‘What do you think we should do?’ asked Imogen, struck by the terrible thought that Orlando might bleed to death up here in the woods, and she would be left to drag his corpse back to the house for ignominious burial.
‘I know it’s hard, my love,’ said Orlando, wincing with the pain. ‘I think we’ve got to go back. If I can get that far.’
Limping, hobbling, tottering, staggering, occasionally falling, Orlando and Imogen set off on their return journey to de Courcy Hall.
Powerscourt and Fitzgerald halted at the boundary wall. The snow had almost stopped. The surrounding carpet of white meant you could see much further once you were out of the woods. Against this ghostly landscape they watched as the four guards made their way in regular order across the fields. They waited for about five minutes. There was no sound from up ahead, only the relentless lashing of the wind.
‘What do you think, Johnny? Should we go after them?’ said Powerscourt.
‘Why not?’ replied Fitzgerald, always eager for the chase.
‘It’s only this. If the forger and his lady had been crossing this field, we would have seen them. Or we would have heard shouts of capture.’
‘Do you think they’re dead, Francis? One bullet each?’ said Fitzgerald.
‘I don’t think so. It would be fantastic shooting to hit two people in this light. Look, why don’t we do it like this. You carry on following our four friends up there. I’ll go back to the house and get the horses. If I find the forger, well and good.’
‘Fine,’ said Fitzgerald.
Powerscourt watched his friend jump over the boundary wall and set off across the open country. He turned and began to make his way back through the woods. When he came out he noticed that he must have gone way over to the right as he was at the edge of the lake. Then he started running at full speed towards the front door. For in the snow there were footprints, two sets of them incredibly close together. The footprints made an irregular path, reeling like a pair of drunks going home, across the garden towards the main entrance. There were dark marks beside and between them. Powerscourt followed the trail that led past the Long Gallery and into the front of the house.
A trail of blood.
22
Orlando Blane was lying on the sofa in the Long Gallery. Imogen knelt beside him, washing the blood from his leg, a new bandage ready to wrap round his thigh. On the easel behind him, the outlines of his Giovanni Bellini stood perfectly still. There was a pale light, reflected from the snow outside.
‘Imogen, I’m so sorry,’ said Orlando. ‘If I hadn’t got shot we might have made it to Cromer.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ Imogen stopped work on his leg to wipe the sweat from Orlando’s brow. The tottering journey down from the woods had left him exhausted. His face was pale, his skin totally white.
‘The worst thing is this,’ he said, ‘you were only allowed to come because they were pleased with me. Now they won’t be pleased with me at all. They’ll send you away first thing in the morning.’ Tears began rolling slowly down the pallor of his face.
‘Don’t cry, my love, please don’t cry.’ Imogen stroked his hand, wondering what would happen to him if he didn’t see a doctor very soon.
‘I wonder what they’ll do to me,’ said Orlando very quietly, taking Imogen’s hand into his own, ‘what the punishment will be for trying to escape. Maybe I’ll be locked up here for years and years. Maybe I’ll never see you again.’
This was more than Imogen could bear. She busied herself with the new bandage on Orlando’s thigh, her tears dropping softly on the floorboards. Overhead they could hear the rats on night patrol, scurrying round on the floor above.
Then they heard footsteps coming along the corridor.
‘Maybe we have to say goodbye now,’ said Orlando. He leant forward, grimacing with the pain, and kissed Imogen on the lips. The footsteps were half-way along the corridor.
‘I shall always love you, Imogen,’ said Orlando.
The door was flung open. A tall man with curly brown hair and deep blue eyes stood in front of them. They had never seen him before.
‘Good morning to you both. You,’ the figure strode over to inspect Orlando’s wound, ‘must be Orlando Blane. And you,’ he smiled at Imogen, ‘must be his friend. We must get out of here at once. I have a couple of horses up by the stable block. My name is Powerscourt.’
Johnny Fitzgerald watched the four men disappear over the brow of the hill. He had served for years with Powerscourt as intelligence officers of the Crown. They had saved each other’s lives in battle. One of the main jobs of intelligence, Powerscourt had often said, was to try to anticipate not only what the enemy were going to do next, but what they were going to do after that. Johnny could go back to de Courcy Hall and help Powerscourt with whatever was happening there. Or he could move ahead and find out what the Sergeant Major and his three friends would do once they reached Cromer. At least one, Johnny suspected, would be sent to watch the railway station. But the others? The wind was still howling through the trees behind him as Johnny made his decision. He set off at a loping run across the snow-covered fields. It was twenty minutes after midnight.
Powerscourt took in the easel, the canvases stacked up by the door, the art books lining the walls. Now is not the time to ask questions, he said to himself. Later, later.
‘Can you walk?’ he said to Orlando Blane. ‘Perhaps if you lean on me it would be easier.’
Orlando struggled to his feet and put his arm around Powerscourt’s shoulder. ‘I can manage,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how long I can hold out. Imogen, do you remember seeing a stick by that little table in the hall?’
Imogen shot off down the corridor, past the stags’ heads with the dusty antlers, and returned with a stout walking stick. The journey was very difficult. Twice Orlando fell, dragging Powerscourt down with him into the snow. The blood had started flowing from his wound again, Imogen dabbing at it with the remains of the sheets from the bed. On their left the storm still rampaged through the woods, leaves and small branches occasionally flying through the air. When they reached the walled garden Powerscourt leant Orlando Blane against the gate and ran to find the horses. Could Orlando manage on a horse? Should they just throw him across it like a wounded man being brought back from battle?
Imogen had the answer. ‘I have some experience with horses,’ she said to Powerscourt. ‘Put him across the saddle and I will ride behind him. I’ve done it before.’
Powerscourt was on the verge of asking where she had learnt this technique, now proving invaluable in a snowstorm in the middle of a Norfolk night, when she told him.
‘My sister fell off once miles from anywhere and injured her back. I had to bring her home.’
‘I wish it would start to snow again,’ said Powerscourt, staring up at what he could see of the sky. ‘Then it would cover our tracks. If it doesn’t we’re going to leave a route map behind us for any of our friends to follow.’
Very slowly the tiny cavalcade set off from de Courcy Hall. Imogen had the reins in one hand, the other trying to anchor Orlando in his position. She wondered if they should have tied him on. Powerscourt brought up the rear, casting nervous glances behind. Fifteen minutes later they reached the main lodge, twin cottages on either side of the road. Both were empty, broken panes of glass and swinging doors bearing witness to the desolation of the estate.
‘Left here,’ whispered Powerscourt. ‘We turn right in a hundred yards or so, then right again. That’s the main road to Cromer. God knows what we’ll find when we get there.’
Five minutes later a man materialized out of a line of trees. He held out his hand, requesting them to stop. Imogen looked round desperately at Powerscourt. Was this the end of their escape? Had they come this far only to be recaptured so near their destination? Powerscourt dismounted and shook the stranger by the hand. Bizarre introductions were made as the snow began to fall again.