A Christmas Escape (9 page)

“I think when there is a lull in the volcano's anger, we should go up and look. If it is safe, we should make our way down to the sea.”

“How?” Isla asked with a frown. “The pony and trap went back down once it had brought us here.”

“We will walk, signora
,
” Stefano answered. “It is not so very far. It will take us a few hours, but we can rest on the way.”

Isla looked aghast at the idea.

“We'll walk together,” Candace said quickly. “We'll all help one another. Don't worry…”

There was a sound of wood banging somewhere above them, and then the hatch opened and daylight shone on the steps. A moment later the hatch closed and they heard feet on the steps.

“Walker?” Isla rose to her feet, relief flooding her face.

Charles could not help wondering if she really was pleased to see him, or if she was wise enough to act as if she were. If she failed to show what he considered the appropriate reactions, she might pay for it for a long time. He wondered how anyone endured such a marriage. Perhaps she believed that she had given her word in church, and only death would release her from it.

But it was not Bailey who reached the bottom of the steps and came into the light of the nearest lantern, it was Quinn, carrying several folded blankets.

“There are some nasty bits of rock flying around, and some of it is actual lava, hot as hell. Sets fire to the grass.” He sat down a couple of feet away from Isla.

“Did you see Bailey?” Charles asked him.

Quinn raised his eyebrows. “I couldn't find him. I stopped to get these.” He gestured to the blankets with a slight shrug. “I expect he'll be here any moment.” He dismissed the subject and turned to Stefano. “How long do you think this will go on for? It doesn't look too bad up there. I suppose you have to be careful; we are more or less your responsibility. I can see that. But surely in an hour or two…” He stopped because another volley of sound cut him off. Even here, as far below the ground as they were, they could hear the noise and feel a tremor in the earth around them as another shower of rocks, or bombs, struck close to where they were.

Stefano crossed himself and closed his eyes.

Charles felt deeply sorry for him. It must be one of his worst nightmares, to be stuck in the cellar with a group of frightened and largely thankless guests, while the volcano bombarded his home, the house his ancestors had built, probably been born in and died in. He wondered for an instant if the chickens had gone.

Stefano rose to his feet. It clearly cost him some effort.

“What is it?” Quinn demanded. “Can we go out now?”

“No, Signor Quinn, you cannot,” Stefano replied. “We all stay here until there is no more explosions. Then we will go down to the sea.”

“Ridiculous!” Quinn said tartly. “You're making too much of it, man. The cellar is fine. When was the last time it ever caved in, I ask you!”

“We will go down to the sea,” Stefano repeated, not even looking at Quinn. “Now I must go to find Mr. Bailey. It is not safe up there.” He walked toward the bottom of the cellar steps.

“Wait!” Charles stood up also. “Do it in half the time with two of us. And it will be safer.”

“Not very logical,” Quinn commented. “If you go separately, you're no help, and if you go together, you won't be any faster.”

Charles swung round angrily and glared at Quinn. “And if you had brought Bailey down instead of watching him from a distance, it wouldn't be necessary. Now sit still and shut up!” He followed Stefano up the steps without turning back to see how Quinn had dealt with the verbal attack. Frankly, he did not care.

Stefano opened the hatch and went out, Charles on his heels.

Outside he stared around in amazement. The towers of ash in the sky were far larger, billowing as he watched them, growing, roiling as if they were almost solid, great whirlpools, folding in on themselves and then swelling outward again as if they meant to darken the whole sky. He saw lightning fork through them, and then another jet of scarlet fire hundreds of feet high. At the same moment the ground below his feet trembled and the roar of it drowned any words he might have had.

Stefano jerked his head to indicate the way they should go, and Charles followed him quickly. He had no wish whatever to be caught out here alone.

They searched the house, looking in all the public rooms and then the bedrooms. Stefano had the keys and it took only a glance in each to know that Bailey was not there. All the time the mountain rumbled sporadically. The air was thick with the stench of ash and sulfur, burned grass, and the dust of stone where pieces of wall had been struck by lumps of burning lava and left scorched and, in many places, broken.

