“I assume the other members of his gang. I don’t know how many of them there are.”
“Besides them, I mean. Did you tell the woman everything?”
“Sara Trevelyan? Yes, I did.”
“And anyone else?”
“No. Does it matter?”
“It might,” he said. “I should think that the fewer people who know, the better off you are. I think there may be a way out for you that wouldn’t involve all that trouble with the authorities.” He smiled sadly. “As a priest, perhaps I should advise you to cooperate with the authorities. But the Irish clergy have a long history of opposition to government. We were hunted down like common criminals in the old days, you know. During the Penal Law days, they paid five pounds for the head of a priest, and no questions asked. And after Cromwell came the situation didn’t improve all that much either, from what I’ve heard. So I’m not too great a believer in trusting governmental authority without question. You may be better off avoiding them entirely. You might even have to go on to Berlin as planned.”
“But how could I do that? I can’t let them get the film.”
“There should be a way out. I’ll have to think about it, Ellen. I’m going back to Dingle now. I’ll spend the night there, wander about, see what I can learn. I’ll come by for you in the morning. Do you think you’ll be all right here until then?”
“I’m sure I will.”
“You won’t be nervous, all alone here in the middle of nowhere?”
“No, I’ll be all right.” She swallowed. “I was a lot more nervous in Dingle. I’ll be fine now.”
After he had left, after she could no longer hear the putt-putt of the little red Triumph sedan, she walked to the narrow doorway and looked out at the countryside. Night was coming fast. She wondered, now, how she would be able to stand it. She was exhausted but felt she would be unable to sleep. She had not eaten in hours, and yet the thought of food left her with a weak feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She ran her hands over the thick stone walls of the oratory. One of the most perfect and well-preserved of early-Christian church buildings in Ireland — that was how Sara Trevelyan’s guide book had described it. Now, though, she saw it not as an architectural masterpiece but as a temporary refuge. She might have been moved by the building, coming on it as a tourist, but in her present situation she could not react to it in that fashion. She was grateful for it as a place to hide in, a roof over her head, a secure corner where she could hide and wait for Father Farrell.
It was growing dark. Would animals enter the place at night? At least, she thought, she was safe from snakes. There really weren’t any in Ireland, venomous or otherwise. Not, she had learned, because of the work of good St. Patrick; there had never been snakes in Ireland, as the island had separated from the European land mass before snakes had evolved, and so they had never appeared there.
An interesting fact, she thought, but one that would not do much to help her get through the night. What other animals might come around? She didn’t know; the only sort she had seen in the country were domestic animals, cows and horses and pigs and goats and sheep, wandering at will in the country roads and over the green countryside. She didn’t suppose she had anything to fear from them.
A fire would keep animals away, but how could she build one? There was nothing inside the oratory, no wood, and any wood lying about outside would be far too wet to burn. Besides, she realized, a fire might do more harm than good. It could attract attention, and that was the last thing she wanted.
She walked through near darkness to the blanket Father Farrell had spread out upon the floor for her. She opened the paper bag and examined three thick ham sandwiches. She took a bite of one and chewed it and had trouble swallowing it. She put the sandwiches away and closed the bag.
She stretched out. The ground was very hard. She looked around at darkness. She was tired, so tired...
It was still pitch dark when she awoke, surprised that she had fallen asleep. She was hungry now and ate all three sandwiches. She wished there were something to drink. She went outside. It had stopped raining, but the sky was still fully overcast, with neither the moon nor the stars visible. She wondered what time it was.
Her thoughts kept her company for the next few hours. They were bad companions at best. She thought about David Clare, and how she had felt about him, and what he really was. She was furious with him, angrier still at herself for being so easily taken in.
She cried bitterly, fought against the tears, then gave in and cried some more. She felt more foolish than ever, sitting outside an ancient building in the dark of an Irish night, far from everyone, far from home, crying like a child. But she went on crying, and when the tears stopped she felt somehow better, more sure of herself.
After a while she lay down on the blanket again and slept. She tossed with dreams, all of them bad, and when she awoke a second time it was morning and the sun’s rays swept in through the little doorway. She was hungry again and wished that she had thought to save one of the sandwiches for the morning.
She went outside, into the chilly dawn, holding the blanket around her shoulders. She stood there waiting for Father Farrell, and when she heard the first sounds of an automobile engine she started down the hill toward the road to greet him. Then she realized that it might not be him, that it could in fact be anybody, and she withdrew into the embracing sanctuary of the oratory until the red Triumph came into view.
He brought breakfast — some soft rolls, some cold sausage, a whole quart of milk. After she had eaten they left the oratory and got into his car.
“Some bad news first,” he said. “I’m afraid it confirms all the worst that you’ve thought about Clare. That woman you’d spoken with...”
“Sara Trevelyan?”
He nodded. “There was an auto accident in town. A woman was struck down by a car—”
“Oh, no!”
“I’m afraid it’s true. The woman was Miss Trevelyan, and it seems she was killed instantly. Hit-and-run, of course; the police have no clue to the driver.” He shook his head sadly. “They assume it was an accident. You and I know better. It seems evident that the poor woman was purposely and deliberately murdered and that your David Clare had a hand in it.”
“That’s — that’s horrid! Why would he...”
“You spoke to her. He must have known it. His kind don’t like to leave witnesses alive, I understand. And so he killed her. He’s probably killed before, and one murder more or less...”
She hardly listened to the priest’s words. It was almost impossible to believe that the gentle retired schoolteacher from Cornwall was dead. She had been so intensely alive, so young and vital in spite of her years, that it seemed incredible that she could be dead.
And the thought of David’s doing the deed, of David at the wheel of a speeding car, bearing down on the woman, the car’s bumper hurtling into her, lifting her up, hurling her forward...
She could not bear to think of it.
David. She saw now that she had all along been hoping against hope that somehow she could have made a mistake, that he was innocent. In spite of everything, a portion of her mind had still loved him in a way, had still hoped to find him vindicated. She had never been entirely able to believe that he was what he now appeared to be, a spy and a killer.
But it was true. Already an innocent person had been sacrificed to him. And he would kill her just as easily, just as dispassionately.
“I’ve come up with a plan,” Father Farrell was saying. “I’ve had all night to work it out, and I think it may go fairly well. You see, it’s necessary for you to get away from here as quickly as you possibly can. And it’s also absolutely necessary for you to avoid contact with the authorities. But at the same time you don’t want to be giving aid of any sort to Clare and his crew of villains. I think I’ve found an answer.”