“Get on with you, then!” Kelly urged him from behind.
Benedikt stood firm, scrutinising the manor in his own time. “This is Duntisbury Manor—is it?” He let Thomas Wiesehöfer speak.
For, after all, poor Thomas had never seen the Manor, lacking the benefit of Colonel Butler’s researches and advice.
“And what else would it be—Buckingham Palace?” Kelly sniffed.
“Did ye not see it this afternoon—or ‘twould be yesterday afternoon now—when ye were out and about, snoopin’ round the village?”
“Please?” Benedikt decided that Thomas would be unfamiliar with
‘snooping’. In their insularity, the English took it for granted that most foreigners could understand their language and were unconcerned about their own ignorance. “What is ... ‘snoopin’?”
“Don’t turn round! Never mind—just get on—go on with you,”
ordered Kelly.
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There now! thought Benedikt, stepping forward again: Michael Kelly had recalled him to the consideration of what was important again—which was Michael Thomas Kelly himself.
There were three ingredients here, in Duntisbury Chase, which had come together like those in gunpowder to produce an explosive mixture—Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith and Dr David Audley and Gunner Kelly. And Colonel Butler had known about the first two of them, and had guessed about the third—and the Colonel had been right: there was a sulphurous smell about Gunner Kelly, he was sure of that now.
Gunner Kelly—
They were approaching the Manor. The flashlight at his feet picked out a gravel path which circled an immense ornamental pond on which the night sky was reflected like a black mirror.
Gunner Kelly—the other two were what they were—and the path, which had been crunching under his feet, ended with a flight of steps leading him downwards, on to a wide stone-flagged terrace on which the flashlight at his back lost itself in the great pool of light which filled the south frontage of the manor: the façade, which had seemed so much longer and lower from that first view, now towered above him, with the curve of the towers on each side embracing him—
Gunner Kelly, with his sharp words of command, and his chameleon voices, and the inner certainty of those voices matching the certainty of his searching fingertips— Gunner Kelly was something more than the faithful retainer the facts had made him, dummy1
the Old General’s loyal servant in life and the Old General’s granddaughter’s obedient instrument now.
He paused, as though irresolute now that he had lost the guiding light at his feet. There were French windows cut into the thickness of the ground floor, with other windows similarly pierced on each side of them betrayed by chinks of light through drawn curtains.
But the true entrance was there in the angle of the south-western tower, shadowed under a twisted canopy of branches and leaves.
Benedikt’s adrenalin pumped. For Benedikt Schneider knew now that, if Miss Becky had supplied the will to this mischief, and if David Audley had fashioned the means to it, the spark must have come from outside them—the spark and the certainty—
“Go on, then!” Kelly circled to his right, carefully out of reach.
“What are ye waitin‘ for?”
And Benedikt Schneider knew that Gunner Kelly was the source of that spark—that Colonel Butler had been right. But he was playing Thomas Wiesehöfer now, and poor Thomas would not know—
could not know—that the postern door of Duntisbury Manor was on his left, shrouded by the famous Duntisbury Magnolia, the seeds of which dated from the days when the Elector of Hanover had ruled American colonies as King of England.
“Please?” The more he suspected Kelly, the more determined he was to play Thomas as long as possible.
The postern door saved them both from more shadow-boxing by opening with the sharp metallic clunk of a heavy latch and an un-oiled whinny of iron hinges.
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“Michael?” The door rattled on a chain. “Have you got him?”
“Madam . . . safe as the Bank of England.” Where Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith’s voice had a more nervous ring to it than Benedikt remembered from their first meeting, Kelly’s was cheerfully deferential. “Out of Number Two in the spinney. And
‘tis that German gentleman from this afternoon— Herr Wiesehöfer . . . So Dr Audley was right, would you believe it?”
Damnation! Audley suspicious was one thing. But Audley right—
Audley certain— damnation!
The chain rattled again, and the door opened wide.
“Was he alone—” She stopped as she stared at him.
“That I can’t say, Madam. Until we know how he got in ... But there’s a full alert, an‘ everyone’s posted—”
“What have you done to him?” She cut Kelly off angrily.
“Done to him? We haven’t laid a finger on him, Madam,”
protested Kelly. “Not a finger!”
“Then why is there blood on his face?” Her voice shook.
“Blood on his face?” Kelly paused. “Oh, sure—so he fell into Number Two, didn’t he? An‘ that’s twelve foot if it’s an inch—”
She gestured to silence him. “Herr Wiesehöfer—are you all right?”
Benedikt put his hand to his face. Now ... if there was blood, it would have dried by now . . . but in this fierce light he would look worse than he felt, and that might be to his advantage.
“Madam—” began Kelly. “Madam—”
“Be quiet, Michael!” The strain in her voice confirmed his thought: dummy1
for all that she was the mistress of Duntisbury Chase she was still only twenty years old, and blood spilt in her service was something new to her.
“Madam!” said Kelly sharply, in his turn. “No—”
“Hush, Michael! Herr Wiesehöfer—”
“No, Madam—I will not hush, begging your pardon!” The sharp note vanished into the calmness of obstinacy. “We are standin‘ in the light, with all the dark hill above us—an’ I have this old itch between my shoulder-blades . . . So, I would most respectfully urge you to go inside—for my sake, if not for yours, if you please.”
“Oh, Michael—” As he had spoken she had switched from Benedikt to Kelly, and then from Kelly to the great darkness out of which they had come, and then back to Kelly again “—I’m sorry!
How stupid of me!” Finally she came back to Benedikt. “If you would kindly come into the house, Herr Wiesehöfer—at once.”
Neither Benedikt nor Herr Wiesehöfer required any further order: they felt the same itch in that instant, of the crossed wires in the night-sight, telescopically enlarging each of them out of the dark, shifting from one to the other, looking for a target, making their flesh crawclass="underline" that was a memory shared by both of them from the past!
Only at the last moment, when Miss Becky seemed to want him to enter first, did Herr Wiesehöfer assert himself, who had no reason for being frightened of such nightmares, more than he was already terrified: he must let ladies go first, or betray himself.
“Go on, Miss Becky—lead the way!” Kelly resolved the impasse dummy1
quickly. “And now you, Herr Wiesehöfer—get on with you!”
Benedikt followed her thankfully from unsafe light to safety: stone staircase, with worn steps, on his left—arched doorway, low door closed—cellar door?—ahead . . . open door and passage on his right, leading into the house.
He followed her down the passage. The house was cold now—cold because they were into the chill hours beyond midnight, and with no fires lit these thick walls had repelled the inadequate warmth of yesterday’s sunshine all too efficiently; but cold also because he was tired and frightened, Benedikt equally with Thomas.