Wildfire at Midnight (17 page)

I turned a corner of the passage and ran straight into Nicholas.

Literally ran into him, 1 mean. He caught me by the arms and steadied me, peering down in the dimness of the passage.

"Why," he said softly, "it's our little copper's nark. The Inspector's not down this way, darling."

I did lose my temper then. I blazed at him, pulling against the pressure of his hands. "Let me go, damn you! Let me go! Don't you dare to speak to me like that! You've no right—"

"So you keep telling me. Where are you going?"

"That's none of your damned business!"

"It's anybody's business in this murderous locality to stop you from wandering about in the dark alone."

"I'm going to the kitchen to get some food," I said waspishly, "and I'm in a hurry."

He did not move. "Where's the boy friend?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Your preux chevalier with the golden hair. Why isn't he playing bodyguard?"

"You always did have a filthy tongue, Nicholas," I said bitterly.

"I did, didn't I?" He grinned sardonically. "You could say it's a valuable stock in trade as a writer, though perhaps as a husband—"

"Exactly. Now let me go."

"Just a moment. I'm quite serious, as it happens, Gianetta. It seems to me you're altogether too fond of wandering about the place alone—or with somebody you don't know. If you had a grain of sense you'd know this chap meant business. Aren't you scared?"

"I wasn't," I said tartly, "until three minutes ago."

I don't know what made me say it. The instant the words were out I regretted them, but it was too late. He dropped his hands from my arms and stood looking down at me in the semidarkness. I thought he must hear the thudding of my heart.

"O-ho ..." he said at length, and then, very softly: "Sits the wind in that quarter?"

I was silent. I wanted to run from him, towards the lights and warmth of the kitchen, but I was held there, nailed to the passage wall by the hammer blows of my own heart.

Nicholas said: "So you "re afraid I'll kill you. Gianetta mia? . . . Do you really think I'd do that, Gianetta? Cut that pretty throat, Gianetta - , and ah for what? Auld lang syne?"

"Do you need a reason7" My voice was a whisper that sounded strange to me. This could not be happening; this fantastic conversation could not be taking place. . . . "Do you need a reason?" I whispered.

He did not reply. He stood looking at me in silence, his face, in that uncertain light, quite inscrutable. At length he said, in quite a different tone: "What's your proof?"

I almost jumped. "I haven't any."

"If you had, would you hand me over—for auld lang syne?"

Fantasy ... thickening round us like the spinning of a spider's web. He might have been asking if I wanted more housekeeping money. I put a hand to my head. "I—don't know, Nicholas."

"You—don't—know." His tone brought the blood to my face.

"Nicholas," I said desperately, "try to understand—" "You were my wife." "I know, but—"

"You always used to say that you didn't believe in divorce."

"I know," I said again, a little drearily. It was auld lang syne all right. Every quarrel we had ever had, had ended with my being forced on the defensive. I heard the familiar note of excuse creeping into my voice again now, feebly, infuriatingly: "But it wasn't my fault we got divorced."

"Even so, according to what you used to say, you should think of yourself as still bound to me ... or do you—

now?"

"Now? I don't follow."

"No? I was harking back to the blond boy friend." "Damn you, Nicholas!"

He gave me a hard little laugh. "You've got a nasty problem, haven't you, Gianetta? Moral loyalty versus civic duty ...

or does the situation simplify itself now into the old love versus the new? It would save you a lot of trouble if you could hand me over this minute, wouldn't it?"

The outrage that swept over me was as real, as physical, as shock. I went cold. My voice dropped to a flat icy calm.

"If you had been in the lounge just now, you'd have heard Colonel Cowdray-Simpson expressing what happen to be my views. He said that by an act of violence, like murder, a man cuts himself off from his fellows, and forfeits his—his human rights. If I were still your wife"— I put my hands against the wall behind me, feeling for its solid bracing comfort—"if 1 were still—legally—your wife, I shouldn't help to incriminate you, even if I could, because, as your wife, I should be identified with you in all you did . . . but I would leave you. I couldn't stay with you, knowing you were—"

"Cain?"

"I—yes."

There was an odd note in his voice. "And as it is?"

"As it is—" I stopped, and to my horror my voice caught on a little sob. "As it is," I said raggedly, "I don't know, God damn you. Now let me by."

He moved without a word, and I ran past him, and down the passage to the kitchen.

IN THE KITCHEN there was light, and warmth, and the good smell of food. The cook was busy over the stove, and one of the girls who waited at table was bustling about with stacks of plates.

