A Most Extraordinary Pursuit (31 page)

During the course of this conversation, the man behind him climbed out of the hole and rose to his feet. In the new glow around us, I saw it was the ginger-haired fellow, bearing his familiar pistol in one hand and a curious electric torch in the other, which he cast about the walls until the light fell upon the figure of the Duke of Olympia, no longer recumbent but crouching like a predator about to spring, at the far limits of his chains.

“So, b——ch,” said the man. “Looks like we found her after all, without your help. What do you think of that?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

I shall not repeat the oath uttered by the newcomer; I have, I
believe, given you enough flavor of his conversation. He gave voice fluently, and then said, “Come on, man. It's over. We've got the woman. Time to start talking, okay? Nice and slow, so we don't miss a thing.”

“You are mistaken,” said the duke. “Wasting your time.”

The man hadn't seemed to notice me, kneeling next to the fallen Silverton, a few feet away. Men usually didn't, did they? A woman was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to take into account, except perhaps as a useful pawn. A chip with which to bargain.

I found my feet, one by one, and edged around the far side of Silverton's body.

The duke made no sign that he had seen me. He lifted his arms and rattled the chains. “Release me, or there will be the devil to pay. I assure you, I have powerful friends, who will pursue you with the full might of the British crown behind them.”

The man laughed and jerked his head at Silverton's bound limbs. “Powerful friends like this one, right? I'm shaking in my boots.”

“I say,” Silverton said, in an offended voice.

“The thing is, you've got no idea what I am, right. No idea
who
I am. You can brag all you want about your powerful friends, but to me and my crew, they're dead and gone. Dead and—”

I brought up my fist and knocked the torch from his hand, and in the instant of his shock, I grabbed for the opposite hand, the one with the pistol.

At the same instant, Silverton rolled like a dervish, crashing into his ankles, and the pistol slipped into my hands. I grasped it properly, as Silverton had shown me, and flipped back the safety latch.

The man swore and launched himself at me, but I had already taken aim, and my finger squeezed the trigger just before the blow landed.

We fell together in a heap, to the sound of splintering metal. His weight crushed me into the rocks. He swore in my ear, and his rank breath smothered my face as he attempted to heave himself up, but I wrapped my legs around his, tangling us both in the folds of my dress and petticoats.

“Ugh! You f——ing b——ch!”

He was trying to land a blow of some kind, but we were too closely entwined, and I had the advantage because he required the use of his arms to hoist himself up. I grabbed a fistful of ginger hair and yanked it. The word
b——ch
transformed into a howl of anguish. He whipped his head backward, trying to dislodge my hand, but I held on viciously while his fingers grasped for my throat and his thumbs found my windpipe.

All of this took place over the course of a few frantic seconds, though my sense of time, in the manner of such moments of crisis, seemed to stretch out into an infinity. The black spots appeared before my eyes, and I thought,
I must hold on, hold on to his damned hair
, even as my fingers weakened and his pale image blurred in front of my eyes.

And then he disappeared entirely, and I thought I was strangling to death. A roar built in my ears—from the lack of air? impending unconsciousness?—that grew in fury until, in a flash, the pressure on my neck flew away. In the next instant, the man's body went with it.

I swung dizzily to my side and tried to sit up. The torch still burned from the nearby ground, providing the necessary minimum of illumination, showing the ginger-haired man dangling from the chest of the Duke of Olympia, who held him there with a double loop of chain.

My aim, it seemed, had proven true.

“Damned fine shot, Truelove,” said Lord Silverton, and I turned my head and saw him, too, still lying on the ground with his cheek to the rock. I could not see his expression in the shadows, but as I took in the familiar outline of his cheek and jaw, the congenial bulk of his cinched-up body, I felt a sense of profound solace settle on my chest, an antidote to some unsuspected poison, traveling warmly along the vessels near my heart.

I have found you
.

I crawled toward him and found the rope securing his wrists. The knot was tight but familiar—a double square, hardly expert—and I forced my stiff fingers to work the lines apart until his hands loosened and then fell free.

“Ah, God!” he said in relief, stretching out his palms and rubbing them together. “You're an angel. Damned inglorious, to lie trussed up like a Christmas goose, while some scoundrel attempts to strangle my Truelove on the ground nearby. Now the legs, if you will?”

