Greygallows, p.24
Greygallows, page 24
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?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In the first moment I failed to recognize him. His face was so darkly crusted it might have been a mask. Then, gleaming uncannily through congealed blood and mud which had hardened with cold, I recognized the gray eyes. His clothes were torn, and stiff with frozen mud.
Mr. Fleetwood glanced at me and at Jonathan; his eyes moved on, disinterestedly, as if we had been pieces of furniture. He looked at Clare, who stood unmoving, with that wild glare imprinted on his features.
'She is dead,' the vicar said. 'Dead ... and the child too. The bridge—weakened by floods, and then frozen...'
Clutching the folds of the draperies like an antique Roman wrapping his toga around him, Clare was the focus of all our eyes. The vicar's expression was one of shrinking dread, Jonathan's of shock and calculation. And I? Unexpectedly, I felt pity. She had been very beautiful, and he had loved her very much. I knew now what it was to feel for another more than for myself. And the horrible, ironic justice of it—not even I would have planned such a revenge, if I could have done so.
'I am glad you take it so well,' Fleetwood said, eyeing Clare apprehensively. 'I feared ... I have been riding for hours to tell you, I did not even wait to have my own injuries dressed. Thank God I came in time.'
Then, as Clare still did not move or speak, he turned to Jonathan. He was obviously in great bodily pain as well as distress of mind; even so, I found his words fantastic and, in a sense, more repellent than any others that had been spoken.
'I was in time,' he said. 'You will remember that, and speak for me, if it should ever come to ... I knew nothing of this. You believe that? I knew nothing until she told me, as she lay dying...'
Clare began to laugh. It was a great roar of laughter, like thunder, impersonal and quite mad. With one jerk of his arm he brought the heavy draperies down from their bar. They swirled around him like a cloak and billowed out behind him as he strode across the room. He flung the masses of cloth so that they fell half into the hearth and half out, trailing across the carpet.
I was too stunned to sense his purpose, but Fleetwood knew. With a shriek like a woman's scream he flung himself at Clare, and the latter threw him off with a sweep of the arm that sent the slighter man spinning backward until he fell heavily to the floor, where he lay stunned. At that moment the coals caught on to the fabric; a high, white flame sprang up and seized greedily on this dry tinder. Clare reached for the tongs. He swept the fire out onto the trailing folds. Without a backward glance he walked to the connecting door, opened it, and passed through. He was talking—to himself, I suppose. I caught a few words: '—burn. Let it burn.' From the next room I heard a clatter of tools, and then a light flared up. Clare's steps went on, out the door and down the hall.
Jonathan was struggling wildly.
'Fleetwood,' he called. 'Wake up, man! Will you let us all burn?'
The vicar stirred feebly. The fall had stunned him, but had not rendered him unconscious. With a groan he rolled over and then rose to his knees. As his opening eyes fell on the fire they widened in terror. With another of those womanish shrieks he leaped to his feet and ran. I could hear him screaming all the way down the hall; my cries, and Jonathan's shouts, were drowned by his. I don't think he meant to desert us. He was out of his wits with fear.
I sat on the edge of the bed. The carpet had caught and was burning merrily; a row of hungry little yellow flames separated me from Jonathan. He had struggled to his feet, but the effort cost him dear; he was swaying and his face was gray.
'Mrs. Williams will see the fire,' I said. I was abnormally calm; I suppose it was shock. I could not credit the reality of the creeping yellow flames.
'By the time someone sees it, it will be too late for us,' Jonathan said weakly. 'You must move, Lucy. Hop, roll, but move, out of here. I can't help you ... can't move...'
I slid down off the bed, barely keeping my feet. Hop? I could do that, yes; but jump across the line of fire with hands and feet bound ... No, I felt sure that was beyond my powers. There was no escape through the next room. Clare had been more thorough there, or the fire had found more to seize upon; already the scene through the open door was hazy with smoke, red-stained by the flames that produced it.
As I hesitated, Jonathan's eyes rolled up. He dropped to his knees and then fell forward.
The smoke was thicker. I began to cough and could not stop. One hop; then another; and then the coughing made me bend over too far. I fell, prostrate. I could no longer see Jonathan for the smoke and the rising flames. I felt a pang of bitter disappointment. I had had so little, and there was so much waiting...
Something came through the air like a great bird. It caught me up roughly, so that I woke and cried out, coughing still. Again it leaped the fire; I smelled singeing cloth. We were out, in the hall, in the clearer air. There was only a faint haze of smoke. I blinked my streaming eyes, and recognized the face of the man who held me.
'Tom,' I said. 'Where did you come from? Oh, Tom, he's back there ... get him out ...'
'No, my lady,' said Tom, clutching me so tightly I could hardly breathe. The tears were streaming down his dirty face; they may have been tears of emotion, but I think it was probably the smoke. 'Frank has him; don't fret, my lady, we'll have you both safe...'
Over his shoulder I saw another face I knew—Anna. No sentimentalist, she; she gave Tom a hearty shove, so that he staggered and almost dropped me.
'Run, you—young fool,' she said, using a word I had never heard. 'The whole —ing house is afire.'
Clutched like an unwieldy parcel I traveled down the stairs in Tom's arms. It was rather exhilarating. As he thudded across the lower hall I could see a red glow from the drawing room. A great gust of smoke came eddying down the corridor leading to the offices. Then we were out in the bitter freezing night air, and I coughed and choked and strangled on my tears; and Tom stood still, staring at Greygallows House, burning, until Anna came charging up and made him put me down, and started sawing at the ropes with a knife. She had me free, and wrapped in a rough blanket, before Jonathan made his appearance, slung over someone's shoulder like a side of beef, and—I might have expected it—laughing.
