Death in the Castle (23 page)

“He thinks you’re his enemy.”

He laughed again. “Nonsense—we’re not living in the Middle Ages.”

“Sir Richard is—and it’s not for laughing, either, if it’s me you’re laughing at! I tell you he wants to kill you!”

“Kate—”

“Yes?”

“Are you afraid for
me?”

Her voice came very small and hesitant. “Yes.”

“Then I’m coming.”

“No—please, please leave the village—leave England—pack your things now, at this moment—”

“Can’t I wait until tomorrow just to see how he is?”

“No. It’s life and death. Good-bye, good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Kate,” he said and hung up.

When he turned, the innkeeper was standing behind him.

“What was all that?” he inquired. “What’s wrong at the castle, Mr. Blayne?”

“They want me out of the country,” he said slowly. “I don’t know why. I don’t understand.”

“When Sir Richard gives an order, he means it to be obeyed.” The voice held a note of warning.

“Perhaps it depends on who receives the order.”

“That Kate is a strong-minded lass, Mr. Blayne, but she’s a good girl. Lady Mary is lucky to have such a maid in this day and age. Why, it’s all I can do to get—”

“She’s not a maid, George.”

“What is she then?” George’s round eyes grew rounder. “Who is she then?”

“I shall find out. That’s why I’m staying.”

“Shall you want a room here at the inn tonight, Mr. Blayne?”

John did not answer for a moment, then he nodded his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps I will, George, just for tonight, just in case.”

“What will you be doing now, Mr. Blayne?”

“I’m going back to the castle as soon as I’ve finished my tea.”

… In the tower room Wells was facing his master.

“Put down the sword, Your Majesty,” he said.

Sir Richard, with the sword pointed at Wells, muttered thickly, “I’ll run you through.”

The room was dancing in circles through his bloodshot eyes, purple circles shot with brilliant lights. He could barely see Wells, a dim ghost in the whirling colors.

“I must open the door, my liege,” Wells said. “Your queen must know everything now.”

“I’ll tell her myself, you traitor,” Sir Richard roared. He advanced, searching for the gray figure that now was there and now was gone.

Suddenly he heard noises behind him—someone grunting and groaning, the shriek of a bolt in its rusty hasp. Wells had stepped behind him. He whirled about, nearly fell, and recovered himself. Wells had to sidestep, the door still fast shut.

“You devil!” he shouted. “You’d trick me, would you? You’d run to my enemies! I’ve a way to stop you at last. Richard the Fourth—I’ll do what Richard the Third did—this sword—this sword—these damned colors floating everywhere! … Hah, but I see you there!”

He did indeed see a white and terrified face, the face of an old man, a stranger. He thrust the sword toward that face and even as he did so the body crumpled and fell to the floor. He saw a head at his feet and the sword in his hand. He stared down, bewildered.

“It’s bloody,” he muttered in disgust. He dropped the sword and it clattered on the stone floor.

…Outside the door the little group stood in the passage, listening in awe and terror. Nobody had come to help them. The doctor, Webster reported, was not in his office. The Americans had long since been dismissed.

“Should I not call the vicar, at least?” Kate was saying, and at that moment saw John, at the far end of the passage and running toward them.

“Oh, thank God, thank God,” Lady Mary cried at sight of him. “Only, how did you know that we needed help?”

“Kate told me not to come—some sort of danger—so, of course, I came. I went straight to Sir Richard’s room and that panel was open—I simply went through it and kept going like the White Rabbit in
Alice in
—
”
He broke off at the sight of their faces. “Tell me quickly,” he demanded, suddenly grave.

“Sir Richard is in there.” Lady Mary gestured. “He’s bolted the door.”

“My grandfather is in there, too,” Kate said and stopped.

“Sir Richard is very ill,” Webster said. “We must find a way to reach him.”

“The dungeon,” Kate exclaimed. “There’s a passage—”

“The door to it is solid iron,” Lady Mary reminded her. “And it’s locked.”

“There’ll be a key somewhere,” Webster said. “The lock will be rusty, of course, but if there was a hatchet—”

“Wait,” John cried. “Is there electricity down there?”

“Yes,” Kate told him. “Sir Richard’s father had it put in for the wine cellars.”

“If the door’s iron—” Webster began but John cut him short.

