Greygallows (31 page)

When the door was open far enough to admit him, Clare stepped in. He stood quite still for a moment; then, in a soft but clear voice, he spoke my name. When there was no response, he came
closer. I had been watching through half-closed eyes; now I closed them completely.

It was dreadful not to see what he was doing. The creations of imagination—knives and nooses, and pillows to smother me with—were more frightening than any visible threat. Then came a sound that literally froze my blood. Yet it was an innocent sound, nothing like the horrors I had imagined—only the familiar creaking whisper of the cushions on my favorite yellow brocade chair. Clare had sat down.

Did he mean to sit there and watch me expire? I was sure now that he meant to drug me, but his watching confounded all my theories. Once the drug started to take effect, there was no danger of my escaping. He need only place the little black bottle on the table, and go; after my erratic remarks to the vicar and Mrs. Andrews it would be assumed that I had taken my own life.

Now that he was seated some distance away, I could open my eyes a slit, and I did so; I had to do something, or I would have shrieked aloud with frustration. He was a black silhouette against the glowing coals of the fire; the slump of his shoulders looked weary, and doubt weakened my fear of his intentions.

I don't know how long the ordeal lasted. It must have been several hours; it seemed, of course, like the unending stretch of eternity. Toward the end of the time I must have lost consciousness.

I came to myself when Clare moved, making the chair springs squeak. In my dazed state I made a small sound, I think, but Clare was too absorbed to hear it. He was transformed; the weary watcher was on his feet, quivering from head to foot with
eagerness. It was strange to see a man of his size move so silently, yet without his usual grace; a crouched bulk, he crept toward the door and stood there poised. His arms were close to his sides, and the firelight glittered on his distended eyeballs. All his concentration was focused on the door, which was fortunate for me, because the menace of his movement had so alarmed me that I forgot pretense, and lay with both eyes open wide, watching.

I was slow in hearing the sound that aroused him; but he was listening for it, expecting it. His right arm moved. It took some object from his pocket and then lifted high in the air. I squinted, trying to make out through the shadows what it was he held, and then suddenly the meaning of his pose came to me; I recognized the footsteps in the hall, soft as they were; and I sat bolt upright on the bed and screamed.

The cry was an error; it precipitated the event I hoped to prevent. The door burst open and Jonathan rushed in. I don't think he even saw the danger that waited for him. With a single bound, Clare was upon him; the lifted arm struck, and there was a horrible, muffled sound. Jonathan pitched forward, to lie like a dead man on the floor.

Clare caught me in an iron grip as I scrambled down off the bed. He was cursing, in low, mumbling monotone that rose to a muffled yell as my teeth sank into his hand. He pushed me face down onto the bed. I felt his knee in the small of my back, and his hands fumbling; then he had my wrists tied together. He turned me over, just in time; with my mouth and nose pressed against the
comforter I was near suffocating. Before I could draw breath he had tied a kerchief over my mouth and bent to bind my ankles.

He stepped back. He was breathing hard, with his smooth cap of hair disarranged. With an undignified heave, I sat up. That was as much as I could do, and a smile curved Clare's mouth as he contemplated my helpless form.

'I doubt that anyone could hear you scream,' he said coolly. 'But your howls grate on my nerves. I meant to spare you this; if you had not been so clever about the wine, you would not be uncomfortable now. I don't intend you to be hurt, Lucy—not much, at any rate—so stop writhing, if you please.'

I would have gone on writhing, if only to annoy him, but then I heard a muffled groan and saw Jonathan stir. Clare moved quickly to bind his arms as he had mine. I sat still, all my anger and fire drained out of me. He was alive. I had thought him dead. The firelight showed a sticky wet patch on the back of his head, but he lived.

After binding Jonathan's wrists, Clare heaved him up and propped him against the door.

'I know you are conscious, Scott,' he began, and then caught the foot Jonathan thrust out toward him. 'Ah, I thought as much. I fear you are still slow.'

He proceeded to tie Jonathan's feet. Seeing there was no reason for pretense, Jonathan opened his eyes. He looked at me, as I sat perched like a ruffled wren on the bed, with my feet dangling, but he did not speak.

'Now,' Clare said, straightening. 'I must stop and think. You are early, Scott; I can't risk leaving
just yet.'

'What are you going to do with us?' Jonathan asked thickly.

'You don't know? You can't imagine—you, with your clever legal brain?'

