Castle In The Clouds, Chapters 35 and 36

Chapter Thirty Five

Veronica looked up and saw the two figures looming against the background of the church - one slim and ungainly in his stride – Llewellyn. How his stance had changed - no longer the dignified lord of the castle, and behind him - the thick set ogre, Dawson, his bearing prowling, aggressive; that of the foraging animal.
She tapped Gibbings' shoulder, crouched, and then saw the pair searching steadily through the undergrowth that shielded them.
'We can make for the causeway,' she whispered. 'They haven't laid eyes on us, let's go.'
Gibbings shook his head, keeping his eyes on the two men closing in. 'I'm staying put-'
Veronica grabbed Gibbings' arm and tugged him towards her roughly. 'This is no time to play the hero, now come -'
'How far do you think we'll get?' Gibbings glared at her, resisting. 'You forget how well I know the island, I can lure them into a false trail, then double back while you keep yourself down, get away unseen -'
Veronica eyed him dubiously. 'You know this island well enough to forget the tide was out -'
'I need to do this,' Gibbings said, his dark brows meeting. 'It is the only way.'
'Such foolishness.' Veronica ground her teeth as she swept rain from her face. 'Play the hero if you must but I am not crossing the causeway without you.'
'You won't have to; trust me, now go -'
Veronica sighed, kept herself low, the lie of the land as it sank between the church and the chapel, populated by dense heather and bracken, was on her side. She headed for the causeway.
* *

Dawson's attention was drawn to the figure rising from the undergrowth, that of the lean,
curly-haired gardener, Gibbings. But where was the woman; why was he alone?'
He looked east and west, and then just a glimpse of a redhead scurrying through the undergrowth told Dawson what he needed to know -
'I see the wretched gardener,' Llewellyn shouted, 'but where is Veronica, what has he done to her?'
'He has done nothing.' Dawson scanned the wild heather, got a better look at her lithe, rain-soaked body through a thin clearing. 'She’s trying to flee. She's swift, but she will not escape -'
'She runs from me.' Llewellyn clutched his hands to his head. 'Why does she do so?'
'We waste time with idle chatter about such matters -'
But Llewellyn's wide-eyed gaze had become so centered on Gibbings that he failed to hear Dawson's departing words. Gibbings was the reason she fled, it hadn't been because of him - Dawson would reach his beloved Veronica, pacify her, so that she returned to him with renewed desire and heart. But the rough land would soon slow Gibbings down, he could track and catch him - and then - Llewellyn glanced down at what was contained in his right hand, produced a glazed smile - he would effect suitable retribution.
He set off in pursuit with stiff leaden steps while Dawson ploughed after Veronica.
* *

Veronica reached the road, looked back and saw that the plan hadn't worked. She saw the oaf of a butler begin chasing her, felt the sheer futility of her flight, but John, damn the man's dogmatic stand - had demanded she did so. Loathe as she had been to comply, the man's sense of integrity over-ruled her doubts - and she loved him - and -
But her thoughts were interrupted by Dawson's heavy tread, thud - thud - thud - for despite his bulk, the ogre was gaining ground. It was the wind and rain of course that hampered her lighter frame, but while she was running what was happening to John?
Thud, thud, thud - like the blacksmith's blow on an anvil.
This couldn't, shouldn't be happening. Veronica Day stopped running, turned and stared directly into the approaching Dawson's eyes.
* *