It was probably mendable. Perhaps this was the price of living on this amazing island, but Charles grieved for the damage, the carefully nurtured buildings and gardens that had been ruined in a few moments.

They started on the outbuildings, storerooms, and garden sheds. Here the damage was worse. These buildings were only a few dozen yards closer to the mountain, but perhaps they had been built here originally as the first wall of defense.

The first Charles and Stefano looked in was the one most seriously damaged. One side of the roof had completely collapsed, rafters and tiles having fallen in. The upper edges of the supporting walls were scarred with fire where flying lava had struck them with tremendous force.

It was inside the wreck of this room that they found Walker-Bailey's body. He was lying on the floor on his back, a rafter from the damaged ceiling fallen across his chest. Blood covered his shoulders and pooled on the floor behind the back of his head.

Stefano said something in Italian. Charles did not know the words, but he certainly understood the sentiment. He would have said something the same if his mouth was not too dry to speak at all, and his heart pounding as if to drown out all other sounds.

Stefano bent to touch the wrist of one of the outflung arms. His own hand was shaking so hard he had to make a deliberate effort to force himself to be still. It was more than a minute before he looked up at Charles, his face ashen under his olive skin.

“I am sorry, but he is dead.” He closed his eyes. “Now how are we going to tell the signora? Poor creature…”

Charles held out his hand and helped Stefano to his feet. He was surprised how much of his weight he had to take.

“It's not your fault, Stefano,” he said. “If the stupid man had come in with the rest of us, he would be all right. I'm sure she'll be shaken up. I daresay she wouldn't have wished him dead. But on the other hand, I rather think she will recover.”

Stefano looked wretched.

“He was not a nice man,” he agreed. “Now he has died without the chance to do better. That is very sad, Mr. Latterly. In fact, perhaps it is the last tragedy in a man's life. I fear he will not be much missed.”

“I'll go and tell them,” Charles offered. The instant the words were out of his mouth he wondered what on earth had made him say them. But the warmth that now filled Stefano's face made them impossible to take back. He had no idea how he was going to make it any easier for the others than Stefano would. Perhaps his offer stemmed from gratitude for Stefano's warmth, the kindness he had shown, his love of simple things like good bread, and the welcome he had shown his guests.

“I will check the rest of the damage, perhaps,” Stefano started to speak again. “I…I think the mountain is going to get worse before it quiets down. Don't let them argue with you, Mr. Latterly. They must be ready to leave at the first opportunity. I will recognize it and tell them. I know the way down. We have had to leave before.”

“But the house is fine!” Charles protested, indicating it by spreading his arms apart in both directions.

“Of course it is,” Stefano agreed. “No one was ever killed, because they respect the mountain. They know when to leave. Now, please, if your offer is to tell them of Mr. Bailey's sad going, then do so. Otherwise I will do it, of course.”

“No,” Charles said quickly. “It's better I do. And anyway, you need to make things ready for us when we can leave…if you think that after the next lull it will really get worse?”

“I do,” Stefano said with a slight nod. “I'm afraid I do. Thank you, my friend.”

Charles turned to go, but had gone no farther than a dozen yards when he saw Finbar coming toward him. He was walking with a slight limp, as if he had injured himself, and now his whole body was stiff.

Charles increased his pace. “Are you all right?” he said with anxiety.

“Yes, yes,” Finbar assured him. “I came to see if you needed assistance. Where is Stefano? Did you find Bailey? He is a most objectionable man but we can't leave him behind.”

“I'm afraid we will have to,” Charles answered grimly.

Finbar did not understand. “No, Latterly, we can't. I agree he is a most unpleasant creature, and I have no desire to see him again once we reach safety, but whatever he is, or is not, we are not people who leave anyone behind in a situation like this. I—”

Charles interrupted him. “He's dead. I'm sorry to put it so very bluntly, but we haven't time for pleasantries. Stefano thinks that after a lull or two the mountain may really blow. When we have the chance, we must make our way down the mountain toward the sea. We will have enough trouble walking all that way. It is several miles, and we have women…at least, Mrs. Bailey. I think she will not find it easy, and may need help. But we cannot take a dead body with us, even if we could free him from where he's trapped.”