Clare stood grinning down at his recumbent victim. All the hesitation and unease he had shown toward me were gone. He had some qualms about his treatment of me, but his hatred of Jonathan wiped out any trace of conscience there. He might be delaying for practical reasons which were as yet unknown to me; but one reason for the delay was the pleasure he derived from tormenting the man he hated. He would never forgive Jonathan for overcoming him in physical combat—for holding him on his knees and helpless before me.

'I know more than you think,' Jonathan said, lifting himself up. 'You're mad, you know. You can't hope to succeed with this.'

'Trite, as well as untrue. Who is to prevent me? Not you, at any rate.'

Jonathan's head slipped sideways, as if it were too heavy to hold up. His eyes were half closed. He looked like a man in the last coma that precedes death. I saw that he was wearing rough workingmen's attire, with heavy boots and a thick shirt instead of a coat.

Leaning forward, I overbalanced myself and felt myself falling. The feeling of helplessness was terrible. I could do nothing to stop my fall and toppled off the bed, striking my cheek heavily on the floor. Clare picked me up. Seeing that I was choking behind the kerchief, in an effort to catch my breath, he removed the gag and shook me slightly.

'You will do yourself an injury if you do not keep still,' he said severely.

Jonathan gave an odd choking laugh. He had pulled himself up again, and his eyes looked less drowsy.

'Your concern is touching,' he said. 'What do a few bruises matter, if you plan to murder her?'

Clare whirled around.

'How dare you!' he exclaimed. 'How dare you suggest I would kill a woman—a lady who is under my protection?'

Jonathan stared at him, openmouthed. He shook his head, and then closed his eyes as if the movement hurt him.

'Incredible,' he muttered. 'They ought to preserve you, in a cage, as a specimen. The triumph of tradition over intelligence ... Now then, my lord, don't get excited,' he added, as Clare strode toward him. 'I apologize for my thoughtless words; your handling of me was a little rough, I fear my wits are addled. May I humbly inquire how you do mean to deal with us, if murder is not on your list of allowable crimes?'

The calm tone had its effect on Clare, who was becoming more and more rattled. He pulled out his watch and looked at it. He grimaced.

'The time goes slowly.'

'Only when one is not enjoying oneself,' Jonathan said. 'Perhaps it would ease your mind to go over your plan of action. There may be flaws you have not seen.'

'There are no flaws.' Clare seemed not unwilling to talk. 'It is simple enough. My—my wife and her lover attempt to flee. Unfortunately the roads are bad; the carriage overturns. In the morning, when
I discover she is missing, I send out parties to search for her. They find ... a situation which cannot be misinterpreted.'

Jonathan started to nod, and then thought better of it.

'I see. And the carriage—the hired chaise, which proved unacceptable to our friend the vicar, but which is now repaired—I am assumed to have hired it?'

'It has been stolen from the vicarage stable, where it was left.'

I could control myself no longer.

'You do not call that murder? To leave us out in the freezing cold all night—injured, of course, because we would seek shelter if we were able—'

Jonathan gave me a warning glance, and I subsided.

'There is a moral difference between omission and commission,' he explained. 'At least there is in the mind of his Lordship. He has already arranged several of these little accidents for you. It was he who whistled for your horse that day on the moor; it is no crime, surely, to call a horse. If you had been thrown, or taken a serious illness, well, that would not have been his doing. He dosed you with laudanum in the hope that you might become dependent on it, or sufficiently stupefied by it to do yourself an injury. Would he be to blame if you misused this soothing medicine he was kind enough to procure for you? He has been trying to urge you to run away for quite some time, but you are so disobliging you won't help him. His crimes are of a very weak milk-and-water variety; he must dislike his present course of action intensely.'

'Why not hire someone?' I asked sarcastically.

'That brute from London looks the type.'

'I suspect that was in his mind when he brought the fellow here. But he— or someone—' Jonathan said oddly, 'was wise enough to realize that an accomplice in crime is a potential accuser. His Lordship's conscience is a pretty thing, Lucy, but it is not uncommon. Many people will shrink in virtuous horror from a particular act, but they will accept the fruits of crime so long as they can pretend ignorance of it.'

The irony of his speech reached Clare, who had been staring at the hands of his watch as if he were willing them to move. With a scowl he thrust it into his waistcoat pocket and said angrily,

'Again you do me an injustice. If you remain in the carriage and keep yourselves warmly wrapped, you will not even take cold. Why should I wish to harm Lucy? The incident will discredit any statement she might make.'

