The Map of the Sky

  XXV

  THERE WERE NOT TWO, BUT THREE OF THEM, Wells realized with irritation, as the men herded them all into the house like an unruly flock of sheep. And regrettably their faces were more familiar than he would have liked. The two men who had taken his companions prisoner in the barn (one had emerged with his arm around the girl’s dainty neck while the other pushed the millionaire forward contemptuously) had looked vaguely familiar to him, but it had only dawned on him who they were when his attacker had pushed him into the corner of the sitting room, thus enabling Wells to see his face. It was coarse and stubbled, with small piggy eyes that flashed with a crude animal rage. But what allowed Wells to identify him was the makeshift bandage that was wound around his left foot, a soiled rag stained with various reddish hues. After one of his henchmen, an apelike, restless creature, handed him the pistol he had wrested off Murray, the lame man glowered at them ominously. For a few moments he said nothing, letting the situation sink in, giving them time to realize that the tables had turned since their skirmish at the station, which had left him with the indelible souvenir of a bullet in his foot. He grinned at them menacingly, relishing the opportunity fate had given him to smile that way at those he usually served. Wells shot a sidelong glance at Murray, who remained alert, jaw clenched, a faint expression of disdain on his lips, as though the possibility of dying bothered him less than having been overpowered by these louts. It was clear from his posture that he was more concerned for Emma’s safety than his own, for he was standing as close to her as possible, as if preparing to shield her at the first sign of danger.

  The limping man spoke at last. “Well, well. What a pleasant surprise, eh? There’s nothing I like more when traveling than to bump into old friends who I can share a pleasant moment with, don’t you agree, lads?”

  The two henchmen guffawed loudly, drawing out their laughter until it sounded like forced braying. Murray clenched his jaw even more tightly and edged closer to Emma.

  “Yes, life’s full of little surprises,” the lame man continued to reflect aloud. “Didn’t I say, lads: ‘If we take the Chobham road, we’ll catch up with our good friends.’ And so we have. Although, if we hadn’t seen that carriage with the big ‘G’ on it, we would have gone straight past, and wouldn’t that have been a shame?” he said to his comrades in mock regret. “But no, our friends were thoughtful enough to leave the carriage in full view, which shows they wanted to see us again. Am I right, miss? Of course you did! All the ladies who bump into good old Roy Bowen want a bit more of him. They can’t get enough. And good old Roy doesn’t like to disappoint a lady, no sir. I should warn you, though, your manners leave a lot to be desired, and if you want good old Roy Bowen to give you a good time, first you’ll have to learn how to behave.”

  As he said these last words, he gazed fixedly at the young woman, who was no doubt having regrets for shooting him in the foot. Now they were all going to pay for her bravado, reflected Wells, who despite his fear could not help observing with anthropological interest the simple soul, whose desire for revenge had driven him to pursue them regardless of the fact that the world was falling down around them. His henchmen seemed not to care either: the man with the apelike face and the one who had helped him defend the carriage in the station, a bulky redheaded individual who revealed a row of blackened teeth when he smiled.

  “Now let’s see how we can resolve this unpleasant situation,” the lame man resumed with menacing calm, his eyes still fixed on Emma. “I pushed you to the ground, and in return you shot my foot off. Good. What should my response be now, miss?” The porter ogled the girl’s body with intentional crudeness. “Mmm . . . I think I know. And I’m sure your two friends here will have no trouble guessing what I have in mind either, because we men understand each other, don’t we, gents?” He smiled sardonically at Murray and Wells before turning his predatory gaze back to Emma. “If you come upstairs with me willingly, without a fight, I assure you it will be much more pleasurable for us both.”

  “If you touch one hair on the lady’s head, I’ll kill you,” Murray interrupted icily.

  The millionaire’s voice made Wells think this was not an empty boast. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, there would be few opportunities for him to carry out his threat.

  “Ha, ha,” the lame man cackled. “You, kill me? I’m afraid you haven’t got the picture, big guts. Who’s got the gun now?”

