Death at Knytte (7 page)

They moved so fast that they almost caught Beddowes unawares. He began to dodge, but wasn’t in time to escape the first blow completely; the force as it hit his arm was enough to send him reeling. He teetered along the edge of the deep ditch. Unable to regain his balance sufficiently to jump it, he dropped down into the shallow mud and floundered past his two attackers, aiming to reach the horses. The beasts were still unsettled, and they might provide a diversion.

His enemies were too quick for him. Several hard knocks struck him as he clambered out of the mire and back onto the road. The two men were getting in each other’s way when either of them alone might have finished him, but even so he was taking too much punishment. Unless he could strike back before long a lucky blow would bring him down, and then the attack could only have one end.

Beddowes flinched as a cudgel whistled past his ear to land squarely on his shoulder; both sound and sensation led him to suspect that a bone was cracked, if not broken. There could be no future for Fetch’n’carry Cobb. If Sergeant Beddowes hoped to survive, it was time to fight for his life.

With the blood-curdling roar that hadn’t issued from between his lips since the battle for Kandahar, Beddowes
turned, his hands no longer arthritic claws but powerful bunched fists. He dove in under the bludgeon wielded by the servant, whom he judged the physically stronger of his two assailants. A full bodied blow to the belly, followed by a vicious uppercut to the jaw, put the servant out of the fight, although the victory came at the cost of a severe blow on the skull from the man’s master. He reeled dizzily, but rallied almost at once.

He hadn’t fought in so desperate a cause for many years; the sergeant of old would have trusted in his strength, but that had been many years ago, and he’d been on meagre rations. The chance to gain a weapon was too tempting. Beddowes reached to pick up the heavy wooden stick the groom had dropped; the realization that it was a mistake came too late. It wasn’t brawn that mattered here, but brains; he should have attacked the organ grinder, not the monkey. In the time it had taken for him to deal with the servant, his master had moved into the perfect position, and now he swung with all his strength.

The bludgeon crunched against the right side of Beddowes skull, just where the previous blow had landed. The world split apart in jagged lightning strikes. A tiny voice in his head had just time to say
‘I’m dead’
, before everything went black.

‘L
ady Pickhurst,’ Jonah was all formality. A few feet behind him, a sketch book in one hand and a pencil in the other, stood Miss Drake, the governess. The girl gave as gracious a curtsey as she could manage with her hands full, while her face took on a faint tinge of pink.

‘Are you neglecting your duties, Miss Drake?’ Lucille was quick to take advantage of the girl’s obvious discomfort and she was pleased to see Phoebe Drake’s cheeks flush more deeply.

‘No, your ladyship. Master Rodney and Miss Eliza are taking their usual afternoon rest, just as Lord Pickhurst ordered. They’ve not been left unsupervised, Annie is in the nursery, and she knows where to send for me, should I be needed. I am here because Master Rodney has been learning the history of Knytte, and I thought I would spend my free time making drawings of the monastery. They might usefully be compared to the old etchings which were made when it was almost intact.’

‘So you are an accomplished artist?’ Lucille was amused to see Jonah fidgeting uncomfortably. He was embarrassed to be found with this girl. She knew they were cousins, but that didn’t necessarily prohibit another kind of relationship. Miss Drake’s attentions would be unwelcome in front of his mistress; while he was so deeply enamoured he wouldn’t want to have his name linked romantically with any other woman.
‘Hardly that. I can copy, that’s all.’ Phoebe made to open the book to show her work, but Lucille shook her head dismissively.

‘It doesn’t matter, I have no interest in seeing your attempts. Pray don’t be late in returning to your duties, Miss Drake, I shouldn’t like to see you dismissed.’ With that she swept back through the archway, sensing rather than seeing Jonah Jackman’s disappointment. When she looked back from the shelter of the rose arbour only a minute later, it was to see the young governess hurrying from the ruins, her face set as if she was biting back tears.

Lucille watched the girl hurry to the rear of the house. She believed Jonah when he insisted no other woman had ever taken his eye, that she alone had captured his heart, though a man of twenty five, especially one of his stature and appearance, should have made many conquests. Jonah was tiresomely upright and moral. He spoke of his guilt at their liaison almost as often as he told her of his love.

Bored, annoyed with Mortleigh and illogically irritated by not finding Jonah alone, Lucille returned to the ruins, the steady crack of steel on stone growing louder as she approached. She tiptoed through the arch, and stood watching him at work, slightly stirred by the rippling muscles of his back and shoulders. It had been his physique that had led her to seek out his company a few weeks after her arrival at Knytte; the monotony of married life had already threatened to overcome her, used as she was to a round of balls and parties. Since flirtation with men of her own class was denied her, she’d tried her art with the stone mason, and found a lover who was willing to grant her every wish. Jonah Jackman, she was sure, would die for her, were it asked of him, in the true tradition of romantic chivalry.

