Authors: Tim Vicary
Sarah felt the edges of the door in the darkness. In places bits of old rotten wood could be peeled off but there seemed to be plenty more solid stuff underneath. She could get her fingers into the gap between the lock and door jam but that was no use; nothing moved when she pulled.
‘Perhaps if we could get a bar or a spade in there and lean against it — that might lever it open. But where could we find something like that?’
‘I don't know!’ Deborah was nearly weeping with frustration. Her son was in here, she was quite sure of it. But if she couldn't get this door open soon that monster Simon Fletcher would come back; and apart from that, the shot might mean Charles had been killed, for all she knew. Charles, the stupid arrogant fool, prattling on about being true to his conscience and his duty —
why isn't he here!
‘In the Middle Ages they used to smash doors in with battering rams.’
‘What? Don't be silly, Sarah — where would we find a thing like that?’
‘A big log, perhaps, or a stone. There must be something, somewhere.’
‘All right, let's look.’
At first it was impossible. There were trees all around but no logs; for the first time in her life Deborah cursed her garden staff for being too efficient. Only little stumps and twigs and masses of useless bushes and leaf mould. They searched around on all sides of the ice-house but they could hardly see. Time was passing, Deborah realised; soon someone would come up from the house and then all her efforts would have been wasted. Her son might be killed because now she knew where he was and who had kidnapped him . . .
The moon came out, bathing the woods in clear silvery light. At least it was clear now and they could see they were wasting their time.
‘Here!’
‘What is it? Where are you?’ Deborah rushed towards the sound of Sarah's voice. She was near the path under one of the rhododendron bushes.
‘Look, there's a big stone. If we can just get it out of the ground …’
‘Let me help.’ The stone was one of a number that the gardeners had dug into the ground at the side of the path, presumably with the idea of marking the route and possibly having a little wall on either side in the end. It was big, a foot or more in height and six inches thick. But Sarah was right, it ought to be possible to get it out. Maybe the rhododendron roots had loosened it, or the rain. They seized it with their slippery, muddy hands, tugged with all their force, grunted . . .
‘It's coming!’
‘Yes!’
The stone lay on the path, loose, like an extracted tooth, and Sarah collapsed gasping beside it. For nearly half a minute she lay there, wheezing. Deborah tried to lift the stone herself, failed, tried again. This time she moved it two feet and then dropped it, weeping with frustration.
‘It's no good — it's too heavy!’
‘No it's not!’ Sarah was back on her feet, and the two of them got their hands under the stone, lifted it, carried it together up the path to the door of the ice-house. Then, backs breaking, they put it down.
‘We can do it. We've
got
to,’ Sarah said. ‘Look, when we pick it up, we'll take two steps back and then swing it as hard as we can against the door, just by the lock there. If we do that enough times it's bound to smash. Only don't drop it on your toes!’
‘No,’ Deborah laughed, a brief, harsh laugh. Then they bent to pick up the stone. The first time they swung it there was a disappointing slithering smash, and they did indeed drop it with a soft plop into the leafmould by Sarah's foot. Deborah felt the door but nothing seemed to have happened to it at all. Sarah leaned against the wall, clutching a finger which had got crushed.
‘It's no good,’ Deborah said. ‘It's too heavy and we're not strong enough. You shouldn't be doing this anyway.’
Sarah gasped for a moment, her breath coming too harshly for speech. Then she said: ‘Nonsense! Good exercise . . . make me strong. Anyway, when you've been in prison you know . . . how important it is to get out.’
‘All right. Thanks.’ They bent to lift the stone again and this time they managed much better. The stone hit the old iron of the door with a thunderous crash and they didn't drop it but swung it back again for another blow. And a third. Then they put it down, gasping, to examine the damage.
It was not as much as Deborah had hoped. The iron of the lock was bent and the wood around it splintered in places, but although the door rattled it held nearly as firmly as before. This is going to take time, she thought. And time is like strength — something we don't have much of.
Even as they paused, breathing heavily, she heard voices down by the house, and lights came on in the windows. Then there was the sound of footsteps, walking outside on the gravel.