But I was already at work on the knot at his ankles. A few yards away, the duke gave the ginger-haired man a last experimental tug and allowed him to slide to the ground: quite unconscious, if not dead. I tried to call out to him, but my wounded throat allowed only a whisper. “Almost done!”

The duke didn't notice. He stepped over the fallen American as if he were a pile of rubbish, picked up the pistol, and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. “Follow me,” he said, and strode not toward the two of us, Silverton and me, but toward the opening that led to the cave below.

“What are you doing?” I tried to shout.

“The knot, Truelove!” said Silverton. “Quickly!”

“But what's going on?”

“He's gone to get Desma, no doubt.”

Desma
, I thought angrily. I tugged at the rope, which proved even tighter than the first, though the knot was exactly the same. Silverton was flexing his fingers, shaking them, attempting to work the sensation back into his nerves. “But who is she?” I rasped.

“Poor Truelove,” he said. “You sound dreadful. Honey and lemon, that's the ticket, and perhaps a rinse of salt water.”

“Do you mind answering my question? Who
is
this woman?”

“Desma? I'm not quite certain, to be perfectly honest. She speaks a dashed odd dialect. Cornered me at the inn, gave me to understand that she knew where Max was, but he had fallen into some sort of imminent danger, so off we went into the tempest on a pair of recalcitrant mules, and that was only the start of— Ah! Here we are. I could kiss you for that.”

His legs fell apart. I unwound the rest of the rope while he rubbed at his trousers, one calf and then the other, and then braced himself on the ground and attempted to rise.

“Damn it all,” he muttered. “Give us a hand, will you, Truelove?”

I ducked under his shoulder. The duke had already disappeared down the hatchway, into an explosion of shouts and thumps that had now gone inexplicably and ominously still.

“Quickly! These damned legs.”

“But you can't be thinking of going down there, like this!”

“My dear, I don't believe we have a choice. Give me a lift, now.”

I supported him upward, and together we staggered to the opening in the rock. Silverton lurched forward and braced himself on the opposite wall, then swung his legs down until he sat on the edge, breathing hard. “Right-ho,” he said, and looked up at me. “Awfully sorry about all this, Truelove. You ought to have stayed in England, after all.”

Then he slid free and dropped to the floor below.

Someone shouted out a warning. I peered over the edge in time to see Silverton on his feet, braced against the wall, perfectly still, staring warily at the scene before him.

“Bloody damn,” he said.

Behind me, the American groaned roughly. I turned and found the discarded rope, and before he could stir further, I grabbed his wrists and tied them together. “It's known as a double gunner's knot,” I told him in my scratchy voice, giving the hemp a last ruthless tug. “You shall probably need a knife to open it.”

I rose and found the torch, which I switched off and slid into the pocket of my skirt.
Down we go, Truelove
, I muttered, and without another thought, I lowered myself to the edge of the opening and dropped to the floor of the cave
below.

At the sight of the Prince, the Lady turned and fled, but the new roundness of her form slowed her steps, and he soon caught her and held her fast. ‘My love,' he said gently, ‘do not struggle, for you have nothing to fear. I have seen how grave were my sins against you, and I now ask only your forgiveness, and a return to that dear love we once shared on our bridal couch.'

The Lady answered, ‘Then you have traveled here without gain, for I tell you now that I first wed you only by the command of the King my father, and have since known only loathing for your base cruelty and your gross habits. I have renounced that false vow I made at our nuptials, and the gods have rewarded me with a true Hero for my spouse, and a child sired by him in my womb which was barren until now.'

The Prince howled with rage and took out his knife, and he swore he would cut out the bastard babe from her belly with his own hand. But as the dagger touched her skin, a roar sounded all down the length of the beach, and the Beast her brother emerged from the rocks in a fury . . .

T
HE
B
OOK
OF
T
IME
, A. M. H
AYWOOD
(1921)

T
he shock of impact traveled up my feet and into the bones of my legs. I staggered forward, and an arm snaked out to catch me just before I fell. Silverton. I recognized the bass note of his grunt.

“Holy sh——,” said a new voice, one I didn't recognize, “another lady drops by. How about that. Should have worn something nicer.”

I lifted my head and gasped. A man stood near the entrance to the cave: not the other American, the one who had accompanied us to the cave, but a wiry fellow of medium height, brown-haired and clean-shaven, who held a woman in one arm and a knife in the opposite hand, which he held in a perfect horizontal line against the center of the lady's long, pale throat.

“Don't move,” the man added, “or the b——ch gets it.”