“I suppose you are quite sure he's dead?” Finbar said, his face pale.

“Stefano is. But if you want to make certain for yourself, he's in the outbuilding just back there.” He turned and pointed.

“Trapped?”

“Yes. A good part of the ceiling came in and one of the beams fell across his chest.”

“I see.” Finbar started moving again stiffly. He walked past Charles toward the outbuilding.

Charles turned and followed him. They went inside. It was exactly as Charles had left it, except that Stefano was not there.

“Oh dear,” Finbar said, regarding the body of Walker-Bailey splayed out on the floor. “Yes, I see what you mean. Excuse me.” He went over to the body and kneeled down beside it. He appeared to consider it for some time. He bent farther forward and looked very closely at the beam.

“If we try moving it, I think we may well bring more of the roof down on ourselves,” Charles said simply. “It all looks as if it could cave in with another shift of anything.”

Finbar looked up at the ceiling. “I think you are correct. But that is not what concerns me, Charles.” He said Charles's given name as easily as if they had known each other for years. “Come here. I think you need to see this.”

Reluctantly Charles went several steps closer to the body. Without life in it, it looked rather smaller than it had a few hours ago, puffed up by self-righteousness and anger. Now there was nothing left at all, just a small, wiry man whose soul was already somewhere far off, leaving behind only emptiness.

“This,” Finbar said quietly. Even the mountain had fallen temporarily silent. There was no roar, no crack of rocks, as if it had also stopped breathing.

“What am I looking at?” Charles asked.

Finbar pointed to the pool of blood beneath Bailey's head. It extended from the side of his head where it was matted on the scalp above the ear, right down to his shoulder on that side.

“Not a lot of blood for a scalp wound,” Finbar observed.

“Looks like a lot to me,” Charles said unhappily. “He must have been struck by the beam very hard.”

“Bend down farther,” Finbar told him, lowering his own head to demonstrate just what he meant.

Reluctantly, Charles obeyed. That was when he saw the jagged flap of skin falling open in Bailey's neck. The cut was not long, but it was filled with blood and was just above the beginning of the pool around him.

“I don't understand,” he said, straightening up and staring at Finbar.

“Yes, you do,” Finbar answered softly. “That is the wound that killed him, right across the artery. The head wound is slight.”

Charles was puzzled, fighting off the truth. “I thought an arterial wound like that would bleed—catastrophically!”

“It would,” Finbar agreed. “He didn't die here. Somewhere else, probably not far away there is a piece of ground soaked with blood. But I daresay the dust and lava will hide it until long after we are gone. He was moved here, and it was made to look like an accidental death—just one more victim of the volcano.”

Suddenly Charles was cold, far inside himself. That Walker-Bailey was dead was sad and disturbing. Much as he had disliked him, he would not have wished this for him. And that he had been killed deliberately, murdered, meant that someone else was also changed forever and, beyond that, they all would somehow have to deal with it. There was no escape from the conclusion that one of them in the house had done it. Apart from their group, who else even knew of Walker-Bailey, let alone cared whether he lived or died?

Charles stared at Finbar.

“I know,” Finbar said quietly. “One of them did this. A blade to the throat could have been done by anyone. It doesn't take any particular strength and, given Bailey's size and probable weight, it wouldn't be too difficult to have dragged him here, once he couldn't fight back.”

“Should we look for where he was killed?” Charles asked reluctantly.

Finbar was prevented from answering by another roar from the volcano and a deep rumble in the earth as everything around them trembled and more stone and plaster fell from the walls.

For several seconds it went on, and they both remained frozen to the spot. Finally it subsided and, with a bleak smile, Finbar rose to his feet.