Think of England (16 page)

Holt lunged at him with the knife. Curtis threw up his right arm, and the blade slid through cloth and burned on his skin, but that meant it was nowhere near Curtis’s left as he snapped a blow into Holt’s jaw, just where he’d placed the uppercut. He saw the jarring punch cloud Holt’s eyes, and as it did, Curtis grabbed Holt’s knife hand with his own left. He twisted himself round the other man, wrapping his brawny right arm around Holt’s neck, and tightened his grip.

Holt choked and struggled. Curtis leaned back, taking his weight, digging his fingers into Holt’s wrist till the knife fell. He took Holt’s jaw with his freed hand, and twisted head against neck, until he felt the abrupt give and heard the crack.

He let go, and turned from the body before it hit the floor.

Daniel was sprawled by the rock, staring at him, eyes impossibly wide and dark. He looked terrified.

“Holt’s dead now,” Curtis tried to explain, in case that wasn’t clear. The words still wouldn’t come out properly, so he retrieved Holt’s knife, a razor-edged thing better than his own pocketknife, and sliced through the binding rope with a couple of cuts.

Daniel tried to struggle away from the rock. Curtis knelt, helping him disentangle the ropes. They were both shaking.

Daniel was cold. That was it.

Curtis went back to Holt’s corpse and stripped it to its drawers, fingers fumbling. He piled the mostly dry clothes on top of the body, for lack of anywhere else, and went to get Daniel’s clothes off.

He wasn’t much help. His hands would hurt, Curtis thought, noting the raw red marks round his wrists and the grey, puffy look to his fingers, so he carefully peeled off the sodden evening jacket and waistcoat, then ripped open Daniel’s wet shirt rather than bothering with the studs—that reminded him of something, but he wasn’t sure what. Piece by piece, he stripped the soaking, shuddering man naked, and used Holt’s undershirt to towel him as dry as he could, and then, with his hands on Daniel’s cold, damp skin, that was when Curtis came back to himself.

He took a deep, sucking breath. “Jesus.” His voice was hoarse.

“Curtis?” It was a whisper. Daniel’s eyes were huge and fearful.

“God.” He blinked away the remnants of the rage. “Hell. I, uh…”

Daniel tried to say something, and swayed and almost fell, and Curtis seized him and held him close, disregarding his nakedness, till the other man regained his balance and he could let go. He grabbed for Holt’s clothes, fumbling each garment onto Daniel with fingers that felt like sausages but still worked better than the other man’s. The sight of Daniel’s hands without their quick deftness threatened to tip him back to fury.

Holt’s clothes were too big, of course, but that was better than the alternative. He belted the trousers tightly round the slim waist, buttoned the Norfolk jacket and heavy overcoat. Holt’s shoes were far too large; Daniel’s own wet dress shoes would have to do, but he pocketed Holt’s socks till they could find a place to dry his feet.

He picked up Daniel’s discarded clothes, and threw them down the sinkhole, followed by the rope and Holt’s shoes. He kept the knife. Last of all, he dragged the corpse over to the sinkhole.

Daniel made a noise in his throat. Curtis said, “Shut your eyes,” because he was quite sure Daniel didn’t need to see a body disappear into that dreadful well, and dropped Holt down into the dark.

Then he took Daniel out of the cave.

They had to pause at the entrance, for Curtis to replace the lanterns, and to find a dry rock where Daniel could sit, slumped forward, while Curtis carefully dried his feet with his handkerchief and fitted Holt’s thick socks on.

Holt had arrived on a bicycle. It was a decent touring bike, but with no grip in his right hand and Daniel at best semiconscious, it was useless to him. Curtis considered the matter, then told Daniel, “Wait for me. I’ll be back,” and hauled the thing into the caves. The idea of throwing it down the sinkhole, on top of the body, seemed wrong, but he had no other choice, so he dropped it in.

For all he knew, Holt was still falling into the void.

Daniel was curled over when he came out again, arms wrapped round himself. Curtis looked at his sodden shoes and at his face, and said, “Hold on now,” then he tied the shoes round his neck by the laces, and picked Daniel up in his arms.

