“It is imperative that we find the boys,” I said as I followed Harmwell up the ladder.
He was standing by the inner door into the passage. “You know their haunts better than I. If you wish, I will stay here to guard the corpse.”
“We shall find the boys more quickly if we both look. And when we find them, they may need help.”
“True.” Harmwell’s face was in shadow. “On the other hand, we can hardly leave Mrs Johnson unguarded. It would not be fitting.”
“She will not mind, sir, not now. The boys are more important. We must search by the ruins.”
His persistence in the matter puzzled me, even with the boys’ safety weighing on my mind. I remembered what the foreman had told me the previous morning about the blocked drain of the ice-house, and all of a sudden it occurred to me that this was one of the few nights of the year when the building would not only be unlocked but empty – in other words, with its floor and the sump below easily accessible. Was it possible that the same thought had occurred to my companion?
I pushed past him and walked down the passage to the outer doorway. The events of this terrible night were not over. The poisoned mastiff and the clang of the mantrap were fresh in my memory. Harmwell followed me into the open air.
“The poor lady has gone beyond all mortal harm,” he observed in his deep preacher’s voice. “You are in the right of it – we must look to the living.”
We picked our way slowly down the defile and reached the path along the bank of the lake. Here we made better speed. Every few paces one of us would call the boys’ names, Harmwell’s great booming bass mingling with my baritone. At last we attained the crest of the ridge that sloped down towards the ruins and Grange Cottage beyond. The smothering weight of the darkness lay heavily on the sleeping land. To our left was the dense shadow of East Cover.
“Stay,” Harmwell said. “Did you hear? Call again.”
A moment later, I heard it too – a high, faint response to our shouts, coming from somewhere below. Careless of danger, we stumbled and slithered down the snowy slope. As I plunged into the dark, I remembered the bright, cold afternoon of St Stephen’s Day when Sophie and I had run together towards the boys.
A single voice called repeatedly: “Here, sir! Here!”
We found the boys huddled in the lee of the tallest part of the ruins. They had found shelter in a recess made by a blocked doorway. Snow had drifted over their lower legs. Charlie was slumped at the back of the niche, and Edgar held him in his arms.
“Oh, sir,” said the little American through chattering teeth, “I am so glad – Charlie was so distressed – and then he fell asleep – and I thought I should fetch help, but I did not like to leave him and I did not know which way to go.”
“You did quite right. Mr Harmwell, I suggest we wrap them like a pair of parcels, and carry them home.”
Charlie stirred as we moved him and began to whimper. We covered him with the spare cloak. I took off my coat and draped it round Edgar. We gave both the boys a drop of brandy and then swallowed rather more ourselves. Then, groaning with the effort, I lifted Edgar on to my back; Harmwell lifted Charlie; and we began the slow, infinitely laborious climb up the slope.
I knew that our troubles were not over. Our best course was to aim for the mansion-house, for who knew what we might find at Grange Cottage? But it would not be easy to carry the boys for the better part of a mile, especially in this weather. As we were encumbered with our burdens, we could not use the lanterns to their best advantage. I was worried about the boys, too, in particular Charlie, who seemed barely conscious of what was happening, and the thought of frostbite was never very far from my mind.
As we reached the brow of the ridge, however, I heard the sound of hallooing voices by the lake, and saw in the distance the swaying lights of a dozen lanterns and torches. I turned back to Harmwell, to share my relief, and discovered him facing the way we had come with a hand cupped over his ear.
“Listen, Mr Shield. Listen.”
A moment later, I heard it too. Somewhere below us, perhaps on the lane by Grange Cottage, came the sound of hooves, muffled by the snow and moving very slowly.
“Come,” I said. “The boys are growing colder.”
Without further words, we staggered on towards our rescuers. Charlie lay inert and silent on Harmwell’s shoulder as we plodded towards the lights dancing in the darkness.
