The Skull Beneath the Skin (46 page)

She flung her shoulder bag on the desk of the business room, taking with her only her torch. There was only one other thing she wished to have, the leather belt. But it was no longer round her waist. Somewhere and somehow during the day’s activities she had lost it. She had a memory of hurriedly putting it on in the women’s cloakroom of a chain store where she had stopped on her way to Benison Row. In her anxiety to find Miss Costello she must have buckled it insecurely. As she ran across the lawn and into the darkness of the wood she wished that she still felt the reassuring strength of this private talisman clasped round her waist.

The church loomed before her, numinous and secret in the moonlight. No lights shone from the open door but the faint gleam from the east window was enough to light her to the crypt even without the aid of her torch. And that door, too, was open with the key in the lock. Ambrose must have told him where it could be found. The strong dusty smell of the crypt came up to meet her. She didn’t pause to find the switch but followed the shifting pool of torchlight, past the
rows of domed skulls, the grinning mouths, until it shone on the heavy iron-bound door which led to the secret passage. This too was open.

She dared not run; the passage was too twisting, the ground too uneven. She remembered that the passage lights were on a time switch and pressed each button as she passed, knowing that in a few moments the lights would go out behind her, that she was moving from brightness into the dark. The way seemed interminable. Surely that small party, only two days earlier, hadn’t travelled as far as this? She had a moment of panic, fearing that she might have found and taken a hidden turning and be lost in a maze of tunnels. But then she saw the second flight of steps and there gleamed before her the low-roofed cavern above the Devil’s Kettle. The single bulb suspended in its protective grille was shining steadily. The trapdoor was up, the lid resting against the wall of the cave. Cordelia knelt and gazed down into Simon’s face. It strained up at her, the eyes wide and staring, the whites showing, like the eyes of a terrified dog. His left arm was stretched above his head, the wrist handcuffed to the top rail. His hand drooped from the bar of the handcuff, not the strong hand she remembered coming down on the piano keys, but tender and pale as the hand of a child. And the steadily rising water, flapping like black oil against the cave walls and glazed with light from the cavern above, was already up to his shoulders.

She climbed down beside him. The cold cut her thighs like a knife. She said: “Where’s the key?”

“I dropped it.”

“Dropped it or threw it? Simon, I have to know where.”

“I just dropped it.”

Of course. He would have no need to hurl it far. Handcuffed and helpless as he was, he couldn’t retrieve it now however
close it lay and however tempted or desperate he might be. She prayed that the bottom of the cave would be rock not sand. She had to find the key. There was no other way. Her mind had already done its rapid calculation. Five minutes to get back to the castle, another five to return. And where would she find a toolbox, a file sufficiently strong to cut through the metal? Even if there were someone in the castle able and willing to help her, there still wasn’t time. If she left him now she would be leaving him to drown.

He whispered: “Ambrose told me I’d be in prison for the rest of my life. That or Broadmoor.”

“He lied.”

“I couldn’t stand it, Cordelia! I couldn’t stand it!”

“You won’t have to. Manslaughter isn’t murder. You didn’t mean to kill her. And you aren’t mad.”

But how clearly the words of Ambrose fell into her mind. “Who’s to say what he meant? She’s just as dead, isn’t she, whatever he meant?”

Any additional light was welcome. She switched on her torch, resting it on the top rung. Then she gulped in a lungful of air and lowered herself carefully under the gently heaving surface. It was important not to disturb the sea bed more than she could help. The water was icy cold and so black that she could see nothing. But she felt with her hands, scraping them along the bottom, feeling the gritty sand, the spurs of sharp unyielding rock. A swath of seaweed wound itself round her arm like a soft detaining hand. But her slowly creeping fingers found nothing that could have been the key.

She came up for air and gasped: “Show me exactly where you dropped it.”

He whispered through his bloodless, chattering lips: “About here. I held my right hand out like this. Then I let it fall.”

She cursed her folly. She should have taken more trouble to discover the exact place before disturbing the sand. Now she might have lost it forever. She had to move gently and slowly. She had to stay calm and take her time. But there wasn’t any time. Already the water was up to their necks.

