A Christmas Escape (12 page)

“The women need a little longer,” Quinn argued. His face was flushed and grimed over with ash. Charles thought he looked frightened—as well he should. They were still in danger. He was glad Quinn had not said so aloud. The last thing they needed now was for Isla to give in to her distress. She may not have loved her husband but she would still find life as a widow very different from the comfort she was used to. All things considered, she was keeping control of herself very well.

“Do you actually know anything about volcanoes?” Quinn said suddenly, looking across at Bretherton. “Anything more than the rest of us, that is?” His tone of voice was challenging and abrasive.

“No.” Bretherton stared levelly at him. “Do you?”

Quinn looked slightly taken aback. Clearly he had been expecting defense, not attack—or perhaps a plea for unity in a time of such danger, and with three tragedies already behind them.

“Only accounts of Vesuvius,” Quinn replied. “Destroyed everything in sight for miles. Took two whole cities, buried them in ash and fire—”

“Very helpful,” Charles cut across anything further he might have been going to say. “Vesuvius is nothing like Stromboli. It was dormant for as long as anyone could recall, quietly building up an immense pressure. Stromboli spits and grumbles all the time. It won't be anything like Vesuvius.” He was angry with Quinn for making the comparison.

“Really?” Quinn remarked. “You seemed in the devil of a hurry to get us all out of there and begin the route march to the sea. God knows how far it is, or if it is even remotely necessary.”

“God does know everything,” Candace said, looking across at Quinn critically. “So it's true He would have to know this.” She turned her face to Isla, then Bretherton. “Has He told anyone?”

Charles didn't know whether to laugh or say something stern to her. But he would sound so horribly pompous if he scolded her.

“I notice you don't look at me,” he said to her, his eyes light with humor.

She kept her face serious, with some effort. “I'm sorry, Charles. I rather thought that if He had told you, then you would have told me.”

This time he could not help the smile. “Probably I would have.” He stood up slowly. His legs ached and his feet were sore. He imagined everyone else felt the same.

Isla stood up stiffly also, and Quinn got to his feet last. “I suppose we'd better move on,” he said with resignation. He heaved his pack up on his shoulders again.

A
s they began to walk, Isla approached Charles. Candace obligingly took a few steps forward to walk next to Colonel Bretherton, instinctively knowing she wasn't wanted at the moment. When she was out of earshot, Isla turned to Charles. “Was Walker alone when he died?” she said softly. “Was it quick? Do you think he knew what happened to him?”

Charles had a sudden hideously vivid memory of Finbar kneeling on the ground beside the body, then bending so low he could see Bailey's neck, and the jagged stab wound in it. He would have known he had been attacked, perhaps even known that he would die. Had he seen who had done it? Did he know why? Had his last minutes been spent in terror?

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Bailey, but I would only be guessing. It seems quite possible he didn't know much.”

She glanced at him sharply, and then nodded and moved ahead of him, as if wanting to be alone for a moment.

Why could he not have simply lied and said it was instantaneous—that he would have known nothing, felt nothing?

Or would she then know he was lying, and wonder how much he guessed? She could have delivered the blow that killed Bailey, he reminded himself. After years of bullying, if they had been fighting, her husband would have expected her to yield, as she always did. She could have taken him completely by surprise.

But had she the strength to move him? How far could a sturdy woman, driven to desperation, drag a dead man?

Or had Bretherton helped her?

He did not believe Bretherton would have killed Bailey himself, unless it had been an open battle. It would hardly have become a contest. The colonel was four inches taller and the best part of seventy pounds heavier, not to mention trained as a soldier.

But if he came upon Isla when they were quarreling, and he thought Bailey was harming her…No, that seemed unlikely. Bretherton was a little unimaginative, predictable in both what he did and what he said. But he would not slit a man's throat. His own pride would not let him do anything in his estimation so cowardly.

But if Isla had already killed her husband, would Bretherton cover up for her?

Charles had only to look at him now, standing close to her, carrying her water, prepared to give her his own. That question answered itself. And Bretherton would believe whatever she told him.

Was she using him? Would he take the blame for her?

As Isla caught up to Bretherton, Candace fell back to walk next to Charles, and Quinn remained a few yards behind.

“You didn't tell her the truth, did you?” Candace said quietly, keeping step with Charles.

“What makes you think that?” he asked her.

She smiled, biting her lip a little. “People who answer a question with another question are usually being evasive about something.”

“But you spoke first,” he pointed out. He shortened his pace a little so she could keep step with him more comfortably.

“Did he die horribly?” she asked.

“No, I should think he might have been frightened, because he knew he was dying, but it may not have hurt. It would be a lot better if you didn't talk about it. There's nothing I can tell Isla that will help.”

“Do you think she's glad?” she asked after a few paces in silence. “I think I might be, if I'd married someone like that.”

“I won't let that happen to you,” he said firmly. Then he realized how ridiculous he sounded, as if he had any right to decide anything for her.

“Good,” she said frankly. “Her father should have stopped her. I wouldn't like someone like Mr. Quinn either, even though he's supposed to have lots of money. There's no amount of money worth spending your life in misery for.”

