The Shadows Loom Nearer
For a few minutes after she had been left alone Molly lay motionless,
too full of horror even to think. She felt herself near death, and
with all the intensity of her being she longed to live. Never had life
seemed so sweet. She wanted to get out of this awful room, to see the
sun, the fields, the trees, to feel the fresh air blowing on her
cheeks, to hear the birds and the sounds of life around her. More than
that she wanted to see her friends and to be once again amid her
familiar surroundings in London. Even to be back in her box office,
weary of it though she often had been, would now be heaven! But death
was before her and at the very idea she grew once more sick and faint.
However in the course of time her youth and health once again
reasserted themselves. Things perhaps were not so bad after all. For
the time being at all events, she had a respite. It was evident that
Style and Gwen were profoundly anxious to find out how much French
knew. She believed they were going to keep her alive in the hope that
they could make her tell. If so, she had only to refuse to speak and
her life would be prolonged.
But this mood of optimism soon passed and terrible forebodings once
more filled her mind. Was she safe even for the time being? Even if
she told them everything, would she be safe? When they got all they
wanted out of her, would her fate not still be that of Thurza Darke?
For she did not believe their promise to free her if she did their
bidding. They had not liberated Thurza Darke or her two unfortunate
predecessors. These girls had almost certainly been forced to reveal
what they knew, but it hadn’t saved them.
The more she thought over her position the lower sank her heart. There
was just one ray of hope. She would be missed immediately. When she
didn’t turn up at the cinema they would phone to her boarding house.
And her landlady would certainly ring up the Yard. Mr. French would
know within an hour or at most two. Then he would begin without delay
to trace her. In fact he was probably doing it at that moment. She had
only to hold out so as to give him time. That was it. To hold out. She
steeled her mind to the idea. No matter what happened, at no matter
what cost to herself, she must hold out.
But would he trace her in time? She shivered as the thought forced
itself into her mind. Then resolutely she pulled herself together. She
must not allow herself to dwell on such a possibility.
To occupy her thoughts she got up from the bed and began to
investigate her surroundings. The room was certainly very dilapidated.
From the ceiling and walls hung festoons of cobweb, and dust and
scraps of old rubbish lay thick on the floor. The chair and table were
of the plainest kind and the table rocked on three legs. There was no
water in the jug and both it and the basin were thickly covered with
dust. The truckle bed bore blankets but no sheets, and one of its legs
was broken and tied together with string. In the otherwise empty grate
was an accumulation of dirty rubbish. The skylight was out of reach,
and there being no other window, she was unable to look out.
The pile of old books in the corner seemed to offer more promise of
distraction and on these she tried desperately to fix her attention.
All were dusty, but she turned them over in the hope of finding
something which she might force herself to read. They formed an
extraordinary collection, all very old and all well thumbed. There
were two Bibles, a large one with pictures and a small thin one on
India paper. There were _The Lamplighter_, _Queechy_, _The Fairchild
Family_, _The Scarlet Letter_, and a number of others of whose names
she had never heard. Most of them were without inscription, but in one
was written in a thin angular hand, “Christina Wyatt. February 1864.”
Molly dully wondered who Christina could have been and how her
_Pilgrim’s Progress_ had survived during the sixty odd years since she
had obtained it.
Among the collection was one book which might throw light on these
problems and Molly, desperately anxious to fill her mind with
something other than her own condition, picked it up and forced
herself to read. It was an old manuscript book, bearing on the flyleaf
the same name and containing notes in the same thin handwriting as
well as pasted-in cuttings of various kinds. The book was of fair
size, probably nine inches by six and an inch thick. Only about
quarter of it had been filled, the remaining pages being blank. The
notes took the form of a diary interspersed with moralizings after the
fashion of the period.
But Molly found it utterly impossible to fix her attention on it. Her
own position was too precarious to allow her to think of anything
else. Throwing the manuscript book back into the corner, she sat down
on the bed, buried her head in her hands and gave herself up to a
detailed consideration of the situation.
She was trapped. Could she do anything to help herself? That was the
burden of her thoughts. The problem had been in her mind
subconsciously since her capture, but now she set herself definitely
to think of ways of escape.
But the more she thought, the less hopeful the idea seemed. There was
first of all the door. She got up and examined it. Opening inwards, it
was strongly made and fitted with a mortise lock whose heavy bolt she
could see passing across the narrow slit between the edge and the
jamb. In no way could she force the door.
The chimney she could see at a glance was impossible. Even if she
could have climbed it, the opening above the fireplace was too small
to allow her to pass.