She lowered herself again trying methodically to cover the area he had indicated, letting her fingers creep like crabs over the surface of sand. Twice she had to come up for air and see briefly the horror and the despair in those staring eyes. But on the third attempt her hand found the stub of metal and she brought up the key.

Her fingers were so cold that they felt lifeless. She could hardly grasp the key and was terrified that she might drop it, that she might not be able to fit it into the lock. Watching her shaking hands he said: “I’m not worth it. I killed Munter, too. I couldn’t sleep and I was there, in the rose garden. I was there when he fell in. I could have saved him. But I ran away so that I wouldn’t have to look. I pretended that I hadn’t seen, that I hadn’t been near.”

“Don’t think about that now. We’ve got to get you out of here, get you warm again.”

The key was in the lock at last. She was fearful that it might not work, that it might not even be the right key. But it turned easily enough. The bar of the handcuff loosened. He was free.

And then it happened. The trapdoor crashed down in an explosion of sound physical as a blow cleaving their skulls. The noise seemed to thunder through the island, shaking the iron ladder under their rigid hands, lifting the water at their throats and bursting it against the walls of the cave in a tidal wave of concentrated fury. It seemed that the cave itself must split open to let in the roaring sea. The lighted torch, dislodged
from the top rung of the ladder, curved in a shining arc before Cordelia’s horrified eyes, gleamed for a second under the swirling water, then died. The darkness was absolute. And then, even before the echo of that crash had rumbled into silence, Cordelia’s ears caught a different sound, the hideous rasp of metal against metal, once and then repeated, a noise so dreadful in its implication that she threw back her sea-drenched head and almost howled her protest into the blackness.

“Oh no! Please God, no!”

Someone—and she knew who it must be—had kicked down the trapdoor. Someone’s hand had shot home the two bolts. The killing ground had been sealed. Above them was unyielding wood, surrounding them the rock face, at their throats the sea.

She raised herself and pressed with all her strength against the wood. She bent her head and strained against it with her shoulders. But it didn’t move. She knew that it wouldn’t. She was aware of Simon dragging himself up beside her, of his palms beating ineffectually against it. She couldn’t see him. The darkness was thick and heavy as a blanket, an almost palpable weight against her chest. She was only aware of his terrified moans, long drawn out and tremulous as the waiting sea, of the rank smell of his fear, of the harsh indrawing of his breath, of a thudding heart which could have been his or hers. She reached out for him with her hands. They moved in what was meant to be comfort over his wet face, knowing only by the warmth which of the drops were seawater and which were tears. She felt his trembling hands on her face, her eyes, her mouth. He said: “Is this death?”

“Perhaps. But there’s still a chance. We can swim for it.”

“I’d rather stay here and have you close to me. I don’t want to die alone.”

“It’s better to die trying. And I won’t try without you.”

He whispered: “I’ll try. When?”

“Soon. While there’s still air enough. You go first. I’ll be behind you.”

It was better for him that way. The first one through would have an easier passage, unhampered by the leader’s thrusting feet. And if he gave up there was the hope that she might have the strength to push him through. For a second she wondered how she would cope if the passage narrowed and his inert body blocked her escape. But she put the thought away from her. He was now less strong than she, weakened by cold and terror. He must go first. The water was now so high that only a fragile ribbon of light marked the exit. Its beam lay pale as milk on the dark surface. With the next wave that, too, would go and they would be trapped in utter darkness with nothing to point the way out. She tugged off her waterlogged jersey. They let go of the ladder, joined hands, and paddled to the middle of the cave where the roof was highest, then turned on their backs and gulped in their long last lungfuls of air. The rock face almost scraped Cordelia’s forehead. Water, cool and sweet, fell on her tongue like the last taste of life. She whispered, “Now!” and he let go of her hand without hesitation and slid under the surface. She took her final gulp of air, twisted and dived.

