Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [60]
Not wanting to cope with the Glasgow traffic, they took a cab back to their hotel. They waited until the following morning and had to hire two of Glasgow’s new motorized taxi-cabs to take them and their luggage out to the salesroom.
With Cyril at the wheel, scowling in concentration, they set out on the road. Berrow studied ordnance survey maps. The idea was to go by country roads to Stranraer and take the ferry to Ireland. They planned to hide out in Ireland for a time and then sail to France and make their way to Switzerland.
The weather was fine, with feathery clouds decorating a pale blue sky. The fresh scents of the countryside blew into the open car. Cyril relaxed as he grew more confident.
The trouble began when they motored through a village and a pretty girl stared at the car in open-mouthed admiration.
When they were clear of the village and Berrow saw a long straight stretch of road ahead, he called, “Stop!” Berrow had become jealous of Cyril at the wheel.
Cyril pulled to a halt. “What’s up?”
“Let me take the wheel for a bit.”
“You can’t drive.”
“Show me. Just how to move it along.”
“Oh, all right.” Cyril got out and they changed places.
After several attempts and crashing gears, Berrow managed to get the car to move forward. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator. Although the speed limit was thirty miles an hour, the Rolls was capable of doing a hundred.
Hedges hurtled past in a blur as Cyril screamed, “Ease off the accelerator!”
“What?” shouted Berrow. “This is fun.”
As he hurtled down a bend in the road and straight at a hump-backed bridge, his scarf blew across his face. Panicking, Cyril grabbed the wheel. With a great crash, the car hit the parapet sideways on. The ancient stonework crumpled. Cyril was catapulted onto the river bank. He hit a stone with the full impact of his head and lay still.
Berrow stared down at him in horror. “Are you all right?” he called, but he was sure Cyril was dead.
He felt the car lurch. He got out carefully and went and looked at the damage. The wheels were hanging over the edge where the parapet had once been.
He struggled down the river bank to Cyril. He felt for a pulse but found none.
Berrow climbed back to the car. He would need to walk back to that village for help. His hands were shaking. He stood at the back of the car, lit a cigarette with a vesta and tossed the lighted match on the ground, unaware of the lake of petrol that had formed.
There was a terrific explosion as Berrow and the car went up in a fireball of flame.
Harry was to escort Rose to a luncheon party and she prayed he would not cancel.
They were accompanied by Daisy, Turner, the lady’s maid, and two footmen. Rose began to wonder if she would ever have a chance to speak to Harry in private.
She was not seated next to him at table and so talked a little to the gentleman on her right—the weather—and the gentleman on her left—the state of the nation—picked at her food and thought the wretched meal with its eight courses would never end. How wonderful it would be, she thought, if I were to pick up the table-cloth and bundle all this food and take it down to the East End.
At last the hostess signalled to the ladies to join her in the drawing-room and leave the gentlemen to their port.
“Why are you looking so nervous?” whispered Daisy.
“Nothing.” Rose wanted to tell Harry about her discovery first. A little twinge of guilt warned her that she should have confided in Daisy first, but Rose wanted to impress Harry, to show him she could detect as well.
At last the gentlemen came in. Bridge tables were being set up and Daisy’s green eyes gleamed like a cat’s. She was a killing bridge player.
Harry joined Rose. She whispered urgently, “I must talk to you in private.”
“There’s a conservatory at the back of the house. Let’s walk there.”
In the steamy warmth of the conservatory, they sat down on a bench in front of a marble statue of Niobe.
Harry was the first to speak. Rose listened in amazement when he told