Patricia Wentworth - Lonesome Road

Rachel stood in the dark by the gate of Mrs. Capper’s cottage and tried to pull herself together. Cherry had gone away that morning in a bright green scarf-a flaring emerald scarf which even in the dusk might catch a child’s eye and be remembered. But anyone could have a green scarf. Caroline had one-jade green, very bright-too bright. Mabel had given it to her for her birthday only a week ago.

A trembling took Rachel-a sick trembling. Not Caroline. No, no, no-not Caroline! There are things you can’t believe.

She stood quite still. The air was very cold. The trembling passed. She got out her torch and switched it on. The beam was so faint that it hardly showed her the gate against which she leaned. She could scarcely believe her eyes, for the battery was a new one put in that morning. She hesitated as to whether she would take the cliff path after all, or whether it would be safer to go the long way round by the road. But the road was a very long way round, the cliff path safe enough for anyone who knew it. Her eyes had already accustomed themselves sufficiently to the darkness for her to be able to distinguish the outline of the cottage against the sky, and the lighter surface of the road.

She put out the torch, walked a little way, and found that she could see well enough. It was quite easy to make out the path, and that was all that really mattered. There was just one place where it ran for about twenty yards right on the edge of the cliff with a long drop to the beach. She thought she would save the torch and use it there. This was the one dangerous spot, for the low parapet which guarded it was under reconstruction, most of it having collapsed in the heavy storms of a month ago.

She had just switched the torch on, and was finding it more confusing than helpful, when she thought she heard a footstep behind her. She stood still to listen, the torch swinging in her hand, making a dancing pattern on the path. There was both relief and warmth at her heart. Twice out of the last three times that she had been to see Nanny, Gale Brandon had appeared from nowhere to walk home with her along the cliffs. She had left early tonight. She did not doubt for a moment that he had found her gone and was following her now. Without appearing to wait for him, she thought that she might dally a little and give him a chance to catch her up. The idea of company was pleasant. She had no wish to listen to her own thoughts.

She walked a few paces and stood at the edge of the path looking out over the sea. It was a high tide and far in, but only the very highest tide with a winter gale behind it ever reached the foot of the cliffs. Black ridges of rock ran down into black water. There were scarcely visible, darker shadows in a general gloom, but she knew that they were there. Over them and over the cliff the wind blew cold. It had voice enough to drown the sound of the oncoming footsteps. There had been a lull, and there would be a lull again. She waited for it and listened, looking out over the water.

And then there was the sound, right behind her. She made to turn, received a violent blow between the shoulders, dropped her torch, and stumbled forward over the edge of the cliff. That half turn saved her life. She fell sideways instead of headlong, her right arm flung out, the hand grasping at emptiness, but all her left side in contact with the shelving cliff. Her left leg rasped against rock, her left hand caught at a sod, a tussock. Her foot checked the descent for a moment, and in that moment she had both hands fast in the twigs and branches of some small shrubby bush. She hung there, not dazed but sharply, horribly aware of the rocks below. But she knew that she could not hang there long. The bush would give, or her frantic grasp.

And then her left foot found a hold again, a little jutting shelf of rock, narrow, oh, so narrow, but firm as the cliff itself. She got the toe of her other foot upon it, and the worst of the strain was off her hands. The bush and her hold of it were enough to steady her.

For a moment the relief was as sweet as if she had been saved, but on the heels of that came the realization of her position. She could just make out the edge of the cliff. It seemed to be about eight feet above her. She could maintain herself here for a time-but for how long? It was very cold. Her hands were bare-she never wore gloves if she could help it-and this had helped to save her. But if her numbed fingers could hold no longer, if she were to turn faint-the rocks were waiting. The only living soul within call was the one who had pushed her over the cliff. She did not dare cry out.

As she looked up, there was a sound from above-a kind of grunt and the scrape of stone on stone. Something blacker than the darkness came over the verge and rushed past her. She heard the crash of its fall far down below. The wind of it sang in her ears-and her own cry-and the wind that came in from the sea. Her body shook, and her heart. If she had not remembered the rocks she would have let go.

She looked up at the place from which the big stone had come and waited for another. There were plenty there, great lumps of rock from the ruined wall-loose too, and not hard to push over. The next would stun her, carry her away… None came. She thought, “I cried out. He thinks I fell.”

Then she was aware that someone was looking at her-looking down at her as she looked up. She could see nothing that could be called a shape, but there was a place where the darkness was solid. It was the same place from which the stone had come. Someone who hated her was there-someone who wanted her to die-someone who wanted to make sure that she was dead before he went on his way. She said “he,” but she did not know that it was a man. There was someone there who desired her death. That was all. It might have been a woman That scrutiny was worse than anything that had gone before. It seemed to last a long time. Then the blackness moved. She did not know which way it went, but it was gone. The worst horror left her. She shut her eyes and tried to pray.

She never knew quite how long it was before she saw the light. She must have been aware of it through her closed lids, because she stopped in the middle of a verse from a psalm and opened her eyes. And there, not a dozen feet away on her left, was the dancing ray of a torch. It was not on the same level as she was, but four or five feet above the path, swinging easily in a man’s hand. Through the sound of the wind Gale Brandon’s voice came to her, singing a snatch of a negro spiritual:

“Look down, look down that lonesome road

Before you travel on-”

She called with the strength of agony,

“Help, Mr. Brandon-help!”

He stopped, and she heard her name spoken roughly.

She called again, the strength going out of her.

He said, “Rachel!” with a sort of angry shout, and the beam came down and struck her upturned face and open eyes.

He said, “My God!” and then, “Can you hold on?”

“I don’t know. Not very long.”

“You can. I won’t be long.”

And that was all. The light swung back to the path, and she heard his running feet.

She tried to think how far it was to Nanny’s cottage. Not very far, but there was no one there who could help. Ellen wouldn’t be back till seven.

The wind was chilling her, and she was getting stiff. There was only just room for the fore part of her feet on the narrow ledge. From the arch of the instep outwards they had no support. She could not move at all. Her left palm was cut from its desperate clutchings at the rock when she fell. Her head began to fell dizzy. She shut her eyes.

And then a lull, and the sound of running feet again, only this time they were coming nearer, and she heard Gale Brandon shout, “Hold on! I’m coming! It’s all right!”