Last Act (26 page)

There was a pause, while Anne lay ice-cold, yet sweating, gazing up at the mechanism above her, wondering what would happen if James Frensham switched it on to go back to the castle.

“No,” came his voice at last. “I'd best put in an appearance at Cousin Rudolf's last party.” They laughed together and Anne heard the sound of the doors opening and closing again behind them.

She lay where she was, sweating, listening to the silence for a few moments, then made herself crawl out. All well; all silent; the other stairway motionless now, the two men on their different
ways down that sinister corridor, Frensham to put in an appearance at “Cousin Rudolf's last party,” the other man … Was going to plant a time bomb in the opera house. Set for midnight tomorrow night. A bomb that would destroy the opera house, or at least render it unusable, without affecting the hostel or the hotel. If she could give warning swiftly enough, he might be caught in the act. She bent desperately over the mechanism that worked the stairway. There were instructons, in German, incomprehensible. This lever? That switch? Some combination of the two? Useless … Desperate, she set herself at last to the long climb, wondering as she did so whether she should not rather have chanced the corridor, the risk of meeting either Frensham or his accomplice …

Too late now to worry about that, or about how she would get into the castle. The door might be open, she must hope, for Frensham's return. But he was staying at the hotel … It was tiring, walking on this unyielding surface that should have been moving under her. She was aware of the endless length of the day, stretching behind her; of exhaustion, and fear. A new fear now. She had lost her pills with her bag.
Don't think of them. Don't start expecting pain.
No time for that, under the twin threats of Fritz's hatred and James Frensham's plot. No wonder she had felt that the opera was threatened from all sides. And why was she so suddenly and blessedly certain that Michael had had nothing to do with it? It might be irrational, but it was a flash of happiness just the same, and brought an upsurge of strength and hope.

She almost tripped. The stairway had begun to move under her feet. Someone had switched it on at the bottom; someone was coming up behind her. She began to run, as silently as she could, remembering how conversation had echoed down the long tunnel. How far had she come? Would whoever was behind her be hurrying? Fritz? Frensham coming back? The explosives expert—his job already finished? She had been tired already; now, running, she fought exhaustion. A stitch in her side hinted at pain, terrifying. Her breath came in gasps, racking, surely audible to her pursuer.

Was she hearing footsteps now, through her own labouring
breath, or merely imagining them? But, at last, she saw doors ahead; the other end, the castle—help. Suppose they were locked? She would suppose no such thing. They opened smoothly at her touch. She was in the remembered lower lobby of the castle, two men in uniform starting forward to challenge her. Not castle footmen; two of Herr Winkler's borrowed Italian policemen.

“Thank God,” she said, and then, with an effort, in Italian, “You must help me; there is danger.”

They had recognised her by now, her costume unmistakable. Their first expression was one of amazement. Then they exchanged one strange, satisfied smile and advanced on her.

Pain and cold. Cold and pain. Anne opened her eyes and added a new dimension to the grim catalogue. Cold, and pain, and darkness. She was lying on cold rock; not tied in any way, but stiff in every limb. Establishing this, by moving slightly, brought a blinding climax of pain. Not the old, familiar kind at all, but simple, straightforward pain in the back of her head, where, presumably, one of the “policemen” had hit her.

How long ago? She had no idea. Very carefully, very gently, she lifted her left wrist to her ear and heard her watch still ticking. Pity the dial was not illuminated, but at least, since it ran twenty-four hours and she always wound it in the morning, there must be some time to go before Sunday midnight, when the bomb was timed to go off. And, thinking that, she realised that she must be somewhere behind the stage, tidily put away to be disposed of in the explosion. Since they had not bothered to tie her up, it was a safe assumption that she was helpless here, but she made herself get groggily to her feet just the same, to make sure. After all, they might have thought they had killed her. From the flashing pain that accompanied each movement, they must have got pretty near to doing so. Oddly, she found herself almost welcoming the pain. Why? As, somehow, a sign of life rather than the other, familiar threat of death? Leaning against the wall for support, she felt it cold and rough behind her and made herself go on a slow, staggering exploration of her prison. Movement made her feel deathly sick, and she had to stand still again, fighting it down, refusing to let it happen. If she was to
spend her last hours a prisoner in this hole, it should not be in the stink of her own vomit. Breathe … hold; breathe … hold. That was better.

