Thunder On The Right (22 page)

The black cloak swirled around her like a cloud. One moment she was there, held in the glancing light against the shadows of the great door. Then she was gone, and the draft from the outer night made the candles bow and stream along the air.

The chapel door, framing a square of black and wind-ridden night, swung heavily, once, twice.

Doña Francisca stood there for a long moment, rigid in that queer birdlike stance, the clutching hand that the girl had struck aside still reaching out, clawlike, toward the blank doorway. The other was against her breast, a taut fist clenched on the rubied cross. It was as if some malignant scorcery had stricken her to a statue of wood, old, dark wood, with the deep lines of the sunken face scored heavily by some primitive craftsman.

Even when she moved, the illusion was not dispelled. Slowly, like the arms of a doll, whose limbs fall with their own weight, her arms dropped to her sides, and hung there, the hands twitching loosely. Something else dropped like a falling spark . . .

the cross, its chain snapped in that convulsive grip, flashed to the carpet, to be quenched in the shadow of the silk robe. She had not noticed. That carved face was expressionless still, the eyes hooded over like a vulture's.

Then, slowly, the dark gargoyle of a face turned toward the door where Jennifer hid.

"The English girl . . ." said Doña Francisca softly, and came straight toward her.

Jennifer was not conscious of having moved at all, but before the Spaniard had taken more than two paces in her direction she had dived out of her hiding place like a bolting rabbit, and was running down the echoing tunnel toward the garden. The darkness closed around her, but a glimpse from some half-shuttered window showed her the way. It had stopped raining, but the sounds of her flight were drowned by the wind that still roared in the trees. Above her head the apple boughs tossed whistling leaves; the little orange trees swayed like blown dandelion clocks as she ran between them and, wrenching open the iron gate, dived through into the darker shelter of the close.

Her plunge into the dark had been a purely instinctive one, but she realized, through her panic, as she stumbled across the wet mounds of the graveyard, that she had been right. She must make straight for the farm, and Stephen. She must warn them—but Jennifer did not attempt to persuade herself that she was flying to warn Stephen and the police. She was running, for the third time, into the sheltering comfort of Stephen's arms. Reason had caught up with instinct; however he might deny himself the role, he was, quite simply, the hero of any scene that Jennifer played in. And Jennifer had no doubt at all as to the kind of scene she was involved in now. If ever murder had looked out of anyone's face, it had looked out of the Spanish woman's as she turned to find her quarry.

Her quarry
. . . . But if the storm hid Jennifer's flight from the hunter, it also effectively drowned the noise of pursuit.

Doña Francisca could rot have seen her go; nor was it at all probable that she had heard anything. She might still be on her way up to the corridor above the refectory to look for "the English girl"—but she might also, even now, be sweeping after her prey like a blacker shadow through the black graveyard . . . Jennifer's outstretched hands met soaked and tossing leaves, where the roses swung in a curtain over the wall near the outer gate. Her hair whipped across her eyes. Thorns tore at her groping hands and wrists, and dragged at the skirts of her coat, catching at her like claws. Something struck her heavily on the arm, and she hit back with a cry of terror, only to realize that it was the gate, swinging open in a squall of wind.

She plunged through it out onto the bare mountainside.

To Bussac's farm. Stpehen would be there, Stephen and the police from Luz and Gavarnie. Stephen . . .

She could see better now that she was clear of the convent walls and trees. She ran up the grassy track toward the pine-woods, sobbing for breath, driven headlong by terror which gained on her even as she fled. She raced on into the path of the storm with never a backward look. As she came above the level where the convent buildings afforded protection, the wind seized her, driving her before it as if she had no more weight than a wisp of cloud. Her shoes slid on the slippery turf; twice she stumbled and fell to her knees, so that her hands were grazed and her coat torn and filthy; but neither falls nor the unheeded pain of bruises checked for a moment her headlong speed, and the impelling gusts, thrusting against her as against a sail, drove her like a small scudding ship up the steep way toward the woods. It threw her, half-blinded, almost straight against the column of the first sentinel pine, then she was swallowed by the silence of the wood, which lopped off the roar of the wind behind her as a cliff shuts off the sounds of the sea.

