Sweet Danger (29 page)

Campion stretched out a hand to grip one of the iron staples in the brickwork. His fingers closed over it gratefully and he was about to haul himself up when the unexpected occurred. Another hand came out of the blackness of the little cavern, a hand unmistakable in size and strength. It caught him by the throat and Savanake's voice said distinctly: ‘Now!'

Realizing his danger a second too late, Campion caught the wrist and threw his weight upon it to drag his enemy forward into the water again. He could see the eyes, bright and dangerous, in the face so near his own, and he guessed the man was lying on his stomach, one hand grasping the iron staple let into the brick floor of the race while with the other he gripped his victim.

Campion's efforts were unavailing. He realized they were hopeless immediately.

Savanake laughed. He spoke, and the words reached Campion through the mists that were gathering about him. Their sense dawned upon him slowly.

‘Found drowned.'

The grip upon his throat tightened and he was forced down until the water met over his head. He struggled, but the grip was relentless. The man was drowning him deliberately, holding him under until the life should have been forced out of his body.

It came to Campion with something like a shock of surprise. This was the end, then. This was the finish. It seemed a pity.

He made a last desperate effort to free himself, but the hand which held him and the icy water which imprisoned him had become as one. The veins in his head had ceased to feel that they must burst. He felt calm, almost sleepy.

Then quite suddenly he was aware of a change. He felt himself shooting up to what seemed an incredible height. He felt the air forcing itself into his lungs, choking him. A dark form shot past him in the water, the surface of which had become frothy. A current was sweeping him out into the centre of the pool. In the single moment, during which he regained consciousness before the black shadows once more closed down upon him, Mr Campion realized the explanation of this phenomenon.

Some third person had opened the floodgates and the sudden sheet of water belching through the alcove had swept Savanake and his victim out into the pool again.

He struggled to rouse himself, but the old peaceful feeling returned and he floated limply through the pool to the tunnel of trees over the stream.

Brett Savanake clambered up out of the water on the far side of the floodgates where the bottom of the pool sloped up sharply to the bank. He had no clear idea what had caused the sudden rush of water which had swept him back into the pool. Vaguely he supposed he must have touched something, pulled some lever or otherwise disturbed some crude mechanism.

It was typical of the man that he did not give another thought to Campion. The Campion episode was over and
best forgotten. He went back to the spot where his gun lay and from which the young man had kicked the iron box.

As he paused to look down a faint sound disturbed him from the shadow of the dynamo-wheel shed and he stood listening. But as nothing else occurred to arouse his suspicion he continued on the task he had set himself.

Flattened against the wall in the shadow of the shed, Amanda stood trembling, hardly daring to breathe. She had watched the proceedings at first from the window on the first floor of the mill and then from her present hiding place. She knew Campion too well to interfere, and had lent a hand by opening the floodgates only when the situation had seemed desperate enough to warrant her assistance. At the moment, for the first time in her life, she was almost paralysed with fear.

Where was Campion? She listened, her heart beating so loudly and heavily that it hurt her side. She could just see Savanake from her present position, and as she watched him he removed his coat and boots and plunged into the pool again.

She listened anxiously for sound of Campion, but there was no noise above the wheel save the splashing of the man who had just entered the water.

The revolver still lay on the path by the chauffeur's coat. She had not noticed it at first, but now she caught sight of it and had just made up her mind to creep out and get it when she heard Savanake coming out again, and once more she sank back into the comparative safety of the shadows.

From where she stood she could see him coming up to the path where his coat lay.

The storm had completely cleared and the sky was bright with stars, so that she could see he carried something, an iron box suspended by a ring in its lid.

The explanation of the whole thing dawned upon her as
she caught sight of it, and her courage, which had temporarily deserted her, now returned as she realized that here was something definite to be done.

Savanake sat putting on his boots not ten paces from where she stood. She felt that he must hear her breathe. But he seemed principally concerned with dressing himself as soon as possible. The iron box lay unprotected at his side.

