She crawled out into the sunlight again, stood up and dusted herself down. She was dirty again, but the jerkin and skirt were not like her own cheap clothes, and most of the dust brushed off.
She returned to Ellis and began to drag the stretcher along the narrow path leading to the clearing.
It was again a desperate struggle, but she kept on, sometimes falling, but getting up again, refusing to be beaten. Finally, not quite knowing how she had done it, she reached the clearing. She collapsed on the ground and sobbed with relief; the muscles in her arms and legs aching, her bones feeling as if they had been pulled from their sockets. It took her several minutes to screw up enough strength to complete her task, but she did manage to drag the stretcher into the tunnel before collapsing again.
She had no idea how long she lay in the darkness beside Ellis, but it was some time. Finally she aroused herself, sat up and turned on the electric torch.
The light revealed leaves, moss and ferns, growing so thickly that they formed a complete roof over their heads, the rough sides of the trunks, and Ellis lying still, his face glistening with sweat, his mouth moving as he muttered feverishly, unaware of what was happening.
She made him as comfortable as she could, gave him a drink of cold tea, and then crawled out into the open again. She knew that the police, if they came and if they saw the fallen tree trunks, would look further. It was her job to keep them away from this spot and without hesitation she walked back along the path to the fairway.
A distant clock struck the half-hour after nine as she moved cautiously towards the clubhouse, keeping close to the wood, her eyes alert for any sign of life.
The sun was warm, and heavy dew on the grass soaked the tops of her shoes. She walked easily, the nails in the shoes gripping the ground.
She passed the trench where they had spent the night, and she moved more slowly, aware that her heart was thumping and there was a dryness in her mouth.
She could see the clubhouse now, and she stopped, stood behind a big elm and surveyed the building suspiciously.
There was a bicycle leaning against the clubhouse wall, and two elderly men, wearing caps and mackintosh jerkins, stood near the first tee. One of them was waving his hands and now and then he pointed to the clubhouse.
Grace wondered if they were talking about the burglary. The short, thick-set man who waved his hands seemed excited, and she guessed he was telling the other man what had happened.
Then her heart gave a lurch as a policeman came out of the clubhouse and joined the other two men. They talked. The thick-set man continued to wave his hands, and the policeman stood stolidly listening.
After a few minutes of talk, the policeman began to wander around the clubhouse, his head bent as if he was searching the ground. Grace watched him, fascinated. She knew he was looking for footprints, and wondered if she had left any, guessed she had. A moment later her fears were confirmed as the policeman knelt and appeared to be examining the ground carefully.
The two golfers joined him, and suddenly he stood up and pointed to the wood.
Grace caught her breath.
So soon, she thought wildly. If he goes to the wood, he’ll find Ellis, and without pausing to think, she stepped from behind the tree and stood out there in the open.
The policeman and the two golfers looked right at her. Not more than two hundred and fifty yards separated them, but none of them seemed interested in her and she realised it was because she was wearing golf kit and on the course she was accepted as a player.
She turned and began to run, keeping on the top of the crest so that they could see her.
She ran away from the wood towards the second tee. After a few yards, she glanced back. The policeman was waving at her; probably he was shouting, but, of course, she could not hear him. She again broke into a run, and reached the second tee, paused to look back again.
The policeman was coming after her. He ran with a long steady stride and with a lot of speed. The two golfers trotted behind him, but he already had a good fifty yards lead over them.
Grace realised, with fear clutching at her heart, that the policeman could run fast — much faster than Ellis had run when he had tried to catch her. She would need all her speed if she was to keep the lead she had already, and turning, she raced over the wet grass of the fairway, running blind, not knowing where she was going nor caring, so long as she drew them away from Ellis.
CHAPTER NINE
Police-Constable George Rogers dug his elbows into his ribs, threw back his head and sprinted over the grass. He prided himself on his prowess as a runner. For the past three years he had won the hundred yards and the mile races at the Taleham local Sports Meeting, and was now the proud owner of two miniature cups which adorned the mantelpiece of his bachelor quarters.
