‘Johnny Fitzgerald, this is Imogen. And this is Orlando Blane, shot in the leg. Johnny Fitzgerald. What’s the score up there, Johnny?’
‘It’s not good, Francis.’ Fitzgerald was panting heavily. ‘There’s two of them watching this road about half a mile further up. Another two have gone off to the railway station.’
‘Let’s try putting ourselves in their shoes for a minute, Johnny.’ Powerscourt was stroking his horse’s head very gently, as if the animal knew the answers. ‘Those four ruffians know these two have escaped. They don’t know Orlando is wounded. They don’t know either of us from Adam. At some point they’re going to return to the Hall to see if Orlando and Imogen have gone back there. The ruffians probably think they’re hiding until the first train in the morning. They won’t go back until they’ve seen who boards it. In a perfect world we’d just wait until the middle of the morning and go into Cromer then. But we can’t. This young man needs a doctor.’
‘Maybe we need a diversion, Francis.’ Johnny Fitzgerald looked as though he was enjoying himself. ‘Wait here for about ten minutes or so. I’m going to draw those two fellows away from the road. When you hear a scream, press on with full speed.’ Johnny disappeared into the woods to their right. Imogen was stroking Orlando’s head and whispering into his ear. Powerscourt watched the softly falling snow, erasing the tracks behind them.
Then there was a scream. One very loud scream. Powerscourt led the way, urging Imogen to make all speed. They heard sounds of people crashing through the bushes on their right. Then there was another scream. Powerscourt thought he could hear the two guards shouting to each other in confusion. But they were through. They had passed the point where the sentries had been on guard. Powerscourt led them on a little track which led along the sea front to the hotel. They were almost invisible from the clifftop above. Twenty minutes later Orlando was stretched out on Johnny Fitzgerald’s bed. The night porter had been sent to bring the doctor.
Johnny Fitzgerald had secured a bottle of brandy and was inspecting its label with extreme scepticism. ‘Don’t think they’d serve this stuff in the better London clubs,’ he said to Powerscourt, ‘but you can’t be particular after a night like that.’
‘Johnny,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I’ve just had a daft idea.’
‘For God’s sake, Francis,’ Johnny Fitzgerald was pouring himself a giant refill already, ‘it’s half-past two in the morning. We’ve just spent an idyllic few hours wandering about in a snowstorm with Romeo next door nearly killed by one of those characters. And you start talking about daft ideas.’ He took a giant’s mouthful. ‘What is it?’
Powerscourt smiled at his friend. ‘It’s those pictures, Johnny. I think they might be really useful in the court case. Do you think you could get them out of the house?’
Fitzgerald looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Could one man carry them? From that big room upstairs with all those windows?’
‘I think it would need two people, Johnny. I’d come with you but I want to see Romeo and Juliet safe in Rokesley It might be too late by the time I got back.’
Johnny Fitzgerald laughed suddenly. ‘Once a Sergeant Major, always a Sergeant Major, that’s what I say, Francis. Where do you want the bloody things delivered to?’
‘The paintings,’ said Powerscourt, guessing suddenly how Johnny was going to manage it, ‘should be reunited with their maker, Orlando Blane. I’ve always felt the need of some really first rate pictures in my country house at Rokesley.’
‘Dear Lucy . . .’ Powerscourt was writing again to his wife from the sitting room of his house in Northamptonshire. Rokesley Hall was host not just to its owner but to a pair of refugees, Orlando Blane, lying on a sofa by the window of the drawing room, and Imogen Foxe, currently reading aloud to Orlando from a book of romantic poetry.
I hope you and the children are well and that you received my earlier letters. This one is more prosaic, I fear, than the last two. The doctors say I will be able to question Orlando the forger this afternoon. Even then I must not tire his strength. He is going to make a full recovery, but his condition was made much worse by all those hours in the snow. I hope to be home by tomorrow morning at the latest.
Lucy, I would like to ask you an enormous favour, which comes ill from one who has complained for so long about your relations! Alice Bridge. Mrs Rosalind Buckley. Could you put the tribe on full and instant alert to discover as much as they possibly can about these two young women, their families, their education, their romantic entanglements. And as quickly as possible.
Tell Thomas and Olivia that I have been riding round on a great many trains,
All love,
Semper Fidelis,
Francis.
Thirty-six hours after the lovers’ flight Johnny Fitzgerald was making another visit to de Courcy Hall. He was travelling in some style, in a large enclosed carriage with an officious-looking man at the reins. Great carpets of snow covered the long drive from the main road. The roof of the little dovecot inside the walled garden had turned from red to white. The sun was shining brightly although it was bitterly cold. Johnny knew that his plan depended on two things. First, the Sergeant Major must not have reported the flight to his masters in London. Earlier that morning Johnny had checked the railway station. One of the ruffians was still watching. Another one had gone to Norwich by an earlier train. He had passed a third patrolling the road into Cromer, looking rather dejected. The Sergeant Major should be on his own in the house. The second factor depended on the ingrained habit of obedience to superior officers drilled for years into the brains of every single Sergeant Major in Her Majesty’s Army. Johnny took a quick swig from his hip flask as the coach drew up outside de Courcy Hall. He strode through the main door, shouting loudly.
‘Sergeant Major! Sergeant Major!’
A bleary-eyed man approached him in the Great Hall. Fitzgerald put on his loudest voice.
‘Sergeant Major!’
‘Sir!’ said the man, springing to attention.
So far so good, thought Johnny. ‘Major Fitzgerald, Connaught Rangers. Stand at ease, Sergeant Major.’
‘Sergeant Major Fitzgibbon, Royal Artillery, sir!’
Fitzgerald shook the Sergeant Major by the hand. ‘I was in India most of the time,’ he said, ushering Fitzgibbon to a chair. ‘And yourself?’
‘South Africa, sir. Zulu wars. Majuba, that sort of thing.’
‘Very good, Sergeant Major. Now there seems to have been something of a cock-up with the orders here. Wouldn’t be the first time, as we both know only too well. The girl was sent here to encourage him to escape. We knew the date, we knew the time, we knew the place. We’ve got them safe. They’ve been moved. Some people in London were getting suspicious. They should be in another remote location by now, somewhere in West Yorkshire, I believe. God knows why our lords and masters wanted it done like that, but they did. You can recall your men, Sergeant Major. We’ve taken over. Thing is, my orders are to collect the paintings and bring them too. Do you think you could give me a hand with them? I’ve got a carriage outside.’
‘Sir!’ said the Sergeant Major. Majors, even in civilian clothes, demand obedience. Ours not to reason why.
Speed, Johnny Fitzgerald knew, speed was vital. If the man stopped to think for one minute all could be lost. The coach driver came in to give further assistance. In twenty-five minutes all of Orlando’s work was safely in the back of the carriage. The delicate work of wrapping them carefully could wait until later.
‘Drive like the wind,’ Fitzgerald said to the coachman. ‘We need to get out of here.’
As they rattled back towards the main road, the carriage swinging wildly across the rutted road, Fitzgerald could see Sergeant Major Fitzgibbon scratching his head in the doorway. The whole business had happened so fast. As they passed the church on their right, invisible in the snow, a faint cry reached them, almost lost in the wind.