Amanda stooped and picked up a loose pebble at her feet. Then, waiting her opportunity, she hurled it out across the pool with all her strength. It struck a tree on the opposite bank, and the sharp sound, followed by a gentle plop as it ricocheted into the water, brought the man to his feet, straining his eyes to see the least sign of movement on the further bank.

Amanda darted forward like a shadow, snatched the box and fled down the gangway to the mill. She heard his startled exclamation and the next instant a bullet tore the shoulder of her dress.

She gained the mill, however, and swung the door to behind her. The heavy iron bolt was stiff; it took her a moment to force it home, and as she bent over the task there was a roar, a shriek of splintering wood and a sharp pain stabbed her in the chest. The box dropped from her hand on to the stone with a clatter, and as she bent down to snatch it up a strange giddiness overtook her and she dropped to her knees.

Another shot cut through the door. Amanda struggled to get out of the line of fire. Her mouth felt full of blood and a numbness was spreading over her body. She reached her feet only to fall again, pitching headlong into the arms of a figure who had burst through the further doorway of the mill and who now held her in wet arms.

‘Amanda!' Campion's voice was strained. ‘For God's sake get out of this, you little fool!' And then in a new tone: ‘Hullo, I say, Amanda, are you hurt?' And finally, as she did not speak but lay limp and heavy against him, an
exclamation escaped him and he set her down gently against the wall.

Outside the door Savanake had ceased shooting and appeared to be putting his shoulder to the boards. Campion advanced cautiously, keeping out of the line of fire as well as he could, but before he could reach the bolt the hammering ceased and he caught the sound of the scraping of wood above the rumble of the wheel.

Campion was not as a rule foolhardy. His adversary was armed and not fifteen minutes before had been all but successful in an attempt to murder him. Moreover, the iron box was temporarily safe. Yet because of something which he would not have explained even if he could, and which was definitely to do with Amanda, he went out after Savanake with the intent to kill.

He worked back the bolt as silently as possible and opened the door an inch or two. At first it seemed that the man had vanished, but suddenly he caught sight of him and his heart leapt.

In Savanake's anxiety to get round to the front of the mill before the girl with the box could have reached the car, he had disregarded the warning of the hurdle and had scaled it, to fall almost immediately through one of the gaping holes in the planking over the river. At the moment he was up to his armpits and was clutching feverishly at the mouldering boards, which broke under his hands, while the river sucked at his body eagerly.

Campion stared at him and the sudden realization of the man's terrible danger came home to him. The planking through which Savanake had fallen was above the grille, that grid of iron which keeps debris floating down the river out of the wheel of every mill. The man's helpless body was immersed on the inner side of the grille and the great wheel rumbled and spluttered within a few feet of him.

In spite of the fact that a moment before Mr Campion had come out with the intention of killing his enemy if he
could, such a death was too terrible for him to contemplate.

‘Hold on,' he said. ‘I'm coming.'

The white face on whose forehead the veins stood out in weals was raised to his own for a moment. Recognition gleamed in the eyes, coupled with bewilderment and a flush of superstitious fear. Then, as Campion reached the hurdle, the right hand crept forward and snatched the revolver which lay where he had dropped it on the edge of the hole. A sudden smile spread over the contorted face, but although the lips moved no sound issued.

With a superhuman effort the man raised his arm and fired. The bullet passed harmlessly over Campion's head, but the movement had been too much for the man in the water. As he raised his arm the river carried away his hold and he slipped under the boards.

The steady throb of the wheel, so monotonous, so relentless, seemed to Campion's horrified ears to pause an instant, and a tremor so small and yet so terrible passed through the great white building. Nothing more.

Then all was silent save for the steady throb of the thirty-foot metal paddle.

