Ellis Peters - George Felse 12 - City Of Gold and Shadows by Ellis Peters Page A

suddenly, and checked to strain his ears for the small, recurrent sound that had reached him. ‘Someone else out late, too. This place is getting like Brighton beach.’
    They had reached the gate in the box hedge, and froze in the grass for an instant to listen. Slow, irregular footsteps, audible only by reason of the slight sucking of soft mud at the heels of someone’s shoes as he approached along the path.
    ‘I called the chief inspector,’ said the curator, advancing again to meet the sound. ‘I thought it likely this might be the young fellow he was looking for. But he couldn’t be here yet.’
    ‘He wouldn’t be coming along here, anyhow. He’ll be driving. Mrs Paviour surely wouldn’t walk this way in the dark, would she?’
    ‘Lesley’s home, twenty minutes ago, and gone to bed. I hope she’s sleeping through this disturbance.’
    They walked towards the unsteady steps, and a figure took shape out of the darkness, weaving as it came and blinking dazedly as the lantern was lifted to illuminate its face. Wet and muddy, but moving doggedly under his own steam, Gus Hambro lurched into the circle of his would-be rescuers, braced his rubbery legs well apart, and stood dazzled, holding his head together with both hands.
    ‘It’s him!’ said Charlotte, humanly indifferent to grammar at this crisis. ‘He’s walking… he’s all right!’
    The young man named Lawrence put her aside kindly but firmly, and took over in her place, drawing Gus’s left arm about his shoulders. ‘Man!’ he said admiringly. ‘Are you the tough one! Here, girl, cop hold of this thing, we don’t need a stretcher for types like this.’
    The curator moved to the other side, encircled Gus competently but aloofly, and handed over the lantern. It was Charlotte who led the way back slowly and carefully through the garden. Mounting steps was what Gus found most bewildering at this stage; his feet made manful efforts, but tended to trail, and he was half-carried the last few yards to the door. And yet he had come to himself unaided, clambered to his feet without even the support of a fence to lean on, and made his way some two hundred yards towards the single light of the curator’s open door. A tough one, as Lawrence had observed. Or else his handicap had been rather less than she had reckoned. She was tired by this time, and unsure of her judgement: of stresses, of odds, even of personalities.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Gus, quite distinctly but as if from a great distance. ‘I seem to be causing a lot of trouble.’
    ‘Not to worry, chum!’ said the Lawrence youth benignly, puffing a little on the steps but indestructibly cool and amiable. ‘See that nice, bright hole in the wall? Aim for that, and you’re home and dry!’
    The nice, bright hole in the wall stood wide, as they had left it, gleaming with the reflections of white paint within. They bore steadily down upon it. And suddenly the oblong of light was inhabited. A shadowy silhouette materialised, rather than stepped, into the frame, and stood leaning forward slightly, peering understandably into the dimness outside, and curious about the massed group of figures converging upon the doorway. There was an outside light which no one, so far, had thought to switch on. The girl in the conservatory reached out a hand and flicked the switch, lighting them the last few yards, and floodlighting herself at the same time. Appearing magically out of shadow, suddenly she shone there before them, the focus of light and warmth and refuge. She had not the least idea what was going on, and she was smiling into the night in enquiry and wonder, her brows arched halfway to laughter, her lips parted in a whimsical welcome to whatever might be pending.
    There was one brief moment while she stood illuminated thus theatrically, and still not at all comprehending that the group which confronted her had had a close brush with tragedy. She had a heart-shaped face, of striking, creamy smoothness,