An Unwilling Accomplice (30 page)

Five minutes later he was back, bearing a rather greasy packet, which he took directly out to the motorcar.

“Are you up for an adventure?” he asked as I started to follow him.

Mystified, I said, “Of course.”

“Let’s go upstairs. I’ll call for you a little after ten. Don’t wear your cap or your apron. Too much white.”

I led the way up to the first-floor passage, thinking hard.

“We’re going to do a little late-night reconnaissance,” I said.

“Bess.” He raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief. “Would I lead you into trouble?”

I laughed. “Of course you would, if you didn’t wish to leave me here alone in this inn.”

Yet I’d spent several nights by myself in this inn while he was in Stratford.

It was nearly fifteen minutes past ten o’clock when Simon tapped very lightly at my door. I’d heard the case clock in the hall below strike the hour.

I wore my regulation coat over my uniform. It was rather chilly after the storm had passed, and so this didn’t seem unusual. Simon wore a dark jumper over his shirt, and dark trousers.

We went quietly down the stairs and out to his motorcar. He turned the crank, and we rolled out into the road.

It was dark here in this hilly part of the country, and the stars hadn’t appeared because of the light cloud cover left over from the storm. But as the wind picked up, it was quickly dissipating. Our headlamps slashed through the night, illuminating the road ahead of us with an almost blinding glare. Simon drove carefully, watchful for sheep and other denizens of the night.

Twisting and turning through the rounded hills, we passed through Upper Dysoe first. The houses were dark, no one on the streets. The only light I saw was in the low, thatched cottage belonging to Maddie, and I wondered if he was treating a patient. We reached the ruined barn, and I could have sworn that I’d caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. Surely it was just the wind stirring up the ashes from the fire?

The gates of Windward appeared on our left. The house too was dark, looming like a misshapen shadow tucked into its shallow bowl, its beauty hidden.

Middle Dysoe was shrouded in blackness, the huddled shapes of houses and shops silent and shuttered, dark, although a dog barked from a tanner’s yard. And then we reached Lower Dysoe. Our headlamps skimmed the broken wall with its covering of vines. They fluttered as we passed, as if ruffled by an invisible hand.

We didn’t stop in Lower Dysoe, and I knew then precisely what Simon was planning.

We hadn’t spoken during the drive, concentrating on the road, still muddy from the storm, pools of water masking the deeper ruts and splashing up against our tires.

Now I said quietly, “I see why dark clothes were necessary, if we’re walking back to the farm lane.”

“Not we. I’m the only one going in. I can’t leave this motorcar in plain sight. It would draw attention if anyone looked out and saw it. Nor do I want to leave it unattended.”

He pulled to the verge just beyond the next bend. Behind us the village appeared to have vanished.

“I won’t stay here,” I whispered fiercely. “If you’re going to walk into the grounds of that house, I want to be with you. I want to see for myself what’s there.”

“One person can travel more swiftly that two. And more quietly. What’s more, one person has a better chance of escaping undetected.”

It was true. And Simon seemed to have no trouble seeing in the dark. He could move like the wind, avoiding obstacles—and people—with ease. Not only that, he kept his head in tight places. The Colonel Sahib had frequently used him to reconnoiter in dangerous situations.

Trying to bridle my frustration, I said, “Yes, all right. Go on.”

He flashed me a grin just as he cut the headlamps. “I know, Bess. I’m sorry.”

And then he was gone, only to return seconds later to fetch the packet from the floor in the rear.

I knew now what that packet was—meat scraps from the kitchen for the spaniel or any other dog he encountered. But if the spaniel belonged to Phyllis Percy, it would sleep with her. If that was so, then no amount of raw meat could stop it from barking. I could only pray that her room didn’t overlook the rear of the house.

I watched Simon out of sight, then settled back, grateful for my coat. But a few minutes later, my feet were beginning to feel the cold too.

Getting out, I walked a bit to warm them. Once as I paced, I went to the side of the hill to peer around it, but the road through Lower Dysoe was just as empty and quiet as when we passed through.

I got back behind the wheel, my mind trying to follow Simon. But I didn’t know the way. We’d just driven a little distance into the farm track, well short of the cottages. I could only use my imagination.