It was not an easy walk. Daniel wasn’t bulky, but he was not far off six feet tall, and he slipped out of consciousness within a few moments, so that he was dead weight. Curtis was uncomfortably aware that he couldn’t afford to fall on the scree, in case his knee gave way. He was damned impressed with how it was holding up so far, in fact. Maybe the doctors had been right to tell him to use it more, although this might not have been quite the exercise they had intended.

He paced along the dimly moonlit road, step by step, with Daniel limp and heavy in his arms. His right fist hurt like hell, and he could feel blood trickling down his forearm where Holt had caught him with the knife, and he had no idea what to do now.

It was close to three in the morning. He would not make any decent speed with Daniel to carry. The Armstrongs would be expecting Holt back. Would James come looking?

Where should he go?

The only telephone for miles would be Peakholme’s. Newcastle was thirty miles away. And he needed to get Daniel warm. He could ask for help if he saw a shepherd’s hut or farmhouse, except that he had seen nothing at all for miles in this godforsaken bleak landscape, and he knew all too well the dangers of seeking shelter in enemy territory.

That thought led his tired mind to memories of scrambling through the brush in Boer territory, looking for somewhere to hole up, and then to the little rocky
kraal
, the ruins of a farmhouse topping a small isolated hill, where his handful of men had retreated…

Stone-walled, defensible ruins on a hill.

Was that a brilliant idea, or a terrible one? He wasn’t sure. He wished Daniel was awake to ask. He wished Daniel was awake to walk. But since he wasn’t, Curtis set his teeth and trudged on, one foot then another, covering the two miles back to Peakholme.

It was half past four when he got there, every part of him aching. From the last vantage point, he had seen no lights in the house. He had to skirt round through the woods to reach the folly without coming in sight of the windows, but he was reasonably sure he would not be troubled with gardeners at this hour. The last incline, up to the folly, with Daniel’s weight working against him, was one of the hardest things he had ever done, each staggering step a defiance of gravity and exhaustion, but at last he was at the door, fumbling it open, getting Daniel inside.

He half-dragged him up the winding stairs, and there, spent, he flopped down on the oak floor, moved the other man to lie against him, and allowed his muscles to shriek their complaints.

After a few minutes, when the blood was no longer pounding quite so loudly in his ears, he checked Daniel. He was much warmer. The close contact had been good for that, at least, and Holt’s blasted heavy overcoat was a good one. He checked Daniel’s wrists and saw to his relief that the fingers looked normal again.

“Daniel?” he murmured.

Daniel’s breathing was deep and even. He lay heavily in Curtis’s arms, and Curtis hesitated, wondering if he might be permitted this, then slid his fingers over Daniel’s face, barely touching, running them along the lines of his jaw and brow, over the skin of his cheeks, and finally, daringly, over his lips.

Curtis didn’t expect him to wake, but Daniel’s eyelids flickered and he gave a little moan. Curtis cursed his own selfishness. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’re safe. Go back to sleep.”

Daniel’s mouth moved, then his eyes snapped open and he jerked convulsively. Curtis grabbed him to stop him struggling, realised that was a bad idea as he started to cry out, and slapped a hand over his mouth, feeling an utter swine as he stiffened with fear.

“It’s Curtis, you’re safe. Stop, damn it! You’re safe, I’ve got you. Stop,” he hissed, and felt Daniel slump back into his arms at last. He moved his hand away.

“Curtis?”

“Here.”

“Curtis,” Daniel repeated, with a hint of satisfaction. He shut his eyes again, and Curtis thought he was going to sleep, but after a few moments he said, “I was in the cave.”

“Don’t think about that.”

“In the cave, in the dark. It—dripped. Over and over. And that hole—” His voice was shaking.

“Stop it. It’s done.”

“You came.”

“Of course I did.”

Daniel was silent a little longer, then he said, “Did you kill Holt?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t like violence. Doesn’t solve anything.”