'Stop running you wretched man, turn and face me!' Gibbings heard Llewellyn's hoarse shout, turned and saw the man threading clumsily through the undergrowth after him, but he couldn't see Dawson and that much alone made him halt in his tracks.
That he was the bigger danger to Veronica, Gibbings had little doubt, if Dawson had spotted him and taken off after her -
Without Dawson chasing him his plan had failed. Gibbings scanned the landscape without so much as a glimpse, his apprehension rising like the high tide; and yet as Llewellyn approached eyes glazed in a wild stare, froth from his mouth merging with the driving rain, Gibbings was confident of his ability to contain him; but then too late he saw the blade rise in his right hand, felt the cold steel cut into his throat.
Rothman was approaching the church when he heard the shout carry high on the wind. His view was hampered by the rain splattering his offside window, but as he reached across to wind it down, some distance ahead, as his wipers cleared the rain in waves he saw Dawson closing in on Veronica.
The big butler's bulk almost eclipsed the tall, elegant woman but what alarmed him was that she seemed bent on confronting Dawson.
Abandoning his interest in whatever transpired in the church field he slammed his foot hard on the accelerator, splashing along the road towards the couple.
Dawson wasn't aware of Rothman's approach, the howling wind having drowned out the motor's humming drone, but it would have changed little because the controlling element in all his senses was the all-encompassing purpose of inflicting upon the woman who'd so ridiculed and embarrassed him the beating she so deserved. Sometimes women needed to be put in their place - especially haughty women like this one.
He no longer cared what his deranged master thought - it was as plain as day now that the man who had brought him here was mad - completely mad. There was no future in Llewellyn's employ, but Dawson's anger wasn't about to be vented on him -
Ahead he saw her stop, turn and face him, her hands on hips, her eyes like green emeralds in the stormy day where light faded and the sky had turned brown. Had the woman lost her senses? No, this was typical of her, even now she taunted him - and it served only to drive his fury to new heights.
Rothman must have been twenty yards away when he saw the big man grab Veronica's shoulder, saw her raise an arm, saw the back of her hand flash across his face, saw his head drop, saw that right hand strike him again - somewhere around his chin, and then watched as he recovered and caught hold, raising her from the ground, flinging her in his anger across the street, her body colliding with the column of a gas lamp.
Rothman saw Dawson march towards her, his shoulders hunched, decided in that instant what he would do -
He slipped the Rolls Royce into top gear, hit the pedal - Dawson's hands were reaching down when the vehicle hit him - towards her throat, but they got no further - a brief yell blended eerily with the howling wind as his body was propelled through the air, landing motionless in coarse grass after rebounding from a cottage wall.
Rothman paid him no further heed as he jumped from the vehicle's running board alongside Veronica's prostrate body.
'Where did you come from?' She gazed up through half-open glassy eyes. 'Thank you. But I could have managed.'
'From where I stand, dear lady, I very much doubt it.'
Veronica shook her head dismissively. 'I am alright.' She looked over at Dawson's body, 'Do you think he's -'
'Dead? Do you much care?'
'I do not.' Veronica allowed Rothman to pull her to her feet, brushed herself down, and then as her smashed senses recovered, 'John,' she cried with sudden urgency, 'have you seen John?'
Rothman turned sharply, recalled the voice he'd heard in the field - but it hadn't been the gardener's voice -
He left the car at the point it had struck Dawson and turned to run -
and found Veronica ahead of him.

Chapter Thirty Six

Veronica reached the church field yards ahead of Rothman, racing to the point at which she'd left him a few long moments earlier - the clouds had lifted slightly, broken into dark fragments which pursued each other vigorously across the sky, and for an instant the sun broke through, striking a curved object that lay amongst the heather. A steel object smeared with blood. For a second Veronica froze, her eyes slowly following the trail of blood that led to John Gibbings' throat.