She knew that she was swimming for her life, and that was almost all she knew. It had been a moment for action, not for thought, and she was unprepared for the darkness, the icy terror, the strength of the inflowing tide. She could hear nothing but a pounding in her ears, feel nothing but the pain above her heart and the black tide against which she fought like a desperate and cornered beast. The sea was death and she struggled against it with all she could muster of life and youth
and hope. Time had no reality. It could have been minutes, even hours, that passage through hell, yet it must have been counted in seconds. She wasn’t aware of the thrashing body in front of her. She had forgotten Simon, forgotten Ambrose, forgotten even the fear of dying in the struggle not to die. And then, when the pain was too great, her lungs bursting, she saw the water above her lighten, become translucent, gentler, warm as blood and she thrust herself upward to the air, the open sea and the stars.

So this was what it was like to be born: the pressure, the thrusting, the wet darkness, the terror and the warm gush of blood. And then there was light. She wondered that the moon could shed so warm a light, gentle and balmy as a summer day. And the sea, too, was warm. She turned on her back and floated, arms wide spread, letting it bear her where it would. The stars were companionable. She was glad they were there. She laughed aloud at them in her joy. And it wasn’t in the least surprising to see Sister Perpetua there bending over her in her white coif. She said: “Here I am, Sister. Here I am.”

How strange that Sister should be shaking her head, gently but firmly, that the coiffed whiteness should fade and that there should be only the moon, the stars and the wide sea. And then she knew who and where she was. The struggle still wasn’t over. She had to find the strength to fight this lassitude, this overwhelming happiness and peace. Death which had failed to seize her by force was creeping up on her by stealth.

And then she saw the sailing boat gliding towards her on the moonlit stream. At first she thought that it was a sea phantom born of her exhaustion and no more tangible than the white-coiffed face of Sister Perpetua. But it grew in form and solidity and, as she turned towards it, she recognized its shape and the tousled head of its owner. It was the boat which had
brought her back to the island. She could hear it now, the swish of the waves under the keel, the faint creaking of wood and the hiss of the air in its sails. And now the stocky figure was standing black against the sky to fold the canvas in his arms and she heard the splutter of the engine. He was manoeuvring to draw alongside. He had to drag her aboard. The boat lurched, then steadied. She was aware of a sharp pain tugging at her arms. And then she was lying on the deck and he was kneeling beside her. He seemed unsurprised to see her. He asked no questions, only pulling off his jersey and folding it round her.

When she could speak she gasped: “Lucky for me you were still here.”

He nodded towards the mast and she saw, buckled round it like a pennant, the narrow strip of leather.

“I was coming to bring you that.”

“You were bringing me back my belt!”

She didn’t know why it was so funny, why she had to fight the impulse to break into wild hysterical laughter.

He said easily: “Oh well, I had a fancy to land on the island by moonlight, and Ambrose Gorringe is none too keen on trespassers. I had it in mind to leave the belt on the quay. I reckoned you’d find it soon enough in the morning.”

The moment of incipient hysteria had passed. She struggled upright and gazed back at the island, at the dark mass of the castle, impregnable as rock, all its lights extinguished. And then the moon moved from behind a cloud and suddenly it glowed with magic, each separate brick visible yet insubstantial, the tower a silver fantasy. She gazed enchanted at its beauty. And then her numbed brain remembered. Would he be watching for her, there on his citadel, binoculars raised, eyes scanning the sea for her bobbing head? She could picture
how it might have been; her exhausted body dragging itself ashore through the squelch of the shingle and the drag of the receding waves, her bleared eyes looking up only to meet his implacable eyes, his strength confronting her weakness. She wondered if he could have brought himself to kill in cold blood. She thought that it would have been difficult for him. Perhaps it would have been impossible. How much easier to kick shut the trapdoor, to shoot the bolts and leave the sea to do your work for you. She remembered Roma’s words, “Even his horror is second-hand.” But how could he have let her live, knowing what she did? She said: “You saved my life.”

“Saved you a bit of a swim, that’s all. You’d have made it. You’re close enough to the shore.”

He didn’t ask why, almost naked, she should be swimming at such an hour. Nothing seemed to surprise or disconcert him. And it was only then that she remembered Simon. She said urgently: “There are two of us. There was a boy with me. We’ve got to find him. He’ll be here somewhere. He’s a very strong swimmer.’