‘Come on,’ she said, bending to pick up the stone. ‘Four more good swings this time. Just there, on the edge of the lock.’
‘I'll do my best,’ Sarah whispered grimly. But even as she stepped back for the first swing she staggered, and nearly fell . . .
W
ERNER HAD not gone to bed that night. It seemed too risky and he felt vulnerable in his enemy's house, even though he was convinced he had paralysed Charles with his threats. Instead he sat quietly in an armchair by a low fire with the automatic pistol on his left knee, gazing into the flames, thinking.
If all went well tomorrow he would have fulfilled every jot of the plan he had submitted to von Falkenhayn. Carson would have vanished — spirited from the very gates of the Unionist headquarters, Craigavon, into nowhere. The Unionists would be shocked, furious; they would be certain that the British government were behind his disappearance and no amount of official denials would convince them otherwise.
Tomorrow morning, to reinforce this belief, an article, already written by Werner, would appear in the
Neue Zuricher Zeitung
at the same time as Carson's abduction. The article would say that the paper's correspondent had exclusive information that the British Special Branch were planning to arrest Carson and keep him incommunicado in a police station near Belfast for several days. Werner had arranged for copies of this article to be sent to the London
Times,
the
Daily Telegraph,
the
Irish Times,
and the
Daily Mail
. When the news of Carson's disappearance broke, one of these would be bound to report on Werner's article even if they did not believe in it completely.
No amount of government denials would destroy the avalanche of suspicion which, Werner felt sure, would lead to a flood of attacks by Ulster Unionists upon police stations and British Army barracks throughout Ulster. The remaining Unionist leadership would be powerless to resist it. The civil war would have begun.
Carson, meanwhile, would be in one of two graves already dug in a bog on a side road not far from Craigavon. Charles Cavendish would be in the other. It was an isolated, lonely spot; the bodies might rot there undiscovered for years. By late afternoon Werner, Adolf, Karl-Otto, and Franz would be on the ferry to Stranraer, and Simon on a train to Dublin, from where he would take a ship direct to Germany. Their tickets were already bought.
No one would return to Glenfee to free the boy Tom, as Werner had promised. It was too risky. Instead the keys would be posted to the house with a note, in block capitals, telling Mrs Cavendish where to look.
Of course, it could still all go wrong. But Werner did not at the moment see how. The most dangerous moment might be at Craigavon, when Charles might be tempted to do or say something to arouse Carson's suspicions. But Werner had looked into Charles's eyes tonight when he had told him of the danger to his son, and he felt sure that Charles Cavendish would put his love for his son first, his duty to Carson second.
After a while he dozed and fell asleep. He dreamt that he had returned to Germany, and that the Kaiser himself was awarding him a medal. He raised his right hand to salute, and as he did so he realised that it was whole again, undamaged. He was seated on a gleaming black cavalry horse being honoured by Kaiser Wilhelm II in front of a review of the entire German Army, and his dead father was beaming at him proudly from behind the Kaiser's right arm.
The shot awoke him instantly.
He sat up, staring around the room, the automatic in his left hand, pulling back the safety catch with his thumb. But there was no one here; the room was silent, empty. Probably the shot had not come from inside the house at all. He tried to remember exactly what the sound had been like, but it was hazy, confused by his dreams. Had he really heard a shot, or only dreamt it?
Then there was a cry, thin, high, distinct, from somewhere out in the grounds.
‘HiIfe! Hier! Adolf! Schnell!’
He ran to the window and looked out. But it was dark — a thin rain falling, wind. He could see nothing. He forced himself to think. Clearly someone had disturbed Franz or Karl-Otto. Either someone coming towards the house from the village, or someone going away from here, trying to take a message. Which he had believed Charles would not dare to do.
If there was someone coming towards the house then it was important to get hold of Charles. He could order whoever it was to stop, go away, tell them that it was all a mistake and everything was all right.
If it was someone going from here to the village then he still had to get hold of Charles. To find out if he had sent anyone — to check if the man was still here at all!