Restless and chilled again, I got out of the motorcar a second time and walked a bit, standing close to the bend, listening to the night sounds. Even in my dark clothes, I stayed well out of sight of anyone on the road or looking out a window. The high autumn grass was a perfect cover.

Back to the motorcar again.

And then in the distance I heard a dog bark drowsily, as if its sleep had been disturbed.

The sound had come from the town, not the estate. I was fairly sure of it.

Was it Simon, on his way back? I hesitated to crank the motorcar, but if he needed to move out of here in a hurry, I should to be prepared.

I hurried to my vantage point, looking toward the village.

And this time someone was coming down the road. Limping a little. Keeping to the deeper shadows. He’d just reached the wisteria-covered wall.

Simon? Finding himself in a tight corner and having to circle round?

I watched for a moment longer. No, whoever it was, his stride wasn’t as long as Simon’s. Nor was he as tall. At first I thought he would turn down the lane, one of the cottagers coming home late. But he didn’t.

A few yards closer. I could see now that he was in uniform.

I froze.

It couldn’t be the Major.

A soldier on leave? Walking from the nearest railway station?

Or Sergeant Wilkins? If so, where had he been—and where was he going?

If he was simply passing through the village, he’d stumble on the motorcar. What’s more, he’d recognize it. And me. I’d have to move it. Now.

I stood there a few seconds longer, all but holding my breath, hoping that whoever it was, he wouldn’t turn down the farm lane. Simon would be boxed in.

He passed the handful of shops, taking his time, moving as if he were tired. And he was being careful. Very careful. A night bird called, and his head swung instantly in that direction. For a moment he stopped, listening.

The last shop before the track was a tobacconist cum men’s wear. Half the size of one in Biddington.

I stayed where I was, debating what to do. There was no earthly way to warn Simon. Even if I dared to sound the motorcar’s horn, he could blunder right into whoever this was.

The man halted just before he reached the tobacconist. Looking back the way he’d come, he scanned the street. Then he looked in my direction. Satisfied, he settled into the shadows of a doorway—was it the tea shop?—and waited.

I was certain he’d stared longer than necessary toward where I was concealed, peering through the high grass. Even with cat’s eyes, he couldn’t see me there. But if he had cat’s hearing, could he hear my heart pounding?

Now what should I do about Simon? Was this man intending to stay where he was for the better part of the night? Was he intending to break into one of the shops? Waiting for someone? Or just taking shelter from the chill of the wind?

It felt like half an hour had passed before he moved again. Stepping out of the shadow of the doorway, he walked silently but swiftly toward the farm lane and almost at once was swallowed up in the deeper shadows of the trees.

Had he been making certain he wasn’t being followed before going on to one of the tenant cottages and to his bed? But who could he have thought was following him? Surely not Simon!

Or had he decided to move around the far side of the hill where I was crouched, and slip up behind me? Was that what he was doing even now?

I felt a shudder down my spine, as if I could feel him coming toward me in the dark.

I refused to believe it.

All the same, I went quickly to the boot and took a spanner from the tool kit. I had no other weapon, but that would do.

Then I waited behind the motorcar, counting to one hundred. If he’d come around the hill, he’d see the motorcar before he saw me. And that would draw his attention. Two could play at cat and mouse.

But he didn’t appear. I gave him another five minutes, and there was still no sign of him.

He could be a third of the way down the farm track now. Running straight into Simon. Simon, unsuspecting, unprepared for a threat from the rear.

Simon hadn’t survived countless campaigns without learning how to protect himself from the expected—or the unexpected. I knew I shouldn’t worry.

But as time went on, I did worry. I couldn’t see the hands on my little watch, pinned to my uniform inside my coat. But I had a fair idea that it must be well after midnight. Overhead the clouds had moved on, the wind was dropping, and the ambient light of the stars would soon make it brighter than it was now. And Simon had been gone for a very long time.

Still carrying the spanner, I walked quietly around the shoulder of my hill toward the village, where the track turned off the main road. Trees had been planted to form a park in this relatively treeless country, concealing the farm buildings from the house, and vice versa. I edged my way from trunk to trunk.

The night was still as silent as it had been from the moment Simon left the motorcar. No dogs barking, save for the one the soldier must have roused.

I strained to hear.

