WHEN Jonah McLean spun a coin—metaphorically speaking of course, for he was a man who frowned on gambling—he little knew what his choice of road was to lead him to. Had he but known it at the time he would certainly have avoided taking the short-cut along the ten mile by-road from Bendleton to Fen. But there were two factors that weighed in favour of it. He was late for his appointment with a highly respected client for one thing; and for another there was the weather—he’d been told by the garage attendant who filled the car a few miles back that the alternative route was flooded at one point. Not only was it still pouring with rain, but the gale seemed to be increasing rather than easing off. On the other hand the road he would normally have taken was a better one, being straighter, less hilly, wider and in most respects a far more attractive choice on a dark night in teeming rain and a gale of wind. But, and there lay the crux of the matter, McLean was late and the road he chose was very much shorter—or it would have proved so had he been able to travel it without delay.
The first four miles of the route were covered without incident. Sheets of rain came down, almost obliterating the view of the road in the carving beam of the lights so that in spite of the steady rhythm of the wiper blades McLean had to crouch forward, staring ahead for every second of the time. And all the while the vicious gale of wind that tore across the moorland country and howled its song of defiance through the gorse and bracken seemed to do its best to overturn the car. Here and there, where the road passed through sparse clumps of leafless timber, its strength was momentarily reduced, broken by the trees themselves. And then, when the windbreak was passed, it struck with renewed fury, making McLean tighten his hold on the wheel and check the swerve of the car as it felt the sidelong blast.
He was beginning to think the other road would have been the wiser and less unpleasant choice when the savage alarm bells of mental warning jangled in his brain.
Ahead, looming in the lights on a curve, was the darker shadow of another spinney straddling the road. But the road wasn’t clear! There was something blocking it, an obstacle that he couldn’t quite make out when he first set eyes on it.
Instinctively his foot crushed down on the brake pedal as he rounded the curve. He was only just in time, for the curve was sharp and he’d been driving rather more quickly than he imagined. The wheels locked and screeched on the wet surface; the car went into a slide, coming to a halt half-way across the road as the figure of a woman in a dark coloured raincoat leapt for the grass verge and disappeared into the brimming ditch.
She was just emerging again, just stepping into the flood of light from McLean’s headlamps, when he opened the door and jumped out. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and he still felt a little shaken. His eyes went from the dripping figure of the woman to the small car more than half-buried in the branches of a tree blown on to the road by the gale.
His first conscious thought was one of distinct annoyance at ever having chosen the short-cut. Then he was irritated by the fact that the road was blocked, and by the obvious delay it would cause—to say nothing of the possibility that someone might have been hurt, a situation that would lead to more delay.
But those fleeting thoughts were so swift and transient as to leave no mark on his sensibilities. He had barely left the car to face the downpour of rain and the biting wind before he was speaking to the woman, showing natural solicitude completely at variance with his first feelings.
“Heavens,” she was saying, “I thought you were going to pile up!”
He bent forward, trying to see her face, squinting in the glare and the rain, still shaken by the nearness of what could have been an unpleasant crash.
“You’re in a terrible state,” he said.
“That ditch is full of water—and mud. I forgot it was there when I jumped. But it doesn’t matter because I’m soaked already. It’s a mess, isn’t it? This tree, I mean.”
“Oh—er—yes, it is. What happened exactly? There’s no one else in the car, is there?” He was suddenly anxious.
She shook her head. Dark strands of hair were plastered to her cheeks; her face was streaming. She had to raise her voice to a shout to make herself heard when she answered him:
“No, thank heavens. But I’m in a jam now.”
“So am I for that matter. Here, you’d better get in my car—no sense in both of us getting soaked.”
She squelched round and pulled open the nearside door in silence. She was beginning to shiver when he turned on the interior light. Without a word he dragged a couple of heavy rugs from the back seat and gave them to her. She gulped and thanked him.
“Now,” he said quietly, “what’s the position?” She was a lot younger than he’d thought at first; and if she hadn’t been so wet she would probably have been quite pretty. He caught himself up on the reflection. The situation was not to his liking. Of course he was sorry for her, but he had his own troubles to think of. He’d be terribly late at Sir Thomas’s place; it would annoy the old man and damage his own reputation for punctuality. Besides … well, he felt uneasy at being involved with a strange young woman on such a lonely road as this. He had to be careful. As a lawyer and a man of integrity he could never afford to put a foot wrong—or compromise himself in even the remotest way. People were so ready to talk, so quick to damage a man’s reputation.
“Well, you can see the position for yourself,” said the girl, breaking in on his uneasy, selfish thoughts. “I was driving along quite happily when the tree came down almost on top of the car. The bonnet and radiator seem to be crushed and anyway I couldn’t move the tree. But there’s just room to squeeze past on the road. Perhaps … that is, if you could give me a lift I’d be awfully grateful.”
He could not, he realised, do less than that; but it was a great nuisance. He hoped Sir Thomas would understand his lateness.
