Trusted Like The Fox (27 page)

The glen was a black patch of trees and shrubs, and she hesitated whether to go on or not; whether she should sit by the lake and wait for him to come to her, but knowing that a path ran round the lake she realised that he might return by the far side of the lake and miss her. She decided to go on.

She waited a moment or so, hoping that he would come. There was something final and frightening about the path ahead of her. It scared her. She wondered if bats hung from the trees and would drop on her; if an owl would fly at her, its great saucer-like eyes snapping fire of annoyance. She pulled the tweed coat closer about her, walked slowly towards the glen.

The ground sloped away under her feet and she walked heavily, digging her heels into the mossy path. She felt as if unseen hands were pushing her forward, and twice she stopped, hesitated, and looked back at the lake, wishing to return, but each time, going forward, now intent on finding Crane, also realising that she hadn’t the courage to face the darkness of the thicket alone on the return journey.

In the glen, she again paused. The moonlight came through the trees and lit the carpet of soft grass, the climbing roses, the wild orchids and the rhododendrons that flowered there.

It was an enchanting spot even at night, and it gave her courage to go on. She went on, through the glen towards the twisting path that led to the wood. At the foot of the path, she came to an uneasy halt. Perhaps he wasn’t there at all, she thought. Was it worth while going further? She was like a child in a fairy tale about to enter a forest full of strange creatures, witches and dragons. She felt small and defenceless beside the tall trees, but she did go on after a struggle with herself, although she moved a step at a time, ready to retreat at the first movement in the undergrowth.

But nothing alarmed her, and she went on and on, until, looking back, she realised that she was now completely swallowed up by the dense wood, and, for all she knew, she might have wandered into an endless tunnel and was now miles under the ground. The moment that thought entered her head, she became panic-stricken, and she sank to the ground, petrified, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She remained on the soft mossy ground for some time, struggling to control her fears. She must go back, she told herself. By keeping her eyes closed, she managed to shut out the terror that seemed to lurk around her. “There’s nothing to be frightened of,” she said, half aloud. “All I have to do is to retrace my steps to the lake, and then rest there until Richard comes to look for me. I must return to the lake.”

But when she opened her eyes and found herself still in the hot, silent darkness, fear again laid hold of her. She scrambled to her feet, took a hesitating step forward and then stopped. In the distance, right ahead of her, she saw a faint gleam of light. At first she couldn’t believe it, but looking again, she knew she hadn’t been mistaken.

Instantly her fear left her. Richard was just ahead. She had been right to come; a fool to have been scared. She hurried forward, each step bringing her nearer the light.

As she rounded the bend of the path, she saw, a hundred yards or so ahead, a storm lantern, set down in the middle of the path, but there was no one in sight: no Richard.

She reached the lantern, picked it up, looked around; holding the lantern above her head, trying to see further than its bright rays could penetrate.

She was now alarmed; no longer afraid for herself, but afraid for Richard. Something must have happened to him, she thought wildly. He must have slipped and hurt himself and had crawled into the undergrowth before losing consciousness.

In the light of the lantern she could see how wild and lonely this spot was. Thick shrubs bordered the path; great, gnarled trees, centuries old, leaned over threateningly, their branches but a few feet above her head. The grass was long and tangled, the weeds and nettles and ivy choked the undergrowth.

She was about to call out, when she saw something that froze her into silence. From beneath a thick bush, a man’s foot protruded.

“Richard!” she screamed, starting forward. “Richard! Are you hurt?” and she dropped on hands and knees to peer under the bush. She saw a trouser leg and then a hand, and she reached out, seized the hand. But the moment her fingers touched it, she knew she was touching dead flesh, and she snatched her hand away, her body recoiling with a violent start, her heart skipping a beat.

The full force of the discovery didn’t strike her for a moment or so. She knelt before the hand, stupefied with horror. Then it dawned on her that Richard was dead, and she screamed frantically, sprang to her feet and ran wildly down the path into the darkness.

Her screams echoed through the woods; disturbed the birds, startled the foxes in their holes, but she wasn’t even aware she was screaming.