The blackness was intense, so that to move at all was to thrust one's body, wincing, against palpable darkness. But she dared not stop. She dared not even look behind, for fear of seeing a blacker shadow moving under the trees, of feeling another breath than the breath of the cold wind on the nape of her neck. She ran on.

And then she was out of the trees, racing up the steep track which led to the farm.

The track, rocky enough and treacherous at all times, was tonight like a scree of hell's mountain; a dozen new-filled rivulets had spilled into it, so thac, instead of a track, it was the bed of a new stream, a shallow treacherous torrent that poured over the smooth-worn recks, or slid in slabbed mud between them. On and on „ , up and up „ „ . no longer running, but slipping in the mud, dragging herself up the steepest bit, heaving her weighted limbs over boulder and stump... „

On ... up ... now she was above the main source of the stream and running over rock wet only with the rain . . . on, on ... to pelt, gasping, around the last shoulder of rock.

And there before her, huddled low under the leaping wind was at last the farm, its lighted windows bunking behind napping shutters.

"Stephen!" cried Jennifer, and flew across the cobbles with the tears of relief stinging her eyes.

She thrust open the cottage door and plunged inside. Warmth met her, and the smell of stew and new bread.

She gasped again, "Stephen!" and stood, blinking in the little room's lamplight, while the door slammed shut behind her.

Across the table she met the startled and questioning gaze of the girl with the gray eyes.

There was noboddy else in the room.

The girl was sitting on a high stool that was drawn up to the table in the center of the little room. She still looked very pale; her face was drawn and tired, and the movements of her hands were clumsy and badly controlled. She had been engaged in cutting a crusty loaf into thick slices, and beside her on the table was a pile of sliced meat. The remains of a hasty meal for two still littered the table, and the rest of the room showed every sign of hurried preparations for departure. There was very little furniture; the table, a few chairs, a couch piled with blankets under the window, and, oddly, an ancient English grandfather clock in a corner. An open door opposite the window gave on to what appeared to be an empty bedroom.

So much Jennifer noticed in the shocked, half-dazed second before the girl spoke.

She put down the knife she was holding, and said, "Mademoiselle?" She seemed considerably startled—as well she might.

Jennifer said breathlessly, "You've not gone. It's all right! You've not gone!"

"No." The girl spoke in French, on a note of puzzlement. "I was ill, and then he found the mule was lame so we couldn't leave. But what------?"

Jennifer went forward a little shakily toward the table. "Then it's all right! Oh, Gillian!"

"Mademoiselle?" The gray eyes held nothing but bewilderment, and then apprehension in the swift glance they flung at the door. "Why have you come back?

You saw how angry he was this afternoon. If he comes in and finds you here—"

Jenny's hands groped for the back of the nearest chair, gripped whitely. "D'you mean . . . they've not been here yet? He—they've not taken him------?"

"They?" The other's voice sharpened. "Who are they?"

"The Englishman." Jennifer answered automatically, her tired brain whirling anew with frightened conjectures. "The police."

"Police?" The gray eyes narrowed, then flared wide with alarm. "
Police?
Why?"

But Jennifer was not watching her. She, too, had turned her head toward the door.

She said shakily, "Something must have gone wrong. We've got to get out of here—now. . . . That woman may be on her way, and Bussac—where's Bussac?"

"At the farm in the next valley. Corentin's. I couldn't have managed it on foot, and he went to borrow a mule. He'll be back any minute."

Jennifer straightened up as if at the crack of a whip. Her face was a white blaze of excitement. "Then we must go now! Quickly! Don't wait for anything—there's no time! It's pitch-black outside, and the storm'll hide us. . . ." Then, as the other made no move, "My God, Gillian, what's the matter? What is this? Are you trying to tell me you
still
don't recognize me? I'm Jenny, Gil, your cousin Jenny! Don't you know me now?" She put out an urgent hand across the table. "There's no time for explanations, Gil, but you're in danger here, and this is our chance! Believe me, whatever you've got involved in it won't matter! Just come with me now and we'll sort it out later.
But you've got to come
!"

