Nine Coaches Waiting

The breeze seemed finally to have dropped, for the forest- so close to us lying up under the shingles-was still. Only a faint intermittent murmur, like a long sigh, came from the pines. Inside the cottage came, from time to time, the tiny noises of a building stirring in its sleep; the creak of a settling board, the fall of charred wood in the stove, the tiny scratting of a mouse in the wall. I lay there, trying to empty my mind of worry and speculation about the coming day. It was Wednesday; only the one day to go and then I could deliver my charge, either at the Villa Mireille itself, or, if that proved difficult, by any telephone. The thing was easy. Easy.

And if, as seemed likely, William Blake called at the mountain-hut in the morning, then it became easier still. Once we had him as escort the last shred of danger vanished. All I had to do now was relax and try to sleep. Neither Léon de Valmy nor Bernard would think of looking for us here. I had once spoken of "William" to Raoul (the thought brought me momentarily awake again) and he might co

The lifting of the door-latch sounded, in that sleepy silence, like a pistol-shot.

Even as one part of my mind stampeded in panic like the mice now scurrying from die sound, the other rose light and dizzy with relief. It was William Blake, of course. It couldn't be anyone else. I must have slept longer than I'd thought, and now it was early morning, and He had come back.

I lifted my head to listen, but made no other movement Something else which had nothing whatever to do with my mind and its conclusions kept me clamped down like a hare in her form.

I waited. Philippe slept.

Below us the door shut very softly. The newcomer took two or three steps, then stopped. I could hear him breathing hard, as if he'd been hurrying. He stood perfectly still for a long time. I waited for the homely sounds of a log in the stove, the rasp of a match, the opening of the scullery door, but there was nothing except the stillness, and the rapid breathing. And then there was a pause of complete silence, as even the breathing stopped.

I think mine did too. I knew now it wasn't William Blake. I knew why he had paused with held breath, standing with ears at the stretch and probably a torch-beam raking the darkness. He had been listening for sounds of the quarry. It couldn't be true, but it was. The hound was here already.

Then his breath came out again with a gasp, and he moved across the floor.

Now came the quiet chunk of closing shutters, the chink of the lamp-globe, the scrape of a match; but the sounds were about as homely as the click of a cocked gun.

I heard the slight clatter of the globe sliding into its socket, then a muttered curse as, I suppose, the wick went out again. Seconds later came the scrape of another match.

It couldn't be morning yet, and it certainly wasn't William Blake. The curse had been in French, and in a voice I thought I recognised. Bernard's. The hunt was up with a vengeance.

The lamp was burning now. I could see, here and there, tiny threads of light between the ceiling-boards. He was moving about, with a slow deliberation that was far more terrifying than haste. Only his breathing still hurried, and that, surely, should have been under control by now…

I found that I was shaking, crouched together in my form of blankets. It wasn't the climb up the mountain-side that had hurried Bernard's breathing and made his big hands clumsy on the lamp. It was excitement, the tongue-lolling excitement of the hound as it closes in. He knew we were here.

He crossed the floor to the base of the ladder.

But he was only making for the scullery. I heard the door open, then more sounds of that deliberate exploration. A bolt scraped: he was barring the back exit. He was coming back.

My bitten lips tasted salt; my hands were clenched so tightly on a fold of blankets that my nails scored the stuff. I hadn't told Philippe about Bernard, had I? If he should wake, he might not be frightened… but let him sleep, dear Lord, let him sleep… Perhaps Bernard doesn't know about the loft; perhaps he won't notice the ladder… if only Philippe doesn't wake up and give us away…

He came out of the scullery and shut the door. This time he didn't pause to look round. He took two unhurried strides across to the ladder. I heard the wood creak as he laid hold of it.

Someone trod rapidly across the verandah outside. I heard Bernard jerk out an oath under his breath. The door opened again. A strange voice said: "Que diable? Oh, Bernard, it's you. What the devil are you doing up here?"

The ladder creaked again as Bernard released it “Holà, Jules." He sounded sober enough, but his voice was thick and not too steady. He seemed disconcerted, almost shaken. "I might ask you the same, mightn't I? What brings you up here at this hour?"

The other shut the door and came across the room. "Night-patrols, a curse on it. Ever since we had that fire up in Bois-Roussel we've had them. The boss is convinced it's wilful damage and he won't listen to anything else. So I have to tramp up and down between Bois-Roussel and Soubirous the whole bloody night, and me only a fortnight wed. Dawn's a lousy time to be out in anyway, and when I think where I might be-"

Bernard laughed and moved away from the ladder. "Hard luck, friend. I expect you make out, tout de méme"

"As to that," said Jules frankly, "I can go to bed the whole bloody day, can't I? Here, let's make this stove up… aha, that's better! Now, tell me what brings you up here at this hour? It's gone five, surely? If you're wanting the English-man he's down at the Coq Hardi for the night. What's he done?"

Bernard said, so slowly that I could almost hear the calculation clicking behind the words: "No, it's not the Englishman."

"No? What then? Don't tell me you're my fire-raiser, Bernard?" Jules laughed. "Come now, what's up? Come dean or I'll have to take you in for trespass. It's bound to be either duty or a woman, and I'm damned if I can see why either should bring you up here."

"As it happens, it's both," said Bernard. 'There's queer doings at the Château Valmy tonight. You've heard of young Philippe's governess; Martin's her name?"

"The pretty little thing that's been dangling after Monsieur Raoul? Who hasn't? What's she done?"

"She's disappeared, that's what she's done, and-"

"Well, what if she has? And what the devil would she be doing up here anyway? There's an obvious place to look for her, my friend, and that's in Monsieur Raoul's bed, not the Englishman's."

"For God's sake can't you keep your mind out of bed for two minutes?"

"No," said Jules simply.

"Well, try. And let me finish what I was telling you. Here. Have a cigarette."

A match snapped and flared. The sharp smell of the Gauloise came up through the boards to where I lay. I could see the two men as plainly as if the ceiling were of glass, their dark faces lit by the crackling stove, the blue smoke of the cigarettes drifting up through the warm air to hang between them. Bernard said, still in that queer note of over-measured thoughtfulness: "The boy's gone, too."

“The boy?"

"Young Philippe."

A pause, and a long soft whistle. "Great God! Are you sure?"

"Damn it, of course we're sure! They've both vanished. Madame went along a bit ago to have a look at the boy-he's not strong, you know, and it seems she's been worried about him. She's not sleeping very well… anyway, she went along, and he wasn't in his room. She went to rouse the governess and found her gone, too. No word, no note, no nothing. We've searched the château from cellar to roof, the Master and I. No sign. They've gone."