“I shall keep it in mind,” Charles said dryly.

“Do you think Colonel Bretherton killed Mr. Bailey?” she asked suddenly. “He'd be strong enough.”

He caught her by the arm and swung her to a sudden stop, facing him. “Candace! Listen to me—”

“I know.” She tried to get away from him, but he was far stronger and heavier than she, and she saw he was frightened for her. “It's very unbecoming to speak ill of the dead. But Mr. Bailey was a beast! And I shouldn't even have an opinion at all about Mrs. Bailey and Colonel Bretherton. But they're so obvious!”

“I wasn't going to say that at all!” he protested.

She opened her eyes wide. “Weren't you?” There was disbelief in her eyes.

“No, I wasn't.” He spoke quietly and urgently. “I was going to say that Mr. Bailey was very definitely murdered, with a knife to his neck, in the artery, then his body was moved and put where it looked as if a beam had fallen on him. Your uncle Roger saw it first, and showed me.”

“Oh! Oh dear…”

“Yes, oh dear, indeed. That means that one of us killed him. It certainly wasn't your uncle or Stefano. I didn't, and I'm assuming you didn't. That leaves Quinn, Colonel Bretherton, or Mrs. Bailey. Bretherton and Mrs. Bailey have ample reason to, but though they seemed to dislike each other, I can't think of any real reason why Quinn would have.”

“Oh…” Candace said again. Now all the amusement had vanished from her face and there was fear in her eyes.

“So you will stay with me all the time, do you understand? If…if you need some privacy, I will stand with my back to you, but you will not wander off alone. Is that clear? Not for any reason. You must promise me, as you would have promised your uncle.”

She let out her breath slowly, her eyes dark with a new and terrible understanding.

“You couldn't be wrong, could you? About Mr. Bailey?”

“I don't think so, but would your uncle be wrong?”

She shook her head slowly. “No…” Her voice was barely audible. “It's not turning out to be a very nice holiday, is it?”

He wanted to put his arm around her and hold her close, like the lost and bereaved child she was, but he was not sure enough of himself to do it.

“Come on,” he said gently. Then he raised his voice slightly so the others could hear him clearly. “We've still got a long way to go, and it's getting darker because of all that ash in the sky.” He glanced toward the ever-rising shadow feeling worried.

“It only looks dark,” Quinn said irritably. “It isn't really.”

Perhaps it was because there was so much else that hurt appallingly—Stefano's death, Finbar's death; the fact that one of them here was guilty of murdering Walker-Bailey; or that suddenly and without even intending to, he had become responsible for a beautiful, bright, and intensely vulnerable child—but Charles started to laugh.

Candace must have seen the absurdity of what Quinn had said, and she laughed as well.

Bretherton looked puzzled. He was a very literal man.

Isla really smiled, for the first time since Walker-Bailey's death. “What is the difference between looking dark and being dark?” she said to Quinn.

He turned to her. “If the clouds blew away, and there's a considerable wind up there, it will still be daylight,” he said with exaggerated patience. “For heaven's sake, don't you lose your head as well.”

“If the dust blew away, the volcano would send up more,” Candace told him. “Stefano told me it's been going on and off for three thousand years. What makes you think it will stop this evening?”

“For pity's sake, girl, it usually erupts only now and then. To any effect, only two or three times a year. You can go and stand on the rim of the crater and look at it!”

“I know,” she retorted. “I've been there! You're the one who wouldn't climb up.”

“I have better things to do than climb a steep, totally arid hill to look at an ash tip full of bonfires,” Quinn told her.

“Like write another book, maybe?” she suggested. “Mr. Walker-Bailey didn't think you could. But if you wrote another one like
Fire
then we'd all love you for it. I don't know how you could have written it. Lucy was wonderful, full of adventure and dreams. She could see the funny side of anything, and she was brave and kind! My grandmama was like that, you know, and everyone loved her. Uncle Roger loved her.” She drew in a breath that was more like a sob, then turned and strode away into the gloom of flying dust and ash.

Quinn sat down with a look of horror on his face, almost as if he had been physically assaulted. After a moment he started very slowly to get to his feet.

It was Isla who spoke to him.

“Don't!” she said very clearly. “She's only fourteen, and she's just lost the only relative she had left. Her grandmother died only two or three years ago, and she misses her terribly. She's got to grieve. Let her find solace wherever she can. Personally I'm very grateful that Mr. Latterly seems to be taking such care of her.” She looked across at Charles and smiled.

For the first time Charles saw a warmth in her, a gentleness that made him understand why Bretherton was so drawn to her. Perhaps she had been crushed by Walker-Bailey for so long she had almost had the heart killed inside her. If she had lashed out at him, had she been fighting for her own survival? Did he even want to know that, if it were true?

Quinn looked at Isla, then at Charles. “Well, if you don't want us to go after her, then you'd better go yourself,” he said abruptly. “As you point out so vividly, we haven't time to waste looking for someone who's wandered off and gotten lost!”

Quinn was right, and Charles did not bother to answer him. He turned and walked briskly in the direction Candace had disappeared.