Think of England (15 page)

Armstrong gave a bray of laughter. “You’re not the only one in the dark. Eh, Holt?”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Holt snapped. “What about that game, Curtis?”

Curtis indicated his knee in answer, and the younger men retreated. He thought he heard a very quiet murmur of subdued speech from the other side of the door as they left.

The earlier whisper of fear was now a scream. He did not believe that da Silva had been playing cards with Holt and Armstrong last night. If he had, it was just possible that he had been caught cheating—it was not the act that Curtis doubted, but the being caught in it. But in that case the two young men would have made a terrific fuss, which Curtis would have heard. It was out of the question that Holt would have let such a thing be brushed under the carpet. They were both lying.

That meant Holt was in on the business.

Curtis didn’t know why he hadn’t considered that before. James Armstrong was a boisterous fool, idling away his days in play. Holt had a brain, and a nasty streak. An up-and-coming man, a bright fellow, seeing James Armstrong’s opportunities and helping him exploit them. Serving the decadents he despised with their just deserts.

Yes, Holt was in on it, Curtis was sure. He knew what was going on, and he hadn’t liked that remark of Armstrong’s just now. His smile had been false as hell, and he had changed the subject with a wrench. He should have been crowing at the story of da Silva caught cheating at cards. Instead, he’d led the talk away from Armstrong’s words…

You’re not the only one in the dark.

Curtis thought about that. He thought about the conversation last night, and da Silva’s shuddering admission of his dislike of caves and underground spaces. Then he shut his eyes and breathed very deeply, because what he was thinking made him feel nauseated, and enraged, and terrified as he thought of that dreadful black sinkhole where a body might fall for miles…

And a little hopeful. Because there were those who wanted their enemies dead, and there were those who made them suffer first. Surely, if one hated a man, and knew that he feared dark caves, might one not leave him alive there, underground, at least for a while?

Curtis was never afterwards sure how he got through the rest of the evening. He made what must have been appropriate remarks. He ate, and drank. He did not spring on Holt or Armstrong and choke the lives out of the bastards. He went to bed early, and made himself sleep for two hours, and at one o’clock in the morning, he took the flashlight and moved as quietly as possible downstairs.

He let himself out of the kitchen door and set off for the caves, skirting round the gravel drive and stony paths for a good quarter-mile to avoid the carrying sound of crunching feet.

There was a sharp chill in the air and a half-moon in the sky. It was enough to see by. Others might have found the dark walk and the stretching moon shadows frightening. Curtis was fearful enough of what he might find in the caves not to give a damn. In any case, with the colour bleached from the landscape, the bare hills bore some resemblance to the scrublands of South Africa, and the knowledge that there was no Boer sniper behind a bush was enough by itself to make the walk seem relatively pleasant.

The landscape looked different at night of course, but he had a soldier’s sense of direction, and he only missed his path once, losing just a few minutes. He covered the ground in not much over forty-five minutes, all told, and after a scramble up the hill, stood in the black cave mouth.

“Da Silva?” he called.

No response.

He took one of the lamps kept there and lit it, then set off into the cave. The light flickered madly with the swing of the lamp, creating grotesque shadows that leapt and jumped at him.

“Da Silva?” he called into the main cave. His voice echoed back.

He would have to search each gallery, he knew. He should do it logically, work his way round, but his mind kept coming back to that terrible black sinkhole and he took a few strides on the cold, slippery stone underfoot, towards the tunnel that led to the white gallery, and called again, “Da Silva!”

His voice rang off the wall and died away, and he heard a soft, quiet sound like a sob.

“Da Silva!” He raised the lantern high, hurrying as quickly as he dared over the treacherously smooth cave floor, and came into the white gallery and saw, sprawled on the floor, by the sinkhole, back against a stalagmite, the dishevelled form of a dark-haired man.

Then Curtis was over by him, on his knees on the freezing stone. Da Silva was soaking wet, hair sodden. His arms were stretched back behind him, around the horrible wet smoothness of the stone, and as Curtis registered the ropes around his wrists, he saw a droplet of water spatter from the ceiling onto da Silva’s head, and saw his body jerk.

