Rhys Bowen - The Twelve Clues of Christmas

She took my sleeve and started to lead me across the lawn and through the trees. I looked around for Darcy or someone else I recognized. “Tell them that the Prendergast woman is heading for the moor,” I shouted to the last stragglers who were milling around on the driveway. “Find Inspector Newcombe.”

“Come on. We’ll lose her,” Sal hissed impatiently, staring ahead as if she could see somebody I couldn’t in the darkness. She grabbed my arm. Our footsteps crunched through frosty dry bracken as we came out onto the wild upland. What a lot of noise we make, I thought and instinctively glanced down at our feet.

“You’re wearing shoes,” I said. And even as I said the words out loud I realized the truth. She wasn’t Sal at all. She was dressed in flowing robes like Sal. Her hair hung around her face and over her shoulders like Sal. But the face beneath was quite different. Before I could say anything I felt something hard shoved into my side.

“You have to stop being so trusting,” the woman said in her own voice, far coarser and more common than Wild Sal’s. “You’re all so bloody stupid around here. Now get moving.”

The thing in my side didn’t feel sharp. Not a knife, then. A gun.

“What do you want with me?” I tried to make my voice sound calm and in control. “You could have gotten away by now and nobody would have noticed.”

She gave a little cackle in her throat. “You’re my ticket to freedom, duckie. We always planned to take a hostage and you were too good to turn down. Keep moving.”

And she prodded me forward. We stumbled upward in complete darkness, falling over rocks until we came to some kind of path, then we moved along more rapidly. Suddenly the woman froze.

“Hold on,” she said, listening, and sure enough we heard feet crunching up through the bracken toward us. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound,” she whispered. “I’ve killed enough people recently that one more won’t be no trouble at all.”

I heard her cock the gun. It’s Darcy, I thought. He’s come to save me and he’s going to be shot. I made up my mind. I was going to shout out a warning and run as soon as he got close enough. Then a voice whispered, “Trix, is that you?”

“Over here,” she called back and Mr. Robbins himself came toward us. “Lost them easy enough,” he said. He had now shed his Willum disguise and was dressed head to toe in black, including a black balaclava so that he blended into the darkness of the night with only his face hovering, disembodied, which somehow made the whole thing more alarming. I was shivering now, and not just with cold. He came closer and noticed me.

“Who’s this?”

“We got ourselves a good hostage, Rob. She’s the one I told you about—relative of the king.”

He came up to me, took my chin in his hand and grinned at me.

“Well done, Trix. She should be good for a safe passage to South America.” He gave my head a nasty tweak as he released me. “Come on, then, let’s get moving. The motor’s this way, down behind that pub.”

I looked around me and saw no lights. The valley now lay hidden in mist. It was creeping upward toward us, moving like a live thing.

“Mist is coming in,” he said. “All the better for us. They’ll never find us now. Safe to use this, I think.”

He turned on a small torch, shining it on the ground around us. We started to move to our right. Far below us we heard a deep baying.

“They’ve got dogs, Rob,” Trixie said nervously.

“Don’t matter. They’ll never catch up with us in this.”

We plunged forward into mist. I felt its icy dampness on my face and all sound seemed to be deadened, apart from the heavy tread of Robbins’s boots. I was trying to stop the rising panic I felt. If I ran off into the mist, would they shoot me before I could get away? If we were ambushed when we reached their motorcar, they’d shoot me without a moment’s hesitation.

“Where’s that bloody lake?” he muttered. “We don’t want to go anywhere near that. I almost copped it when I had to drop that toffy-nosed hunting bloke into the bog.”

“We should be well to the right of it if we stay on this path,” she said. “It will drop down behind the pub soon.”

Far below us a dog howled again, an eerie sound that seemed to echo all around us. I remembered that the hound of the Baskervilles hunted on this very moor. Right now I’d have welcomed the sight of him.

We plunged on in silence. Then Robbins said, “We should be right above that pub by now. The path should be starting to go down.”

But it didn’t.

Then Trixie spoke. “I don’t think this is a proper path. It’s just an animal track.”

“Then where is the damned path?” he snapped back.

“How should I know?”

“You’re the one who has had five years to scout out the place. Hurry up, I’m freezing.”

“You’re freezing? I’m freezing in this stupid getup.”

Then through the darkness I thought I heard a flapping sound. The others heard it too.

“One of them bloody swans,” Trixie said. “If the lake’s over there then we must have swung too far to our left. No wonder we didn’t find the right path. Come on. This way.”

She took the torch from him and struck out to her right. Robbins gave me a rough shove and forced me ahead of him.

We forged ahead in silence, stumbling now that we no longer had the least semblance of a path to follow. Mist swirled, cleared, then closed in again. It was a world of unreality and I lost all track of time. It felt as if I had been stumbling forward for eternity.

Suddenly the mist parted again and he cried out, “You stupid cow. You’re leading us astray. Look, that must be the tor over there. We’re going down the wrong side.” And with that he strode out ahead of us. Trixie jammed the gun into my side again. “Get going. Keep up with him.”

We half ran, half stumbled as he vanished into the mist. Suddenly we heard him swear.

“Watch your step,” he called back. “I’m into a bloody bog.” We heard him swear again under his breath. Then he shouted, with panic in his voice, “Trix, I can’t move my feet. Give me a hand.”

“Where are you?” she called. “I can’t see you.”

“Over here.” The voice echoed and bounced from unseen peaks.

She swung the torch around, but the light couldn’t penetrate the mist.

“For God’s sake, woman, get a move on. I’m bloody well sinking.” His voice sounded desperate now.

“I can’t see you.” Her voice was full of fear. “Keep talking.”

“I’m sinking, damn it. Come and get me out of this infernal thing.”

She started running, first left, then right, like a frightened animal. “Robbie, where are you?”

“Here. I’m here.”

She must have remembered me because she turned to grab my arm and drag me with her. Suddenly we stumbled upon a frightening scene. Only a few yards away from us Robbie Robbins was now up to his waist in the bog. He was thrashing and struggling but he had nothing around him but liquid mud. Trixie screamed, dropped the torch and ran forward. “Oh, my God. Oh, no. Robbie.” She plunged toward him and grabbed his hands, trying with all her strength to pull him clear. The torch fell propped against a clump of grass, throwing an eerie light on the scene.

“It’s no use,” he said. “You’re not strong enough to pull me out. I’m done for. Save yourself now, Trix. Go on, run for it. Take her with you.”

“I’m not leaving you, you bloody fool. Try harder. Move. Kick.”

“I can’t move a bleeding thing,” he said. “My legs are held fast. Run for it, Trix. If they catch you, you’ll swing.”

I could see she was hesitating. The spectacle was horrendous to watch—the bog silently sucking him down. She let go of his hand and then she shrieked. “It’s got me, too. I can’t move my feet.”