The Devil in Amber (17 page)

Mons loomed over me, outlined against the starlight. ‘You’ll pay for this little display, my friend,’ he raged, spraying my face with his spittle. ‘You’ll pay right now!’

‘Wait, wait, wait!’ I gasped, catching my breath at last. ‘Recognize this?’

I lifted the square of silk and felt it flapping over my sweat-drenched face. Mons sat back, reached into his suit and flicked open a cigarette lighter. In the long, narrow yellow flame I saw his pitiless eyes widen.

‘The missing piece!’ he croaked. ‘The Jerusalem Prayer!’

With a great cry, I grasped hold of his wrist and pulled it back so that the flame caught him on the cheek. He shrieked with pain and dropped the lighter. I lashed out desperately with my boot, kicked him in the gut, threw off my coat, rammed the silk into my trouser pocket and, without another thought, hurled myself into the icy water.

The waves closed over my head, there was a sharp, piercing pain in my ears and the world vanished into confusion.

I swam downwards with frantic energy, dimly aware of bullets sizzling through the dark water. Weighed down by my heavy clothes, it was a titanic struggle simply not to drown then and there, but I kicked and thrashed at the current, trying desperately to put some distance between myself and the island.

At last, lungs afire, I propelled myself upwards towards the air and emerged, gasping for breath, still perilously close to my tormentors. Amidst the splashing came the sound of yelled orders and a fresh spurt of bullets bit the water. Mons screamed at his men to cease firing. My gamble had paid off. He couldn’t risk me dying and taking the fragment of his precious Prayer to the bottom. With the unpredictable current, my body might never be found.

I’d bought myself some time, at least until they managed to launch a boat and come after me. I trod water for a few moments, then began to flog my way through the sea with a steady rhythm. How far was land? It had taken me ten minutes to walk swiftly across the barely exposed causeway. Could I possibly manage to crawl all that way in this bitter weather?

The water slapped and churned about me and I could already feel numbness tingling in my feet and hands. Suddenly I stopped swimming and, chest heaving, trod water again as I became aware of the soft plashing of oars close by. Surely they couldn’t be on to me already!

Looking about desperately for the source of the sound, I realized that it came not from the island but from the darkness ahead. And as I paddled, legs heavy as lead, a wonderful sight hove into view. It was a rowing boat and at the oars was a familiar crook-backed personage.

‘Didn’t I say you’d get yourself into trouble, mate?’ said Mrs Croup, reaching out a withered hand for me to grasp. ‘Drown me in the bath and claim on me life insurance if I didn’t say so!’

I swam with new vigour towards the boat, grinning madly and hauling myself aboard to sprawl like a landed fish onto the
weathered planks. They were wonderfully dry and comforting as my cheek pressed against them.

At once, though, the illusion of security was shattered by the roar of an outboard motor. I craned my neck and spotted a sleek wooden shape racing across the waves towards us. Mons had a speedboat on our trail!

I
looked wildly around. Resilient as Mrs Croup seemed, we couldn’t possibly out-row our pursuers. To my surprise, though, I found that the old girl seemed remarkably unperturbed. With a heavy clunk, she laid the oars aside and reached between her feet, producing and hastily unwrapping a cloth bundle. Inside were three brownish sticks. Then I remembered my friend’s unorthodox method of fishing and let out a peal of laughter. Dynamite!

Mrs Croup’s boat began to rock precariously as it was hit by waves from the approaching motor-craft. Calmly, the old woman pulled a quiver of matches from her skirts, lit one on a serrated silver fob at her waist, applied it to the fuse of the first stick and hurled it into the darkness. It span end over end, fizzing like a roman candle and leaving a spiralling pattern on my retina.

I was conscious of the roar of the motor, the lapping of the water and of my own urgent breathing, then the night split apart in searing white flame.

The dynamite had detonated above the sea, and by its sunburst of
light we were able to see our pursuers taking desperate evasive manoeuvres.

‘I have me target in sight now!’ cackled Mrs Croup, lighting the second stick and hurling it towards Mons and his men. There was a desperate scrambling on board the speedboat and the hollering of frightened souls as the dynamite came cartwheeling towards them. There was an immensely satisfying
whoomph!
and the black water erupted, spraying us with foam.

I grabbed at the oars to make for the shore, peered through the smoke to assess the damage to our hunters and let out a spontaneous cheer. The front of the boat was gone, smoke hanging over it like mist, the sea a mass of splintered wood. Coughing amber-shirts were already in the drink, treading water and scrabbling towards the wrecked boat for safety. I couldn’t see if Mons was among them but we had bested the swine and I pulled at the oars with a new impetus.

Mrs Croup let out an asthmatic chuckle. ‘That should do it. Laws of maritime combat and all.’

I reached down for the last stick of dynamite. ‘Bugger that!’ I cried. ‘Let’s finish’em off!’