There being no windows, there remained only the skylight. Could she
get out through the skylight?
She lay back on the bed, gazing up at the cobweb covered square and
calculating her chances. If she moved the bed beneath it, put the old
box supplied as a washstand on the bed and put the chair on the box,
she might be able to reach high enough. Suddenly eager, she sat up,
listening intently. Not a sound reached her from the house. She
decided to try the experiment at once. Her head still throbbed from
the effects of the blow and she would rather have lain still. But the
faint hope which had been aroused nerved her to effort.
Moving quietly and making as little noise as possible, she pulled the
bed to the necessary position and built her tower. A moment later she
was looking through the glass.
But there was not much within view. A vast area of sky and the tops of
a row of distant trees alone were visible. And when she tried to push
up the skylight a further disappointment awaited her. It was fastened.
Through one of the holes in the handle a screw had been passed. She
tried to move the screw, but it was too firmly fixed.
For a moment she thought of breaking the glass, but she saw
immediately that the metal bars of the frame were too close for her to
squeeze between them. Baffled, she got down and stood thinking.
There seemed to be nothing that she could do. Slowly she took down the
chair and the table and pushed the bed back to its place. She lay
down, her thoughts approaching more nearly to despair than at any time
since her capture. _How_ she wished she had minded French’s warning!
What a fool she had been to imagine that she could stand up against
members of a gang of this kind! What reason had she to imagine she was
abler or cleverer than Thurza Darke? Oh, if when she saw Style she had
just passed on with a bow and smile! If only she had done that she
might now be sitting in her pay-box at the Panopticon! She had been
bored to tears with that box times without number, but now how she
longed for it! She would have given all she possessed to be once more
within its familiar walls. But no wishing would get her there.
Slowly the interminable hours dragged away, while the square of
sunshine from the skylight crept across the wall, narrowed to a line
and disappeared. Presently she realized that she was desperately
hungry. She had had no lunch and now it was after five o’clock. Surely
they couldn’t mean to starve her?
While she was considering the idea she dropped into a light sleep. She
was roused by the rattling of the key in the door and sat up blinking
as Style entered with a tray on which was set out a plain but
sufficient supper.
“Asleep?” he said in some surprise. “It’s well for you that you can
take your position so easily! Or is it that you have not realized its
seriousness?” He paused; then as Molly did not reply, went on: “Or
perhaps you have come to your senses and decided to tell what you
know?”
“I know nothing about what you have asked.”
Style shrugged. “Oh, very well,” he answered. “Have it your own way.
I’m sorry. We didn’t want any more cases like Thurza Darke’s, but it’s
your say.” He put down the tray, then suddenly spoke with extreme
earnestness. “For heaven’s sake, Molly Moran, don’t be such a fool!
Thurza Darke took the same line as you. She’s dead now. Don’t think
I’m bluffing when I assure you that you’ll die too if you don’t do
what we want. We offer you the choice of that or of freedom. Don’t be
such a darned fool!”
For a moment Molly was tempted to tell of her interviews with French.
Then something in his face, a look in his eyes, assured her that she
was being deceived. There was no mercy there. They would never let her
go. Her only chance was to keep them hoping for information as long as
possible, so as to give French time to trace her. She rallied her
courage.
“It’s your fate that is sealed,” she declared confidently. “Mr. French
knows all about you. You’ve been warning me, now I’ll warn you. If
anything happens to me, you’ll hang! That’s the way things are, Mr.
Style. Mr. French knows all about Thurza Darke and he’s taken
precautions to prevent you repeating that. There’s my warning to you.”
Brave words, and yet Molly had scarcely spoken them before she felt
sick with terror. It was a ghastly mistake to have said that about
Thurza Darke! If they believed it, it would remove her, Molly’s, chief
safeguard. If they thought the murder of Thurza could be brought home
to them it would not save them to spare Molly. The penalty was the
same for one murder as for two.
But this point of view did not seem to strike Style. He shook his head
regretfully.
“Very well, fool,” he snarled. “If you want to commit suicide, you
can,” and turning on his heel, he strode out, slamming and locking the
door.
In spite of her almost frantic state of mind Molly felt a good deal
better when she had finished the plate of cold roast beef and the
bottle of cider which she found on the tray. If she could but get the
news of her whereabouts through to French she would be almost happy.
Oh, to know that he was on the way to her help! Was there _nothing_
that she could do?
Once again she lay down on the bed while she racked her brains over
the problem. Was there _nothing_ that she could do?
