A Christmas Escape (13 page)

He found her fifty yards away, sitting on the ground with her head in her hands, weeping.

He sat down beside her and put his arm around her very gently, but holding her close to him, her head on his shoulder. He did it without giving it a moment's thought. Only afterward did he wonder whether he should have.

He let her cry. Damn the rest of them and their impatience. Damn the volcano.

Gradually she stopped sobbing and then after a moment or two longer, pulled away from him, sniffing hard. He had one pocket handkerchief, crumpled but clean enough. He gave it to her.

She took it, wiped her eyes, then blew her nose.

“I'm sorry,” she said miserably. “I miss Grandmama terribly. It…it really hurts. Now there's nobody alive who even knew her, because Uncle Roger's gone, too. That's why I like Quinn's book so much. Lucy in
Fire
is so like Grandmama was. She was full of stories, too, about going to all sorts of places. She used to walk along the bank of the Seine in Paris, first thing in the morning when the whole city was shining clean. She would describe the smell of fresh coffee and those pastries that are warm and so flaky they fall to pieces in your fingers. Or hot chocolate so thick you could practically stand your spoon in it.”

She sniffed again. “Or seeing Sorrento by moonlight, while someone played the violin so marvelously it almost tore your soul apart, and you feel as if you simply had to live forever.”

He knew they should go back and join the others, before they lost any sense of which direction they had come. But she needed a few moments more.

“She went to Isfahan once, in Persia. She saw a camel caravan passing in the night. They don't walk like horses, you know? They sort of lurch, without making any sound at all; there was no noise except the slightest wind in the palm trees and the sound of their bells. And so many stars the sky was pale with them, so you could see the silhouettes of the animals quite clearly. How can someone who saw all that and loved it so much just be dead?”

“Are you talking about Lucy in
Fire
, or your grandmother? Because as long as there's anyone who can read, Lucy is never dead.” It sounded odd, even trite, but he meant it.

She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder again. “I mean both. I think I meant Grandmama, then I remember passages from Mr. Quinn's book, and I got them muddled.”

An extraordinary thought occurred to him, so powerful and so close in the reality of the dust and the gathering darkness that he barely heard the volcano roar again with a stronger and more violent sound.

“Candace!”

She heard the tone in his voice and pulled away to look at him, as much as she could in the fresh smoking dust and the tiny, abrasive sting of ash.

“What? It's the volcano getting worse, isn't it?”

“No! Well—yes, but something else. Candace, did your grandmother keep a diary? I don't mean the formal sort, for putting down dates not to forget. I mean a journal of her thoughts. Did she?”

“Yes, she did. Why?”

The volcano gave another roar, this time sharper.

Charles stood up and pulled her up beside him, still holding her by the shoulders.

“Are you sure? Would she have put all these things in it?”

“Why?” She pulled away a little.

He realized he was gripping her too hard, and eased his hold, but he did not let go of her. “Did she?”

“Yes! She said it kept it all fresh for her, so she could have it again in her mind. Why are you asking?” Then she froze. He felt all the muscles tighten in her arm, her body.

Now he had to tell her. Maybe she already knew.

“Could Quinn have got hold of it?” he asked.

“Yes…he could've. He did know Grandmama before she died. He had heard some of her stories.” She almost whispered the words.

“She died before it was published?” he persisted.

“Yes. Almost a year before, or a little more. You mean he stole it, and said it was his? That's why it's so wonderful! Then…then all the money he got for it should have been Grandmama's!”

“And after her death, Finbar's,” Charles added. “Yes, I think so.”

Candace shut her eyes tight and clenched her whole body.

“Did Quinn murder Uncle Roger?”

“No,” he said with absolute certainty. “He was struck by one of the lava bombs. They were falling all round us. Just very small ones, but red-hot, and with great impact. It wasn't anything human, it was definitely the volcano.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him. “What are we going to do?”