  “That changes nothing, Roy,” Murray replied coolly, confusing the porter by uttering his name, an effective way of showing that he inspired neither fear nor respect. “Go ahead: kill me, then I’ll kill you.”

  “Really? And how do you propose to do that? Can you stop a bullet?” The lame man turned to his companions, looking for support. The two men let out appropriate guffaws. “It looks like we’ve got a genuine hero on our hands, lads.” The porter turned back to Murray, this time with a grimace of pity. “So, you’ll kill me if I touch a hair on the young lady’s head, will you?”

  The millionaire smiled serenely. “That’s right, Roy,” he said, in the same tone he might use with a not very intelligent child.

  “We’ll soon see,” the lame man hissed defiantly, “because I’m going to do much more than that.”

  At that he fell silent, observing Murray with a mixture of anger and curiosity. Suddenly, he knitted his brow, as if he were doing calculations.

  “Hold on,” he said. “Where’s the other fellow?”

  “There was no one else in the shed, Roy,” the apelike fellow obligingly replied. “Only the lovebirds.”

  The lame man shook his head slowly, as though not satisfied with the reply.

  “These two were lugging round a drunk fellow, don’t you remember? Go upstairs and have a look, Joss,” he ordered the redhead, gesturing at the ceiling with his chin.

  With doglike obedience, the man called Joss began walking toward the staircase. Wells felt his heart begin to knock. He watched the man mount the stairs warily, trying without much success not to make them creak under his considerable bulk, his knife firmly clasped at waist level, ready to be thrust into the guts of any drunkard who might pounce on him. When, after what seemed like an age, he finally managed to reach the top, he vanished down the corridor, stealthy as a cat. Their eyes fixed on the top of the staircase, the others waited eagerly for the redhead’s verdict so that they could resume the matter at hand. Wells waited anxiously for the fellow to announce he had found Inspector Clayton, who in all probability was still fast asleep on the bed. But a few minutes later, they observed Joss skipping blithely down the stairs.

  “There’s no one there, Roy.”

  The lame man expressed surprise at these words, and Wells gritted his teeth, trying hard not to let his own surprise show. Clayton had woken up, and apparently in time to hide! All was not lost, then. An inspector with Scotland Yard, trained to act resolutely in situations such as this, was hiding somewhere upstairs, no doubt elaborating a rescue plan. Wells did his best to conceal his joy, while the lame man questioned the redhead warily.

  “Are you sure, Joss? Did you check every room?”

  “Yes, and they were all empty.”

  The lame man appeared to meditate, shaking his head mistrustfully. All of a sudden he turned to Murray.

  “Where’s the other man?” he demanded.

  “He was a nuisance,” the millionaire replied nonchalantly. “He kept getting drunk, so we decided to leave him behind in a ditch. No doubt he’s still there sleeping it off.”

  The lout eyed the millionaire suspiciously, while Wells tried his best to control his nerves, thankful that he himself had not been asked, for he doubted he would have been able to tell a lie with the same composure as Murray. After what seemed like an age, the lame man guffawed.

  “That’s not a very nice way to treat your friends,” he remarked after he had finished laughing. “But that’s enough chitchat. Now, where were we? Oh, yes: the young lady and I have unfinished business. A little matter of revenge, if I rem
ember right.”

  Still fixing them with his malevolent gaze, the lame man passed the pistol to his apelike companion, with the relaxed gesture of one handing gloves to his butler.

  “Be a good lad, Mike, and watch over the lady’s companions while she and I repair upstairs, will you?” he said louchely.

  Mike nodded, solemn as a child whose sole desire in life is to make his father proud. He took charge of the weapon and glared at the prisoners. Without further ado, the lame man took a step toward the pale and tremulous Emma, offering her his hand and giving a grotesque bow.

  “Please, miss, would you permit me the pleasure of a private dance in my chambers?”

  He had scarcely finished speaking when Murray made as if to stand between them, but Mike, who had been watching the millionaire like a hawk, pulled him up short by placing the gun barrel to his temple.

  “Stay where you are, fat face,” he barked. “Don’t make me waste a bullet.”