‘Poor Jonah,’ she said softly, ‘did I spoil your romantic assignation?
It must be hard to find a time to meet your pretty little inamorata.’

Despite her quietness he must have known she was there, for he answered at once, and seemed not to be put out by her accusation. ‘Phoebe Drake is my cousin,’ he said, ‘as you well know. We were brought up almost like brother and sister for some years, and that is how we think of each other.’

‘So, you were speaking of family matters when I interrupted you. That hardly seems to account for Miss Drake’s pink cheeks, does it?’

A slight frown furrowed his wide forehead. ‘She’s concerned for me; somehow she’s come to suspect our attachment.’

‘Poor Jonah,’ she said again. ‘And now that we have visitors in the house I must be so much more careful. There can be no moonlit meetings for a while. My husband sits later with his guests, and their rooms overlook the grounds. We mustn’t risk being seen.’

He turned to her at last, a look of pain crossing his face. ‘I don’t know how you can bear being tied to that old man, lord or no lord; it was wrong of your parents to make you marry him, but you
are
married, and our brief spells of happiness are equally wicked.’

Lucille nodded gravely; she had invented a miserable childhood, woven around with a web of intrigue, to win this man’s sympathy and quiet his conscience. To that she added tales of her husband’s cruelty, although he was innocent of any crime except that of being old.

‘So must our love be seen as sinful? Can there be no justification for finding a little warmth and affection in our lives? Perhaps you’re right. What we can’t change, we must endure,’ she said, her voice breaking.

‘I’ll be guided by you,’ he said softly. ‘Phoebe may be right, my feelings have made a fool of me. The world will never allow
us to be together. I ask nothing more than the few snatched hours I’ve already spent with you. Their memory will keep me warm through the coldest and loneliest nights.’

‘Dear Jonah, must we condemn ourselves to being alone? It’s so unfair, for you are free and one day you’ll leave and find another love. Perhaps this should be our last meeting.’ Glancing around to see that they weren’t overlooked, she stretched up and pulled his face down to hers, bestowing a lingering kiss upon his lips. ‘Don’t leave me, dearest love, not yet.’ With a sigh she left him, suppressing a laugh as she turned away; the lovesick fool would have a chance to prove his devotion before too long.

The afternoon passed slowly, and after many attempts to occupy herself, Lucille called her maid, and spent an hour deciding what she should wear that evening, berating the woman at every opportunity. Her husband was home by the time she made her final decision; she chose a gown that accentuated both her slim waist, and her pallor.

Mortleigh had not returned, but as Lucille dismissed her maid she looked out of the window to see the landaulet bowling up the drive. Her heart quickening, she hurried to accept her husband’s proffered arm as he came to her door. Leaning on him as they descended the stairs, she brought her mouth close to Lord Pickhurst’s ear. ‘I trust you’re not excessively tired, dear husband. You did not visit me last night, and I am pining for want of company. Now that our guests have gone I have you to myself again.’

She had timed it perfectly. A young footman was just bowing Mortleigh into the house, but something was wrong. The servant gave a gasp as he straightened, unable to hide his reaction to the visitor’s appearance. Lucille found herself staring too; her new lover was dusty and dishevelled. Blood trickled from a cut upon his forehead, and there was a livid
bruise on his cheek. Once she recovered from her shock, she felt a malicious wish to laugh. Had he been a few minutes earlier he might have slipped up to his room without being seen by his host and hostess, and repaired his appearance before the dinner gong sounded.

‘What a fortuitous return,’ she said haughtily, clinging more tightly to her husband’s arm; she wanted Mortleigh, and his dishevelled state merely aroused her lust, but she would be content if neither man knew what she was feeling. It was pleasant to watch her lover humiliated, just a little, as payment for the fear he’d inflicted upon her.

‘I apologize, your lordship, Lady Pickhurst,’ Mortleigh said, ‘for returning so late. I fear I took a tumble from the carriage. The horses took fright at a grouse. I was perhaps unwise to drive back without a groom, but I didn’t want my sick friend to travel alone, so I sent Tomms to care for him on the train.’

‘We shall delay dinner for a few minutes,’ Lord Pickhurst said. Waving away his guest’s attempts to protest, or to apologize, he gave the appropriate orders, and had Parkes, his valet, sent to Mr Mortleigh’s room.

‘I dislike having the servants put about in this way,’ Lucille declared, once Mortleigh had gone upstairs. The colour had rushed to her face at the sight of her lover, and she knew her husband would notice; let him interpret her excitement as annoyance. ‘I had so hoped we might be alone tonight,’ she added in a whisper.

‘I am flattered, my dear heart,’ Lord Pickhurst said, patting her hand. ‘Perhaps our guest will be tired after his ordeal and not wish to sit too long over the brandy. We must be grateful that he’s returned safely.’

She gave him her most brilliant smile. ‘I shan’t pretend to share your interest in the gentleman, but what pleases you can be nothing but agreeable to me.’