For an hour and more she tossed, then once again she heard footsteps
and the door was unlocked. This time it was Gwen Lestrange. She
carried a pair of sheets, a can of hot water, soap and other toilet
requisites.
“Here you are, you little fool,” she said contemptuously as she dumped
her burden on the floor. “You don’t deserve these, but we are not so
bad as you imagine. But I warn you that unless you do as we want
you’ll not need them by tomorrow night.”
She did not wait for a reply, but went out quickly, locking the door
after her.
Though Gwen’s manner was so ungracious, the articles she had brought
made a deal of difference to Molly. After a wash and brush up she felt
so much happier than when a little later she spread the sheets on her
bed and turned in, she found herself actually comfortable. Then her
anxiety and fatigues brought their own recompense and she slept
dreamlessly. Indeed, when she woke it was broad daylight.
About eight o’clock Gwen brought her some breakfast and then began
another weary and interminable day. She would not have believed had
some one told her previously how slowly time could pass. Hour after
hour she lay on her bed racking her brains over the problem of escape.
Tales she had read of imprisoned heroines recurred to her, but in all
of them some valiant young man had invariably appeared in the nick of
time and had carried out the rescue. But in her case there was no such
hero. She had herself to depend on and no one else in the world.
Except French. Again and again she pictured French following along
that endless road from London. Momentarily she expected to hear the
tumult of his arrival. But still the interminable silence remained
unbroken.
Suddenly an idea flashed into her mind and she lay still, wondering
whether there could be anything in it. The more she thought, the less
sanguine she grew. However, it was better than nothing. A forlorn
hope, but still a hope.
Again eagerly listening, she once more built her tower on the bed.
Once more she climbed to the skylight. From her pocket she produced a
penny. Could she turn the screw with it?
Alas, no! The edge was too wide to enter the slot. One encouraging
fact, however, she noticed which she had missed before. The wood round
the screw was decayed. If only she could get something to fit the slot
she felt sure the screw would not be hard to turn.
Twenty minutes’ wrestling with the problem brought her another gleam
of hope. Going to the fireplace, she knelt down and began rubbing the
edge of the penny on the hearthstone. And then hope changed once more
to eagerness. The penny was deeply scratched. With perseverance she
was sure she could rub its edge thin enough.
But she had not counted on the labour involved. She rubbed till her
whole body ached before she succeeded. And then it was only to find
that owing to the curve of the penny’s edge it rose out of the slot
when she tried to turn it.
This problem, however, was easier. Another exhausting period of
rubbing on the hearthstone and she had ground a flat place on the
disc, long enough to meet her purpose.
Few would blame her that she shed a few tears when, after all her
weary work, she found she was still no nearer her goal. She could not
turn the screw. But once more she pulled herself together. She had
gone so far she _would not_ be beaten. And very little further thought
gave her the solution.
While she was considering some better way of gripping her penny, her
eyes fell on the tongs. They were old-fashioned with a hinge and flat
meeting faces, not the more modern spring kind with claw ends. It was
the work of a few seconds to grip the penny in the tongs and try
again.
But even yet she was not through. She found she could not hold the
tongs tightly enough to prevent them opening. But she _would not_ be
beaten. Looking round in desperation her eye fell on the broken leg of
the bedstead. In a moment she was kneeling on the floor unwinding the
cord which held it in place. Another few seconds and the legs of the
tongs were tied tightly on the penny and she was again trying the
great experiment. Her joy may be imagined when this time her
improvised screw-driver worked.
The screw removed, she eagerly raised the skylight and looked out. But
at the sight which met her eyes her tears once again overflowed. All
her work was unavailing. She was no better off.
Away from her the smooth slates of the roof stretched in every
direction, from the ridge above to the gutter beneath and to the
capping of the eaves to right and left. From where she stood the roof
seemed like a great sloping table-land suspended in mid-air. It had no
visible connection with the earth, which appeared beyond the gutter,
far below and a long way off. She thought she must be at the back of
the house for there was no road or drive in sight. She was looking
down into fields, behind which was a wood, forming the horizon. No
human being was in sight nor even a house. So far as she could see,
she might be the only remaining human being in the world.
No chance of escaping that way. She could not stand on that slope.
With a thrill of horror she imagined herself climbing out, letting go
the skylight frame, slipping down the smooth slates to the gutter,
gripping it frantically, missing it . . . She shuddered. No, there was
no hope that way. Nor was there any use in her making signals of
distress. No one was there to see them.