He was prevented from answering by a crack so loud it hurt their ears, almost like a physical blow. This time the lava shot high into the air, illuminating the rolling clouds now well to the east of the crater. The heart of it was boiling, pale yellow, and the red glare was thousands of feet up like a rain of fire.

Neither of them spoke, but Candace's hand was so tight in Charles's that at any other time he would have let out a cry at the pain of it. Now he clung on to her just as hard.

After a moment he was able to breathe, and speak.

“We go down the mountain to the sea as fast as we can without falling. But first we see which way the lava's flowing. We can't get past it.”

She nodded, never taking her eyes from the rivers of fire that were creeping their way, like the slow blood of the earth, down the invisible ruts and crevices of the mountainside, old gullies, and new crevices.

“It's going to come this way, isn't it?” She said it as a fact neither of them could deny, looking at the scarlet lines like veins, spreading out high on the side of the core.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Come on. We need to move.”

“What about the others?” she asked, clinging on to him.

“They may have gone ahead,” he answered, picking his way through loose-lying scree and rubble.

“Mr. Quinn would, but Colonel Bretherton wouldn't leave us behind,” Candace stated.

“No, of course he wouldn't,” Charles agreed.

A moment later they heard Bretherton shouting, “Latterly! Where are you? Are you all right?”

“Yes!” Charles shouted back, even though the voice sounded close. The distant roar and crackle of the volcano made hearing difficult. Should he tell Bretherton about Quinn? He might be risking Bretherton's life, or Isla's, if he didn't.

He caught up with Bretherton, and as the other man turned to go, he caught him by the shoulder, hard enough to throw him off balance. Bretherton faced him angrily, then saw his expression and bit back the words that were on his tongue.

“Walker-Bailey was murdered,” Charles said more loudly than he wished to, but the volcano would have drowned out any softer sound. “It looked at a glance as if the beam had fallen on him, but if you got down on the floor and kneeled beside him, looked at the side of the neck, there was a deep stab wound in it. There wasn't much blood on the floor, but drag marks where he had been moved. I couldn't see blood in the dust, and the lava bombs kept landing so we couldn't stay long. But it was clear what had happened.”

Bretherton looked shaken, but he kept his composure. “I suppose you have no idea who did it?”

“None until just now. That's why I didn't tell anyone…”

“But you do now. Who, for God's sake?” Much of Bretherton's face was covered with ash and dust, but even in the gloom, the red light showed his shock and perhaps a thin thread of fear as well. He must have been aware of Isla's misery, perhaps recently increased to despair.

“Quinn,” Charles answered.

The volcano shot out a tremendous gout of flame and incandescent burning rock. A new flow of lava started down the mountain, creating another river.

“I believe that
Fire
was stolen entirely from Finbar's sister-in-law's journal. The royalties belonged to Finbar, never mind the literary value, which belonged to her. I think Bailey found out, and could have been blackmailing him, or might simply have threatened to make it public.”

“Yes,” Bretherton said, although his words were now inaudible. He added something more, and then abandoned the attempt and with a beckoning wave of his arm, he led the way back to where Quinn and Isla were waiting.

Quinn glared at Candace, who moved even closer to Charles, then turned and started off down what was distinguishable of the road.

They moved downward slowly. The eruption continued, and as the sky became darker the rivers of fire were easily discernible, scarlet veins creeping ever downward.

It was impossible to speak to any purpose because the roar was incessant as the lava set fire to bushes, molten rock landed out of the air, crashing on hard surfaces or falling with heavy pummeling sounds on the dust and shale.

The smell of burning was added to by the stench of sulfur. Charles had no time to gaze at the fearful beauty of the destruction, the fire lighting up the sky, the forks of lightning around the crater.

Candace stayed beside him every step. She must have been exhausted, but he hardly ever had to hesitate for her. His own legs were aching, his nose and throat stung with the heat of the ash in the air, and his clothes stuck to his body, in spite of the fact that it was midwinter. He could no longer tell if they were on the right route.

