The Strange Fate of Kitty Easton (30 page)

He made a rapid decision and started to undo his belt underwater. The wet trouser loops were tight and the leather belt sticky. His hands were clumsy with the cold. Several times his exertions made the lower part of his face sink below the surface and water went up his nose. He was coughing as the belt finally came loose. He reached forward to Patrick and slipped the belt around both his wrists, intending to secure him to the metal bar, but the belt slipped through his clumsy hands. Although he snatched at it, it sank beneath the surface.

‘How deep is it in here?’ he said.

For a moment he thought Patrick was incapable of answering but eventually he said, ‘Ten feet, now the sluices are shut? I’m not sure.’

‘You have to hold on,’ Laurence said, ‘whatever you do. Please.’

He felt around Patrick’s waist to see if he was wearing a belt, but there was nothing.

He held the edge with one hand, and felt the side of the tank. It was slippery. He undid his trousers, kicked a few times and they sank slowly away. Finally he let go of the side and, turning face down, plunged towards the bottom, holding his breath. The water made his eyes sting, but he reminded himself it was not so deep and if he rose quickly he would return to the surface in a second. When his hands touched the silt of the bottom, he felt along near the wall, hoping it was the right one, although his lungs were aching. He came upon the folds of what were presumably his trousers, although the shock of finding something soft down here made him start. Almost immediately he touched a loop of his belt but when he lifted it on to his arm it turned out to be something else: a bag, he thought. He put his hand out again for the last time, his chest feeling about to explode and, there, thank God, was his belt. He raised his arms to help himself rise, brushing past Patrick’s legs, and reached the surface, gasping and feeling giddy.

Taking in great gulps of air, he put the belt and the bag on the side next to the bar. Patrick scarcely seemed to notice as Laurence secured his wrists to the bar, buckling the belt tightly. Now at least Patrick wouldn’t slip away and if Laurence couldn’t pull him out himself, there was a chance he could fetch help in time. He placed as much of his forearms as he could on the concrete to lever himself up and took a deep breath. His heart was thudding in his ears and he felt sick. He raised himself but fell back painfully. With all his might he pulled himself up again and lay, half on, half off the hard stone rim, trying to catch his breath.

With a heave, and grazing his naked legs, he finally got enough of his body on land to be able to crawl forward. He lay for a few seconds, his cheek against the rough stone, his body shocked by the pain in his back. Then he moved to squat at the edge of the water. Patrick had sunk down and his face was only just above the water. His tethered hands were turning blue. Laurence didn’t dare leave him. He had to get him out soon.

If he untied Patrick and failed to pull him up on his first effort, he thought the man would simply sink away, but the belt didn’t allow enough slack to pull him out while still secured. There was a bell on the wall, clearly marked
Hall,
but with the generator turned off it would not work. By the door was a fire bucket and an ordinary bell on a rope. He rang it again and again as vigorously as he could. Even Patrick opened his eyes at the sound. Massaging Patrick’s hands, he waited but heard nobody.

When it seemed clear that no one was coming, Laurence undid the belt and reached forward under Patrick’s arms. Bracing one foot against the rail, Laurence put all his weight into lifting the semi-conscious man. The pain that lanced down his braced leg was somehow detached from him. His other foot began to slip and Patrick’s wet clothes made him heavier. He was clutching handfuls of Patrick’s shirt but then it began to come away and he was afraid he was losing him.

Unexpectedly, Patrick’s eyes opened and one hand came up and grasped Laurence’s arm. With an almighty heave, the top of his body was out. Somehow Laurence hauled them both through into the generator room and lay on the floor gasping with pain. Patrick’s eyes were closed, his face shiny and colourless, his lips a little grey, but his chest moved up and down, evenly if very fast. Laurence lay gazing up at the wires, pipes and dials. His legs were shaking uncontrollably. After a few minutes he rolled on his side.

‘Patrick.’ He picked up a limp, icy hand and rubbed it. ‘We need to get warm. We need to get back to the house.’

The fingers closed on his. He put his arms under Patrick’s and slowly dragged him out into the light. Patrick lay in the grass, his eyes open now, curling and uncurling his fingers. Laurence found himself blinking. It all felt unreal. He knew he urgently needed to get help for Patrick. He tried to rise to his feet but felt suddenly faint.

