No Way Of Telling (23 page)

He let go of her wrist then, and when he looked at Mr Nabb his bright pale eyes were half shut and the corners of his lips curled up.

“So I wasn’t mistaken, Harris. He was close—I knew it. I could feel it. In that case I don’t suppose I shall be very long after all.”

“No need to hurry yourself on my account,” said Mr Nabb, carelessly. “Take your time—enjoy yourself.”

The sound of the side-kitchen door closing roused Mrs Bowen from her own despairing reflections and she started up.

“Stop him—tell him to wait! I must go up the hill with him—I must put him on the path. He won’t ever find the short way over by himself. Let me by!”

For Mr Nabb had thrust an arm in front of her, barring her passage. She was trying to dodge round it.

“You might as well save your breath,” said Mr Nabb. “He doesn’t want to know about your short cut. That’s not where he’s going. Where he’s going is to this old ruin you just happened to mention—this old ruin you’ve been keeping so specially quiet about. Tyler’s Place you called it, didn’t you? That’s where he’s going—straight on down past the haystack, you said. I don’t reckon he’ll need your help to find it.”

“But Amy’s not there. Indeed, I don’t think so! It’s Dintirion she’s trying for—I’m sure of it—over the hills. I told him so.”

“Well, if you’re right and she went that way we shan’t have to trouble ourselves, shall we? She’s never going to reach the other end alive and talking—that’s what you told us. She hasn’t got a chance, you said. She’ll be done for. You said it yourself.”

Mrs Bowen backed away from him. Her eyes were shocked. “Done for?” she repeated, painfully. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Oh, you don’t, don’t you?” Mr Nabb had dropped his arm.

Now he got out his piece of string and began to practise knots. “You’re a crafty old woman, Mrs Bowen, that’s what I mean. You and that Amy of yours—you’re both of you crafty. I’ve been watching you and I’m willing to bet you know a lot more than you’ve ever let on to know. You can’t fool me that easy.”

“But he said he’d find her,” stammered Mrs Bowen. “He said he’d bring her back.”

Mr Nabb looked at her stricken face and a gleam of satisfaction crossed his own.

“He won’t have to now, will he? Why should he? It’s not Amy he’s after. You’ve been a bit too cunning for your own good, Mrs Bowen. There’s somebody else down at Tyler’s Place, that’s what I think, and I think you’ve known it all along. We’ve got a little business to settle with this somebody else and when that’s done we’ll be off.”

“Business?” she said.

“Ah! You’d like me to tell you what it’s all about I daresay, but you know a lot too much already, Mrs Nosey-Parker. Which is why, just as soon as ever Vigers gets back, you’re going to be sent out to look for the missing girl. Well, that’s what you wanted before, wasn’t it? You were all set to go and we stopped you, didn’t we? This time we’ll make sure you go—and that ought to round things off nice and natural, I’d say.” He twirled his piece of string, eyeing her derisively. “Comes in very handy, this blizzard does. There’ll be no talking, no questions asked, nothing awkward—just a couple of headlines in the local paper: Victims of the Storm. He’ll like that, Vigers will. He’s fond of a joke—a bit too fond in my opinion. One of these days it’s going to get him into trouble, as I’m forever telling him. Now I don’t care for jokes myself. What I like is for everything to be neat”—he tied a knot—“and tight”—he tied another—“and no loose ends left lying about.” He held up the string and it had turned into a wheel with three spokes. He gave a pull, and it fell into a single length again.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” whispered Mrs Bowen. “I don’t know why you’re talking so much. You never used to speak a word, hardly.”

“Now that’s very sharp of you, Mrs B.,” said he, nodding at her approvingly. “Very noticing you are—like me in that respect. And you’re right, too—I’m not a talker by nature, not one of the chatty ones, I’m not. And I’ll tell you why—I’ve always had to be on the look-out, that’s why. But I can talk if I want to, same as anyone else. I can have a good time—I can let myself go.”

“A good time—is that what you’re having now?” she asked him in dread.

He was perched on the oak chest, winding the piece of string between his fingers to form an intricate web.

“I’m celebrating, Mrs Bowen,” he said. “The job’s over, and as I’m not partial to snow, nor yet to Vigers, I’m glad of it. Though I must say, it’s turned out very satisfactory, which I didn’t expect.”

“Over?” she said.

