David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

Tonight Orlando and Imogen were going to escape. For days now they had never altered their routine, Imogen walking in the morning while Orlando worked at his easel, the two of them walking in the late afternoon, supper watched by their captors, then early to bed. That was particularly important in their minds. For four successive nights they had retired just as the guard came on his final patrol shortly after nine o’clock.

Their plan was to wait a couple of hours after that until the guards too had gone to sleep. Then they were going to swing themselves out of the window on a rope improvised from the stout sheets on the bed, and head for where they thought Cromer was. There must be trains, Imogen had said, early morning trains going south to Norwich. Once they reached Norwich they could head for London. Then they would be safe. So intent were they on the immediate details of their flight that they had given no thought at all to what they would do when they arrived in the capital.

Back in the Long Gallery Orlando changed into the fresh clothes Imogen had brought him from Blandford. Imogen noted with pride that they fitted him like a glove. They packed one bag between them. They peered anxiously into the wild night outside. Imogen began to make the rope of sheets that would lead them to freedom.

Johnny Fitzgerald had brought Powerscourt on a great loop of a ride that took them on to the long drive that led up to de Courcy Hall. ‘God help sailors on a night like this,’ Johnny muttered to himself as the wind rose and turned into a storm. It was whistling through the trees, their upper branches bent into fantastic arabesques by the speed of its passing. Ahead of them in the great woods at the back of the house they could hear cracks like pistol shots as branches were severed from the trunks that bore them.

‘Look, Francis,’ whispered Fitzgerald, ‘two hundred yards away you can see the stable block. I think we should leave the horses here in case they make a noise.’

They abandoned the horses and tiptoed forward, bent almost double into the wind. Snow was falling fast now, the stable block and house scarcely visible. Then they froze in their tracks. A bell was ringing, not from the church two hundred yards to their left, but from inside the ghostly features of de Courcy Hall itself. They pressed forward.

‘What, in God’s name, is that bell for, Francis? It’s well after eleven at night,’ muttered Johnny, taking shelter behind a tree.

‘I doubt very much if it’s for evening prayers in this place, Johnny. Let’s get further forward. Sounds like a general alert to me. Place isn’t on fire, is it?’ whispered Powerscourt.

Fitzgerald led them forward at a rush to the walled garden. They could just see the side of the house. Lights had been turned on. There was a lot of confused shouting of orders. Then they saw a party of four men, some with rifles, come running at the double from the front of the house and then turn left towards the woods that led to Cromer.

‘Where are the forger’s quarters, Johnny?’ whispered Powerscourt. ‘I think they must have tried to escape.’ He wondered suddenly what instructions the jailers had in case of flight. Recapture, certainly. But an escaped forger might be able to tell the tale of his endeavours with brush and glaze, locked away in de Courcy Hall. That could be very embarrassing for somebody in London. Would they rather he was dead? Like Christopher Montague? Powerscourt wondered macabrely if they had brought the garrotting wire with them, those men who had just rushed up the hill, tucked into an inside pocket. Or would they shoot the forger dead, another shooting accident in Norfolk? So unfortunate, officer, he should never have been wandering about in the field of fire.

Johnny Fitzgerald led him round to the back of the house. There were no lights on in the Long Gallery, only the snow driven in against the windows. Powerscourt thought you could see ten yards in front of your face, no more.

‘Look, Francis.’ Fitzgerald was pointing to the end window. It was still half open. An improvised rope could just be seen, dangling to the ground, the white of the sheets almost invisible in the swirling snow.

‘My God, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt. ‘The birds have flown. But what a night to choose. We’d better get after them.’

Powerscourt and Fitzgerald set off up the hill. Neither had any clear idea what to do if they encountered the guards. Powerscourt suddenly remembered what Lady Lucy had said to Fitzgerald before he left for Norfolk: ‘Please check in the local guidebooks before you go, Johnny,’ she had said. ‘Make sure there aren’t strange local customs up there at this time of year. Shooting strangers for instance. I’d hate to think there’s an East Anglian version of the Traitor’s Run.’

Now they were right in the middle of it.

The first stages of the escape had gone very well. Orlando shinned down the improvised rope and laughed when his feet touched the ground. Imogen had thrown down their bag and shot down the sheets to join him. She put her finger to her lips. Hand in hand they set off up the hill, their bodies swaying together sometimes in the wind.

The snow exhilarated them at first. Imogen darted off and threw a couple of crisp snowballs at Orlando. Then they realized they couldn’t see very far. Then they felt they might be lost. The route had seemed very clear when surveyed in the daylight on afternoon walks or from the windows of the Long Gallery. Up the hill, following the line of the path. If they kept going straight after that they should reach a boundary wall. As long as they continued in the same direction they should come to the sea, they should come to Cromer, they should reach freedom. But you couldn’t see where you were going in the blizzard. They might be going back to the house itself for all they knew.

Then they heard the bell. ‘My God,’ whispered Orlando, ‘that can only mean one thing. They’re coming after us. Let’s hurry.’

Imogen wondered if their pursuers would be able to navigate any better than they could. They had reached the top of the hill. The woods were less dense on the far side. She held Orlando’s hand very tight and pressed forward into the snowstorm.

Powerscourt noticed that the four men in front had spread out in a V formation, each man no more than fifteen paces from his neighbour. He pointed it out to Fitzgerald who raised his hand in a mock salute. ‘Sergeant Major,’ muttered Johnny, ‘advance according to the drill book.’ They were deep in the woods now, the snow covering the tracks behind them. The mud rose up their boots. The snow got into their eyes, making visibility yet more difficult.

‘What’s ahead, Johnny?’ whispered Powerscourt, fearful of the fate of the escapees.

‘More woods,’ replied Fitzgerald, ‘then a wall. Trees stop just past the wall. Open country for a bit. Then over a hill and Cromer’s on the far side.’

Then the whirling of the gale was interrupted. Two shots rang out into the night. They were immediately followed by a parade ground bellow. ‘Cease firing! Bloody fool!’

One bullet caught Orlando in the thigh. It was only a flesh wound but the blood poured out of it, lying in scarlet drops that turned dark against the snow. He limped into the shelter of the last clump of trees before the open ground.

‘My love,’ whispered Imogen, ‘how bad is it? Can you walk?’

Orlando had turned as pale as the falling snow. Instinctively he held on to his wounded leg.

‘I think we should tie something round it,’ said Imogen, remembering an article she had read recently on good nursing practice. She tore one of Orlando’s new shirts into strips, as she had torn the sheet into strips a few happier hours before. They huddled together into the trees scarce daring to breathe. Thirty feet away they could hear a man floundering towards them.