But the other girl drew back from her desperate outstretched hand, and in her face bewildered apprehension had deepened inyo naked fear.

"I don't understand. Why should I go with you? What are you talking about?
Who
are you?"

A gust of wind sent the shutter crashing against the wall outside. But Jennifer never heard it. Blue eyes met gray across the cluttered table. In the stillness between them the lamp sang.

"I've told you. Your cousin Jenny."

"My—cousin?" The girl was as white now as the tablecloth, She shook her head.

"I—don't understand."

"Are you . . , trying to tell me . . . you're
not
Gillian?"

"I don't—I don't know what you're talking about. I am Marie Bussac. I don't ever remember any cousins." Her hands shook as she moved a plate on the table.

Around Jennifer the little room seemed to swell and darken, while the lamp shrank to a hissing point of light. She began to tremble. She said, stupidly, "Marie—Bussac?

Marie?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. But of course. His wife." She picked up the knife in an unsteady hand, as if to continue her task, but held it slackly, staring at Jennifer with a pale, almost dazed look on her face. "Please, mademoiselle. You must explain. The police—why should they come here? What have they found out about us? For God's sake, mademoiselle, you must tell me what this is all about! And who are you—really? Why have you come here?"

Jennifer groped shakily for the nearest chair, and sat down. She pushed the hair back from her face and gazed dumbly at the other girl. The latter, almost mechanically, reached for a bottle of red wine, tipped some into a glass, and pushed it across the table. Jenny took it and drank greedily. The harsh tang of the stuff steadied her, and seemed to set the chilled blood flowing again to brain and fingers.

She said, "I thought I was your cousin, Jennifer Silver, but now I don't know.

I—I------" She looked at the other again and said unsteadily, "You wouldn't do this to me, would you, Gil? Surely you can trust me? If you're mixed up in this game of Bussac's, living with him here—and—oh! what does it matter? I swear I'll help you."

The pale face opposite her seemed to freeze, and fear touched in its lines and shadows.

The girl said rapidly, "I don't know you. I don't know what you're talking about."

Jenny said in a whisper, "Then you're her double. And she's dead. But you're still alive, Mademoiselle Lally Dupre!"

The pale face opposite her never changed.

"
What
did you call me? Another name? Are you crazy, with your names and your cousins and------"

But Jennifer with a cry had jumped to her feet. "Of course! What a fool I am! We said there couldn't be more than one who looked like you!"

She stepped aside into the full light of the lamp, and pulled open the draggled skirts of her coat. "Marie Bussac, Madame Bussac, what you will—what color is my dress?"

The girl looked at her as if she were mad. "I—I don't understand. You must be crazy!"

"No. Just answer me that one question, and if you get it right I'll go." She thrust the damp folds forward in the lamplight. "What color is it?"

The gray eyes glanced, faltered. The straight brows drew together. "I—is it gray? A pale yellowish gray?"

The tears stung behind Jennifer's eyes, and brimmed over on her cheeks. She said, shakily, "No. No, it's not," and let the blue folds fall. She put cold hands to her cheeks and scrubbed away the tears with a childish gesture. She looked across the smoking lamp at Gillian.

She said, "I knew it was you. I don't get this, Gil. Why don't you trust me?"

Gillian stared at her, her body hunched on the stool as if exhausted, her hands clutching whitely at the table's edge. The lines of fear and weariness deepened in her face. She looked ill. She said uncertainly, "I don't—I can't------" Then a hand went to her head with a sudden, almost frantic gesture. "
Oh, mon dieu, que j'ai peur! Je
n'y comprends Hen!"

Jennifer stood quite still. She said, on a long breath, "I ... see."

She put both hands flat on the table top and leaned forward. She said, "Madame Bussac, you don't remember anything, do you?"

Gillian's head was in her hands. It shook slightly.

"How long have you been here?"

Another shake.

"When did you get married?"

"I—a year ago. Why?"

"Did he tell you that?"

The muffled voice said, "Yes.'"'

Jenny bit her lip, nut her voice was still gentle. "But you don't actually remember getting married, Madame Bussac?"

Gillian lifted her head. *'Nos mamselle. That was before . . ."