Half-way down the path, she realised she was running blindly in the dark and she stopped, looked back at the distant light of the lantern. She must get the lantern and then get help. Richard was dead! Nothing mattered now. She couldn’t leave him there. She would have to tell someone; get whoever it was to carry him to the house. Safki! Of course! Safki must help her.

Sobbing distractedly, she retraced her steps, reached to pick up the lantern, then paused. She remained half bent over the lantern, her heart frozen, fear taking hold of her in icy fingers.

Just in front of her, something moved: a dim shape seemed to rise out of the ground and tower over her. Strange animal-like eyes shone in the lantern light.

She couldn’t move nor utter a sound. She remained petrified, a figure carved in stone.

Crane came out of the bushes, caught hold of her arms, pulled her against him, looked down into her glazed eyes.

“I’m afraid I frightened you,” he said gently and smiled. “I’m so very sorry, my dear.”

She clutched his coat in both hands, felt her inside heave, and a cold sweat break out all over her body. Her knees gave under her, and if he had not held her tightly, she would have fallen. She lost consciousness, sank into a dark pit of faintness.

He was still holding her when the faintness went away. She was lying on the ground, her head pillowed on his knees, his hands holding hers.

She looked up at him, saw the kind, humorous smile in his eyes, relaxed with a sigh of relief.

“I thought you were dead,” she said and began to cry. “Oh, Richard, I was so frightened.”

“Of course you were, my dear,” he said, stroking her hands, “You shouldn’t have come into the wood. Why did you come?”

“I wanted you,” she said. “Ellis was saying such beastly things . . .” She suddenly sat up, clutched his arm. “That man! He’s dead! I thought it was you!”

Crane pulled her back against him.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said. “I didn’t want you to know.”

She remembered what Ellis had said:
Crane spotted him crawling across the lawn. He knew he’d get help and arrest us, so he killed him.

“Is it the policeman?” she asked, staring at him in horror.

Crane nodded.

“You killed him?” Grace said, clutching at his sleeve and shaking it. “You killed him?”

There was a watchful expression in his eyes now. “Did Ellis say so?”

“Yes.” Her hand unconsciously continued to shake his sleeve.

“It was an accident,” Crane said. “I only wanted to save you. I didn’t really kill him. He was looking in Ellis’s room. You were there, too. I could see he recognised you both. I crept up to him and knocked him on the head. But as he fell — he had a knife in his hand (perhaps he was going to open the window with it) — he fell on the knife.”

“You hit him?” Grace gasped.

“I thought we’d have time to make a bolt for it,” Crane said. “I’ll never forgive myself. I wanted you, my dear. I couldn’t bear the thought of being parted from you. I didn’t hit him hard . . . but he fell on the knife.”

She believed him instantly, and slipping her arms round him, she hugged him to her.

“You’re so good to me,” she sobbed. “I don’t know how I can repay you. Is there nothing you won’t do for me?”

He grinned bleakly in the darkness, ran his fingers through her hair, then he raised her face so she could see what he wanted to say to her.

“I’m going to bury him. I was digging a grave for him when I heard you scream. They’ll never find him in this wood. All we have to do is to sit tight. It’s the only thing to do. Tomorrow I’ll get rid of Ellis, then you and I can get out of the country — go to Switzerland or America.”

“But they’ll find him,” she said, terrified. “They always do.”

He pushed her gently from him.

“Don’t be frightened. Trust in me,” he said. “Now, wait here while I bury him. I won’t be long.”

“I must help you,” she returned, shivering. “It was my fault. I can’t expect you to do that alone.”

He made a slight, impatient movement which she did not notice.

“Please stay here,” he said, an edge to his voice. “I can do it, and I don’t want you near.”

He went away and left her with the lantern and she waited for a long time. She sat on the grass, her head in her hands, unable to believe that this awful thing had happened. He had killed a man! He had done that to save her. It had been her fault, and now he was in danger.

These thoughts revolved in her mind until he returned. She happened to look up and saw him as he came down the path, out of the darkness. There was mud on his shoes and on the ends of his trousers. There was mud on his hands.