“Of course,” he said aloud. “And we’ll stop at the first phone box and ring up a garage about your car. I can make a call myself at the same time, explaining the delay.”
“Were you going somewhere important? I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, don’t mention it! I’m on my way to spend the weekend with a rather important client. I shouldn’t want to upset the old gentleman.”
“He’ll understand I’m sure. After all, in this sort of weather anything can happen, can’t it?”
McLean didn’t answer. That was just what he was afraid of. Anything could happen! Confound this young woman with her accident! He started the engine and moved the car cautiously forward, edging it through the narrow gay left clear beyond the uppermost branches of the fallen tree. Leaves and twigs scratched and rasped along the side of the car making him compress his lips in silent anguish at the thought of damaging the paintwork. He gave little thought to the partly wrecked car the girl had been driving. She could easily have been killed, but he didn’t think of that. If he did it was to visualise his own more complicated position under such circumstances. The delay it would have caused! And all the fuss and bother. He was glad she wasn’t hurt.
They were past the scene of the accident by now, moving on along the more exposed portion of the high moorland road. The wind shrieked its diabolical song with unremitting fury; the rain lashed down in a constant torrent that reduced visibility to yards.
“Where were you going?” asked the girl presently.
“About two miles beyond Fen. Garriston House. I was told the other road to Fen was flooded, that’s why I came by this one.”
“I’m glad you did!”
He didn’t answer for a moment or two. Then: “There ought to be a phone box somewhere along here. Perhaps I can drop you off at Fen when we get there.”
“But I’m not going as far as the village. I was on my way to Cousin Herrick’s place. Down a lane off this road, it is, about a mile and a half further on.”
“Oh, I see. How far down the lane? I don’t know this district very well.”
“How far down? Oh, about a mile I should say. It’s an isolated place, but Herrick always was one for hiding himself away in the back of beyond. He’s an electronic engineer, you know. Frightfully clever. He’s working on stereoscopic colour TV at the moment. He’s awfully rich and can afford to finance his own research. I wish I was rich, don’t you? Or perhaps you are.”
He laughed for the first time since their meeting. “I may be rich one day, but heaven knows when it’ll be!”
“What do you do? For a living, I mean?”
“The law. I’m a solicitor specialising in company law.”
“You ought to meet Cousin Herrick. When he wrote and invited me down here he said he was a little worried about the legal aspects of his latest developments. Protecting the principles and so forth, you know. I’m sure you’ll get on well together, and he might be very useful to you if you went about it the right way.”
He found himself weighing the matter carefully, trying to work out some means by which he could combine his visit to Sir Thomas—a very important client—with this rather more nebulous person, Cousin Herrick. If what the girl had said was true it was a meeting that might lead to great things. But he had to be careful. However, it looked as if he couldn’t avoid taking her right to the door of the house she had spoken of. He wished he didn’t have to, but conditions were all against him.
“I shall look forward to making Mr.… Herrick’s acquaintance,” he said. “Perhaps I could use his telephone before I carry on for Garriston House?”
“I’m sure he won’t mind. But do you have to rush off as soon as we get there? Why not stay the night?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that! Sir Thomas would be most upset.” The idea seemed to shock him. “No, that would never do!”
“You know best of course; it’s up to you. If it was me I’d ring my friend up and make some excuse, but it’s none of my business.”
He could have agreed with her but held his tongue. It was none of her business.
“The turning is somewhere round the next bend,” she said presently. “Go easy or you’ll miss it.”
He grunted, still feeling that in spite of the possible promise held out of meeting Cousin Herrick he would have been a lot better off had he never chanced to run across the girl. The whole thing was an incident that disturbed him, disrupting as it did his usual cautious wariness. However, it couldn’t be helped.
The turning, difficult to see at any time until one was right on it, showed up at last. McLean braked and swung the car slowly down the narrow, rutted lane. It struck him as a pretty mean kind of approach for a rich man’s country house. The surface was appalling, only wide enough for one car, with four foot high banks on either side.
He drove more slowly than ever. The storm seemed, if anything, to increase in its elemental savagery. It was now, in that narrow track with its ruts and potholes, that Jonah McLean felt a primitive touch of fear course the length of his spine. A subtle change seemed to come over the atmosphere. No longer was he battling against a mere storm of wind and rain, but seemed to be driving into the teeth of something more vast and threatening. He could not explain it. Yet in a queer fashion he sensed that his own feelings were shared by the shivering girl. It was she who said something that heightened his nameless fear.
“I always feel scared coming down this lane,” she said. “Don’t ask me why, but even in decent weather it’s a … rather a spooky place. Funny, isn’t it?”
He felt her shudder violently beside him, though whether from the cold or from fear he did not know, and did not care to ask. His own reactions were none too steady. Damn this whole business, he thought uneasily. He’d be glad when he’d dropped the girl and could get away again.
Vivid flas. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
