The Coldstone (32 page)

Susan shuddered again under the bleak, cruel misery of his voice. She remembered Garry teaching her to ride, Garry running upstairs three steps at a time with a laughing, screaming child on his shoulder, her hands deep in his hair, and Camilla scolding them both. She remembered a hurt finger, and Garry kissing the place to make it well. But that was before the change. She was Susan to him then, not something he must have and would smash rather than give it up—something to be held, possessed, and broken. She felt a mingled rush of pity, terror, anger. She said gently, “Garry—” And there was a long, long silence.

Perhaps he struggled. Perhaps he only looked into the eyes of the wolves and saw them closing in. Susan waited, her hand upon Anthony's wrist, her face raised, colourless, eager, her eyes darkly blue, her left hand at her breast. After a long time there was a sound. She thought it was a groan, but instantly upon it came Garry's voice, quiet and bitter:

“You may be interested to know that the car will be found at the foot of Crayling Cliff. It will be plain to everyone that a regrettable accident has occurred, and the tide will have come up and gone down again, and I'm afraid that Mr. Colstone's body will never be recovered.”

“I see—” said Susan. She spoke quite softly. “I see. And will my body never be recovered either?”

This time she did hear a groan.

“Will you leave him and swear—and swear—Ah, what's the use of it now? Aren't you dead already, the way you could look at me when I touched you? Could I lose you more than that if you were ten times dead? And could you be gone any farther away from me than when I had you in my arms, and all the ice of hell between us?”

Anthony held Susan close. With his lips at her ear he said, “He's mad,” and she made some answering movement, but whether it meant “Yes” or “No” he could not tell. He released her abruptly and measured the distance to that crack above their heads. If he had anything to wedge it with.… His coat would do at a pinch, but if they had an iron bar.… They hadn't, so what was the good of wishing for it? He had his coat off and spoke again, soundlessly against her ear:

“Get him to lift the stone a little more—somehow—anyhow.”

She nodded, looked up again, and called his name:

“Garry—are you there? I want to see you. I can't talk to you like this.”

Silence.

“Garry—don't you remember—when you used—to carry me upstairs?”

Silence.

Anthony felt her shiver. She looked half round at him and made a helpless gesture. He put his face against hers.

“Go on,” he breathed.

“Garry—won't you just look at me?”

The stone moved, tilted. Anthony stepped back and braced himself. The opening was an inch wide—an inch and a half—two inches—The longer he waited, the better he could wedge the stone, but it was moving so slowly, so horribly slowly. And then, in a single flash of time, there was a square, all dark, and Garry's face looking out of the darkness. The lamplight struck on it, showed it ghastly. And then in the same instant it was gone, and even as Anthony thrust upward with all his strength, the stone fell.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Just for a moment Susan stood quite still. She saw Anthony's hand with the coat wrapped round it strike the stone, and she heard him call out. And then a most terrible wave of panic swept over her. Garry had gone away, and these four black walls and the fallen stone were between them and all the world they knew. It was a cold and dreadful thought. The colour went out of her face and the courage out of her heart. The place was full of mist.

She went unsteadily to the wall and sank down beside it. Garry—Garry had done this—Garry had gone away and left them here—he wouldn't come back—no one would come, because no one would know. She put her face in her hands and bowed her head upon her knees. There was a rushing sound in her ears like water—black water—carrying her away. Very dimly she thought that she was fainting, and after that she did not think at all.

It seemed like a long time afterwards that she heard Anthony's voice. She heard his voice before she felt that his arms were round her. His voice was very near—very near, and sharp with distress.

“Susan—darling—my darling! Susan!
Susan!
”

Susan opened her eyes. Her cheek was against the rough cloth of Anthony's coat, and she must have been crying, because her face was wet. And Anthony was kissing her, and his face was wet too. She opened her eyes, and the mist was gone. There were only the four black walls and the open golden box filled up with its useless treasure—and she and Anthony like creatures in a trap.