She glanced back at Rothman, stooped, placed her hands tentatively around the wound as he crouched beside her, taking hold of Gibbings' hand before sliding her fingers to the man's wrist. 'His pulse is weak, his breathing is shallow and I doubt that he hears us. He needs a doctor, and quickly - are there any in this godforsaken place?'
Veronica forced her eyes away from Gibbings' stricken body, glanced towards the vicarage, 'The Reverend will know -'
'I'll find out,' Rothman got to his feet, headed for the vicarage.
'He can't stay here,' Veronica called after him, 'not in these conditions, tell him what's happened, that I'm bringing John -'
'What?'
'Go on -run -' Veronica ushered him forward, took Gibbings in her arms, gently cradling his neck, and then rose to her feet. 'I can manage Mr. Rothman; it would be a great help if you would hurry to the vicarage and not impede my progress by standing gawking.'
She watched him finally turn tail and head for the vicarage, following carefully in his wake with Gibbings in her arms.
Robertson held the door open and this time he reflected genuine concern. 'Through here; I have a bedroom at the back, lay Mr. Gibbings upon the bed.' He followed Veronica through as she gently lowered him down. 'I'll staunch the flow as best I can, but Doctor Ferguson needs to attend these wounds, they're much too close to the artery for my liking.'
'Where can I find Doctor Ferguson?' Veronica wiped her eyes and it wasn't rain water this time.
'The mainland I'm afraid, just across the junction to the causeway. I'm sorry, the phone line is down but at least the tide has receded.'
'I have a motor car. It will not take me long,' Rothman announced. 'Will you accompany me, Veronica?'
She shook her head. 'I need to remain with John.' Veronica cast a glance over her shoulder, but her view of Gibbings was restricted by Robertson, now applying more pressure to the wound. 'But thank you for returning, Mr. Rothman.'
'Byron, please.' Rothman smiled and made his way to the car.
'Please hurry.' Veronica was unable to return his smile, providing him with a grateful nod of thanks before watching him drive away.
'I cannot believe this is happening,' Robertson muttered. 'In all my years spent here - what has happened to cause Mr. Gibbings these injuries?'
'I tried to explain that Mr. Llewellyn was no longer sane,' Veronica said, revealing the circumstances with thinly disguised bitterness providing an edge to her voice. 'What you treat now is a result of that fact.'
Veronica moved alongside Robertson, laid a hand on Gibbings' brow, felt the heat -
'Will he recover Reverend?'
'I pray that he will. He has lost much blood.' Robertson placed the towel tightly against the wound, 'But it is to the doctor that you should address such questions -'
Robertson paused. He looked Veronica directly in the eye, 'Where is Mr. Llewellyn now?'
'Oh my God!' Veronica felt a wave of anxiety rush through her stomach. 'I was concerned for John, I have not thought to search - and the blade remains in the grass. I must remove it -'
'No Miss Day -' Robertson grabbed her arm, 'that would not be appropriate in the light of what has happened here.'
'Damn what is appropriate, if Llewellyn has gone this far, if he is able, he will not hesitate to strike out again - we may all be in danger.'
Veronica shrugged Robertson off, rushed to the door, ran down the field, through the heather to the area where she'd found Gibbings. Blood marked the spot but that was all.
The blade had gone, Llewellyn must have retrieved it, and to have done so he must be in sufficient health as to use it.
Through squalls of rain she looked left and right, forward and behind, to no avail. She cursed herself for not considering the danger, but her concern for John had outweighed everything - now as she trudged back up the field, stopping at intervals to search around, she was filled with a mounting unease - that they could become besieged by a madman with a violent weapon in his grasp.
She reached the deserted street and ran to the door. Further down on the opposite side
Dawson's body lay unmoved. He was, she was quite certain, dead. He at least, they did not need to worry about.
* *