“The monk ran away from us, sir,” Edgar whispered. “We did not see him but we heard him.”
“What?” said Harmwell. “What was that?”
“Hush now,” I replied, thinking of those hoof-beats. “We must save our breath.”
After what seemed like hours, our rescuers reached us, and willing hands received our burdens. We had men enough to spare – Sophie and Mrs Kerridge had woken Miss Carswall, and together they had roused the household and the stables. At the lake we divided into two parties. One took the boys back to the mansion. Harmwell and I led the remaining five men up the defile to the ice-house. The sight of Mrs Johnson in trousers seemed to shock some of them more than the fact of her death. We brought her up from the pit of the chamber – it was no easy task, and it needed all of us to do it. We laid her on a leaf of the ice-house’s inner doors, covered her face with her cloak for decency’s sake and bore her away on her makeshift bier.
When we reached the mansion, which was ablaze with lights, the footmen were carrying the boys up to bed, with Miss Carswall, Sophie and Mrs Kerridge fluttering about them on the stairs. But Sophie ran back to the hall for a moment, and pressed Harmwell’s hand and then mine.
“Tell them to bring you whatever you wish, Mr Harmwell, Mr Shield – you must be chilled to the bone. I shall go to the boys.”
“Let them grow warm gently,” I said, for my father had been used to dealing with frostbite in the Fen winters. “Wrap them in blankets. Sudden heat is harmful.”
Carswall appeared, stamping into the hall in his dressing gown, ready to rant and roar. But Mrs Johnson under her black cloak brought him up short. Sophie left us and ran upstairs without another word.
“Uncover her,” he said to Pratt, who had just returned from carrying Edgar upstairs.
Carswall studied Mrs Johnson for a moment, as she lay there on her back, her skin grey and waxen, her big body ungainly in that unseemly attire, the hat tied under her jaw, as though she had laid herself out for death and did not want to be found with her mouth open. He looked up, saw me standing there at the foot of the stairs and at once looked past me to Harmwell.
“Was she dressed like that when you found her?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“What the devil possessed her?”
Harmwell shrugged.
Carswall told Pratt to cover her face again. “Take her up to the Blue Room, and lay her on the bed. Find Kerridge to go with you and do it decently. Then lock the door and bring me the key.” He turned on his heel and went into the library, calling over his shoulder for someone to make up the fire.
A maid approached me, and said that soup, wine, sandwiches and a good fire were waiting for us in the little sitting room. We ate and drank in silence, facing each other across the fire. Miss Carswall came in as we were finishing.
“No, do not get up. I came to tell you that Charlie and Edgar do very well and are now sleeping the sleep of the unjust. Are you yourselves recovered from the ordeal? Have they brought you all you wish for?” She was kindness itself, yet it was not long before her curiosity peeped through. “Poor Mrs Johnson! I’m sure none of us will sleep a wink for thinking of the horror of it. Tell me, was there no clue as to why she was there, and how she happened to fall?”
We assured her there was none.
“Sir George must be told as soon as possible – quite apart from the tie of blood, he is the nearest magistrate. Mr Carswall has ordered a groom to ride over to Clearland at first light.”
She wished us goodnight, and Harmwell withdrew at the same time, leaving me to my wine and my reflections, which were not happy. The clock on the mantel was striking three in the morning when I stood up to leave. In the hall, I picked up my candle from the table. Pratt was waiting there, and he coughed as I approached.
“Mr Carswall’s compliments, sir, and it will not be convenient for you to leave tomorrow after all.”
That night I hardly slept, and when I did my sleep was uneasy, crowded with memories and fears which mingled with one another and masqueraded as dreams. In one of them all was dark, and I heard again the clang of the mantrap closing its jaws; but this time the sound was immediately followed by two others, first a high scream, rising rapidly in pitch and volume, and then the sound of hooves on the lane by Grange Cottage.
What lawful business would take a man and horse abroad on a night like this?