His younger sister, Emily Rogers (she was in service at the Manor House), expressed an opinion that the cups were polished tin and not silver as George Rogers so fondly imagined. Further, she had stated, if the two races had been open to all-comers, instead of to a bunch of village loafers, broken in wind by too many cigarettes, and cripples like George, she would have carried off the cups with her legs tied together. (A gross exaggeration, of course, but Emily was given to exaggeration.)
Although Rogers would never admit it to anyone, he knew Emily could beat him in a straight race. She had always shown greater aptitude for games than he had, and this rankled.
So now, as he sprinted across the fairway in pursuit of Grace, he felt a deep satisfaction. This was, once more, a struggle between the sexes, and he was determined to avenge past humiliations. He saw he was gaining on the girl, and as the distance between them shrank, he was able to make out the expensive cut of her skirt and the quality of her leather jerkin. These two items of clothing had an immediate effect on George’s yokel mind. He had been brought up to respect the gentry. All his life had been spent in the country, where class distinction is sharply defined. On one hand, you have the people who own the land; on the other, the people who work the land. It was with the latter class that George dealt; his inspector dealt with the gentry. And as George turned this thought over in his mind, his long strides lost confidence. This young woman, obviously of the upper class if you were to judge by her clothes (and how else were you to judge these days?), although behaving in a suspicious manner, was not breaking the law. There was no law against running across a golf course, and George suddenly wondered if he wasn’t rushing blindly into a hideous situation which might end by him receiving a severe reprimand. He had made a point never to take action against anyone who wore a collar and tie or a respectable costume without first consulting his inspector. He was ambitious, and he knew only too well how easily a police officer could lose promotion through overzealousness.
He kept on, however, but the sting had gone out of his running. Grace gained a few yards, and the two elderly golfers, puffing and blowing in the rear, slowly closed the gap between Rogers and themselves.
The more Rogers considered the idea that he was rushing into trouble the more he longed for the tall, dignified figure of his inspector to loom on the horizon. If he could only receive the official order to pursue this young woman he would have leapt forward and caught her in a moment, but the responsibility of chasing a Jaeger skirt and a Lillywhite jerkin across the fairway undermined his morale.
He saw the girl stagger, and to his alarm the gap between them closed sharply. Instinctively he slowed his own pace, and it was with relief that he saw the girl recover and once more speed on. The stumble gave him an idea. He stumbled himself, and then clumsily threw up his hands and pitched forward, rolling on the ground.
He sat up slowly as the two golfers, the Club Secretary and the Captain of the Team, came up.
“Twisted my ankle, sir,” he said apologetically, and touched his boot gingerly. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”
“Damn it, she’s getting away,” the Captain of the Team snorted, breathing heavily.
The Club Secretary, a fat man in his late fifties, was too short of breath to speak, but he waved his hands excitedly after Grace as she disappeared down a steep dip in the fairway as if to urge Rogers in pursuit.
Rogers got slowly to his feet.
“I’ll be all right in a moment, sir,” he said, rubbing his ankle and avoiding the reproachful eyes of the two men. “I suppose it’s all right to follow that young lady?” he went on, looking up anxiously. “I know she’s behaving in a suspicious manner, sir, but it wouldn’t do to frighten one of the Club members, would it, sir?”
The Club Secretary snorted. “She’s not a member, damn it,” he said, struggling to control his laboured breathing. “And what the hell is she running away for?”
“If you ask me, she’s stolen those clothes,” the Captain of the Team said darkly. “You get after her, Rogers. We’ll take full responsibility.”
“You will, sir?” Rogers asked, his moon-shaped face lighting up. “If there’s a mistake you’ll take the responsibility?”
“Of course we will,” the Club Secretary returned. “Get after her, man. She’ll give us the slip if we’re not careful.”