She started to her feet, then paused. There was something strange about his eyes that frightened her. He came to her, took hold of her. She was startled by the roughness of his grip and by the heaviness of his breathing. He pulled open her coat, almost dragged it off her, then he jerked her against him, his mud-stained hand closing round her chin, lifting her face to his.

She saw in his eyes what he meant to do, and she cried out, “Oh, no! Please, not here!” but he didn’t seem to hear for he crushed his mouth down on hers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Crane stood by the open dining-room window, his hands in his pockets, a heavy, thoughtful frown on his face. The bungalow was strangely silent, and nothing in the garden stirred under the hot midday sun.

Grace was having a bath. She had slept late, and he hadn’t seen her since the previous night. He had heard her go to the bathroom but a few minutes ago, and he wondered how she was feeling: whether she was going to be difficult.

He had been in to see Ellis whose small, hard eyes had never left Crane’s face for a moment: revengeful, vicious eyes. He hadn’t spoken, although Crane had tried to make conversation, and losing patience, Crane had left him. He had then tried to contact Safki, but the telephone remained unanswered. This had irritated Crane as he wanted to get rid of Ellis without any further delay. He was suddenly bored with Grace and Ellis; he wanted to bring this affair to an abrupt close.

His big hands clenched in his pockets. Tonight he would finish Grace and bury her beside Rogers and Julie, out there in the lonely wood. He felt his blood quicken at the thought, and the old familiar feeling he knew so well came back, fastening on to his mind, swamping all other feelings and thoughts.

But first, he had to get rid of Ellis, and he turned from the window, intending to ring Safki again, but a movement outside arrested his attention. He again glanced out of the window, felt his heart miss a beat.

From where he stood he could look down the long drive to the big wooden gates. Standing before the gates was an old-fashioned Rolls-Royce, and even as he saw it, Major-General Sir Hugh Franklin-Steward descended from it, had a word with the chauffeur, opened the gate and began to walk slowly up the drive.

For a moment Crane lost his nerve. He experienced a strange weakness in his legs and the blood left his face. What did the old boy want? He hadn’t been near the bungalow for months: and at this hour? Had James been to him? Were they suspicious? Could something have gone wrong?

Crane quickly pulled himself together. No, nothing could have gone wrong. He was too clever for that to have happened. He had fooled James and was behaving like a fool himself. There was nothing to get excited about. The old boy probably wanted something, or, as he hadn’t seen him for a few days, thought he’d call. His confidence returned. This could even be an exciting experience if he played his cards properly. The idea of entertaining the Chief Constable while sheltering a notorious renegade and a wanted convict was fun: would test his nerves, but he’d have to be sure they were safely out of the way first.

Moving swiftly, he went to the bathroom, opened the door, entered.

Grace was just fastening her dressing-gown. Her hair was limp from the steam of the hot water and her face looked young and innocent, free as it was from make-up. There were, however, dark smudges under her eyes and she looked tired as if she had slept badly.

She recoiled slightly as Crane came in, blushed and looked away.

He grabbed her arm, pulling her to him.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “The Chief Constable of the district is coming up the drive. I don’t know what he’s after, but I’m positive he doesn’t know you and Ellis are here. Go to Ellis and sit with him. Lock yourself in.” He thrust a shot-gun that he had snatched from the rack on the hall wall into her hands. “Threaten him with that if he plays the fool. Now, hurry.”

Grace nearly dropped the gun. She trembled, clung to him.

“But I daren’t,” she stammered. “I — I’m scared. Oh, Richard, suppose they’ve found out?”

“Get in there and be quiet,” Crane said curtly. “He’ll be here any second now. Leave it to me. I’ll handle him all right. There’s nothing to worry about, but keep Ellis quiet.”

He bundled her out of the bathroom, down the passage to Ellis’s door.

“Lock yourself in and don’t make a sound,” he said, opened the door and pushed Grace into the room, then closed the door behind her.

As he turned the front door bell rang and he grinned, showing his big white teeth.

“Now for it,” he thought. “The old fossil won’t get the better of me. This should be fun if only that madman Ellis doesn’t start something. But he won’t,” he reassured himself. “He’s too scared: values his rotten little life too highly. If he gives me away, he’ll hang and he knows it.”