P James: Unnatural Causes

He came up to her and without a word, lifted her in his arms. She was surprisingly light. True, he could feel the downward drag of the heavy leg irons but the upper part of her body was so buoyant that it might have been boneless, sexless even. He was almost surprised to feel the rib cage under his hands and the firmness of her high breasts. She lay passively in his arms as he carried her sideways up the narrow stairs and into her mother’s room. It was only then that he remembered her crutches. He felt a sudden embarrassment, a reluctance to speak of them.

As if reading his thoughts she said: “I’m sorry. I should have remembered. They’re hitched onto the end of the mantelshelf.”

That meant another trip downstairs but it was hardly avoidable. It would have been difficult to manage both the girl and her crutches in one journey up those narrow stairs. He was about to carry her over to the bed when she looked at Latham’s writhing body and said with sudden vehemence. “No! Not there! Leave me here.” He slid her gently from his arms and she leaned back against the wall. For a moment their eyes were level and they gazed at each other, wordlessly. It seemed to Dalgliesh that in that moment some kind of communication passed but whether those black eyes held a warning or an appeal he was never afterwards able to decide.

He had no difficulty in retrieving the crutches. The water in the sitting room had now covered the mantelshelf and as Dalgliesh reached the bottom of the stairs they floated through the sitting-room door. He grasped them by the rubber grips of the hand pieces and drew them over the banisters. As he retreated again up the stairs a great wave broke through the shattered front door and hurled them to his feet. The pedestal of the banisters broke free, spun as if in a whirlpool and was dashed into splinters against the wall. And this time there could be no doubt about it: he felt the cottage shake.

The skylight was about ten feet above the floor, impossible to reach without something to stand on. It was useless to try shifting the heavy bed, but there was a square, substantial-looking commode by the side of it and he dragged this across and positioned it under the skylight.

The girl said: “If you can push me through first I’ll be able to help with… him.”

She looked across at Latham who had now dragged himself upright and was sitting, head in hands, on the edge of the bed. He was groaning audibly.

She added: “I’ve got strong hands and shoulders.” And she held out the ugly hands towards him like a suppliant. This in fact had been Dalgliesh’s plan. Getting Latham onto the roof was the trickiest part of the business. Without her help he doubted whether it would be possible.

The skylight, encrusted with dirt and festooned with grey cobwebs, looked as if it might be hard to shift. But when Dalgliesh punched at the frame he heard the splinter of rotting wood. The skylight was jerked upwards and was immediately whirled away into the storm. Night came bursting into the close little room sweeping it with welcome gusts of cold, sweet air. At that moment the lights failed and they saw as from the bottom of a pit the small grey square of turbulent sky and the reeling moon.

Latham came lurching across the room towards them. “What the hell…? Someone’s put out the bloody light.” Dalgliesh guided him back to the bed.

“Stay here and save your strength. You’re going to need it. We’ve got to get out on the roof.”

“You can. I’m staying here. Get me a doctor. I want a doctor. Oh God, my head!”

Dalgliesh left him rocking in lachrymose self-pity on the edge of the bed and went back to the girl.

Jumping from the chair he grasped the outer frame of the skylight and drew himself up. As he had recalled, the crown of the slated roof was only a few feet away. But the slope was steeper than he had expected and the chimney stack, which would afford them some shelter and support, was at least five feet to the left. He dropped again to the floor and said to the girl: “See if you can get astride the roof and work your way back to the chimney. If you’re in trouble, stay absolutely still and wait for me. I’ll manage Latham once we’re both out but I shall need you to help pull him up. But I won’t shove him through until you’re properly balanced. Give me a shout when you’re ready. Do you want your crutches?”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “I want my crutches. I can hook them onto the rooftop and they may be useful.”

He hoisted her through the skylight by the irons which braced both her legs from thigh to ankles. Their rigid strength made it easy for him to push her high on the crown of the roof. She grasped it and swung one leg to the other side then crouched down low against the fury of the storm, her hair streaming in the wind. He saw her nod vigorously as a sign that she was ready. Then she leaned towards him and held out both her hands.

It was at that moment that he sensed a warning, the unmistakable instinct for danger. It was as much part of his detective’s equipment as his knowledge of firearms, his nose for an unnatural death. It had saved him time and time again and he acted on it instinctively. There was no time now for argument or analysis. If the three of them were to survive they had to get out on that roof. But he knew that Latham and the girl mustn’t be up there alone together.

It wasn’t easy getting Latham through the skylight. He was only just conscious and even the swirls of water spreading now over the bedroom floor couldn’t rouse him to a sense of danger. He craved only to be allowed to sink onto the pillows of the bed and fight his nausea in comfort. But at least he could cooperate to some extent. He wasn’t yet a dead weight. Dalgliesh took off his own and Latham’s shoes then urged him onto the chair and hoisted him through the skylight. Even when the girl’s hands had caught Latham under his armpits he didn’t let go but immediately swung himself through the hole bracing himself against the wind, his back to the flooded lane and his legs dangling into the room. Together they pulled and pushed the half-conscious man until his hands grasped the rooftop and he pulled himself up and lay astride it, motionless. The girl released her hands and taking up her elbow crutches, edged herself backward until she was leaning against the chimney stack. Dalgliesh swung himself up to join Latham.

It was then that it happened. In the second when Dalgliesh weakened his hold on Latham she struck. It was so instantaneous that he hardly saw the vicious kick of the armoured legs. But the irons caught Latham’s hands and, immediately, they loosed their hold of the roof and his body slipped. Dalgliesh shot out his hands and caught Latham’s wrists. There was a sudden, intolerable jerk and he took the full weight of Latham’s body as it hung spread-eagled over the roof. Then she struck again and again. And now it was Dalgliesh’s hands. They were too numb to feel the pain but he experienced the sudden scalding gush of blood and knew that it couldn’t be long before the wrists were fractured and Latham slid out of his powerless hands. And then it would be his turn. She was braced securely against the chimney stack and armed with her crutches and those deadly irons. No one on the bank could see them. They were on the wrong side of the roof and the night was dark. To those anxious watchers if indeed they were there they could be nothing more than crouched silhouettes against the sky. And when his and Latham’s bodies were found there would be no injuries which couldn’t be explained by the fury of the rocks and sea. There was only one chance for him and that was to let Latham go. Alone he could probably wrest the crutches from her. Alone he would have more than an even chance. But she knew of course that he wouldn’t let Latham go. She had always known just how her adversary would act. He hung on doggedly; and still the blows fell.