Werner hurried out of his room into the corridor. He had forced Charles to show him where he slept earlier that night. Perhaps he should have kept Charles with him all night but he had thought that would be too provocative, and make Charles so angry that he would attack Werner out of simple rage, forgetting the consequences. Werner had decided to leave him alone in the hope that he would cool down.
That could prove to have been my worst mistake, he thought as he hurried along the corridor, past the main staircase.
As he had feared, Charles's room was empty. The spears and assegais hung on the wall, the fire was cold in the grate, the bed unslept in. Werner's feet echoed on the bare floorboards. He thought: damn!
Now what do I do? He hurried down to the library and the study but they were empty too. Someone had lit the oil lamps in the corridors and main stairs. In the front hall, he met the butler, Smythe, in a dressing gown.
‘Ah, good evening, sir. I thought I heard a shot, and someone shouting, in the grounds.’
‘Yes. I heard the same.’ What do I do about this, Werner wondered. He noticed that the butler was staring at the automatic in his hand. ‘It's all right, don't worry, Colonel Cavendish has already gone out to deal with it.’
‘Perhaps I should wake Johnson, the chauffeur, and go out to help him,’ Smythe suggested.
‘No, that won't be necessary,’ Werner said quickly. ‘Colonel Cavendish gave express instructions to me, in fact, that everyone was to go back to bed and not trouble themselves. I am here to guard the house if there is any . . . ah, good evening.’
They both turned as a young man came in the front door with a rifle in his hand. Simon Fletcher. He looked cold, damp, frightened. ‘What the hell's going on?’
‘It's nothing.’ Werner stepped quickly towards Simon, so that the butler was behind him and could not see his face. He stared at Simon meaningfully and flashed a glance over his left shoulder. ‘I was just explaining to the butler here that there is a UVF night exercise taking place in the grounds, and so there is no cause for concern.’
‘What? Oh, I see - yes.’ Simon took a deep breath and got a grip on himself. ‘Yes, it's all right, Smythe. It's just night training, that's all. No need for concern. Didn't Colonel Cavendish tell you?’
‘No sir, I'm afraid he did not. I fear that the cook and the chambermaids . . .’
‘Yes, that's right. You go and explain to them now, would you? And tell them all to stay in bed - that's the safest place to be, by far.’
‘As you say, Mr Fletcher.’
Smythe went out, with, Werner thought, just the faintest show of suspicious reluctance in his manner. When he had gone, Werner dragged Simon through one of the side doors into the library.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he asked furiously. ‘You're supposed to be guarding the boy!’
‘I came because of that shot, of course. Someone's out there - one of your men's in trouble. What's going on?’
‘It's Charles Cavendish, I think. He's not in the house.’
‘Oh Christ!’ Simon gazed at Werner incredulously. ‘You mean you let him go?’
‘I didn't tie him down, if that's what you mean. I told him the boy would die if he tried to get help. I thought he would have enough sense . . .’
‘Well, if he's gone out and got past your men, your scheme is wrecked anyway,’ Simon said bitterly. ‘You can kill the boy or not, it won't make any difference. I told you, you should have let me come into the house and talk to him . . .’
‘Quiet!’ Werner said. ‘What's that outside?’
There was the sound of feet, dragging on gravel, and a sort of sick moaning. They both rushed to the window and looked out.
In the light from the oil lamps in the main hall, a group of men appeared moving slowly across the gravel drive. There were three of them — two apparently strong and healthy, supporting a third with a bloodstained, bleeding face, who stumbled feebly between the others, with an arm around each of their necks.
The shot seemed to go on and on for a long time. Whenever Charles tried to think, the only picture in his mind was the shot exploding out of the night in front of his face. There was yellow and red and white fire and a noise that went on and on and on, straight through both eardrums and round and round inside his head and down his spine and through every part of his body. He tried to think of something else but there was only that, the rifle shot exploding out of the night in front of his face, yellow and red and white fire . . .
Then once there was the sense of falling. Down over a cliff through midnight air, turning and turning with the noise still in his head and the sense that there was nothing below him or above or in any direction at all, just an endless vacuum through which he fell and . . .