Curtis shrugged. He felt that violence had solved that particular problem nicely. Daniel snuggled against him, muttering something that Curtis didn’t catch, and within a few seconds he was asleep again.

Curtis half-lay with his head against cold stone and his body on a hard wood floor, feeling Daniel’s heavy weight over him, warm and safe. He luxuriated in the sensation for a few moments before turning his mind to what came next.

He had to get Daniel out. Holt would be missed today. He would, he thought grimly, fight to the death before he let James Armstrong get his hands on Daniel again, but it might well come to that if he faced men with guns.

With two hands he would have stolen one of the Armstrongs’ motors. Perhaps he still could, but it would be a noisy business, to break in and start the machine, and he would have to take the time to get Daniel into the seat. And he was not at all sure he could control a car at speed along these winding roads, gripping the wheel with only finger and thumb. Certainly not fast enough to outdistance a pursuer, and he felt sure that he would be chased.

It was an option, but one for desperation. What were the alternatives? He could try and place a telephone call—he could beg a lift to Newcastle and call from there, if his hosts were still keeping up the pretence of hospitality—but that meant leaving Daniel alone in the folly.

He stirred. Curtis stroked a soothing hand over his brow, and found it unpleasantly warm.

Christ, what if he was going to be ill? It would hardly be surprising if a day soaked in water led to a bad chill.

He needed food and water and blankets, then, and he would have to get them soon, before the house was up. He needed a gun. He would place a call to his uncle from here, whatever the risk, and summon help, and after that… Well, if need be he would retreat to the folly and hold it as a defensible position for as long as it took.

Curtis contemplated that prospect as he gently rolled Daniel off him. He took a quick look around and, to his delight, found that an old wooden chest contained picnic blankets. He made the sleeping man as comfortable and warm as he could, murmuring reassurances, then stepped quietly out of the building. Of course, Daniel couldn’t bar the door behind him, but with no allies, supplies or communication lines, Curtis was running on luck now.

It wasn’t the first time. It might be the last, but he’d give it a damned good try.

With that thought in mind, he took half a dozen steps before he heard the sound of movement, someone coming up the hill.

It was bare ground around the building and trying to hide behind the folly would look more suspicious than strolling forward. If it came to it, he’d just have to deal with the intruder as he’d dealt with Holt.

He paced forward as the walker approached, clenching and flexing his fingers, and saw it was Miss Merton.

“Hello, Mr. Curtis.” She lifted a cheery hand as she came to meet him. “I thought I was the only morning walker here. Isn’t it a beautiful day?” Her eyebrows drew together as she took in his appearance. “Are you all right?”

Curtis didn’t hesitate. “Are you alone?”

“Yes…?”

“Miss Merton, in the name of God, as one shooter to another, I need your help.”

Miss Merton straightened from Daniel’s side and looked down at his unconscious form, then up at Curtis.

“Well, I don’t think he’s feverish, as such,” she said. “Getting chilled through like that can do funny things to the body. You need to keep him warm and safe. I suppose you’re certain of all this business?”

“As certain as I am of anything. I saw the photographs. He was tied to a rock—”

She held up a hand. “I don’t doubt you. I’m just trying to think what to do.”

“If you could help get food—”

“Not enough.” Miss Merton shook her head briskly. “It seems to me that we have three problems: we must keep Mr. da Silva safe, get word out to someone for help, and avert suspicion until that help arrives. Very well. I think our first step should be to tell Fen.”

“Miss Carruth?” said Curtis incredulously. Christ, had the woman not understood how serious this was?

She was giving him a pitying smile. “I suppose it’s fair to say that there’s rather more to Mr. da Silva than those ghastly affected airs he puts on?”

“Very much more.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be too quick to believe in Fen’s silly-girl act either.” She frowned in thought. “What if I announce I’m going for a tramp on the moors, alone, and beg supplies from the kitchen for the day. I’ll bring a couple of guns and hole up here till evening. That way, I’ll keep an eye on our invalid. You and Fen, somehow, will have to make that telephone call. You can relieve me in the evening. If the pair of you stay away from the folly in the day, nobody should even think of this place. Yes?”