appeared on the steps.

“Ah,
Madame
and
Monsieur
arrive. I said they would not be long.” She moistened her lips. “Two
gendarmes
have been wishing to see them. They are now in the village, I think. They said that they would come back.”

And, with her words, ‘they’ entered the yard of the inn.

It seemed best to stay where we were…

“
Monsieur et Madame Kingscote
?”

“Yes,” said Audrey,” what do you want with us?”

The sergeant glanced at the house.

“I think you have a salon,” he said.

Audrey nodded.

Then she left the car and led the way into the inn and up the stairs.

Our improvised salon was full of a sober radiance, for its windows gave to the west, but their shutters were closed.

“Monsieur does not speak French,” said Audrey.

“But I can speak for us both.”

The sergeant inclined his head.

He and his fellow had both refused to sit down. The latter was standing still with his back to the door. Audrey was sitting half on and half off the table which should have been laid for our meal, and I was standing beside her, with my eyes on the sergeant’s face.

The man looked competent. His air was grave, but civil, and not officious: that he meant to do his duty was very clear.