With great delight, the old bird lit the fuse and chucked it with main force at the ruined speed-boat. An anguished screech arose from the survivors as it approached but this time the explosive went off early, merely detonating in midair and doing little more than temporarily deafening us both.

My saviour took the oars again as I shrugged a filthy horse-blanket onto my shoulders, willing the elusive shore to come closer.

‘I sat there and thought long and hard,’ Mrs Croup chuntered, wheezing at each stroke of the oars. ‘That young fellow needs me, I thought. Strangle me with a silk stocking and stuff me under the floorboards, he
needs
me and there’s an end to it. So I put out my old boat and I come looking for you.’

‘You are, quite simply, a life-saver,’ I beamed. ‘How can I ever thank you?’

She turned a twinkling eye on me and my heart sank. Oh, Lord. I’d forgotten about
that.

It wasn’t long before the old boat bumped into the shingle and I staggered onto terra firma, my exhausted legs quaking like a newborn pup’s.

Gripping the blanket tightly about me, I shuddered with cold. ‘And now I must be off, my dear,’ I chattered. ‘I’ll make good use of the head start you’ve given me—’

‘But you can’t!’

I looked at her with all the earnestness I could muster. ‘You know how I long to enfold you in my arms, my sweet. But there isn’t a moment to lose!’

She nodded unhappily, seeing the truth of it. ‘But you must dry off at least! Some hot tea, eh? And then a steaming pot of my famous porridge! That’ll put the bloom back in your—’

‘No time,’ I protested.

‘But you’ll catch your death!’

I smiled grimly. ‘Save the hangman a job.’ Then I glanced down at myself, a shivering ruin, and realized she was talking perfect sense. I’d simply freeze to death out on the open roads in my soaked togs. ‘Very well. But I can’t linger.’

We crunched swiftly over the shingle towards the rough little cabin. On the higher ground above it was parked a large and rather distressed old motor car, engine ticking over, the beams of its headlights piercing the dark like beacons. Suspicious, I slowed my pace but Mrs Croup merely took my arm and steered me on. ‘Midnight fishermen,’ she whispered. ‘They’ll pay us no heed.’ As we approached, the door of the motor opened and two bulky silhouetted figures clambered out, rods over their shoulders.

Mrs Croup pushed open the door of her lovely little hovel and I rushed inside to warm myself before the blazing fire.

‘Here you are, my pet,’ cooed the old woman, handing me a rough towel. I stripped at once, without a blush, though I was
conscious of the old girl’s eye upon my frankly smashing physique.

Mrs Croup was everywhere at once, brewing tea and rustling up hot porridge whilst simultaneously rooting out a variety of fresh duds for me. I’d been right about the amount of male attire on the premises, though, judging by their age, it was safe to assume she hadn’t been ‘entertaining’ for some years.

Eventually, I found myself in a flannel shirt, plimsolls and a rather nasty late-Victorian tweed suit. But beggars can’t be choosers.

I smoothed down the musty-smelling material. ‘How do I look?’

Mrs Croup twinkled and looked down shyly. ‘Very handsome. I could hide you here, you know. They’d never find you.’

‘It’s a very tempting offer, but—’

She hushed me, placing a gnarled finger to my lips. ‘Tuppence for a bloater, that’s all, remember? God speed, now.’

I stooped to kiss her on the cheek but the old minx swivelled round so quickly that I caught her a smacker on her cracked and flaky lips. Then I felt her tongue worm its way around my mouth like a bobbing apple! A little shiver of disgust rippled through me. Well, I
was
grateful, of course, but gratitude has its limits.

Mrs Croup seemed to mistake my revulsion for emotion and turned me towards the door, wiping a tear from her rheumy eye.

I closed the Portuguese cabin door behind me, breathed deeply of the freezing night air and took to my heels. It was perhaps the narrowest escape of my career.

Close by I could make out the silhouetted shapes of those oh-so-keen fishermen as they tramped towards the sea. A sudden inspiration seized me. As quietly I could, I raced across the pebbles, crouched down behind their stately old motor and reached out for the door handle. The metal was freezing to the touch. I clunked it downwards and was thrilled to feel the door swing slowly open.

I slipped inside, conscious at once of the reek of fish and old leather, and felt about the dashboard, praying that the keys had
been left in. My fingers found the blessed little piece of metal and I twisted it clockwise.

The engine whirred, turned over and died. At once, I tried again. The headlamps flared into life and I cursed my own stupidity at not deactivating them. There were angry voices coming from the beach and the crunch of feet on the shingle. Still the engine refused to start. I tried once more and, with a bucking, wheezing splutter, the ancient thing roared into life.

In the blaze of the lamps I could see two elderly men, swathed in tweeds, stomping towards me. Abandoning all attempts at concealment, I threw the car into reverse and the still-open door caught one of the poor saps across the legs as he launched himself at the side. The motor chugged backwards, sending a spray of stones into the air. I span the wheel, crunched the squealing gears, slammed my plimsolled foot onto the pedal and roared off.