I looked at her face, which I scarcely recognized, even though I knew it must belong to the not-barmaid, Desma, who had
occasioned all this trouble. She was handsome rather than beautiful, bones strong and eyebrows thick, and her lips were voluptuously red and full, as if she had been sucking on lemons. Her dress was that of a peasant, loose and rough-textured. I wondered if I was gazing upon the next Duchess of Olympia.

I said hoarsely, “I beg your pardon?
Gets
it? Gets what?”

“Meaning I cut her throat.”

Like the others, he spoke in that plain, flat-voweled voice I have come to recognize as American, though it was not at all the sort of American accent—thank goodness—spoken by the Dowager Duchess of Olympia. No, there was something else about him, a foreign aspect to which I could not quite place a name.

I glanced around the cave, at the men standing arrested at this extraordinary spectacle, which was lit by a powerful lantern that now hung from a hook near the entrance. The second man stood next to Mr. Higganbotham, securing him with one thick arm; the Duke of Olympia held a wary stance a few feet away, as if he had been on the point of launching himself at the American and stopped himself just in time. By my side, Silverton kept his arm at my waist, in a gesture that soon drew the American's curious gaze.

I stepped away from his lordship and said, “Very well. We are at an impasse. What are your demands?”

The American nodded at the Duke of Olympia. “He knows what we want.”

“You're mistaken,” said the duke. “I have not the slightest understanding what you want from me, and never have. I am a scholar, nothing more. I thought I made that quite clear.”

The American seized his prize even closer to his chest, and she cried out and grasped his arm. Her loose dress flattened against her body, revealing the round curve of a secret I had not suspected.

“But she's with child!” I exclaimed.

“Indeed,” the duke said quietly.

I looked back and forth between them, and compassion spread inside me like a spill of oil, replacing my earlier resentment. “Sir,” I said firmly to the American, “you are a blackguard of the worst sort, and I demand that you release this poor woman at once, or you will one day answer to a far mightier judgment than ours.”

He chuckled. “
Blackguard.
Now that's a good one. I don't think anyone's ever called me that before.
F——ing asshole
, maybe.”

“I'm afraid I don't know what that means.”

“He means
ar——e,
I believe,” said Silverton. “
Ar——ehole.
Americanism.”

“My apologies,” the man said. “F
——
ing ar
——
ehole.”

I held out my hand. “Give me that knife.”

He tilted his head to one side. He seemed to be smiling. “You know, I think I'm starting to like you, Miss—?”

“Truelove,” said Silverton. “Miss Truelove. I rather like her, too.”

Something was afoot, that much was clear. I could tell by his lordship's easy, jocular manner—even more easy and jocular than usual, I should say—which seemed designed for some special purpose. To put the American off his guard, perhaps? To distract him?

Because of course Lord Silverton possessed a plan. He had his faults—all too many, in fact—but in a tight corner like this one, Silverton always had the angle on the way out.

If only I knew what it was.

Follow his lead,
I thought.
Just follow his lead.

“Why, thank you, your lordship. I confess, I had no notion of your esteem.”

The American laughed again. “Listen to you. Jesus. It's like watching f
——
ing
Downton Abbey.
”

“Downton Abbey? Where's that?” said Silverton. “Never heard of the place.”

My heart was beating quickly, and my eyes remained fastened on that wicked knife, which had not budged from its position against Desma's naked throat. I said, “Perhaps he means Doncaster Abbey, in Lancashire. Though it's half-ruined, and the baronet hardly welcomes guests. Particularly not the American sort.”

“What, Sir Cedric? Hasn't the old rascal died yet?”

“Still hanging on.”

“By God. He must be ninety at least.”

“And he hunts all season long, just as he always did,” I said. “The abbey might be falling apart, but the Doncaster kennel remains a palace. Olympia used to go down every November and ride for a week, until the duchess made him stop.”

The young woman gazed at us in utter bewilderment.

“Ah, splendid lady, the duchess. Is that what you meant, my good man?
Doncaster
Abbey? Good hunting, rubbish accommodation?”

“Actually, I don't give a sh——. What I want is for
him
 . . .” The American turned his head slightly, in the direction of Maximilian Haywood, and his mouth fell open. “The
f——
!” he shouted, and the knife flew away from Desma's throat at last, flailing at the empty air while the Duke of Olympia coolly fired his stolen pistol at the man's head.

