Page 34 of The Art of Theft
A sheen of tears came into Mrs. Watson’s eyes. “But when we helped you, Ash, it was because you yourself were in peril. Whereas everyone is only here because of my guilt.”
“You would be here by yourself, working on the maharani’s behalf, if you had to. And you would do that for any of us. We are here not because of any guilt you may be feeling, but because you are the most gallant person any of us has ever had the good fortune to meet.”
Her lips quivered.
He smiled at her and kissed her on the forehead. “So let us be gallant for you. For once.”
?If only gallantry required less suffering.
It started to rain around midnight. Lord Ingram’s long, hooded mackintosh kept most of him dry, but still, it was a miserable business being outside on a wet December night.
Before they’d set out, he and Mr. Marbleton had studied a map of the estate that Mr. Marbleton had brought from Paris, part of the architectural plans. The front gate was at the southern end of the property. The lake on which the manor sat was much closer to the fences on the north side than the front gate.And there is also achapel, Mr. Marbleton had said, tapping its location on the map, not far from the northern fences,which should hide us from view if we climb in behind it.
They had come to the spot Mr. Marbleton had selected. Copses of woods stood between the château and the village, but outside the fences the trees had been pared back a considerable distance, leaving only bare ground. They waited for a few minutes under the trees, the rain coming down harder and harder. Distantly dogs barked.
Mr. Marbleton glanced at him. He nodded. With feline lightness, Mr. Marbleton shot over the fence. Lord Ingram shook his head—was he himself ever so acrobatic, even at that age? But the fence did not prove an obstacle, even if he made it past without quite the same panache.
A strong gust blew. He wiped the rain from his face. The air smelled faintly of cow manure. It made him think of Stern Hollow, of its herd of twenty that grazed behind the house.
Apropos of nothing at all, he wondered what Holmes thought of the cream and butter produced on his estate.
They ran, crouched low, toward the chapel two hundred fifty feet away. The chapel, which faced east, stood athwart their direct path to the manor. They crept along its long side, until they could peek out a corner toward the château itself, dark except for lamps that burned in the small courtyard on the island.
Which only made everything look more shadowy.
It was another half furlong to the northern edge of the lake. But there would be no more covers of any kind: nothing but water and smooth, flat ground around the manor. The parterres of the formal gardens were a furlong south of the lake, the orchard too distant to even be seen.
“We have to get to the bridge to have a proper look at the château—and to have any kind of hope of concealment,” said Mr. Marbleton, stating the conclusion Lord Ingram had also come to.
They went back to the fence. It offered no concealment, but it wasfarther away from the illumination—and a quicker way out if the dogs came near. He considered making their way outside of the fence. But they would leave a trail on the wet ground, footprints that might or might not be washed away by the rain. Whereas inside, they had the advantage of an excellent lawn. In summer it would have been as luxuriant as any velvet carpet: He stepped on no mud, only an occasional puddle where the ground was slightly uneven.
They reached the formal garden before the dogs came along the eastern fences, several hundred feet away. Even in the din of the rain, the canine growls carried, low, menacing vibrations. He hoped those were only growls of displeasure, as even the best trained dogs wouldn’t enjoy being out in this weather—and the rain should be enough to obscure their scents.
The dogs patrolled on. He exhaled. Mr. Marbleton was already hurrying in the direction of the château again. Lord Ingram followed suit, wondering if he was getting a little too old for this. He crouched behind the plinth of a statue, rushed to a small fountain, and then again forward to a conical yew.
Lightning flashed in the distance. In the distance, but too near. He swore under his breath. He didn’t fear the lightning itself, but the illumination it threatened, should they be caught in the open.
The sky flashed again. Mr. Marbleton, who had been at least twenty paces ahead, waited in the shadow of another ruthlessly trimmed yew for him to catch up. They were almost at the northern edge of the garden, nothing but boulevard and lawn between them and the edge of the lake.
“We can’t do this if there is a risk of the entire sky lighting up any moment!” said Mr. Marbleton.
Lord Ingram exhaled again. “We crawl.”
He supposed he should be thankful for the lawn—it was not the worst surface to be crawling on. But within a minute his lower half was soaked—a mackintosh was scarcely any use when a man was on his stomach, inching forward on elbows and knees.
The night turned brilliant. The château stood in sharp relief against roiling storm clouds. For a second he thought he saw the silhouette of a woman outlined against a window, but then darkness descended again and the château was but shadows and bulk, made more sinister by the guttering light of a few lamps.
He broke into a sweat. Had the woman seen them? They should be only a pair of dark streaks on the lawn, easily mistaken for puddles or other such unevenness. But what if she’d seen them for what they were?
With dots still dancing before his eyes, he crawled forward again. He must reach the bridge as soon as possible.
They were perhaps fifty feet away when what seemed like a hundred dogs barked all at once. The uproar came from behind and to their left, closing in fast.
“Run!” he cried.
Mr. Marbleton did not hesitate, leaping up from the grass. They dashed to the bridge. Then, as quietly as possible, they waded into the frigid water, which rose to chest level within three steps—the banks had clearly been excavated to achieve a steep drop—and swam under the bridge.
The temperature was in the mid-thirties. The water was so cold it burned, as if he were in some lower circles of hell. But fear was even colder, a spike of ice piercing through his lungs.