The beach gave way to a rough road almost at once and the motor bucked as it hit the smoother surface. Peeking into the mirror I saw the unfortunate owners rapidly disappearing behind me.

Gripping the cold Bakelite of the steering wheel, I threw back my head and laughed. By God, I’d see that blessed old woman right when all this was over! Well, I might send her a postal order, at any rate.

Swinging the car from the beach road onto glorious tarmacadam, I found myself tearing through a little village, suggestions of lobster pots and upturned boats all that were readily visible in the white cones of the headlamps. In minutes I was through it and dipping down a steep hill, then up again and onto the first of many twisting country roads. Windmills and pubs flashed by, lying under a countryside hush.

Mons, I knew, would waste little time in procuring transport and would be after me post haste. The question now was, what to do with my head start? Thanks to Captain Corpusty, the British police were already aware of my return. I could head for London,
where I was at least assured of help from old friends but the vital thing to me seemed the rescue of Agnes Daye. The nun had spoken of a blue lamp and a red church. It seemed safe to assume the former referred to a police station and the odds were on that my poor wounded Aggie was being held locally, charged with aiding and abetting a wanted felon. I hadn’t the faintest idea where this station might be but vaguely planned to find the nearest and bluff my way into discovering the girl’s whereabouts. After that, it was simply a question of getting her as far away as possible from these fanatics. In this regard I was definitely ahead. Mons and Pandora knew that
a
girl, originating in the Convent of St Bede, was the Lamb they sought but only I–so far–knew her identity.

I motored at high speed through half a dozen tiny outcrops of houses that hugged the coastline, scarcely passing a single other motor. Just when it looked like I would never hit anything remotely like civilization, another steep dip brought me out into a larger conurbation, dominated by a big ugly church and a rambling inn ablaze with electric light. In the glow from the windows, I could see that the church was clearly built of weathered red sandstone. I could hardly believe my luck.

Slowing down as I drove down the main street, I craned round to look about and gave a grunt of satisfaction at the comforting sight of a blue lamp outside a large, modern-looking police station. So here was the red church and the blue lamp. I glanced at my wristwatch. It was a little after six in the morning.

Parking the car by the edge of the village green, I crept out into the bitter night. There wasn’t much of a plan in my exhausted brain. I was conscious that I must look like an escaped lunatic and my description–probably even my photograph–had been circulated to every cop-shop in the land. But the Mother Superior had said Agnes was being watched over by a friend and from this I took comfort. As an innocent man, the police could be said to be my true
helpers against the forces of darkness. Nevertheless, I was placing a deal of trust in the dead woman’s riddle. Daniel was truly entering the Lions’ Den.

I mounted the steps to the station, the facade stained blue by the lamplight as though I was standing in a cathedral transept. Pushing at the frosted-glass door, I was surprised to find it unlocked. But then they were ever so trusting out there in the sticks, I assured myself.

Moving swiftly inside, all seemed absolutely dark but, as my eyes adjusted, I found I could make out the shape of the main desk and a couple of chairs. A door to the side of the desk was ajar. As I’d hoped, barred cells, lit only by starlight, were visible beyond. If the Mother Superior–or whatever possessed her–had been speaking the truth then poor Aggie was inside. And, if my luck held, the foolish local bobbies had left her unguarded!

‘Aggie!’ I whispered.

No reply. Probably sound asleep, poor thing.

‘
Agnes!
’

There came the sound of stirring, the creak of a stool perhaps, and the folding back of blankets.

Then there was movement in the darkness and a flashlight in my eyes. I squinted and held up my hand to shield my eyes.

But it wasn’t Aggie who spoke. It was a man’s voice, oozing malice. ‘Oh, happy day. I knew you’d come.’

The newcomer held the torch under his chin. His nose was almost completely obscured by sticking plaster and both his eyes were black and bruised. It was only the shock of blond hair sticking out like damp straw from beneath the brim of his trilby that told me Percy Flarge was back on the scent.

Even beneath the bruising and the bindings I could see the look of utter hatred he had assumed.

‘The fox run to ground at last,’ he seethed, brandishing his revolver. ‘You’ve made quite a chase of it, Box, but it’s over now.’

Electric lights rattled into life around me and I squinted at the unaccustomed brightness. Uniformed shapes darted from the corners of the room and I found myself suddenly restrained.

Flarge looked at me with utter contempt. Next to him stood an excited-looking local bobby of almost unbearable youth and the weasel-like form of ‘Twice’ Daley, the American Domestic I’d encountered back in the Manhattan church. He held up a hand and gave me a cheery wave. I felt quite sick.

‘We seem to be making a habit of this, old man,’ said Flarge, his voice rendered somewhat nasal by the sticking plaster.

‘Look, Flarge, I don’t give a pin for myself,’ I announced heroically. ‘But tell me the girl’s all right.’

‘Formed a little attachment, have we? How sweet. Look behind you.’