She put up her hand to his wet cheek and said, “I'm all right,” and then, “I'm sorry I made such a fool of myself.”

Anthony choked a little.

“You didn't.”

“Oh, I did!”

She sat up and looked at him, and almost at once she knew that he was wondering whether it wouldn't have been better to have left her in her swoon. His face was set in lines she had not seen before. He controlled his voice with an effort and said,

“Susan—”

“What is it?”

“I think—we ought to put the lamp out.”

A horror of the dark brought a little panting cry to her lips.

“Oh
—no!
”

“I think we ought to. You see it's—using too much air.”

Susan hid her face against his shoulder. What was it Garry had said? Something about the long way out or the short. She pressed her mouth against Anthony's sleeve, because she wanted to scream and it was no good screaming, because nobody would hear. She felt him hold her close and, holding her, lean sideways. There was a clicking sound, and when she opened her eyes the light in the lamp was shooting up, shooting up and falling again, whilst the black walls seemed to rock and the shadows rushed in upon the failing light. With a last shooting flame it was gone. A smooth, even darkness, as impenetrable as the coal itself, filled all the little space from end to end.

Out of the dark Anthony's voice came quite cheerfully:

“Don't be frightened, darling—I'll hold on to you. It's only I think we ought to save the air a bit, because there's not much ventilation in this beastly hole. We can always light it again presently. You don't mind sitting in the dark for a bit, do you? I don't suppose it'll be for very long.” It was astonishing how much easier it was now that the light was gone and he couldn't see Susan's eyes.

Susan shook her head. And then she remembered that he couldn't see her, and said “No” with a sigh that put a leaden weight on to the word.

The little chamber was very hot. The air in it felt still and dead. She wondered just what Anthony had meant when he said that perhaps it wouldn't be for very long. She shivered and said,

“Can't we do anything? Can't we call out?”

“I don't think it would be much use. I don't see how anyone could possibly hear us unless they were in the cellar just overhead—and if they were, we should hear them.”

Susan pressed closer to him.

“Anthony—do you think we've got a chance?”

“Of course we have.”

She moved impatiently.

“I don't want fairy stories—I want what you really think.”

A tingling anguish ran over her in the moment that she waited for his answer. If he thought they had a chance, he would say so quickly, he wouldn't hesitate or keep her waiting. It was really only a moment before he said,

“I think O'Connell's mad. But there was another man before—there were two of them the night they knocked me out.”

“Yes—yes.”

“Well, I think the odds are that the second man's somewhere about. He won't want to do us in—he'll want the swag—he isn't in this for his health, or to score us off like O'Connell.”

“You think—”

“I think we might be able to do a deal with him. He can't get away with the stuff while we're here.”

Susan's breast heaved. Words came that she hadn't meant to say.

“He might—wait—” And there her breath failed her. She had a horrible picture of what he might find if he waited.

With a violent shudder she wrenched away from Anthony and wept. Only a few hours ago life had been so sweet, so dear. There had only been one single cloud in all her sunny sky, and now that cloud had blotted out the sun and covered the sky with a blacker darkness than night. She felt Anthony take her in his arms, and she wept there without comfort. Yet presently her weeping spent itself and she was still. She did not know that at the very height of her anguish the first spark of hope took hold upon his thought.

The chamber was small and contracted, the air was hot and dead, and time was passing. Minutes had passed—ten—fifteen—and for half that time the lamp had wasted their precious air. Yet now the dead, close atmosphere seemed no closer and no deader than before. To be able to go on breathing seemed a wonderful and a hopeful thing. It meant a respite, and it meant time. The spark of hope flickered into a pale flame.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Old Mrs. Bowyer opened her eyes. She was lying on her back with her head low and her hands folded. Her coverlet and the sheet that was turned over it were as smooth and unwrinkled as when she had herself smoothed them down before falling asleep. Out of that light sleep she wakened lightly. It was as if she had been in the next room with the door open. She had been dreaming a pleasant dream in which she walked in a field by the river and saw her children at play, threading buttercups and daisies to make garlands. The sun shone on Susie's hair.