At that moment they both heard a cry from near the house. Laurence found himself laughing aloud and trying not to weep.

Patrick looked at him, more alert. ‘It’s funny?’

‘I just thought how typical it is of my life that I should emerge from the underworld and its ancient mysteries, through a damn hydroelectric station.’

‘I’d do it all again to see what we saw,’ Patrick said so quietly that Laurence almost missed his words.

He looked at him to see if he was serious but Patrick had closed his eyes again.

‘You’re mad,’ he said.

‘I lied,’ Patrick whispered as people ran towards them. ‘I’m finished with Crete. Sent back. My health’s shot.’ He was labouring for breath. ‘That’s why I’m home. I didn’t have any other place to go. I’m no use.’

It was the first time Laurence had ever heard Patrick call Easton home.

Eleanor was running down the slope, level with David, with Julian just behind.

‘For God’s sake,’ she said, looking scared but sounding angry, ‘where have you been all this time? What on earth’s happened?’ Looking at Laurence’s bare legs, she called back to Susan who was hovering at the top of the slope, ‘Get blankets, put hot water on; they’ve been in the river.’

Then she turned and kneeled down.

‘Patrick,’ she said. ‘Patrick.’

She touched his cheek and moved her hand to his neck.

‘Eleanor,’ he whispered, his eyes opening again. ‘It’s all all right,’ he said, as if he were comforting her, rather than the other way round. Eleanor’s head was bent low, her face hidden by her hair, her shoulders trembling. She pushed Patrick’s wet hair off his face and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. He reached out and stroked her arm.

‘Eleanor,’ he said again.

‘Can you stand?’ David said, squatting down next to Laurence.

‘I don’t know. It’s my back.’

David said, ‘Can you move your legs?’

Laurence looked down at his dead-white feet and saw his toes curl.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Frances running towards them with blankets over her arm. Eleanor let go of Patrick’s hand. ‘Try to sit up,’ she said.

As he pushed himself up on to his elbows, he was racked with coughing. She put her arm round his waist and he leaned on her for support. Laurence managed to get to his feet without help but his legs had become like lead and the house seemed impossibly distant. Julian helped Eleanor raise Patrick to his feet. Eleanor took one blanket and wrapped it round him. He was leaning heavily against her. Julian, breathing heavily, moved to take Patrick’s weight, slipping his shoulder under Patrick’s arm. Eleanor took the other side and they moved off slowly.

Frances laid the other blanket around Laurence’s shoulders and he moved awkwardly towards the house, grimacing as pain returned to his leg.

David held his arm. ‘Take it easy, sir.’

But almost immediately Laurence said, ‘Wait a minute.’

He stumbled back into the generator shed and barely suppressed a shudder at the sight of the water. There on the edge was a sodden bag. Black, not very big, with a thin strap, which, underwater, he had mistaken for his belt. He picked it up, dripping wet, and when he rejoined an anxious-looking Frances, he had tucked it away under the blanket.

They went slowly, but the gradient seemed steep to Laurence. Eleanor, who was waiting for them by the French windows, said swiftly, ‘David, could you go for the doctor? Patrick needs care. And anyway Lydia needs to see him and...’

Frances was about to protest, Laurence thought, when Eleanor took both her hands in her own.

‘She’s restless,’ she said. ‘Agitated. You don’t want her going downhill like this with no help, nothing to ease any discomfort. Nobody’s going to take her away.’

Frances nodded and left the room. They could hear her footsteps going quickly upstairs.

Eleanor looked at Laurence, at his bare feet and then at the floor. His muddy footprints were clear on the carpet nearest the windows.

‘You need tea,’ she said, ‘and actually you’d do best in bed too. But perhaps a bath first?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You smell,’ she added.

‘I’m supposed to be going to London,’ he said, almost mechanically, though he could feel himself trembling.

‘Don’t be silly, Laurence. You’re not going anywhere except Marlborough Cottage Hospital if you don’t get your wet clothes off’ She climbed the stairs beside him. ‘You’re exhausted,’ she said, ‘and you don’t even like swimming.’

They had reached the landing.

‘That’s why I didn’t
go
swimming,’ he said. ‘Not deliberately. We were in the water tank under the generator.’

She almost stopped dead, then shook her head as if to clear it and opened his door.