'Divorce?' I said, hardly believing it; and yet his voice carried conviction. If only he would look directly at me. 'Is that what you want? You don't need to do this, Clare, you can divorce me; I won't argue with you. It's the money, is it not? I will give it to you. Every penny. Only let us go. Don't harm anyone.'

Clare looked at me then, and I wished he had not. If he had sneered in triumph, like a fictional villain, I could have hated him. But he did not. His face had the same look of sick suffering, of weak malice, I had seen in the eyes of a trapped animal.

'I wish I could,' he muttered.

'But why not? I will sign anything you give me, I will confess to anything you wish. Divorce will cancel the marriage contract, and I will make Mr.
Beam give you the money. Only don't involve Jonathan. Why should his career be ruined? I will name Fernando, or one of the servants—anyone you say. Please, Clare. I give you my word—'

'You might,' said Clare. 'But...'

He gestured toward Jonathan, who was watching him with the oddest look.

'What can he say?' I cried; my hopes were soaring. 'If you accuse me, and I confess—if his name is not brought into the case—'

'Lucy,' said Jonathan; and simultaneously Clare cried out,

'You don't understand! You don't know! Do you think I would do this, stoop to this, to get your money for myself? I married you because you were ill and fragile. They told me you were consumptive. Damn them! Damn that fat, painted old woman! It is all her fault. She knew you were strong, she knew you would live. She lied to me.'

His face was red, and he was panting with passion. It was the final revelation, to see him in a tantrum like a spoiled child, trying to pass the blame for his acts on to someone else. Why had I never seen his basic weakness? Like most of the world, I had been deluded by an aristocratic bearing and a handsome face. The man beneath was still a pampered boy who could not bear to see his wishes thwarted.

Yet it was not Clare's look that crushed the hope rising within me; it was Jonathan's. Whatever the secret Clare had hinted at, Jonathan knew it; there was the strangest expression on his face. Yet I could not give up without a last attempt.

'I don't care what your reasons are,' I said. 'What do they matter? I beg you—'

'Stop,' Jonathan said. 'It is useless, Lucy. He can't let me go. So long as I live, your suggestion would be impossible. I know he—'

With one bound Clare was upon him, his hands clamped over Jonathan's mouth.

'Be still, you fool! Be silent! Will you force me to destroy her too?'

He was crouching on the floor by his prisoner; their eyes were inches apart. After a moment Clare seemed to see acquiescence in Jonathan's look. Slowly he lifted his hands, leaving the marks of his fingers printed whitely across Jonathan's cheeks. He was breathing like a man who has been running for his life.

'I can't bear the delay,' he whispered, as if to himself. 'It is time that weakens me. How much longer must I wait?'

Again Clare consulted his watch; again he thrust it back into its place with a growl of impatience. He pushed Jonathan out of the way, opened the door, and went out. But he was back again almost at once, before I could move. For the next half hour he paced like a caged beast. And then, on what must have been his third trip to the window, he gave a low exclamation, holding the curtains back and staring intently out into the darkness.

Jonathan had turned onto his side and was lying quite still. From where I sat I could see his hands. He was twisting and straining them, trying to loosen the knots on his wrists. I followed suit. It did not take me long to decide the effort was probably futile, but I went on trying; there was nothing else I could do. Then one of my nails broke, down near the quick, and I exclaimed with the pain.

Clare whirled around.

'Hush,' he said loudly. 'Hush, I must hear. Don't you hear it? What is it... Oh, God, who is it coming?'

Then I did hear the sound—hoofbeats, coming quickly, too quickly for the icy, treacherous road.

The horse reached the house and stopped, in a slither of gravel. Then, from Clare's throat, came a sound like nothing I have ever heard, and hope never to hear again. It was a howl like an animal's dying cry; there was nothing human in it. He staggered back from the window, dragging the curtain as if his hands had frozen to it.

Jonathan sat upright, alert and watchful. I too felt that this new development was hopeful; anyone who struck such horror into Clare could only mean good luck for us. I listened, my heart hammering at my ribs, as sounds followed sounds, telling the progress of the unknown through the house. First the heavy front door opened with a crash as it slammed against the wall. There was no sound of its closing. Footsteps followed; slow, heavy, ponderous steps—and with them I began to feel that my hope had been premature. No human rescuer would come like that, all alone, with that dragging deliberation.

Clare stood riveted to his place, glaring wildly; the outstretched cloth of the drapery swathed his body like a pall.

The slow steps came on, up the stairs and down the hall. I thought I would perish of suspense before the unknown came into sight. Already I dreaded his appearance. What would I see in the open doorway?