“Oh Christ.” Curtis gathered him into his arms as best he could, given how tightly he was tethered to the rock. His skin was ice cold. “Da Silva, can you hear me? It’s Curtis. I’m here. I’ll get you out. Daniel?”

Da Silva’s head was flopped forward against Curtis’s chest. He made an incoherent noise. Curtis took his chin and tenderly tilted his head up. Water ran down his grey face. His eyes were shut.

“Daniel,” said Curtis hopelessly.

Daniel’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. The dark eyes locked on to Curtis’s. He said, choking, “Don’t be a dream. Don’t. Please. Don’t be—”

“I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m not a dream.”

Daniel blinked. Water dripped from his dark lashes. He looked at Curtis for a long moment, and whispered, “You came. Oh God, you came.”

“You made me come,” said Curtis, and wrapped his arms tighter as Daniel broke into weak, helpless sobs.

He wasn’t sure how long he held him, sprawled together on the cold wet stone, holding him away from the awful, relentless, hammering drips, but he was damned uncomfortable by the time Daniel’s tears had turned to deep, ragged breathing.

“Who did this?” he asked.

“J-James and H-Holt.” Daniel’s teeth were chattering, but that was an improvement, Curtis knew. “Going to leave, leave, l-leave me here. Turn me to s-stone.”

“Rubbish.” Curtis clutched the dark, sopping hair. “That takes centuries. I need to let go, understand? I have to get you loose.”

Daniel gave a tiny gasp, then shut his eyes and nodded. Curtis released him, reluctantly, and rose, stiff and wet. He took off his overcoat, draped it over Daniel’s shaking body, still in evening dress, and went to get him free.

The rope that bound him was knotted round the other side of the stone. It wasn’t tied in a particularly difficult way, but it was thick, and swollen with the endless water that ran down the side of the stalagmite. Curtis moved the lantern, heard Daniel’s whimper, put it back so that the light shone on him, and hurried back to get another lamp from the cave entrance. With that illuminating the other side of the rock, he began to work at the knot.

“Curtis?” rasped Daniel. “Curtis?”

He leapt up and went round the rock. “What?”

“Just… Not a dream.”

“No.” Curtis put a hand to the cold cheek and felt Daniel’s head turn, his lips brushing Curtis’s skin. “I have to get this rope off you now. I’m here, and I won’t leave you, but you have to let me work.”

The worst part of fever dreams was always the help, he thought savagely: one’s uncle, or the nurse, or one’s friend, coming to bend over the bed with soothing words and a cool drink, and one felt comforted and cared for at last, and then one woke again to solitude and parching thirst and a night that seemed endless. Curtis didn’t like to imagine what it must have been like to spend a full day here, in the dark, with that awful torture of the drips and the encroaching cold and wet, and to dream that help was here and wake again and again to hopelessness.

The knot was irretrievably stuck. He took out his pocketknife and sawed at the rope with vicious force.

“Curtis.” It was a croak.

“Let me do this,” he said through his teeth.

“
Curtis!
”

“Curtis,” said a taunting voice from the other end of the cave.

He knelt there, totally still, for a second. Then he folded the pocketknife, put it down by the stalagmite and stood to face Holt.

Chapter Ten

Holt was hanging his lantern on a jutting bit of rock. The light of three lamps made the white gallery disturbingly bright. Curtis glanced down at Daniel, still pinioned, his eyes black pits in his drawn, fearful face, and looked up at the man who had done this to him.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” he said.

Holt gave him an incredulous look. “At least I’m not a bloody queer.”

“You’re a blackmailer. A torturer.”

“Murderer,” Daniel rasped.

“Who did you murder?” Curtis rolled his shoulders, making sure his Norfolk jacket was loose enough, and took a sideways step. Holt registered the movement and something leapt in his face. Eagerness, Curtis thought. He wanted a fight.

He’d get one.

Holt shed his overcoat, eyes on Curtis. “A couple of traitors. You should be happy about that, actually.”