It was a very small cell. Standing on tiptoe, which hurt, and reaching up, which hurt almost unbearably, she could just feel the roof. The door, wooden and immovable, had what felt like a small grille in it. So, she would not die for lack of air. It might have been comforting if she had anything to eat or drink; if she did not remember, constantly, that midnight bomb. Tears. What a waste of time. And she had none to waste. She brushed them away with an angry wrist and noticed that movement was hurting her less. So—keep moving. There was a pile of something in one corner of the cell, and she made herself investigate it. Odd bits of wood and metal; unrecognisable, and then, a new, unexpected bite of pain as she cut her hand on a sharp edge. It was too much. She almost gave way to the kind of wild sobs that would turn into hysteria; instead, she let herself sink down on the floor and suck the warm blood from the wound.

My only nourishment, she thought, and stiffened at the sound of voices.

“Cold down here.” German, a voice she did not know.

Coming to rescue her? Coming to kill her? She made herself lie down on the cold rock, slumped as she had found herself. On her back; the bruise on the back of her head agonised against the rock.

More talk; in Liss now, incomprehensible. Then the original voice, apparently in explanation. “The others don't lock.”

A gleam of light, filtering through the grille on the door, warned her to close her eyes and lie as inert as possible. She heard a key turn heavily, the door creak open, feet shuffling.

“Finish him off?” asked the German voice.

“Waste of time.”

“Suppose the girl comes to?”

“She won't.” A casual hand grasped Anne's hair, lifted her head and let it fall back onto the hard rock. As she thought, I must not utter a sound, pain crashed through her, and she plunged into merciful unconscousness.

“Anne? Are you there? Is it you? Anne?” A trickle of sound
reaching her through the black mist of pain. A dream, of course. Wish fulfilment. Michael's voice. “Anne? Are you there? Can you hear me? Anne? It has to be you.”

“Why?” asked Anne, with an enormous effort.

And, “Thank God,” said Michael.

“I don't know what for.” But she did.

“For being together.” He said it for her. “Have they hurt you badly?”

“I don't think so. A touch of concussion, perhaps. But pain's—just pain. But you—what have they done to you, Michael?”

“Not too much.” His voice belied the words. “But tied me up very efficiently.”

“Michael, forgive me?” She could not move yet, but lay, in the heavy darkness, fighting a new wave of nausea.

“Forgive you?”

“For suspecting you …”

“Oh, that. Very reasonable. Intelligent girl. Logical. Saw the facts; drew all the right conclusons in all the wrong directions. I was proud of you.”

“Thanks.” But her eyes were full of tears. “Oh, Michael, I feel better now. I don't mind so much …”

“Mind?”

“Dying. Not with you.”

“I'd rather live,” said Michael. “If it's all the same to you. Are you tied?”

“No. But it hurts to move.”

“I expect it hurts to die,” said Michael.

“It will be quick,” she told him. “There's a bomb, going off in the opera house, at midnight on Sunday. Michael! What time is it?”

“So that's it. Clever young Frensham. Unknown saboteur. Trying to wreck the peace conference. How sad for poor little Lissenberg. All that.”

“His man called him ‘Your Highness.' Michael,” she said again, “what time is it? My watch is going but the hands don't illuminate.”

“If you want to know that, you'll have to come over here and look at my watch. I'm not just in a position to do so.”

“Oh, Michael, are you tied very tight?” She had begun, through the haze of her own pain, to recognise something wrong with his voice.

“You could call it tight,” he said. “You don't happen to have a razor on you, I suppose.”

She actually found herself laughing a little, painfully. “I'm in costume.”

“Dagger?”

“Plastic.”

“Pity.”

“But, Michael.” Feeling the plastic dagger, she had touched the cut on her right hand. “There's something sharp … in a pile of junk in the corner. I cut myself on it.”