She opened her eyes, and felt a little bewildered. She had waked to the sound of a closing door. She lay in the dark and considered. The sound was certainly not one that had come with her out of her dream, because no orderly person would dream about hearing a door shut in an open green meadow. She lay and listened.

If the sound had been made by her own door, there would be other sounds. If Susan had come home, she would hear her moving in the next room. She lay quite still and listened, but no one moved at all. Then it came to her that the sound had come from below and not from the kitchen door, for that was towards her feet, nor from the front door, for that was away to the right of her. No, the sound had come from right underneath where the head of her bed stood hard against the wall, and that was why it had waked her. She folded back the coverlet, sat up, and struck a light. It was just half-past eleven—a most ungodly hour for anyone to be astir in Ford St. Mary.

Mrs. Bowyer got out of bed and put on the black stuff dress which she had taken off when she undressed. It did not quite cover her nightgown, so she fetched two safety pins from the patchwork cushion on her chest of drawers and pinned up the long white folds. Then she covered her unruffled hair with a cap, slid her feet into slippers of crimson wool, and put Susan's large white shawl about her shoulders. It took her some time to dress. Her face all this while was set in the lines of a deep displeasure. She was quite sure now that she had heard the click of the door in the kitchen chimney—“the old chimley door” she called it to herself—and that meant nothing in the world but that Susan had come home “unbeknownst” and was away through the passage to Stonegate.

Mrs. Bowyer was very highly displeased. Promised, or not promised, it was no way to go on, nor no way to make a man think the more of you. Susan should ha' known better, and if she didn't know no better along of having been brought up by that crazy Moll of a stepmother, why then she'd got to be learned, and Susan Bowyer was the woman to learn her. She'd a piece on her tongue for Anthony too. If he didn't know when he was risking the good name of the girl he was going to make his wife—well, he'd know a deal more about it before she'd finished what she'd got to say to him.

She took up her candle and came down the stair with a high spirit and a muffled tread. She went first into the empty living-room, and then to the kitchen, where she lighted the wall lamp. Then she opened the “chimley door” and stood looking down the dark steps and listening.

Susan Bowyer had still the keen hearing on which all the Bowyers prided themselves; she could have heard a mouse run across the far end of the passage. She heard something now, and what she heard brought a deep puzzled line to her forehead. It was the click of the panel at the Stonegate end. It puzzled her a good deal. If Susan had gone into the passage when she had heard the sound that waked her, she must have reached the other end some time ago. There would be nothing to keep her in the dark underground place. The click must mean that she was returning. The lines about her mouth relaxed. If she had not stayed, Susan Bowyer would not be so very angry—“though I'll not pass it over light even so,” she said to herself.

She waited eagerly for the footsteps that ought to be coming towards her now. But there were no footsteps; a dull, unbroken silence filled the passage like stagnant air. Mrs. Bowyer felt the weight of it on her mood; her quick anger sank to a close-packed dread. She was afraid, though she would not, either now or at any time, acknowledge fear. She was afraid, but she did not herself know why. She had a sense of something that threatened Susan.

She went back into the kitchen, set her candle down on the table, and stood with her back to the open door in the chimney. She stood there for a quarter of an hour. She was still listening. A cold breath and an earthy smell came up from under the ground and through the open door. “A right-down churchyard smell,” was Mrs. Bowyer's thought. It seemed to sweep between her and Susan. She took up her candle with a steady hand, turned and went through the door, and closed it behind her, all but an inch-wide chink. It was somehow pleasant to look back and see the lamplight.

When she reached the fork, she looked sharply to the left, but did not stop. She held up her skirts with one hand and her candle with the other, and when she came to the panel which carried Patience Pleydell's portrait she opened it with a firm touch and stepped out into the library.