“One of my men had an electric drill with him, he was coming back tomorrow to get it.”

He turned quickly and sped back through the passage, Kate after him. By the time Lady Mary and Webster could reach the dungeon door they heard the sound of the electric drill cutting through the metal. The machine made hideous noises and it was impossible to speak. They could only wait.

“Now,” John said at last, “help me, Webster. This door is heavy and we must let it fall easily. Lucky it’s narrow! Kate, take this machine away. Now then, Webster—you on that side. I’ll take this. Stand back, please, Lady Mary.”

They obeyed him without a word. Together he and Webster lowered the door slowly to the stone floor. They peered into the darkness beyond and saw a windowless cell. John stepped over the threshold.

“It’s a shaft,” he exclaimed. “Look, Webster—there’s no ceiling. I see a square of light at the top.”

Webster went in and stared upward. “You’re right—it leads up the tower.”

“How to get there,” John mused. “There must be steps—yes—in the wall here. Can you feel them?”

“Good God, yes,” Webster exclaimed. “But I’d hate to—”

“Do you hear a voice?” Lady Mary called.

“Not even a whisper,” John answered. He was searching the steps carved into the rock. “I can climb. I’ll climb up and see—what—”

“Oh no!” It was Kate, pressing into the shaft. “Oh please, don’t climb up there. If you fall—”

“I shan’t fall,” John said. “I’m a mountain climber, Kate—a good one.”

He was already beginning to climb, clinging with his hands to the step above him, feeling his way.

“Oh, but what will happen to you when you get there?” she cried, wringing her hands. “How do you know—”

“The only way to know is to find out. Take Lady Mary upstairs. Obey me, Kate—Webster, go with them. I’ll meet you at the top when I get that door open.”

They obeyed again and alone he climbed slowly but skillfully the shallow steps. The square opening at the top was, he surmised, a trapdoor. He remembered such a door in the old stables of his childhood home in Connecticut. Then he had climbed through tunnels of hay. Now he climbed through rock, trying not to think, determined not to be afraid. The silence was unearthly, not a voice, not a sound. Where was Sir Richard?

Endlessly he climbed, trying to make no noise. Once on the edge of a step his hand slipped and he was all but catapulted to the bottom of the shaft, but he caught himself on the step above. Hand over hand, one foot after the other, he felt his way to the opening and pulled himself through the trapdoor and into the room. It was ablaze with light from a lamp set on a carved oak table. He tried to shut the trapdoor, but it would not fold back on its ancient hinges.

Someone was sitting at the table in a great oaken chair, a strange figure wrapped in an old robe of purple velvet, and wearing a gold crown—no, a crown of gold tinsel. Sir Richard! It could not be and yet he knew instantly that it was. He was mumbling over a book, an enormous book, and he was holding something in his right hand, resting one end on the floor. A scepter? It looked the real thing. Heavy with gold and glittering with encrusted jewels! There was this much treasure then. Sir Richard had found it. Why in heaven’s name was he hiding it here? What was the mystery?

John stood alone by the trapdoor. Should he speak? He must speak—

“Sir Richard,” he said gently.

Sir Richard lifted his head as though to listen, and without answer let it fall again as though be had not heard. Then John saw what lay beside the door, the crumpled body of Wells! Beside it was a sword, a long, thin blade, and, he saw to his horror, it was still shining wet with blood.

He stood in shock, staring at the sight. Sir Richard was mumbling again, his head sunken on his breast. What could be done? John wondered. Certainly he must not rouse him until the door was opened. He remained motionless, endeavoring to see whether the bolt of the door was still shot into the hasp. Bolt? There were three bolts! All bolts were shot, the door still barred. He must creep to it without a sound and draw the bolts back one after the other, and so throw the door open. But the sword—he must take that, for safety, and keep it near him.

Holding his breath, his eyes upon Sir Richard, he reached the door and put out his hand across the dead body. Poor Wells! He looked away from the dead face set in a grimace of fear, the open eyes. … The first bolt drew easily without a sound. The second bolt made a slight screech. The mumbling stopped. He stood motionless for an instant and then turned to look behind him. Sir Richard had not moved. He still sat with his head bent above the book, seeing nothing and yet intent on the open page.