During the meal Lucille took little part in the conversation, being civil to Mortleigh, but no more. She rose as soon as it was polite to do so. ‘I’ll leave you to the decanter and cigars,’ she said, darting a meaningful look at her husband. ‘Do not hurry. I shall retire early. Goodnight, Mr Mortleigh.’

‘Lady Pickhurst.’ He bowed low, a sardonic smile on his face. ‘Thank you for the loan of your landaulet, I trust I shall find a way to repay your generosity soon, and I assure you my friend Laidlaw will be eternally grateful. I wish you a very good night.’

Beddowes’s head was full of cannon fire. He didn’t move a muscle, yet pain erupted somewhere behind his eyes, spreading with awakening consciousness down through his neck, shoulders and back until his body was a red hot agony. Except his legs. He couldn’t feel his legs. Fear gripped him; had they gone? Had shot or shrapnel left him with nothing but bloody stumps?

He put out a hand and encountered something ice cold. The feel and texture was familiar and he knew it to be dead flesh. Only now did he force his eyelids open, breaking the crust of dried blood that had held them shut. He was lying on the naked body of a dead man. Only inches from Beddowes’s eyes there was a mass of blackened bloody flesh; his gorge rose as he realized that what he was looking at had once been a face.

The two of them lay snugly at the bottom of a hole, a narrow space about eight feet long, and almost twice as deep. It appeared to have been dug a long time ago, for the sides had sprouted grass and weeds, while the sky up above was almost obscured by a thick overhang of gorse.

Beddowes had been a soldier too long to let the cadaver bother him, once the initial shock had passed. He returned to the matter in hand, and, teeth gritted against the pain, he
curled his body round, searching with his right arm until he located his thigh. He pinched it hard, and a whole new set of fiery needles were thrust into his flesh, all the way down to his foot. Knowing that sensation could lie, he didn’t accept this as sure evidence, but continued exploring with eyes and fingers until he had satisfied himself that no vital parts of his body were missing. As to his injuries, his head and his left arm seemed to have taken the worst damage. One side of his skull was matted with the blood which had glued his eyes shut and run into his mouth. His left arm was swollen, and he had no doubt that it was broken.

The barrage of shot had faded into the rhythmic thud of his own pulse, hammering inside his head. A lull in the battle perhaps, or had the sounds existed only in his mind? Beddowes shouted as loud as he could, hoping to summon some other survivor to his aid. His mouth was dry and his voice lacked its usual volume, but he was confident it should be heard above ground. There was no response, however, and after a while he fell silent. He began to think, and his first thoughts were troubling; he couldn’t remember where he was. His clearest memory put him at a skirmish not far from Maiwand, yet he was sure he had survived it. Hadn’t Colonel Margrave complemented him on his conduct during a parade a few days later? As he pondered, the scene became clearer, and he lifted his right arm, remembering something. He was mildly puzzled to see the filthy tattered sleeve; he wasn’t in uniform, but for the moment that was unimportant.

Beddowes gripped the thin cloth in his teeth and tore it away. He stared at the small white scar in astonishment; it was old, barely visible under the layer of dirt that caked his skin. He’d been unlucky enough to take a spent bullet in the arm as they flushed out a nest of rebels from the ruins of the town. In the heat of battle he’d barely noticed, completing his
mission before reporting to the surgeon to have the pellet of lead removed. This had been the subject of Colonel Margrave’s commendation and, as more slivers of memory returned to him, he recalled that the incident had resulted in some good-natured leg-pulling from his platoon.

Hurt, baffled and exhausted, Beddowes allowed his eyelids to drift shut, and for a while he gave no more thought to his predicament. He awoke in darkness to a new problem; he had a raging thirst. A faint sound from above suggested it might be raining, but only a few stray spots of water made their way through the tangled bushes above, most of them falling on the cold naked flesh of his silent companion. He licked at these damp spots avidly; he knew of men who turned cannibal when it was their only chance of survival, and was grateful that for the present he wasn’t bothered by hunger.

To distract himself from thoughts of fresh water, Beddowes investigated his clothes, and found that all of them were as filthy and dilapidated as his shirt, and none bore the faintest resemblance to any kind of uniform, except one of his boots, which might, a very long time ago, have belonged to a soldier, though it had been a man with feet at least one size smaller than his own. He found, to his disgust, that his hair was as long and matted as his beard, and that it was infested with lice, a plague he’d fought successfully during most of his military career. Beddowes had no idea how or when he’d come by a discharge. More importantly perhaps, he couldn’t understand how he’d fallen into such abject poverty, to end his days starving and thrown into a pit.

By dawn the rain was falling harder, and showering down upon him; a trickle of water was dripping off the leaves of a plant a few feet above Beddowes’ head. He drank thankfully, though his body began to shiver as the wet penetrated his ragged clothes. Hugging his right arm around his chest for
warmth, his hand encountered something tucked inside his shirt; it was a lump of bread, hard, but perfectly edible. Soaked in water, this made a welcome breakfast.