The Valley of the Shadow (33 page)

They heard it ringing, but no one came. After waiting a minute, he pushed the button again, holding it for a few seconds.

Still no one responded.

“Let’s go round the side,” said Megan. “Maybe there’s a kitchen door where we can attract someone’s attention.”

They had just spotted a promising door when a confused uproar came from the rear of the house, a yell followed by incoherent shouting. They both broke into a run.

Rounding the corner ahead of Ken, Megan saw Chaz flat on his back on the stone terrace. As she ran to him, he rolled over, groaning, and felt the back of his head.

“Chaz, what happened?”

“My uncle…” He struggled to rise to his hands and knees.

Megan and Ken helped him up, till he was sitting back on his heels, blinking dizzily.

“Your uncle?” Ken prompted.

“He’s gone mad!” He started to turn, desisting with a yelp of pain. “Where’s my father? Dad!” he shouted, and clutched his head.

“Help!” came a voice from beyond the parapet.

“Dad! Megan—Sergeant, help him!”

Ken was already dashing over to look down the slope.

At the same time, an old man came out of the house and hurried towards Chaz and Megan, both still kneeling. “I’ve rung for an ambulance. Charles, my dear boy, are you all right? Who—?”

“Police,” Megan said curtly, standing up. “Keep an eye on Chaz.” She ran over to Ken.

The old man called after her, “Paul’s not responsible! He’s not in his right mind!”

Halfway down the steep bank, a man was sprawled amid bushes that stopped him falling farther. His face was twisted in an expression of agony.

“Rupert Avery,” said Ken. “He’s put his back out and daren’t move. I don’t know whether we dare move him.”

“There’s an ambulance on the way, Mr. Avery,” Megan called down to him.

Captain Avery joined them, followed by Chaz, both looking shaky.

“Dad, are you okay?”

“No!”

“They’re sending a lifeboat, Rupert. Just a few minutes and we’ll have you—”

A clanking noise drew the attention of all four on the terrace to the river below.

“The anchor! Uncle Paul’s winching up the anchor.”

“That’s your yacht?” Megan asked.

“He’s escaping!” Ken exclaimed.

“Or going after Julia and the others,” Chaz said grimly. “He’s mad—crazy and angry! And the yacht’s much faster. Come on, Megan, we’ll take the speedboat.” He started down the steps to the river.

Explanations could wait. Megan followed him, close at his heels in case he had a dizzy spell, but the prospect of action seemed to have cleared his head. She heard Ken pounding after them.

The yacht’s engine roared to life and she swung out into the centre of the river, heading upstream.

THIRTY

Julia’s little boat struggled against the current and the ebbing tide. The banks moved past with agonising slowness. Eleanor leant forward, as though that would help the
Calliope
along, as she often did when coaxing the Incorruptible up a hill.

Teazle had already lost interest. She was stretched out on the planking, asleep, toes twitching as she chased dream rabbits. So much for dogs sensing their owners’ agitation.

Nick was gazing backwards. “You’re right, Julia, he’s coming after us. How about heading for the other side, where there are plenty of people about?”

“What if no one’s about who can stop him? He’s gone crazy! I’ve seen him pretty sozzled once or twice, but never like that. He’s scary.”

“He’s a big man,” said Eleanor. “We might just put other people in danger without being out of danger ourselves. Besides, at this time most people are probably indoors, getting supper or watching the news.”

They passed round the bend where the river narrowed. The yacht was out of sight for the moment.

“How fast is
Andromeda
?” Nick asked in a conversational tone. “Compared to
Calliope
?”

“At least twice as fast. More, against the current.”

“Can we get ashore and hide before he comes round and spots us?”

“Not a hope. But I’ve got an idea. That’s not the only difference between the boats. If he’s really lost his mind…”

“DTs,” said Nick.

“What?”

“Delirium tremens.”

Julia looked blank.

“Seeing pink elephants,” Nick explained.

“You told us he’s a heavy drinker,” Eleanor reminded her, thinking that Nick might very well have hit the nail on the head.

“You mean when he looks at
Calliope
, he thinks she’s a pink elephant? But it all started in the Averys’ sitting room. When Mrs. Trewynn said ‘police,’ remember?”

“Hallucinations are just one of the possible symptoms. Unreasoning rage is another. A mate of mine—”

“Never mind now, you can explain later.” Julia glanced back. “Here he comes. Now I’ve got to concentrate.”

