The Age of Treachery by Gavin Scott Read Free Book Online Page B

told you.”
    “I’m not sure what difference that makes.”
    “You can’t just go passing on confidences.”
    “Except in a murder enquiry,” said Forrester.
    She stopped; a lamp in the trees illuminated her flushed face, her bright eyes. “Gordon’s your friend,” she said. “What’s more important, following the rules or saving his life?”
    “They’ll find out from somebody else.”
    “They may do, they may not. I’m asking you to promise me they won’t find it out from you.”
    After a moment Forrester said, “Was he really at home with you when Lyall was killed?” He watched her closely as he put the question to her, saw the brief movement of her pupils as they darted away from him before she replied.
    “Of course,” she said. “You don’t think I’m a liar, do you?”
    “You’re asking me to be one,” said Forrester. “To the police.”
    “For Gordon’s sake,” she said.
    She took his hands again, pulling him closer. Forrester felt weak with desire, weak with the effort of hiding it. “Listen,” she said. “I’ve been a total bitch to that man. He didn’t deserve what I did. I’m bitterly ashamed. But if he hangs because of it, I’ll never forgive myself. Please help him, Duncan. Please.” Her wide, desperate eyes were cornflower blue. Her lips were just inches from his; all he wanted was to kiss them. When he spoke it was as much as anything to stop himself doing just that.
    “Alright,” he said. “I won’t mention what Gordon told me.”
    “Thank you,” she breathed, and her lips touched his cheek. “Thank you, Duncan.”
    Almost before he knew it she had released his hand and melted away into the darkness, leaving him feeling like a man who has just sprung into the air off a diving board only to realise that the pool beneath him is empty.
    * * *
    Forrester dined in the hall that night, but spoke to no-one; very few Fellows were present and none of them seemed to have anything to say to one another. The undergraduates eyed them curiously, and whispered among themselves, but none of them dared ask any questions. After an indifferent meal and some indifferent port, Forrester retired early and fell swiftly asleep.
    * * *
    As Forrester slept, Arne Haraldson checked that there was no night nurse in the ward, and rose from his bed. Again, he paused, checked that all the other patients were sleeping, and walked quietly to the dispensary, closing the door gently behind him.
    When he emerged, ten minutes later, only his eyes were visible beneath the bandages which swathed his face. In his hand he was carrying a surgical scalpel.
    Nurse Elizabeth Tremain returned to the ward just as the man emerged from the dispensary, and as she pushed the heavy swing door back and stood there blinking while her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she was unaware that he was standing behind her, hidden by the door. Unaware on one level – but some intuition told her there was something wrong, and she was about to turn round and come face to face with him when the patient in the left-hand bed at the far end of the ward cried out.
    Without further thought Nurse Tremain strode down towards him between the beds, and as she did so the man with the bandaged face stepped out of the ward before the swing doors had even closed.
    When he reached the ground floor the only obstacle between him and the outer door was the porter, who was seated reading that day’s copy of the
Oxford Mail
, in which David Lyall’s murder was fully reported. Hearing a footstep in the hall he looked up and saw – nothing.
    The bandaged man was already outside in the night. The time was approximately 2.30 a.m.
    * * *
    In his rooms, Forrester had been alternating between sleep and wakefulness, disturbed by the usual dreams. Suddenly – he reckoned later it was just after 3.00 a.m. – he found himself sitting upright, sweat pouring from his forehead. He sat there for some time, and knew sleep would not readily return.