  The millionaire sized him up for a few seconds, during which Wells’s heart leapt into his throat, but finally obeyed and stepped back, realizing if he was dead he could not help Emma. The lame man grinned at his submissiveness and yanked the girl toward him.

  “Very good, gentlemen, that’s what I like to see,” he gloated, brandishing his knife an inch from Emma’s neck. Then he spoke directly to Murray: “Would you like me to leave the door open so you can hear her groans of pleasure?”

  Murray said nothing. He simply gazed at the man with an astonishingly calm, even condescending expression on his face, as though he considered the whole thing a tedious game. Yet the look of icy determination in his eyes did not escape Wells’s notice. It was the look of a man who has understood that the meaning of his life had suddenly changed, that all his past actions and future plans no longer mattered because his only aim in life was vengeance. And Wells realized that, exactly as he had promised, the millionaire would kill the lame man, that even if Murray met his death, he would return from the afterlife to do so. The hatred that had begun to possess his soul would form a bridge between the two worlds, allowing him to come back.

  At that moment, through the window next to the staircase, Wells saw a dark shadow drop to the ground then stand up and vanish to one side. He felt a pang as he realized this could only be Clayton. Fortunately their captors had their backs to the window, which meant the inspector still had surprise on his side. Wells glanced at Murray to see whether he had also seen Clayton jump, but the millionaire’s eyes were fixed on the lame man as he dragged the terrified girl up the stairs. When he saw them disappear down the corridor, he lowered his eyes in despair, as though he were about to pray, preparing himself to hear the woman he loved cry out with pain and rage as she was violated by the station porter, who, through some cruel twist of fate, had become the person in the whole world who could most harm her.

  “Now, now, don’t look so sad, gentlemen,” he heard Mike say sarcastically. “What shall we do to pass the time and forget what’s going on upstairs?”

  “Why not make them dance, Mike?” the redhead suggested with a grin, displaying a row of decaying teeth. “You know, we could shoot at their feet.”

  The other man looked at him contemptuously.

  “How many bullets do you think are in the gun, Joss?”

  “I don’t know, Mike.”

  “Six, six bloody bullets. Are you suggesting we waste them on that?”

  Six bullets. Until that moment, it had not occurred to Wells that the gun might be empty, but he quickly worked out they would have no such luck: three shots had been fired during the skirmish at the station, two into the air and one into the porter’s foot, which unfortunately meant there were three left, enough to kill them with. At that moment, a noise came from the kitchen. Wells realized Clayton must have climbed in through the window and was attracting their captors’ attention as part of his rescue plan. Or so he hoped. The two henchmen turned toward the kitchen. So did Wells, also tensing his body, ready to act if necessary. Only Murray appeared oblivious to the scene, his eyes glued to the top of the stairs.

  “What was that?” Mike said, still pointing the gun at them. “Go and have a look, Joss.”

  “Why me?” the redhead protested.

  “Because I’ve got to stay here and watch these two idiots!”

  Joss opened his big mouth to protest once more, but his companion’s stern gaze dissuaded him. He gave a disgruntled sigh and walked cautiously toward the kitchen door, waving his knife. He surveyed the room carefully from the doorway but did not seem to notice anything untoward. Wells wondered whether Inspector Clayton would be able to overpower such a bulky individual, who although clearly none too intelligent, doubtless had a record of street fights as long as his arm. For a few moments nothing happened. The redhead’s companion, who was not exactly a paragon of patience, was about to call out when, suddenly, they heard a series of dull thuds, stifled grunts, and pans clattering to the floor.

  “What’s going on, Joss?” Mike shouted.