He held up his cat’s cradle and squinted at her through the mesh of it. He was as near to laughing as she had ever seen him.

“People shouldn’t go poking their noses into other people’s affairs, Mrs Bowen,” he said. “It doesn’t do them any good. Now take that sailor for instance, him you’ve been keeping such a secret from us—if only he hadn’t gone and picked up private information about a certain matter that wasn’t anything to do with him, you’d all be pulling crackers next Christmas and carrying on the same as usual—him and you and that Amy of yours. Instead of which,”—he jerked his hands and the tangle disappeared from between them—“all gone! See what I mean? That’s a valuable lesson—pity some people learn it too late. Your kettle’s boiling. I could do with a cup of tea. Make it strong, and I want plenty of sugar in mine.”

“You’ll get no cup of tea from me,” said Mrs Bowen.

He was surprised. He looked across at her disbelievingly. Then his old scowl reappeared.

“If I tell you to make a cup of tea, you’ll make it,” he said.

But Mrs Bowen was no longer the befuddled creature of a few minutes before. It was as though she had all at once emerged from a fog of doubt into daylight where the view was terrible but clear.

“I can’t stop you from taking whatever you choose to take, and I can’t stop you from doing whatever you choose to do—I know that,” she said, “but I will not offer you hospitality again under my roof, not by so much as one bite or one sip. It would be as great a sin to entertain such wickedness as the wickedness itself, and I’ll not do it.”

Her face was colourless and her voice quavered a little but she stood up in front of the fire as stiff as her own brass poker and her fists were clenched. Mr Nabb had nothing to say. He made no movement to prevent her from going into the side-kitchen. When she returned she was wearing her boots and her overcoat and her hat was tied on to her head with Amy’s scarlet woollen scarf. She crossed the room and opened the door at the foot of the stairs. Then at last he did speak, with a lowering uncertain glance at her from under his brows:

“And what do you think you’re up to now, I’d like to know?”

“I’m going to Amy,” she said. “And I’m taking Mick with me. I couldn’t leave him here.”

But by the time, carrying Mick, she got downstairs again he had recovered his equilibrium and was standing in her way.

“You can’t just clear off whenever you happen to fancy—don’t you understand that? You’ll go when you’re told to go, and not before.”

The room was as dark as though evening were closing in. What light there was came more from the fire than through the snow-choked windows. In the flickering glimmer of the flames Mrs Bowen saw that he held a gun. Mick was snarling.

“Let me by,” she said.

“Oh, no, you don’t! Who do you think you are, ordering me around, telling me what to do? You’re not clearing off now. You’re going to stop on here till Vigers gets back—haven’t I just told you so? And you’d better watch that dog of yours too, unless you want him to have a bullet in him—I’d about as soon shoot him as look at him.”

Before she could utter a word in reply they heard the side-kitchen door bang shut.

“Here, Vigers!” called out Mr Nabb. “Come on in here—I want you. He’s been quick,” he added in an undertone.

There was no reply from the side-kitchen. Mick had stopped snarling. His ears were pricked and although Mrs Bowen had him clamped tight beneath her arm she could feel the slight welcoming movement of his tail. Hardly knowing what she said, or even why, but impelled by an instinct to protect whatever might need protecting, she spoke in a rush:

“I didn’t fasten that door properly, I don’t believe.”

“Is that so?” said Mr Nabb. His eyes were on Mick. “Is that so?” he repeated. “You’d better see to it then, hadn’t you? Go on—fasten it!”

There was absolute silence from the side-kitchen.

“Go on,” said Mr Nabb softly, and he motioned at Mrs Bowen with his gun, waving it towards the side-kitchen. She went past him slowly and slowly opened the door between the two rooms. Then she screamed, for there propped up against the door opposite to her was an enormous snowman.

It was Bartolomeo.

His eyes were closed. His one good arm hung limp at his side. He was covered thickly in snow, every inch of him, from head to foot. Neither he nor they moved until Mr Nabb exclaimed in loud exultant tones:

“Would you believe it? All we had to do was to sit here and wait for him. And what happens? He walks in at that door—just walks in!”

As though two lumps of coal had been put into the face of the snowman, Bartolomeo opened his eyes. He opened his eyes and looked at them, but still he made no movement of any kind. Mr Nabb thrust his way past Mrs Bowen. His voice was peculiarly gloating.