I am afraid the next few moments have somewhat blurred in my memory, though I recall they seemed quite clear at the time of the event itself. I once discussed the matter with an eminent student in the field of psychological analysis, and he explained that
my reaction was quite normal in instances of violent attack. The mind, you see, wishes to protect itself from the effects of traumatic experience, and buries (if that is the proper term) the sensations so deep in the regions of memory, they are sometimes never properly recovered.

In any case, the duke's bullet did find its mark, and the impact of such a powerful weapon on a frail human skull was spectacular, though the immediate postmortem image is—thankfully—long since lost to me.

I do remember a vague sense of appalled shock, followed by an instant or two of disorganized shrieking, and then the crisp voice of Lord Silverton as he issued the necessary orders to unbind Mr. Higganbotham's hands (this task he delegated to me, I believe) and evacuate the cave in a rapid yet orderly fashion.

But what I still remember most precisely (perhaps because I found it so curious) was Desma's frantic weeping, and her reluctance to leave the cave at last. In the end, the duke was forced to hand his pistol to Lord Silverton and carry her out of the cavern himself, and even then she struggled and beat her fists against his chest, as if he were bearing her away not from mortal danger, but from life itself.

I recovered some degree of mental composure during the walk down the cliff path, toward the beach, which flickered in and out of view according to the turnings of the path, broad and bright and golden in the light from the morning sun. The scirocco had died down, and already the air bore a calm and springlike warmth, such that I could almost hear the shooting of tiny new plants upward through the damp soil, and smell the peculiar greenness of young vegetation. The scent of hope.

The Duke of Olympia went first, carrying his precious double burden, and the pistol was tucked back into the waistband of his trousers. Perhaps the child would be a boy (I thought, as I watched the muscles of his back dampen his stained white shirt) and therefore the next heir to the dukedom. Or perhaps a girl, who would take her place in London society, wearing a beautiful white gown and one of the delicate family tiaras suitable for a debutante. There would be music and champagne, and all this hardship would be forgotten, and the child's illegitimate beginnings lost to all but the most distant memory.

Mr. Higganbotham followed directly behind me, and Silverton last of all, urging us forward. I wanted to stop and ask why we drove along in such hurry, when our foes lay vanquished behind us, but I perceived that this was not the moment for lengthy explanation. I merely asked, over my shoulder, “Where are we going?”

“The beach, down below. I believe I see the good old
Isolde
plying the waters to the north. We can signal her from there, and I daresay the jolly boat can easily land on all that sand and ferry us to safety.”

“But what is the
Isolde
doing there to begin with?”

“Why, because I had the presence of mind to send a message to the lighthouse before I left the hotel.”

“The lighthouse?”

“Yes. They've got a Marconi device, you see. The only one on the island.” His voice was rich with self-satisfaction. “One of my first inquiries, when we arrived.”

“How clever.”

“Experience, Truelove. Experience and training. Enough of those, and you don't need any brains.”

“That's fortunate for you.”

“Isn't it?”

Down the path we marched, while the beach grew in scope below us, and the blue sea sparkled to our right. Under the effects of relief and of Silverton's bright conversation, I was beginning to feel an unreal and almost demented levity. In a moment, I thought I should perhaps laugh aloud.

We had done it. We had recovered the missing duke and brought him to safety. We had even secured his chosen bride and an heir to ensure a new generation of the illustrious line, presuming an Anglican minister could be hastily summoned in Athens to legitimize the union.

How all this had come about, I couldn't quite say. I studied the movement of the duke's shoulders before my nose, the flop of Desma's despondent legs at his side, and I realized I knew almost nothing more about either of them than I had known the day before. Not even the most basic questions: why they were so doggedly pursued by these strange, ill-mannered men; what, exactly, they had been doing here in Naxos for the past several weeks.

Well, all that could wait until we were safely aboard the ship and steaming back toward the civilization of Athens. The Duke of Olympia was alive; he was uninjured, unimpaired in faculties, and even now on his way back to England to claim that noble birthright to which he had succeeded. The dukedom was secured from ruin by the licentious younger brother. The planned institute in East Sussex—goodness, I had almost forgot its existence, during the series of emergencies that had engulfed us—was no longer in doubt.

As for my own future? I supposed that remained to be seen. But I rather thought I had acquitted myself well, if this expedition
could be said to constitute a trial for the position of personal secretary to the new Duke of Olympia.