Where was Exeter? Could he have vaulted that wall and gone on ahead? Not without raising a hue and cry, surely? Had he been rounded up by a guard? If Stringer had reported that the malingerer was preparing to break out, then anything was possible.
Then one of the taller ones...
"Exe—er, Edward!"
Exeter parted from the mob and grabbed Smedley's shoulder.
"Where to?"
"This way."
They moved along the side of the wall, and Smedley plunged into bushes. He heard crackling behind him. A voice shouted, “I say!” in the background. He kept on going. Twigs scratched and clawed at his face, tugged his clothing. There were no more shouts.
The shrubbery offered no foothold, only obstruction. Then it ended. Ahead was a lawn, and there were men on it, although none near the wall. They would all be looking toward the house, wouldn't they? Not staring out into the night?
"This'll have to do!” He panted. “There's glass on top here. Can you manage?” He thrust Rattray's uniform at his companion.
Exeter eyed the height. “I think so. Thanks, old son! You've been a real brick. Never forget this.” He chose a spot clear of branches and swung the garments up to cover the glass.
"Wait! I'm coming too."
Exeter turned to stare at him. “Why?"
"I just am. Don't waste time arguing. I'll need a hand."
Funny ha-ha.
"Don't be an idiot! There's nothing to connect you with this. Don't stuff your neck in a noose!"
"I want to come!"
Exeter put his fists on his hips. “What are you planning?"
"Nextdoor. You're going back, aren't you? Take me!"
"No, I'm not going back! I don't know that I could, even if I wanted to. I don't know how to get in touch with Head Office. I'm not sure that you can cross over with only one hand. No. You stay here."
They were wasting precious seconds! This was madness.
"Exeter!” Smedley heard his voice crack. He felt his face starting to twitch. “Please!"
"Look here, there's no need to implicate yourself! I'll get in touch with you later. Your people still in Chichester? That's where you're going?"
"The coppers!” Smedley said, choking. “They'll watch me!” He was sobbing already. Must he beg, too? Must he explain that if they locked him up he would go out of his mind? “Please, Exeter! They'll question me. I'll give the others away! Ginger Jones! For God's sake—"
"Oh, right-oh!” Exeter stooped and cupped his hands.
Smedley placed a foot and jumped. He got his arms over the wall and heard glass crack, felt pain. He swung a leg up, banged his stump, scrabbled, and tipped over. Fire tore at his leg as it dragged over the coping. He fell bodily onto the grass verge. Impact knocked all the breath out of him. God almighty!
He hurt. He felt sick.
Exeter came down with a curse and hauled Smedley to his feet. Then he tried to pull the uniform loose from the wall. There was a loud ripping noise.
"That's torn it! Leave it. Come on!"
They began to run along the lane, through blackness under tree branches. Smedley could feel hot blood on his ankle. He lurched and stumbled; Exeter steadied him as they ran. The road was muddy and uneven.
"We're going to look like a pair of real ninnies if the car isn't there,” Exeter said.
Smedley tried to explain about the concealed driveway, but he lacked breath. He should have remembered the glass on the wall sooner and brought his own blues as well as Rattray's. Or another greatcoat. Exeter in pajamas would have a deuce of a lot of explaining to do if they ran into anyone.
Twin orange moons dawned ahead of them, reflecting on puddles, shedding uncertain light on the hedges.
"Someone's coming!” Exeter said. “Into the ditch!"
"No! Be ... Ginger...” He'd have seen the lights going on in Staffles.
"Too big for the chariot!"
Smedley made a gasping sound of disagreement. The car went spraying by them and stopped. A door flew open, and Alice's voice yelled, “Edward!"
He should have had the wit to go in the front, beside Ginger. The back was roomy enough, but the other two fell into the car and each other's arms and on top of him, all at the same time. Even before the door slammed, he was in a scrum.
By the time he had escaped to the fringes, the big car had swept past Staffles and was hurtling recklessly along the dark lane. He sank back with a shivery feeling of release. Done it! They had done it! Exeter was bubbling his thanks to Alice and Ginger. The old man was managing the driving very well. All they needed now was a burst tire.
Miss Prescott took Smedley's face in both hands and kissed him as if she really meant it.
"Well done!” she said, sounding quite emotional.
"My pleasure, ma'am. I should warn you..."
"What?"
"Nothing."
He was bleeding like a pig all over her fancy automobile. But there was no light, so it would have to wait. It would stop soon.
"Yes, well done,” Exeter said from the far side. “Anyone mind if I wrap up in this rug?” His teeth rattled.
Alice squeaked in a motherly fashion and helped him. Smedley thought about offering his greatcoat, but that seemed like a lot of effort.
Ginger roared, “Crossroads! Which way?"
"Left,” Smedley said, and they rushed through the village.
"Lights?” Exeter asked, peering back. “What's wrong with the street-lights?"
"Blackout,” Alice said. “The lamps're painted so they just throw light downward ... German planes."
There was a moment's silence, then he said incredulously, “They drop bombs?"
"On London, yes. They used to use zepps—zeppelins. Airships. We started shooting those down, so now they use aeroplanes. Big jobbies, with four or five engines."
"But bombs? On civilians? Women and children?"
"Indeed they do. Now you tell me exactly where you've been these last three years, baby Cousin, because I'm—"
"No! First you tell me all about this war!"
"You don't—You really have been away? You don't know?"
"I don't know a thing except what I've overheard when I wasn't supposed to be listening. I saw a bit of a battlefield. I thought I'd died and gone to hell. It's still going on, after three years? I'd never imagined it would be like that!"
"Nobody did! It turned out much worse than anyone ever thought it would be."
Smedley was trying to remember the way in case Ginger needed guidance. He stopped listening as Alice talked about the war—planes and U-boats and trenches, the Tsar deposed and the Yanks coming someday. He fingered his leg and discovered his pants leg and sock were soaked. He had gashed his calf in two places. It was sticky, but he thought the bleeding had more or less stopped. It throbbed nastily. It was his right one, unfortunately, hard for him to reach.
A lorry rumbled by in the opposite direction, and he realized that they were on a main road now. If it didn't go to Canterbury, it would go somewhere. Every mile made their escape more likely, as long as they didn't end up at Dover. He was shivering with reaction.
"Speak up!” Ginger shouted over his shoulder.
"Sorry,” Exeter said. He had started to tell his story. “I've been in another world. Can you believe that?"
"We'll try,” Alice said. “How did you get out of the hospital in Greyfriars?"
"I had supernatural aid. Call him Mr. Goodfellow. I don't know his real name. Perhaps he doesn't, any more."
"He made you invisible? No one saw you."
"I didn't see them. I just walked out, on crutches. Then we were met by a man named Creighton. Colonel Julius Creighton. Said he dropped in at Nyagatha once. Remember him?"
"Can't say I do."
"Average height ... Doesn't matter. He was Service. And so was the guv'nor."