“Oh, no, she won’t, sir,” Rogers returned grimly. This was now quite a different kettle of fish. He had received his orders and he knew exactly where he stood. The responsibility was no longer his, and if this young woman thought she could get away from him, she was going to have the surprise of her life. He refused to believe that there could be another girl who could run as fast as Emily. Admittedly, this young woman had a good start, but he’d catch her. get her, sir. You come on as fast as you can.”
He began to run in the direction Grace had taken, his long legs fairly flying over the grass.
But the delay had been costly. Grace was no longer in sight. To the left of the fairway was a rising slope which finished in a line of bunkers. To the right was a flat wide stretch of grass. It was obvious to Rogers that the girl had run off to the left, and he pelted grimly towards the bunkers.
In the meantime Grace had gone on without looking back. She expected to feel the arresting hand of the law on her shoulder at any minute, but she ran on, her head down, her elbows into her sides, her breath laboured. She fled up the steep slope leading to the line of bunkers, skirted them and ran across the green. She was so intent on her running that she nearly cannoned into the flag, and shied away from it only just in time.
Breathless, she looked over her shoulder. There was nothing to see except the line of bunkers, but she had no means of telling whether the policeman would appear at any moment, and she forced herself on.
Arriving at the crest of the next slope she paused in dismay. A vast flat stretch of country without any cover lay before her. At the far end was a green with an appropriate red flag waving a warning at her. She looked desperately to the right and left, but it was all flat expanse. She was going to be caught! She felt that once she began to run across that coverless expanse the policeman would catch her, and she suddenly gave up, sinking on to the spongy grass, limp and in despair.
A tall, lean shadow of a man fell across the grass at her feet. She looked up fearfully, too exhausted to try to escape. The young man in the canary-coloured sweater stood over her. His golf bag was slung over his shoulder and his startlingly green eyes were sympathetic.
“You seem to have made a bit of a mess of it,” he said. There’s a policeman coming. Did you let him see you?”
She nodded, too tired and frightened to speak.
“Well, what are you going to do? Give in tamely?”
She looked up. Did he mean to help her?
“What can I do?” she asked, struggling to her feet.
“Not much, but I might . . .” the young man looked back over his shoulder. The policeman wasn’t yet in sight. “I think I will. Now, don’t say anything when they come. Leave it all to me.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “You’re deaf, aren’t you?”
Grace felt a hot, crimson wave rise to her face.
“Yes,” she said.
“I thought so. All right, you leave everything to me.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “You’d better know who I am. My name’s Richard Crane. I live over there.” He waved his hand towards the distant wood where Ellis lay hidden. “Do you play golf?”
She shook her head.
“Never mind; I’ll teach you. It’s not a bud game. Let’s walk over to that green. I’ll put a ball down in case the bobby is suspicious.”
He dropped a ball on the fairway, selected an iron from the bag and hit the ball down the fairway on to the green.
“Looks easy, doesn’t it? But it isn’t. Here, have a try.” He dropped another ball on the grass. “Don’t try to hit it hard; just swing the club. The club head will do the rest.”
“No,” she protested, bewildered. “They’ll be here in a minute.” A thought flashed through her mind that this young man was mad.
But the green eyes compelled her, and she took the club, feeling a strange weakness in her limbs.
“Stand over the ball, and when you bring the club back, try to keep your left arm straight. You’ll hit it if you don’t look up.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Grace saw the policeman appear over the top of the slope. She wanted to drop the club and run, but Crane’s hands suddenly closed over hers. They were cool, fleshy hands, strong and flexible. She looked up at him beseechingly.
“It’s your only chance,” he said. “Swing the club and keep your head down, and you’ll hit it. Don’t pay any attention to the bobby. I’ll handle him.”
He stepped back, waving Rogers impatiently away.
Without thinking, she swung the club at the ball. She saw the ball sail away into the air, hang for a moment and then descend fifty feet or so from the green.
Crane turned and smiled at Rogers who was gaping at him. “Not a had shot for a beginner, was it?” he said quietly. “Do you play golf, Rogers?”
Rogers was flummoxed. He gaped at Crane, and then at Grace, muttered that he didn’t play golf.