KNEELING IN THE
dark mill beside the silent bundle which was Amanda, Mr Campion listened anxiously. At first the entire village seemed silent save for the steady throbbing of the wheel and the chatter of water in the race. He stood up, therefore, and braced himself to lift the girl. His head was dizzy and his clothes dragged upon him. Besides being irritated by his own weakness, he was frantic in his alarm concerning her.

He had just raised her up and was preparing to carry her and the iron box into the house when a beam of light swept across the face of the mill and the one thing he most dreaded occurred.

A car, the sound of whose engine he did not recognize, came rattling over the loose stones of the lane and pulled up besides the Rolls.

He leant back against the wall, Amanda in his arms. The darkness hid them for the moment, but they were completely unprotected should a dark form loom up in the open doorway and flash a torch round the chamber. He held his breath and strained his ears to catch every sound. His alarm increased.

The new-comers, whoever they were, seemed to take it for granted that the mill was unoccupied. One of them was talking loudly, although as yet he could catch no words. He heard them rattling the front door of the house and then stamp round to the back.

Campion staggered forward. Some hiding place must be
found immediately for them both. Even though Savanake were dead, his lieutenants were still at large.

He had just reached the centre of the floor when thundering footsteps sounded on the stones outside, a moment afterwards someone rattled on the door panel with the head of a cane, and a voice, old, kindly, and faintly pompous, demanded briskly: ‘Anyone about here?'

Mr Campion froze. He felt the hairs rising on his skull. Death was one thing, but to find oneself suddenly bereft of one's senses was another.

‘Anyone about?' the voice repeated querulously, and at the same time the sharp beam of a powerful torch stabbed the darkness.

It came to rest on Campion's face and he stood there blinking, the girl in his arms.

There was a startled but satisfied grunt from the doorway before the voice said astonishingly: ‘Well, Campion my boy, what the devil do you think you're up to now? Little lady hurt? Glad I came along.'

Mr Campion's knees only just upheld him. ‘Colonel Featherstone!' he said. ‘Good heavens, sir, how did you get here?'

‘Confidential orders from the top, my boy.' The old voice had a self-satisfied ring in it. ‘Stationed at Colchester, don't you know. Only heard of this an hour ago and here I am. Young Stukely-Wivenhoe is out there beating round the house with a couple of men. Hark at 'em. Sounds like a herd of buffalo. I've got a subaltern with sergeant and three sections in two lorries coming along. They had some little trouble with a car-load of blackguards on the road, but they'll be here any moment now. I saw they didn't need any help so I pushed on. There's a fellow out here lying by a Rolls-Royce. Seems stunned. Campion, that girl's been shot or something. Blood on her bodice.'

Mr Campion did not speak but stood swaying. The peaceful sensation he had experienced under water was
returning and only Amanda's weight in his arms forced him to cling to consciousness.

There was a commotion in the doorway and Colonel Featherstone's huge dark form loomed forward.

‘Here, my boy,' he said, ‘I didn't realize, dammit. You're done up. Give me the little woman. There, that's right. Wivenhoe!'

The final word was bellowed in the famous voice at once the pride and despair of every sergeant-major in the brigade.

Instantly a clatter of boots sounded on the stones outside and Mr Campion relapsed into a species of coma until he found himself sitting in the hall of the mill house, while old Featherstone, assisted by the lean and handsome Wivenhoe and two wooden-faced but excited private soldiers, laid Amanda upon the couch in the drawing-room.

Colonel Featherstone came back blowing with kindliness, importance, and unusual exertion.

‘Doctor in the village, Campion?'

The young man glanced up sharply. ‘No, not at the moment,' he said, pulling himself together. ‘Someone had better go into Sweethearting and fetch the man there.' He went into the drawing-room while the Colonel despatched his chauffeur with orders which were pithy and concise to return with a competent doctor in the shortest possible space of time.

Wivenhoe and the other men went out to inspect the condition of the unlucky Mr Parrott.

Amanda was still unconscious, but Campion was sufficiently familiar with revolver wounds to hope that the danger was considerably less than he had feared at first.