I hesitated inside the doorway, conscious suddenly of my shaking hands and the tears in my eyes, but Cook looked up, gave me a flushed, fat smile, and pointed to a place set at one end of the big scrubbed table.

"If it's nae odds, mistress," she said in a brisk Lowland voice, "ye can hae yer denner in here. Ye'll get it hetter and quicker. Yon Inspector telt me ye'd want it the noo."

"It's very good of you. I hope it's not too much of a nuisance."

"Nae trouble at all," said Cook comfortably, not moving from the range. "Effie, gie the lady some soup." Effie was thin and dark, with enormous eyes that devoured me with curiosity. She brought me a plate of steaming soup, putting it down in front of me warily, almost as if I might bite. Then she backed off a step or two, gripping the front of her apron.

"Noo. Effie!" This sharply, from Cook.. "Gang awa' intae the dining room wi' the breed!"

Effie went, casting a longing, lingering look behind. As the kitchen door swung to behind her, Cook put down her ladle, and said, in a hoarse, impressive whisper: "Sic a cairry-on, mistress, wi' a' them murrders! It's fair awesome. It garrs yer bluid rin cauld!"

I agreed mechanically. The hot soup was wonderfully comforting, and the bright warmth bf the kitchen rapidly helped to dispel the effect of that fantastic little interview in the passage. Cook leaned her plump red fists on the opposite end of the table and regarded me with a sort of professional pleasure.

"Noo, they're grand broth, aren't they?"

"They're—it's excellent, Cook."

"They're pittin' a bit reid intae yer cheeks. Ye looked fair weshed oot and shilpit-like when ye cam' in, I'll say. They were sayin' it was you found her?"

"Yes, I was lucky."

"It was her that was lucky, the puir lassie, to be livin' the day." She nodded heavily. "Mony's the yin that hasnae been sae lucky—and I canna mind a waur simmer."

"Well," I said, "it isn't every year you get—murder."

"No. Guid be thankit. But I wasna' meanin' that." She whipped away my empty soup plate and substituted a lamb chop flanked with peas and roast potatoes. "It was the accidents on the hill I was meanin'."

"Oh?" I remembered something somebody else had said. "Has this year really been worse than usual?"

"Aye, that it has, miss. Thae twa lassies"—she jerked her head vaguely towards the ceiling—"they're the third casualities we've had this season, no' countin' murrders."

"Who were the others?"

"Well, there was a pair frae London—the daft craturs went into the Cuillins wi' neither map nor compass. They were no' fun' till a week after, lyin' at the fit o' a pressy-piece."

"How dreadful! Had the mist come down on them?" "The day they went up it was as clear as consommay," said Cook.

"Naebody kens what happened."

"It's a big price to pay for a bit of carelessness," I said.

"Aye, it's that. But them hills are no' to be taen lightly . . . aye, and that puir man lyin' upstairs, he's mony a time said the verra same, and a grand climber he was an' a'. Aipple tairt."

"I beg your pardon? Oh, I see. Thank you, Cook. This is very good."

"It's no' sae bad," said Cook complacently, watching me sample her rich, flyaway pastry. "Then there was twa o' them students, frae the College at Oxford-and-Cam-bridge. They baith tummled doon frae a muckle rock— gey near the same bit."

"Dead?"

"Aye, deid as a stane. The rope snappit."

I put my spoon and fork down carefully, side by side, on my empty plate, and stared at them for a moment. But I wasn't seeing them. I was seeing, in a queer fugitive vision, two pairs of climbers climbing in the Cuillin . .. but in each case, another climber moved with them; the third climber, in whose presence ropes snapped, and bodies hurtled to their death. ...

"A cup o' coffee noo?" suggested Cook.

"I'd love one," I said, "but I think I'd better take it upstairs to drink. The doctors must have finished up there, and Mrs. Persimmon'll want to come down."

"Hoo was the lassie when ye left her?" She set a large blue cup on the table, and began to pour coffee.

"Not too good. But I've a feeling she's going to be all right."

"Thank guidness. I've gien ye the big cup. Ye'd better-tak' it quick, while it's warm. Sugar?"

"Please. Thank you very much, Cook. That was excellent. I feel a whole lot better."

"Aye, an' ye look it," said Cook. "Mind ye keep the door lockit the nicht, ma lassie."

"I certainly will," I said fervently, and got up as she turned back to her stove.