But he was silent! Were his eyes closed? It might be that he had fallen into a doze. He waited, watching—perhaps Sir Richard was asleep, the light sleep of the aged. He must make haste. He tried to draw the third bolt back. It was stiff and would not yield easily. He had to use both hands and all his strength. The bolt was not half drawn when he felt something at his back, something sharp and pressing. He glanced backward toward his right. The sword was gone from the floor. He knew instantly whose hand held it.

“Sir Richard,” he said distinctly. “I am here only to help you.”

At this the sword pressed more deeply, forcing him to move toward the left, and yet he could not escape it. However he moved, Sir Richard held the sword into his back, cutting through his clothes, he could now feel, and pricking his skin.

“I wanted this meeting,” Sir Richard muttered through his clenched teeth. “I sought it! This settles everything between us after all these years, now you are in my power. After all these years—pursuing me—”

“Sir Richard, recall yourself,” John urged. He was being pushed step by step toward the trapdoor, the sword in his back.

“Forcing me to hide my son to save his life—in vain—in vain! Your bombs killed him.”

Son? What son? Sir Richard had no son. A dream of a son never born!

He felt a stab of pain and a warm trickle down his back.

“Sir Richard! I am your friend,” he cried desperately. “You can’t hate a friend—come now!”

“I do not deign to hate you,” Sir Richard retorted. “And call me by my proper name! What I do is my duty as a king. I could have had you poisoned while you sat at my table. But that would have burdened others. This task I must perform alone. To your knees, to your knees—”

For John had twisted himself suddenly up and now the two faced each other. … Good God, the absurdity of this, that he should be at the mercy of a mad old Englishman! Yet here he was, pinned between the point of a sword and a trapdoor. He had been a good fencer at Harvard. Once in his freshman year he had caught a sword in his hand, and he knew how fierce a weapon a sword was.

“To your knees, I tell you!” Sir Richard was shouting. “I’ll teach you how to show yourself before a king!”

“Now, please …” John began. He tried to laugh but laughter died in his throat. Those eyes, glaring at him with maniacal fury, impossible … to …

“Down on your knees!” Six Richard ground the words between his teeth.

He slipped to his knees to escape the sword. “Sir Richard—listen to me! All right—king, whatever you are—Lady Mary was right—there is a treasure—it’s on the table yonder—your royal scepter—a king’s ransom—you’ll keep your castle. Put down your sword. You don’t need it, I tell you. I’ll call Lady Mary and tell her you are waiting for her with the treasure—the treasure, man!”

Sir Richard was staring at him, but the fury was fading. He looked puzzled. His right hand dropped, he went to the table uncertainly and putting down the sword, he took up the scepter.

John stood upright again and edged his way toward the table and the sword, still talking.

“Webster will know how to dispose of the scepter—it’s a fortune in itself.”

He reached for the sword. Ah, thank God, he was in control now. He could open the door and get help; but he had no sooner grasped the sword than he saw Sir Richard lift the heavy scepter high in both hands and to his amazement prepare to bring it down on his head, as though it were a mace. He stepped back and thrust the sword in fencing position to fend him off, feinting this way and that, diverting each blow that Sir Richard dealt, but by so narrow a margin that he knew he could not relent for the fraction of a second. He saved himself once by leaping aside as the scepter glittered above his head. It fell then on a corner of the oaken table and split it off.

And while the mad duel went on, he trying not to wound Sir Richard but only to save his own life, he was aware, though dimly, of a constant muttering in his ears, a gasping groaning stream of broken talk pouring from Sir Richard’s foaming mouth.

“His body ashes—my son, my son! Wells knew. Where’s Wells? Wells—Wells—Wells—”

Sir Richard’s voice rose to, a shriek and he lifted the scepter again, high over his head, and staggered forward.

Out of the welter of words John heard the scream and dared not pause. The scepter was above his head. He feinted and darted right and left, escaping from corner to corner. Sir Richard pursued him erratically, managing somehow to pin him at one side or the other, using the scepter like a club. Once it skinned his cheek, once it struck his left arm, now it fell on his shoulder. Ah, but the sword was strong, a gem of a sword, as he could tell, and his hand had not lost its cunning. Sir Richard played for strength and he for skill, he in silence trying not to wound his opponent, and Sir Richard gasping and muttering beneath the scepter’s weight. Scepter and sword locked. They were face to face and Sir Richard hissed in his face.