“They said he was big—he’s big all right. And what’s the use of being so big after all? Size won’t help him now. He’s finished! Why, look at him there—with all that size he can’t lift a finger to save himself, not a finger! Not this time, he can’t!”

The great black burning eyes spoke to Mrs Bowen as they had spoken once before. She stepped towards him in horrified compassion:

“Bartolomeo!”

Without bothering to glance at her even, Mr Nabb reached forward and grasping the old woman by her shoulder pushed her hard out of his way. She staggered, loosening her hold on Mick, who, like a launched arrow, sprang straight across the intervening space at Mr Nabb’s throat. But he missed his mark and fell to the floor. Kicking at him, cursing him, Mr Nabb swivelled and backed away from Mick’s hysterical attacks.

“Mick!” cried Mrs Bowen. “Mick!—Mick!” For although the light in the side-kitchen was poor and the skirmish confused she saw the gun being raised and aimed. “Mick!” she shrieked.

What she failed to see was the one and only gesture made by Bartolomeo. He lifted his hanging right arm quite slowly and brought the back of their hacker down on the top of Mr Nabb’s head. Mick went on barking. There was Mr Nabb full length on the side-kitchen floor and still Bartolomeo leant up against the door as though he had not enough strength to take even a single step away from it. The hacker had fallen from his hand.

“A-mee,” he said.

“Yes?” asked Mrs Bowen, sick at heart. “Where is she? Where’s Amy? Tell me.”

“A-mee,” said Bartolomeo, just nodding at her. He turned his eyes as though if he could have done he would have pointed somewhere over the hills, and he held his fist out towards Mrs Bowen, its thumb stuck up to tell her that wherever Amy might be she was quite all right.

At seven o’clock in the morning the Protheroes’ big kitchen had a dishevelled appearance as though pots of tea had been endlessly brewing and people coming and going there all night long. The electric light, which was on, somehow gave Ivor the impression of having never been switched off. There were jars of pickle on the table and crumbs and the loaf of bread had been left out. Ivor began to cut himself a thick slice.

Upstairs a door banged and he heard his brother Colin shouting. The dogs were barking in the front yard. Then there was the sound of the Land Rover’s engine, a renewed slamming of doors and more shouting. His father was about to start off for the village. It had been well past midnight when Mr Victor Pugh the policeman had gone from their place having agreed with Ivor’s father to ring police headquarters first thing in the morning, provided his friend Mr Protheroe stood by him and gave him the support he felt he would need in asking for the immediate return of the snow-plough which had only completed its official task of opening up the road as far as the village yesterday evening just as darkness fell.

If they were successful in winning back the snow-plough and the remaining couple of miles of road beyond the village was cleared, the rescue-party—consisting of Mr Protheroe, his two elder boys, Colin and Ray, and Mr Pugh the policeman—intended to force its way on from Casswell’s Gate up the valley and across the stream to the Gwyntfa. Whether it would be better to go on foot or mounted was still undecided. Ivor had lost interest in the argument as soon as he heard, with indignant amazement, that he was not going to be one of the rescuers.

“This isn’t a bit of fun, Ivor,” Mr Protheroe had said in reply to his youngest son’s beseeching look. “By all accounts we might get into something real nasty before we’re through. I wouldn’t want to have you mixed up in it. And in any case, nasty or not, it’s going to be hard enough work to fetch out Mrs Bowen and Amy without having you to think about on top.”

“You wouldn’t have to think about me—I can think about myself,” protested Ivor, his feelings, usually deeply hidden, showing for once in the desperation of his entreaty.

“I’ve said no, Ivor. You’re not coming. That’s all there is to it.” Ivor relapsed into silence. It was a waste of energy, he knew, arguing with his father and so he held his tongue and concentrated instead on making plans of his own. At least he could do what nobody else had thought of doing: he could climb to the other side of Cader Ddu and survey the territory that lay between the Gwyntfa’s back entrance and Dintirion, the route of the short way over. It was true there would be nothing for him to see except acres of snow, but the idea of appointing himself as solitary look-out appealed to Ivor, and by giving him the dignity of a purpose helped a little to relieve the smart of having been excluded from the rescue team. He would go on his pony Ginger, and without telling anyone, and without even stopping for porridge first. A slice of bread and butter and jam would do him for food, he reflected, sawing away at the loaf—or perhaps two slices to make sure. At this moment his brother Ray burst into the kitchen in stockinged feet, carrying a coil of rope.