  When no reply was forthcoming, the fellow with the apelike face, without lowering the pistol, began edging slowly backward in the direction of the kitchen door to find out what was happening. Wells swallowed hard, his body tense as a spring. It occurred to him that he and the man called Mike had more or less the same build, and that if he jumped on him unawares, he might manage to wrestle the weapon from him. No sooner had he formulated the idea than it seemed completely mad, given he had never had a fight in his life. But Clayton would almost certainly need some assistance, however feeble, and the millionaire, whose eyes were still fixed on the staircase, was clearly in no state to offer him any. If they were to have any chance of reversing the situation, Wells would definitely need to intervene. And so the author took a deep breath and got ready to spring. Just then, two entwined bodies burst from the kitchen and crashed to the floor, rolling a few yards before coming to a halt beside Mike’s feet. Wells could see that one of the men was Clayton. As the inspector began pulling himself up off the ground, a carving knife plunged up to the hilt in his adversary’s chest became visible. Wells saw immediately that Clayton would not have time to get up and confront the other man, for Mike had instantly turned the gun on him. Wells realized his best chance was now, while Mike’s attention was on Clayton, since if Mike shot the inspector he would be obliged to kill them, too. Although Wells had no background in fighting, his rugby experience at school had taught him how to tackle. In a flash he lunged at Mike, just as the man was preparing to shoot Clayton. The impact of the bullet knocked the inspector backward: his head hit the floor with a dull thud. However, as Wells had calculated, the fellow could not wheel around quickly enough to shoot at him. Wells managed to land on him before he had time to react, using the force of his leap to hurl him against the wall. The collision caused the pistol to fly out of his hand. They both watched it glide over the floorboards and come to a halt in the middle of the room, out of their reach but close to Murray, who gazed at it in bewilderment, as though he had just awoken from a deep sleep. Wells felt Mike twisting violently beneath him, trying to get his hands round Wells’s throat. He saw Murray slowly rouse himself and pick the gun up off the floor, as though not quite realizing what it was. Murray glanced at the staircase and after a moment’s hesitation bounded upstairs, a look of grim resolve on his face.

  “Gilliam, help me, damn it!” Wells cried, struggling to keep Mike from throttling him.

  But Murray had already disappeared up the steps, making the whole house shudder with his hulking gait. He reached the room, breathless, his eyes burning with rage and impotence. But the scene he came across was not the one he had anticipated. The lame man was kneeling on the ground groaning, his hands at his groin and his face twisted with pain. On the far side of the room stood Emma, the neck of her dress torn, fiercely clutching the knife she must have forced from him. When she saw Murray come in, she seemed to breathe more easily.

  “Hello, Mr. Murray,” she said in a voice that was almost
cheerful, trying her best not to show how afraid she must have been before managing to overpower the porter. “As you can see, the situation is under control. He scarcely had time to rip my dress. There’s nothing like trembling a little to make a man lower his guard.”

  Murray gazed at her in disbelief, relieved to find that she was surprisingly untouched. Here she was before him, a woman with a slight tear in the collar of her dress, which could have come from snagging it on a branch. A woman with no more than a spot of blood on her lip.

  “And that blood?” he asked her gently.

  “Oh, that,” Emma said dismissively. “Well, he was able to slap me before I could—”

  Murray wheeled round to face the lame man, who had stopped sobbing and was crouched in a corner, watching them through terrified eyes.

  “Did you hit her, Roy?” Murray demanded.

  “No sir, I never hit her, of course I didn’t,” the lame man gabbled.

  Murray stared at him in disgust.

  “You aren’t calling the young lady a liar, are you, Roy?”

  The lame man said nothing, wondering whether it was better to carry on lying or to tell the truth. In the end he shrugged, suggesting he had neither the desire nor the energy to undergo an interrogation.

  “So, you hit the young lady,” the millionaire said, pointing the pistol at him.

  The lame man raised his head, alarmed. “What are you doing!” he exclaimed, the blood draining from his face. “You aren’t going to shoot an unarmed man, are you?”

  “I can assure you, Roy, that in other circumstances I would never do such a thing,” the millionaire replied in a calm voice that even contained a hint of theatrical remorse. “But I gave you my word, do you remember? I told you I’d kill you if you touched a hair on the young lady’s head. And the word of a gentleman is his bond.”

  Emma turned away as the shot rang out. When she looked again, the lame man was sprawled on the floor, with what seemed to her an excessively small hole in his forehead, from which blood was beginning to seep. This was the first dead person she had ever seen, and she found it hugely disappointing.