We Shall Not Sleep_ A Novel - Anne Perry [130]
But he had barely straightened up outside in the road when he saw Matthew and Mason a dozen yards away walking briskly across the rough grass toward him. They were both mud-stained, and Mason’s jacket sleeve was torn.
“Finished,” Matthew said as they reached the ambulance. “Took his identification and insignia of rank off him and burned them. That’s what took the time. Hard to get wet cloth to ignite, but we can’t afford to be caught with it…if he’s got allies. Is Judith all right to drive, or shall I? That engine sounds very rough.”
“Then she’d better,” Joseph replied. “She knows it. If anyone can nurse it along, she can.”
“Right.” Matthew opened the back doors and climbed inside.
“I’ll ride with her.” Mason made it a statement, not an offer.
A few minutes later the engine was cranked again. It sputtered to life and they lurched uncertainly forward, then stalled. It took four attempts before they were finally on their way, moving at about twenty-five miles an hour in the cold morning sunlight.
“I think we have to face the fact that the Peacemaker knows Schenckendorff has crossed sides,” Mason said after five minutes of silence as they wound their way with difficulty through a small village. The streets were crowded with carts and people walking: some soldiers, some refugees returning to stare in dismay at once-familiar houses now crumbled to stained and ugly ruin.
“Do you think he’ll send someone else after us?” Judith asked.
“We can’t afford to take it for granted that Hampton was the only one,” Mason replied. “It’s a toss-up which is better: speed on the better and more obvious roads, or discretion in taking byways, perhaps even having to ford the odd stream and follow a few farm tracks.”
“Wouldn’t an ambulance on a farm track draw attention?” she asked. She was worried now. This road was bad enough, and the engine was misfiring. She had no more spark plugs, and much could go wrong now that would be beyond her ability to mend. “And we’ll need more fuel in another fifteen miles.” She smiled grimly. “We might be better to fight, if we have to, than to try running. The poor old thing’s not got it in her anymore.”
“We need to make the coast by tomorrow night, if we can,” Mason answered, a sudden sadness in his voice. “We’ve still got to make it from Dover to London, or from wherever we land.”
“Did you like Dermot Sandwell?” she asked as quietly as she could and still be heard over the noise of the engine. They were through the town and onto open, flat road again. “I met him once,” she added, thinking back to 1915 and a brief leave in London. “He was different, powerful, as if he had a brilliant mind. I remember his eyes: pale blue and very bright.”
Mason thought for a moment or two before he answered. “I don’t think like is the right word,” he said finally. “I admired him. I thought he had a greater vision than the rest of us, and the courage to do what he believed was right for all mankind, not just a narrow few. Other politicians were always so partisan, playing to the crowd. Sandwell was above that. He didn’t really care if he was liked or not, or even if the majority understood him or saw his vision.”
She drove with difficulty for half a mile, veering right and left to avoid all the rubble in the road, and potholes deep enough to break an axle. She was thinking about Mason, and how the disillusion must hurt him. It had been a great dream, selfless. At least that was how he had seen it at the outset.
“How did you know him?” she asked when the road was less dangerous and she could increase speed a little.
“After Africa,” he answered. “We were both involved in the Boer War, although we didn’t meet then. At that time it seemed terrible.”
She looked sideways at him and saw pity and self-mockery in his face. He must have been aware of her gaze, because he turned to meet