They had to stop more frequently to get their breath. The food was finished, and soon the water would be also. Charles pretended to drink out of his water bottle, then he gave it to Candace. “Drink it,” he told her with a smile. “I can't carry you…believe me.” No one else spoke about it, but they recognized there was no choice but to press on. Surely they could not be far from the sea, and since they were still on something like a road, they would eventually come to a village.

What was Charles going to do about Quinn? He had no idea if there was anything left of Stefano's house, or if the bodies of Bailey, Finbar, and Stefano himself were buried under rubble or burned by the lava.

With a sick understanding, as if the ground under his feet were shifting and trembling, he realized that no one else knew what had happened. There was nothing he could prove, except that investigation into Candace's grandmother's life might show that she was the real Lucy! But surely, if he had any sense, Quinn would have destroyed the actual diary. If he hadn't before, he would do so as soon as he got back to England.

Everything Charles thought he was standing on, the whole edifice of the truth, could crumble under the slightest test of proof.

“Charles!” Candace's voice, pitched with fear, cut across his thoughts.

He clasped hold of her and pulled her closer to him as the ground beneath seemed to turn into liquid and suddenly he was holding her upright. He staggered backward, still clinging on to her. He slipped and fell hard on his back, she on top of him.

The edge of the path where they had stood had disappeared. More ground was folding in on itself, faster than he could have run.

The sky lit up with gouts of flame and for long, breathless seconds the horizon was red. Then, just as suddenly, it darkened again and the mountain no longer roared.

“Bretherton!” Charles climbed slowly to his feet, half lifting Candace as he did so. “Bretherton!”

“Here!” Bretherton called back a little shakily. “Isla's here. Quinn! Quinn! Are you all right?”

There was no answer.

Then the blow landed out of nowhere. It was so hard Charles dropped to his knees. Without the glare in the sky he had no idea what had hit him. Pain shot through his shoulder and his left arm felt paralyzed, but it did not burn.

Then it was on top of him, drawing him forward.

Quinn. He had waited for the moment when the quake had taken everyone's attention and neither Charles nor Bretherton was on guard. He was powerful, fighting for his life. There must be proof after all. Now Charles was going to die, another victim of the volcano, and there would be no one to look after Candace.

He must survive!

With an intense effort, pain almost making him sick, he got to his knees and then fell forward again as Quinn lunged at him. Where the hell was Bretherton?

He got one blow back, but it seemed to have no effect. Quinn was bending over him, breathing heavily.

Charles aimed a kick, but it landed harmlessly.

Quinn put out both his hands, reaching for Charles's throat.

Then Charles was suffocated by a large soft weight landing on him with great force. He had not cried out. Probably Bretherton would not even know!

Then the weight eased and rolled off him. He tried to get up, but his chest ached and he couldn't breathe. He rolled over onto his side and saw Quinn a few yards away. His head was streaming blood but he was getting to his feet again, lurching to gain his balance. He was coming back, fists clenched.

He staggered as the ground under him slipped away, turning into soft, shivering rubble.

Charles watched in horror as Quinn lost his balance and stepped backward. The whole earth seemed to be giving way, twisting and smoking. Quinn was up to his knees in it. Now he was screaming, flailing his arms, going backward.

The crater was belching fire again as the ground caved in and took Quinn with it, burying him in its fall.

Charles still could not draw his breath. Bretherton was beside him, a hand on his arm, gently.

“Latterly! Latterly, are you all right? Breathe, man!” Without waiting he hauled Charles up and onto his feet, swaying uncertainly.

Charles took a shuddering breath. He tried to speak, but no words would come. He could hardly fill his lungs. Bretherton had found him after all.

Then Candace was there, tears running down the ash on her face. “Charles! You've got to breathe. You've got to be all right! Please…” She was close beside him, his empty water bottle in her hand. She was holding it by the neck like a cricket bat.

He started to laugh, jerkily, a silly gurgling sort of sound, but one of pure joy. He drew in a great breath at last.