Walking in Darkness

My God, Sophie thought, if she had never come here they would never have known. This was another mortal blow she had dealt them. She stared at the window and saw the wintry sky moving overhead, saw the pale wraith of the sun among the slowly drifting clouds, and thought of all the years that had passed since her father turned his back on his old life, his family, his country. He must have thought he would never see any of them again. How could he possibly guess that the young girl he met as an American heiress, the daughter of a leading American politician, was actually his own daughter?

He would never have known if she hadn’t come looking for Anya. It all went back to that. She wished to God she had never started out on that quest.

At that instant she caught sight of a figure in a mirror on the wall opposite the open door. Sophie stiffened. Cathy was standing on the stairs. How long had she been there? Oh, God. Could she hear their voices? Had she heard what Paul had been saying?

As Sophie watched her, Cathy began to move, silently, stealthily, treading on tiptoe down the stairs. Sophie almost believed she was seeing something that wasn’t there: a soundless vision. Only the faint icy tinkling of the magnificent chandelier which hung above the hall betrayed the fact that Cathy was there, her movements making the glass drops sway slightly and chime like fairy bells. Where was she going?

She had changed out of her elegant amber dress and was wearing riding clothes: crisp, pressed beige jodhpurs, a shirt and over that a duck-egg-blue sweater. The outfit suited her; made her look very English, very cool and collected. Preppy, the Americans called it, that look, it was as English as bluebells and roses, and cricket on a village green. Who would believe that this very English girl was really a Czech?

And then, before she reached the last stair, she turne

d to take one quick look into the drawing-room, and her face told a different story, paper-white with shadowy dark stains under the eyes, which had a wild, crazy look, her mouth colourless, trembling, a little tic going beside it.

Sophie’s stomach plunged. She knows, she thought. Oh, God, poor Cathy, she knows, she must have heard everything Paul said.

Why did I come here, why did I insist on seeing her? This is all my fault. I did this to her. Tears began to steal down her face and Steve exclaimed softly, frowning. ‘Hey, kid, not more tears. How much salt water have you got in there, for heaven’s sake?’

A second later Cathy’s image in the mirror vanished as soundlessly as it had appeared and Sophie gave a shattered sob, putting a hand up to her mouth to silence it, pushed Steve away and began to run after her sister.

‘Where are you going?’ Steve asked, coming after her, grabbing her shoulder to stop her. She gave him a frantic look, struggling against his hand.

‘Let go of me! I have to talk to Cathy!’

‘Leave her alone,’ Paul bit out harshly, glaring. ‘She’s upstairs, resting. Give her a little peace, can’t you? She’s going to need all the strength she’s got later.’

Breaking free of Steve, Sophie sobbed, ‘She isn’t upstairs, I just saw her going out of the front door.’

‘What?’ Paul’s eyes leapt with fear and pain, a pain Sophie flinched from, a pain that no one should ever have to bear.

‘She was wearing riding clothes, she must be going to the stables,’ Sophie said, but he was gone before she had finished speaking, his running feet very loud on the polished hall floor.

They all went after him, then stopped outside, under the elegant portico of the house, hearing hoofbeats on grass, staring as Cathy rode into view on her big chestnut horse.

‘Cathy! Cathy, for God’s sake!’ Paul yelled, still running, then stopped and stared after her, shouting her name in a hoarse, strangled voice. ‘Cathy! Cathy, come back!’

She didn’t look back or even seem to hear him. Her body moved instinctively with the horse, her knees pressed into its shining flanks, the reins held loosely in her hands. The two of them were galloping full out now and Sophie’s heart beat hard in her chest. She was so terrified she could scarcely breathe. They were covering the ground so fast; she suddenly saw that there was a stone wall, about twenty feet high, ahead of rider and horse. Too high to jump, Sophie thought, too high – turn, Cathy, turn!

‘Don’t, don’t,’ she muttered aloud, her hands clenched at her sides, trembling with tension and dread. ‘No, Cathy, don’t . . .’

Echoing her, Paul screamed it out, ‘No, Cathy, don’t!’ and began to run again, over the flat green parkland.

Gowrie was white. ‘If she doesn’t pull up now she’ll hit the wall of the rose garden,’ he whispered.

At the last second the chestnut seemed to realize its danger; it sheered sideways abruptly, galloping along the wall instead of continuing on its path towards it.

Cathy was flung off, her body flying in an arc for a second before she hit the ground.

Paul reached her a few moments later and fell on his knees, bending over her.

Steve had been a reporter most of his adult life. He would have described himself as immune to shock, hardened by years of exposure to the sensational aspects of human life and human death, to murder and cruelty, cunning and crime – but he found he could still be knocked off balance. The sun was shining and birds singing in the green parkland; it was a beautiful morning. Steve was shaking so much he couldn’t even move. Cathy had always loved riding, being out in the country whatever the weather, tiring herself out, exercising one of the Easton horses. She had had accidents before – but she had never been seriously hurt. Until now.

His heart sinking, he knew that this time was different. She wasn’t going to get off with a few bruises this time, or even just a broken bone or two.

Paul got up, holding her in his arms, and began to walk back towards them.

Sophie was so terrified that she clutched at Steve to stay upright, and he looked down at her briefly, putting his arm around her. He opened his mouth to say something comforting, make some automatic, soothing remark like, ‘It’s OK . . . It will be all right . . . don’t worry . . .’ But he couldn’t, because he felt the way she did; he couldn’t lie about it.

They knew, before Paul reached them, that Cathy was dead. Her body was slack and limp. She lay in his arms like a doll, her head hanging down backwards over his arm, her dark hair swinging at every step he took. And Paul was crying silently, tears running down his face.