Eleanor watched
Andromeda
closing the gap between them. For a man in the grip of DTs, Chaz’s uncle was steering a pretty steady course between the buoys, when by cutting across an arc he’d catch up with
Calliope
quicker. Perhaps deference to buoys became instinctive in a ship’s captain, as it seemed to be with Julia, a mere recreational boater. But with delirium tremens, almost anything was possible. Eleanor had seen a few Empire builders who had succumbed to a steady diet of gin and tonic. One part of Paul Avery’s mind might follow ingrained rules while another part behaved like a ravening beast. He might even have forgotten that he was after them.

Too much to hope for. Whatever Julia’s plan was, it had better work. Soon.

“Hold on, I’m changing course.”

Teazle gave a startled yip as Nick grabbed her collar. With his other hand he hung on to the side of the boat, and Eleanor gripped the bench with both hands.
Calliope
heeled over alarmingly as she swerved to the right. Disregarding the channel-marker buoys, she cut between two of them.

Eleanor couldn’t work out what Julia was trying to do. The way the river curved at that point, she wasn’t cutting across a bend. The flat green meadow on the bank was devoid of hiding places.

“He’s still following,” Nick reported.

“Good!”

Eleanor glanced back.
Andromeda
was close enough now for her to make out a shadowy figure behind the glass. Gradually the yacht closed in until all she could see was the bow looming over the dinghy.

*   *   *

Megan hung on to the side of the speedboat, wishing it wasn’t under the control of a pallid youth who was more than likely suffering from concussion. The wake creamed back on either side until they picked up enough speed for the bow to rise out of the water, flinging up spray behind them.

The roar of the motor made speech impossible, but while they were getting the boat out of the boathouse and down the slipway, Chaz had talked. His uncle had come home the day before, irritable, and taciturn except to say that he’d been to the races in Ayr and Doncaster and for God’s sake to leave him alone. Then he had gone to bed.

Chaz’s father and grandfather had obviously been worried sick. They’d gone into a conclave that excluded Chaz.

Uncle Paul had not come down next morning. His snores assured anyone who paused outside his bedroom door that he was still in the land of the living, and Granddad had said to let him sleep it off.

He still hadn’t appeared when Julia arrived, bringing Nick Gresham, who was returning Chaz’s borrowed clothes, and Mrs. Trewynn—

“Aunt Nell!” Megan had exclaimed.

So now they were racing up the river in pursuit of Captain Paul Avery, who was in full cry after Aunt Nell, Nick, and Julia, presumably with fell intent. All Megan could do was hold on and hope: that they’d be in time to save Aunt Nell, that behind them a lifeboat crew was rescuing Rupert Avery, and most immediately, that Chaz was fit to drive a boat at what felt like ninety miles an hour up an ever narrowing river.

The yacht had disappeared round a bend as they launched the speedboat. It hove into view again as they followed, but river mist, overcast sky, and encroaching dusk made it hard to see what was going on ahead. Julia’s dinghy was no more than a blob. Megan couldn’t even be sure whether it was moving.

Ken leant over and bellowed in her ear, “… plan … catch them?”

She shook her head. What would they do when they caught up? She had no idea.

He shrugged. Moving with care, he shuffled to the stern and yelled something in Chaz’s ear. Chaz nodded, wincing, and gingerly touched the back of his head. Whether he understood, had a plan of his own, or was agreeing to something proposed by Ken remained a mystery to Megan.

The distances between the three boats rapidly lessened. Soon Megan could make out three figures in the dinghy, Aunt Nell’s white hair standing out like a halo. The speedboat was no more than a hundred yards behind the yacht when the dinghy suddenly veered to the right, heeling over alarmingly.

But it righted itself with its occupants still aboard. The yacht swung after it, bearing down on it. As he followed, Chaz had to throttle back. The bow sank and the noise decreased to a bearable level.

“What shall I do now?” he shouted.

The yacht blocked their view of the dinghy.

“Get alongside so we can see!” Megan shouted back.

Clouds of mud suddenly swirled to the surface behind the yacht. It slowed. Chaz moved up next to it, a dozen feet away, and Megan saw the dinghy pulling ahead, Nick’s and Aunt Nell’s pale faces turned to look back.

The yacht came to a standstill. Its motor rose in pitch, choked, and cut off. And slowly, slowly, it listed to the right.