“Lafayette’s men.” Curtis began a circling motion, saw Holt mimic him, watched his gait. “The men who tampered with the guns that went to Jacobsdal. You blackmailed them to do it, did you?”

“No!” Holt sounded outraged by the accusation. “That was Armstrong. Nothing to do with me. A disgraceful business.”

“But you murdered the men who did it? Why?”

“They were
traitors
.” Holt sounded as though he was appealing for understanding. “And depraved with it. Filthy beasts. They liked girls, young ones. Disgusting. They deserved to die.”

“There we agree. What did you do with them?” Curtis asked, as if he cared. “The sinkhole?”

“Down to the bowels of the earth. Makes it a useful place for disposal. Nobody’s ever found the bottom, did I say?” Holt’s eyes glittered in the lamplight and the reflections of white stone. “I thought I’d throw the Jew down alive tonight. He screams like a girl. I want to see how long I can hear him falling.”

Daniel made an animal noise of sheer terror. Curtis rocked on the balls of his feet, flexing his fingers. Holt shook his head. “Are you really planning to fight over him? Good God. I would never have thought it of you, Curtis. A soldier, a man of breeding, a Blue, up to those filthy tricks. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

Curtis managed, “No.” He took a couple of steps closer to Holt, who raised his fists, then gave a little laugh.

“It’s a shame. I’d have liked to spar properly with you. I don’t suppose it counts, thrashing a cripple.”

“Don’t worry about me.” That was what Curtis meant to say, anyway, but his mouth wasn’t quite working now, and the words came out oddly. He looked at his hands in the lamplight and saw that they were shaking.

Holt’s smile vanished. “I hope you’re not yellow.” He sounded aggrieved. “You’re not afraid of a scrap, are you? Lost your nerve in the war? Damn it, I’ve been looking forward to a real turn-up with you, and you’re just another cowardly bugger. Where’s the challenge in that? At least one can take some pleasure in kicking a Jew.”

That was when Curtis went for him.

His uncle’s writer friend, Quatermain, had made a great fuss about Sir Henry Curtis’s Viking blood, and the Berserker spirit that came upon him in battle. Curtis felt that to be a ridiculous and romantic way of looking at matters. If he had been asked to describe his battle rage, he would not have called it “Berserker spirit”. The phrase, he felt, was “homicidal mania”.

There was no red mist, there was no period where he didn’t know what he was doing, there was not even anger as he knew it normally. Instead, there was a strange detachment and an exquisite, savage pleasure in violence. He strode forward, seeing Holt’s fists go up in approved style, as if he thought they were going to fight like gentlemen, and landed a low punch that just failed to connect with the man’s balls, thanks to an impressively fast reaction from Holt. He leapt back, opened his mouth, and saw something in Curtis’s face that warned him to waste no more breath on speech.

Then they were fighting in earnest, a savage, scrambling match, no Queensberry rules here, both slipping on the smooth wet rock underfoot, both knowing that a fall could mean defeat. They were evenly matched in size and weight, and Holt had earned his boxing blue, and kept in shape. He had the huge advantage of two full hands and used it well, with relentless attacks on Curtis’s right side, forcing him to use the mutilated, less powerful fist that jarred painfully with each blow.

But Curtis had spent eight years in the army, fighting people who fought back, and he knew what would happen to Daniel if he lost, and, most of all, he was in a cold killing rage. He struck and struck again, disregarding the blows landed on him and the pain of his own fist, and watched blood spray from Holt’s hate-filled mouth as an uppercut sent his head back.

Holt slipped and landed on his tailbone. Curtis took a step forward, drawing back his leg to kick his opponent’s head like a rugby ball, and almost turned his ankle on an unseen dip in the ground. He staggered but retained his balance.

Holt scrabbled desperately backwards, to his coat on the rock, delved into it and produced a knife.

Curtis threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming off the cave walls. It was so perfectly, utterly comical. He hoped Daniel was watching, he’d find it hilarious. Holt regained his feet, waving the blade, and Curtis wanted to ask, did he not see the irony, after all his fine words about English superiority, pulling what he would have been the first to call a dago trick.