And suddenly I had the feeling that a quiet game of hide-and-seek was going on in these woods. I’d lived on unsafe frontiers, I’d served nearly four years close by the trenches in France. My position had almost been overrun by the Germans. That sense of imminent danger, of something about to happen, was so strong I took a few more steps into the trees. And then a few strides.

For all I knew, whoever had walked down that track had a revolver with him. And Simon was not armed.

At that moment I heard someone call, “Who’s there? Come out where I can see you.” The voice carried but not clearly enough for me to know whose it was.

A light—a torch—flashed through the trees. It couldn’t reach me, but I instinctively stepped into the shelter of the nearest trunk.

“Come out and identify yourself. I’ve a shotgun here. I’ll use it if I must.”

Had someone in a cottage been roused by the same sense of danger and come to investigate?

Someone was shuffling about in the thick layer of fallen leaves underfoot.

I was too close to the track; if whoever held that torch came down this way, I could be spotted. But where had the soldier gone? And where was Simon?

The thought had hardly passed through my mind when a hand went across my face, covering my mouth, and I was being lifted bodily sideways, moving laterally toward a towering tree with a divided trunk, wide enough to hide both of us. I’d begun to struggle almost at once, kicking out with my heels and was just about to bite the palm across my lips when Simon whispered, “Bess!”

At once I ceased my efforts to free myself and he dropped his hand but not his arm around my waist.

I’d forgot the spanner. I lifted it and pressed it into his free hand.

The torch light swept the woods two or three times, then suddenly stopped. “Patches? What the devil are you doing out here? Come on, back to bed, you naughty cat. It’s the middle of the bloody
night
.”

The light moved away, was cut off, and after a moment I heard a door shut.

I stirred, but Simon held me close, not setting me free.

We stayed where we were for what seemed like a quarter of an hour. I could feel his breathing, slow and strong. And then finally Simon released me.

Gripping my hand, he led me through the wood, taking his time, avoiding the open track, choosing his path, always keeping trees between us and the cottages. When the tree line thinned at the edge of the estate, he stopped again, waiting, listening. Satisfied that we were alone, he pressed my fingers to warn me that we were close to the wall, then helped me over it. Again we stopped and listened. At length we walked on to the motorcar, and while Simon turned the crank, I took my seat.

We drove off, away from Lower Dysoe without turning on the massive headlamps, neither of us speaking.

We’d gone two miles, perhaps even three, when Simon stopped.

“What were you planning to do, Sister Crawford?” he asked, retrieving the spanner from under his feet and tossing it onto the rear seat. “Break his skull with this? And then bandage it tidily?”

“If need be,” I said calmly. “You were in trouble and unarmed. What happened?”

“There was no warning of course—but let me start at the beginning. I moved off the track before I came to the first of the cottages. Someone had built a fire on the hearth, and I could smell the woodsmoke. The second cottage was dark as well, but when I stood outside one of the windows, I could hear someone snoring. By a roundabout way I made it as far as the third cottage without any problem. It took longer than I anticipated, because I had to be careful of the kitchen gardens. I didn’t want to leave footprints there to be discovered later. When I reached the cottage at last, it was dark, quiet. Nothing to indicate whether it was occupied or not. I did put my hand on the chimney, but it was cold. I took a risk, trying the door. It opened, and I listened, but there was a mustiness about the air, as if the cottage had been closed up for some time. I didn’t step in, I didn’t know what I’d find. I shut the door and moved well clear of the cottage before starting back.”

He shifted in his seat. “Just then I had a feeling that I was being watched. I couldn’t say why.”

There it was, that sixth sense.

“Go on.”

“My first thought was, you’d grown tired of waiting. But the feeling went deeper than that. I heard something in the direction of the house and almost at the same time there was a brief flash of light. I could see the kitchen door from where I was standing. It was almost as if someone had opened it, realized the light was spilling into the yard, and shut it quickly. That’s probably true, because it opened a second time, and the lamp had been turned down. I could just see someone step out of the door and start down the path. I expected him to go to the cottage, but once he was well away from the kitchen gardens, he turned and walked around the house, toward the front drive. I followed, and he continued down the drive to the gates. Only instead of opening them, he scrambled over the wall. My last glimpse of him was on the lane, walking toward the road.”