‘Go on in, take off all your clothes and I’ll go and run a bath.’

Alone in his room, Laurence took out the sodden bag from the enveloping blanket and pushed it under the bed. He looked out of his window at a landscape he had thought he knew. William’s new maze had intentionally united the house and garden, the village and the big house, the dead with the living and now, in an extraordinary way, the world of Easton—with its seasons and fortunes always turning—with the unchanging underworld.

He thought he heard Eleanor return but he didn’t turn around. However, it was Frances who materialised beside him.

‘I’ve brought tea,’ she said. ‘You need to take off your wet things. Eleanor’s run you a bath but Julian wanted her to be with Patrick until the doctor comes—he’s worried about him.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘I think so. It’s Julian who needs reassurance more than Patrick, I think.’

He took a sip of the tea; it was extraordinarily sweet and strong—the way his soldiers had liked it best—but the warmth was welcome. Frances eased the blanket from his grip.

‘Come on.’

He resisted, embarrassed for a split second, but then surrendered. He wanted to sit down but was aware how dirty he was. He fumbled at his shirt buttons, but his fingers wouldn’t work properly. She bent forward, her face very earnest, and undid them for him. Then, while he removed his shirt himself, she fetched his dressing gown and laid it over a chair. She showed no sign of leaving the room but kept her back turned to him, looking out of the window, while he removed his vest and fastened his dressing gown. His clothes were filthy and she seemed to sense his uncertainty as to where to put them in this pretty room.

‘I’ll take them,’ she said. ‘Now the bath. Leave the door ajar as we don’t want you passing out in there.’

‘You’re very kind.’

And then, suddenly, she was in his arms, her head against his chest. She was so warm and her hair smelled good. He held her head to him while she clasped both her arms around his waist. He was trembling, as much with cold as surprise or emotion, and aware that he smelled far less good than she did.

‘When Julian said you’d both gone in the river and I saw you lying on the grass, I thought you’d drowned. Julian was frantic but my first thought was that I’d never said how much I liked being with you. But you’re safe. Safe here.’

He could feel her heart beating and he stroked her hair, instinctively tucking it behind her ear as he had once done with Mary. He felt as if, somewhere in this odd and unexpected embrace, she had stopped comforting him and, instead, needed consolation herself.

‘I’m sorry about Lydia,’ he said and thought how clumsy that sounded.

She broke away. ‘It’s all right. Eleanor was right. Lydia is slipping away from us. Sometimes she seems conscious but she doesn’t know who we are. Currently she’s thrashing about rather.’ Then she said briskly, ‘Tea. Bath.’

She watched him drink, then went before him, carrying his clothes. He shut the door behind her, reached under the bed and pulled out the small bag. He opened it with difficulty and the first thing he saw were three horseshoes. Puzzled, he pulled them out but realised immediately that they were intended to sink the bag to the bottom of the cistern, where in time, being made of cheap fabric, it would have rotted. Their presence instantly made the bag’s disposal more sinister.

He pulled it as far open as he could. There were some wet papers, all stuck to each other, which he wasn’t about to try and pull apart. There was a comb, some hairpins and a tiny tin, with a label he could still read:
Violet Cachous.
Two keys on a bit of string. A tapestry purse, with very little money in it. Finally he brought out a grey handkerchief.

The significance of the find was not lost on him. Frances had told him ages ago that the sluices had been closed, the rivers dragged and the lake emptied when the child vanished. No doubt, the holding tank had been searched too. But the bag he’d found had been put there deliberately and, he judged by its condition, a lot more recently. Somebody had dumped it in the cistern and it seemed likely it was connected with the dead woman. Its disposal there was another indication that someone from Easton was involved. He knew he would have to give it to the police, but at the same time he feared whom it might incriminate.

He tucked it away in a cupboard, then went stiffly along the corridor to the steamy bathroom. The walls ran with condensation. He slipped into the water, his skin stinging. He sank down with his head underwater. As he rubbed his tender scalp with his fingertips, he remembered that at one point, which seemed like hours ago, he had hit his head on a piece of rock. He soaped his hair, his grimy feet. He lay back, his pain eased by the heat. There was even a folded towel laid over the back of the bath. With his head cushioned by it, he thought about Frances and the strange shift in their friendship.