There was no one in the passage. I went quickly along it, round the corner with my heart beating a little jerkily, then out into the open hall. Nicholas was there, leaning over the reception desk talking in an undertone to Bill Persimmon.

He saw me, but beyond a slight twitch of his black brows he gave no sign. I ignored him, and almost ran up the stairs, balancing my cup of coffee carefully.

I met Mrs. Persimmon and a maid on the landing.

"Oh, there you are, Miss Brooke!" Mrs. Persimmon still sounded harassed, which was hardly surprising. "Did you get some dinner?""

"Yes, thank you, I've done very well."

"Oh, good, good. Well, the police are expecting you now, I think."

"How's Miss Symes?"

"I hardly know. Still unconscious, and the doctor won't say very much. Oh dear, oh dear. . . ." And she plunged downstairs, followed by the maid laden with crumpled linen. I heard her still lamenting faintly as 1 went along to my room and knocked on the door.

The Inspector opened it.

"Ah, Miss Brooke. Come away in."

He shut the door carefully behind me. The doctor had gone. Roberta, in her blankets, looked very white and still, so white that I exclaimed anxiously: "Inspector Mackenzie, is she all right?"

He nodded. "The doctor thinks so. He says she'll pull through."

"That's wonderful!"

His eye was on Roberta's quiet, shuttered face. "Aye," he said, his voice expressionless. Then he turned to me. "And you? Did you get some food?"

"Yes. Cook fed me in the kitchen."

"Good. How do you feel now?"

I smiled. "Ready for anything—But I hope you're going to tell me what to do, before I'm left alone with the patient."

"The doctor left instructions, and I wrote them down for you." He indicated a paper on the bedside table. "But it's mostly a case of keeping the hot bottles filled and the room warm. You can give her a little broth, or tea with a dash of brandy in, whenever she'll take it. The doctor had a confinement due, so he had to go, but if you get at all worried, you can get hold of me, and I'll ring up the Broadford hospital for advice."

"D'you mean I'm to send Neill for you?"

"No. Use the telephone. I'm using Miss Maling's room. I'll probably be up most of the night, but when I do go upstairs, I'll switch it through to there. Don't hesitate to ring up if you're in the least nervous or worried. We'll be about all night."

"I won't."

"Good. Well, now"—he turned to Neill, who had appeared in the doorway—"Neill, you know what to do. Make yourself comfortable. Sergeant Munro'll relieve you at two o'clock, and I'll be along myself now and again to see everything's all right. I doubt if any of us'll get much sleep tonight/' He crossed to the window and stood looking out.

"There's a mist coming up. A pity. It's never a help on this kind of job. I think. . . ." He reached a hand up and latched the window shut. "That disposes of that. D'you mind being a trifle stuffy?"

"Under the circumstances, not at all."

"That's all right, then. Well, I'll leave you. I'm afraid you've a long night ahead of you, but I think it's a safe night.

And—oh, yes, Major Persimmon is to keep the dynamo running all night, so the lights will be on. All right, Neill?"

"Yes, sir."

He turned to me. "Are you a light sleeper, lassie?" "I think so."

"There's no need for you to stay awake all night, you know. She'll sleep, and if she wants you, Neill will wake you. Get some rest yourself between whiles. Right?"

"Right."

"Well, good night, lassie." "Inspector Mackenzie—"

He was already at the door. He turned with his hand on the knob. "Yes?"

"There are some things—I have a few things you ought to know."

"Important?"

"I—I'm not sure."

"Anything that'll enable me to arrest our murderer here and now?" "Oh no. No."

His eyes considered me, queerly. "You've located him, haven't you?"

"No!" The single syllable came violently, surprising me as «much as the Inspector.

He looked at me for a moment. "Then I dare say it'll keep; till morning, ma'am," he said.

He went out. I went quickly across the room and turned the key. The whirr and click of the wards was reassuring, and the chock as the bolt slid home punctuated our security with sharp finality.

THE LONG EVENING dragged through and the night came. I nodded over the fire with The Bride of Lammermoor, fighting off the feeling of desperate tiredness that threatened to overwhelm me. Neill sat in the shadows beside Roberta's bed, his long body still and relaxed in the wicker chair, his back to me and the rest of the room. Roberta stirred once or twice, but her breathing seemed every moment more natural and her color improved, so that it was with a reasonably quiet mind that I eventually put down my book and decided to try to get some sleep.