Llewellyn examined the sabre; Gibbings' blood had been washed off by the rain - much to his satisfaction. He had an abhorrence of the sight of it - it was the reason he'd fled the scene.
But he'd dealt with Gibbings in the way he'd intended. The wretched man had been foolish enough to attempt to wrestle the sabre from him, but one swift blow from its sharp blade must surely have severed an artery, by now he would be dead.
No more would he poison Veronica's precious mind -
And yet he'd watched in shock and disgust as Veronica had hurried to the scene, with Rothman in her wake - that had been a surprise, but nothing like the disturbing experience of watching her caringly cradle the dying man in her arms and carry him to the vicarage.
He'd carried out his actions for Veronica, to enable her to become free of Gibbings' venomous influence, and yet it seemed that even in his death that influence remained; she was his world but could no longer be so with his poisoning mind inside hers. And to carry him that far she must possess the strength of the Devil.
He'd acted too late - there was no other course of action than to terminate Veronica also.
At least in her death she would be free -
Llewellyn emerged from behind the chapel and made his way uphill.
* *

'I have done all I can for the time being - he continues to bleed but not as profusely. The doctor should be with us shortly. I take it there was no sign of Mr. Llewellyn?'
'Nor the blade - I fear he is not finished yet -'
Robertson shot Veronica a look of alarm, 'Then are we to remain prisoners here?'
'I will not be subjected to the whims of a madman.'
'I beg your pardon, Miss Day?'
'It is against my nature to be cornered like a wild animal.'
'I must advise Miss Day, against any talk of this nature,' Robertson stammered. 'You have witnessed the extent of Mr. Gibbings' injuries caused by Mr. Llewellyn's use of the blade. It would be foolhardy in the extreme - besides there has been enough bloodshed on this island -'
'Which might have been prevented had you listened to me in the first instance. Now it is past the point where I am prepared to concede to this man -'
Robertson shook his head despairingly, before a drone a pitch lower than the howling wind drew his attention.
He marched through to his front lounge and peered out the window. 'Your friend is back and he has the doctor with him.'
Veronica ushered them in, she watched the doctor clean and tend the wound, was relieved when he stood up and said, 'Your friend needs rest, it is a matter of shock as much as the severity of the wound itself. But he should be fine.'
The doctor adjusted his collar and tie, frowned. 'I understand there is a dangerous man at large, the nature of this wound confirms as much. I shall of course notify the constabulary upon my return to the mainland. In the meantime I urge you all to exercise extreme caution. Circumstances such as these, have, to my knowledge, never arisen here before.'
'There is a man lying in the grass by the cottages,' Veronica said bluntly. 'I fear he is dead.'
'That is so,' Rothman cut in, a glance at the doctor. 'I advised Doctor Ferguson and he
examined the scoundrel on the way through.'
'Veronica,' Rothman uttered as soon as the doctor had departed, 'I feel you should allow me to drive you from the island. This is not a safe place -'
'I shall leave the island when John does and not before,' Veronica said adamantly. 'Doctor Ferguson says he needs a rest. I will ensure he gets it.'
'He is welcome to rest here at the vicarage until he is well enough to travel, as are you, Miss Day -' Robertson announced, albeit edgily.
'That is most generous of you vicar,' Veronica acknowledged, aware of the unease in his voice. 'I am sure we will not trouble you for long.'
Veronica cast her eyes down, took in Gibbings' appearance as he lay motionless on the bed. He was sleeping but his breathing appeared less shallow and this gave her heart.
'Veronica, if I might speak with you as a matter of urgency,' Rothman whispered in her ear. 'Alone.'
'Be my guest,' Robertson said, having overheard. 'The front parlour,' he indicated, his arm outstretched, his brow knotted.
'Mr. Rothman please be brief.' Veronica closed the door behind them. 'I would want to
be beside John when he awakes.'
'I cannot understand your fascination for the gardener, Veronica, any more than I could Llewellyn, but though I feel your lack of passion for him was evident, it seems the same cannot be said of this Gibbings fellow. You are aware that a fusion of such diverse backgrounds seldom works?’
'I fear that it is seldom given a chance.' Veronica turned her back, crossed to the window and arms folded, stared out at a deserted, stormy scene, no sign at the moment of the mad Llewellyn. 'I for one am not an enthusiast of this rigid class structure, if that offends you Mr. Rothman then I am sorry but it is the way I am;' she swung to face him, 'now, have you anything further to say?'
'Indeed dear lady.' Rothman approached her, leaning forward, his face close to hers. 'Your values are most commendable, but your philosophy is flawed. I can much better serve your interests than the gardener. Together we would make a fine couple.' He gazed at her head, touched it with the palm of a hand. 'Why, even our hair seems to match up. I would be honoured Veronica, to have you as my wife.'
Veronica bit her lower lip, edged past him. 'I feel that it is not possible, Mr. Rothman, indeed, it seems there is little more between us than the colour of our hair. What has brought you back is your vision of me, is it not? And since you cannot know me that vision is only skin deep.'
Rothman spread his hands. 'I returned out of concern for you and it seems such concerns have proved well founded. In any event, would you not concede that your perception of the gardener is similar to mine of you?'
Veronica swallowed, met his stare. 'I believe there is a difference Mr. Rothman, if there is nothing more, I must attend John -'
'I implore you to reconsider.' Rothman followed her to the door. 'There is no future in this relationship.'
'That is for me to decide.' Veronica paused, her hand on the lever. 'I would thank you to remember as much.'
'Then at least allow me to remain lest my assistance is required - by remaining here you put yourself at great risk - Llewellyn has already accounted for his sister, along with seriously injuring the -'
'Dorothea?' Veronica interrupted, her brows knit tightly together.
Rothman lowered his eyes. 'I took her body from the sea, laid it on the shore. I am certain it was his work -'
'I see.' Veronica shook her head. 'I cannot prevent you from remaining here, Mr. Rothman. I must attend John.'
She hurried through to the rear of the vicarage, sat at the side of Gibbings' bed, aware of Rothman's presence in the doorway. Gibbings' eyes flickered open momentarily and her spirits rose, though his return to consciousness was fleeting and those spirits were dashed with the suddenness of a ship striking rocks.
Despair was creeping through her veins; Llewellyn was no longer sane if ever he had been. And what had been her part in this? He'd seemed fully in control of his senses when they'd first met, quite an honourable gentleman. Had she encouraged him for her own ends, to a point where his sanity had been challenged? Was she in some way to blame? Not solely for his demise but for the ensuing violence on the island? Had the problems on the island been of her making as the vicar had seemed to imply?
If so it was her duty to confront Llewellyn, thus averting more bloodshed.
Her sense of responsibility, for so long overlooked, could no longer be denied. She would seek out Llewellyn, go to him. The burden was hers, and by bearing it she would help John.
It was the only course of action.