Bitterly disappointed, she stood staring out, watching lest by chance
some wanderer might appear in the fields whose attention she might be
able to attract. But no one came.
Presently it occurred to her that the time for the evening meal must
be near. Useless as this open skylight seemed, it would be wiser to
keep the knowledge of it to herself. She therefore closed the sash,
put back the screw loosely, replaced the furniture, took her
screw-driver to pieces, and lay down on the bed.
Only just in time! She had scarcely settled down when Gwen appeared
with the meal.
Then followed a perfectly interminable night. This time she had not
had the necessary physical fatigue to make her sleep and she tossed
restlessly during the long, dark hours. But morning came at last and
with it breakfast and the prospects of another endless day.
She wondered what the plans of the trio could be. Gwen’s threat as to
her end coming before the previous evening had not been fulfilled.
Either their plans had miscarried or Gwen had been bluffing.
Reassuring, for what it was worth. But they could not keep her alive
and a prisoner indefinitely. They must, she imagined, be waiting for
some development, though what form it might take she could not
imagine.
Like a century the day dragged out its weary course. Lunch came, then
Gwen with water, then supper, and still no ray of light or hope
appeared to the girl. Then just as she was preparing for another long
night of wakeful tossing, she got another idea.
It was far more in the nature of a forlorn hope than the last, still,
she reminded herself, it was a hope. But if she were to carry out her
plan she must lose no time. It would be dark in less than an hour.
Now breathlessly excited, she jumped from the bed, took Christina
Wyatt’s old manuscript book, and cutting the thread which bound it,
carefully withdrew some of the unused sheets. The double pages were of
fair size, some fifteen inches by nine. Now, could she remember how to
fold them? Once down the middle, the long way; then two corners back
to the middle fold; then . . . For a time she experimented until at
last there lay before her a dart like those she had made in hundreds
in her school-days. Eagerly she stood up and threw it. It floated
gently across the room.
Mass production was now the order of the day. There were thirty-seven
clean double pages in the book and in a few minutes thirty-seven darts
lay in a little pile on the bed. As she folded, Molly thought out the
message they would bear, so that by the time they were ready she had
decided on the wording. Taking her fountain pen, she wrote on the top
of each: “Finder for God’s sake phone Victoria 7000 that Molly Moran
is in this big house. Her life at stake.”
By this time it was getting dusk. As quickly and silently as possible
Molly rebuilt her tower beneath the skylight, withdrew the screw and
opened the frame. Then taking up a bunch of darts, she began to launch
them one by one.
There was a gentle wind blowing towards the left. This picked up the
darts and carried them well away from the house, over towards the
fields. They floated well, and though most of them disappeared from
view below the line of the roof, she saw some actually strike the
ground.
The thirty-seven disposed of, she stood looking out, hoping against
hope that some one would appear and get her message. But though she
waited till it was quite dark, no one appeared. At last with a
profound sigh she closed the skylight, put the furniture in its place
and lay down once more.
The reaction from her previous excitement had now set in and her
depression became greater than ever. The darts, she felt, were no
good. No one would find them and if anyone did he would think the
message some child’s prank and take no notice. Or, and this was a
disaster which she had not thought of before, Gwen or Style might find
them. What would happen to her then? And all the time in the
background was the feeling of sick dread and horror when she thought
of the fate of Thurza Darke. In the daytime there had been the
excitement of what was happening to keep her up. Now there was
nothing. She learned the awful loneliness of fear.
Fortunately from sheer exhaustion she fell asleep quite soon. But it
seemed to her that her eyes had scarcely closed when she was awakened
by a knocking at her door.
“Get up quickly,” came Gwen’s voice. “We’re moving on. You must be
ready in ten minutes. Here is a lamp.”
The door opened, a small electric lamp was pushed in and the door was
relocked.
Molly looked at her watch. It was still early—only half past eleven.
What was now afoot? Had her time come?
She had not fully undressed, and almost sick with terror, she put on
the remainder of her things. But she had not much time to think.
Before she was ready Gwen returned, accompanied by Style. In silence
they seized her and before she realized what was happening, her wrists
and ankles were rebound, the gag thrust into her mouth and a
handkerchief tied over her eyes. She felt herself being lifted and
carried down the six flights of stairs and along passages to what was
evidently a door, for the night air blew on her face. Then she was
placed on a seat, she imagined in the same car as before, the engine
was started up and they moved off. After a few yards they stopped and
she heard above the noise of the running engine the clang of a gate,
some one got in and sat down beside her, and they moved off.