“Good girl,” he said. “Not just lying there. Doing something. Find it again? Without cutting yourself.”

“Of course I can.” Pain screamed as she pulled herself slowly up the wall to her feet. “I wish it wasn't so dark.”

“If it hadn't been,” he told her, “they might have noticed you weren't the corpse you seemed. The corpse you sound. Are you sure you're OK?”

“Now you're here.” She had been fighting a new spasm of nausea, but this time with far more incentive. She moved towards the sound of his voice, feeling for him in the darkness. “There you are.” Keeping her head upright, she crouched down, very slowly, very carefully, fighting the pain, found his forehead and put a loving, gentle hand on it. “Cold,” she said. “You're cold.”

“I don't know how you tell. So are you. So … let's not waste time. That sharp instrument, if you can find it.”

“Yes.” The pile had been in the corner near where he was lying. She went through it very carefully this time, moving one unidentifiable object aside before she began cautiously to feel the shape of the next. “Ah,” she said at last. “Here it is. But what on earth?” She was pulling the sharp-edged piece of metal out from among the rest of the odd-shaped rubbish.

“Something I forgot to tell you.” Michael sounded exhausted now, strength audibly draining from him. “We're in the old torture chambers. Anything's possible. Now, if you've found it,
get cutting. I don't reckon they meant me to last till midnight.”

“Michael!” She had thought him lying awkwardly on his side. Now, feeling carefully, she understood why. His hands and feet had been tied together behind him, so that he lay like a tightly strung bow. “Wicked!” she said, and got a low, strained laugh.

“Convenient for carrying,” he told her. “But it pulled the rope a bit. You might be able to get at it. Careful, though.”

Careful! It was devilish work, there in the cold darkness, pain screaming in her head as she felt for the inch or so of slack rope between the knots that bound his hands to each other and to his feet. Her sharp instrument was conveniently short, but had only a rudimentary sort of handle, so that she cut herself as well as the rope, but Michael had become quiet now, breathing heavily. How long had he been tied like this?

When the rope gave at last, it did so suddenly, and she fell backwards as the tight bow that had been Michael unstrung itself. She lay for a moment, dizzy with the new pain of her head, but his voice revived her.

“That's better,” he said. “Thanks. I was really afraid I was going to disgrace myself by fainting. Nice little friends James Frensham has. Did you hurt yourself?” Suddenly anxious.

“A little. I seem to have a genius for hitting my head.” She made herself sit up. “What next, Michael?”

“My hands and feet, I'm afraid. They're still tied together. You do my hands, I'll do my feet. Fair division of labour.” She heard him moving in the darkness. “Damn them, they've broken my watch, dropping me. We'd best get working if you're up to it.”

Impossible to gauge time as she struggled with the thick rope and awkward tool. “Shall I wind my watch?” she paused to ask. “If I don't, and it stops, we'll know it's about eleven in the morning.”

“But suppose you don't notice when it stops? Wind it, I think. And good to know we've got over twelve hours to get out of here and give the alarm.” His breathing sounded easier and his voice less strained now that the most savage of his bonds had been loosed.

“You sound as if we were going to be able to.” She had been
refusing to think further than the immediate need to free him.

“Well of course. We've got to, haven't we? Ouch!” Her blade had slipped. “Not to worry, you're doing fine.”

“Oh, Michael, I'm sorry. It's just—I'm so cold.” She was shivering uncontrollably now, her hands shaking as she worked.

“Then we must certainly get you out of here before you catch your death. Relax a moment, and let's see what I can do.” She could feel him straining at the rope. “No, sorry. A bit more … Don't mind cutting me; it's in a good cause.” And then, “Arc you bleeding too?”

“A bit.” She laughed shakily. “A fine mess we'd be in if we could see ourselves.”

“Just as well we can't. It might discourage us. Ah!” They had both felt a strand of the taut rope part. “Now let me have a go.”

She sat back on her heels, letting the cold and pain have their way with her, then sighed with relief as she heard the rope break. “That's better,” he said. “Pass me the blunt instrument, and I'll get to work on my feet.” And when he took it: “Good God, no wonder your hands are bleeding.”