“Oh, well done, Julia!” Chaz cried.

“What did she do?” asked Ken, baffled.

“Led him on to a sandbank. The yacht’s draft is about six feet.
Calliope
—her dinghy—is more like two feet, with three adults aboard. She knows the river like the back of her hand! Brilliant! But I bet
Andromeda
’s engine is ruined.”

Megan watched the dinghy circle and come back towards them. “Aunt Nell, are you all right?” she called.

But her aunt, Nick, and—she realised—Ken all had their eyes fixed on the yacht. Megan followed their gaze. Paul Avery was crawling headfirst out of the wheelhouse on to the narrow strip of canted deck. His face was blotchy, his eyes blank, and he kept stopping to brush with one hand at such parts of his body as he could reach.

“The creepy-crawlies,” said Ken. “DTs. I thought so. Chaz, can you get close to the side of the yacht?”

“Yes.” He looked almost as bad as his uncle, his face sweaty and very pale. “I hope she’s stuck tight, or we’ll be underneath when she goes over.” But he moved forward under low power and came round almost touching the yacht, just below Paul.

By that time, the captain was slumped with his feet still inside, one shoulder hung up on a rail-post. Mechanically, he started to try to crawl again. His feet came out and he slithered round until he was caught by the waist on the flimsy-looking post, his head and legs dangling over the edge.

“Hell, I’ll have to go up there.” Ken gripped the boarding ladder, tilted over them, and hauled himself up.

He had to squeeze past Paul. Momentarily roused, the captain started flailing his arms. He caught Ken a wallop on the shoulder, but Ken gained the shelter of the wheelhouse and the captain lapsed into apathy again, but for the ceaseless brushing motions.

Megan thought she heard him mumble, “Get them off me. Get them off me.”

Now Ken hung out of the wheelhouse as Paul had before. “Ready, Megan? For Pete’s sake, hold her steady, Chaz.” Bracing himself with one hand, he grasped Paul’s collar and started to work the big man round so that his upper body was back on the deck.

“Been lifting weights, have you?” Megan kidded, her mouth dry.

“Get them off me…” But it was a passive mutter. The captain didn’t struggle. He slid down into her arms and they collapsed together in the bottom of the boat.

Which rocked, stalled, and started to drift away from the yacht.

Captain Paul lay there twitching like a stranded starfish. Megan extricated herself from the heap, but there was nothing she could do to help Chaz start the engine.

Julia’s dinghy slipped into the growing space between the speedboat and the yacht. She held
Calliope
steady beneath the ladder.

Grinning up at Ken, Nick grasped a rung and asked, “Need a hand, old chap?”

Through the darkening dusk, Megan watched as Ken twisted round and lowered himself into the dinghy, with a steadying hand from Nick.

And then Falmouth’s all-weather lifeboat arrived, with floodlights and grappling hooks and life jackets …

THIRTY-ONE

The phone rang just as Eleanor was thinking about making a cup of coffee for elevenses.

“Eleanor, it’s Nick. Listen, I’ve got Avery here, Captain Avery.”

“Not Captain Paul!”

“No, no, Chaz’s grandfather. He wants to talk to you.”

“Then why didn’t he ring up? Or come here?”

“I gather he has more to say to you than he cares to confide on the phone. He was afraid you might not hear him out. And he wanted to apologise to me, too, for Captain Paul running amok, and he didn’t want to alarm you by turning up on your doorstep unannounced.”

Eleanor blinked as she assimilated the list. “I suppose that’s reasonable, added up. I’m just putting coffee on. He’s welcome to join me. The street door’s not locked.”

“I’ll tell him. See you later.”

The doorbell’s ring came a few minutes later, and she opened the door to Captain Avery. Grey faced and weary looking, almost haggard, he said, “I beg your pardon for this intrusion, Mrs. Trewynn. I’ve heard a bit about you since … in the past couple of days, and I’d be very grateful for a chance to talk to you.”

Invited in and provided with a cup of coffee and a digestive biscuit, he sank into a chair. He didn’t seem to know where to start.

“You’ve been under a good deal of strain for some time, I think,” said Eleanor.

“I’ve been half out of my mind with worry! Paul’s cut loose before, but … He’s ill. I should have realised sooner it wasn’t just overindulgence. He’s in hospital now, you know. With a policeman on duty outside the door. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that he attacked you and young Julia and Mr. Gresham. Thank God you got away.”