Beginner's Luck Read online

  I climbed quickly to the copse and went through it and dropped down into the dip. I negotiated that, crouching low, and in a few moments I came to the edge of the gap. I lay down in the grass and turned my binoculars on the still distant tower. Presumably Smith had taken Mollie down into the courtyard by now but he wasn’t the sort of chap to count on immunity just because he had walls around him and I felt sure he would return to the tower from time to time to have a look round. It was these possible visits that I was concerned about.

  I kept the glasses on the tower for a full ten minutes, but I couldn’t detect any movement at all. I scrutinised all the loopholes, but there was no sign of anyone there either. It seemed safe to cross to the hazels. I put my head down, and clutched the binoculars tight, and made a bolt for it. I was across in seconds. I had another look at the tower, but there was still no movement.

  I began to move slowly round the moat, always keeping the bushes between me and the tower. It was the first time I’d walked round the edge. I’d gone only a few yards when I came across what looked like an old pontoon in the water. It was a shallow box, about five feet square, moored against the bank among the lilies. It was roughly made and pretty rotten, but it still floated. Probably, I thought, it had been used for fishing. I pulled it in cautiously, until it was concealed by the bushes, and tried my weight on it. There was very little freeboard, and water began to seep in ominously through the bottom, but I thought it would get me over to the wall if I ever wanted to go.

  I crept on through the hazel bushes until I was directly opposite the front face of the tower. I sat down on the bank, and through a gap in the leaves I set to work to study the wall in earnest. The glasses were powerful, and I could see every crevice. And there were crevices. At close quarters the ancient stone was pocked with irregularities. With a growing sense of excitement I followed them up from the water, noting possible finger holds and toe holds, and they took me right to the top. But there, my imaginary climb struck an insuperable obstacle—the overhang. The five stone corbels which carried the parapet on that side sloped sharply outwards. There were spaces between the corbels, shaped like small arches, into which I might climb. But above them was the protruding parapet itself, and I could see at a glance that those last few feet were beyond the skill of any unaided climber.

  However, my hopes had been aroused, and I wasn’t in the mood to abandon the project lightly. The tower, jutting out into the moat some fifteen feet from the main wall, had three approachable faces and I worked my way back through the hazels to have a look at one of the sides. I saw at once that the architecture was different. There were only four corbels instead of five. Where the fifth should have been, a section of the tower wall rose straight above the main battlements. If I could climb up near the angle there’d be nothing to prevent me reaching the top.

  I turned my glasses on the wall near the angle—and my spirits sank. There were one or two footholds, but nothing like enough to provide a way up. The stonework there seemed less weathered. I studied the main wall, forty feet high, between the square tower and the round one at the corner of the castle. If I could reach the battlements at any point, I might still make it. But again I failed to find a route. I switched the glasses back to the side of the square tower and inspected the surface near the angle where it joined the front face, and that looked more hopeful. But here, again, I should be stopped by the overhang.

  Then I had another idea. The iron slats that had been put in to guard the gap must run along the top of the arches between the corbels. If I could reach them, and get a firm handhold, I could probably swing my way over each corbel in turn until I came to the point where the overhang stopped. In fact, I felt pretty certain that I could. Whether I could do it silently was another matter. But I knew now that I had to make the attempt.

  It would have to be done, of course, in daylight. That meant running risks over and above those of the climb itself, for the job might take an hour or more and I’d be pretty conspicuous clinging to the wall—from above, if anyone happened to look down, and from the fields around, if anyone chanced to be passing. But those risks could be reduced by starting early. Crack of dawn was clearly the time, when there’d be no one about and—with luck—Smith would still be dozing.

  I gave the surface of the tower wall a final, detailed scrutiny, memorising each of the holds so that the route was fixed in my mind like a photograph. Then I crept back through the bushes, whipped across the gap, and dropped down to the kissing-gate. I had a lot to do.

  I collected the Riley from the pub and drove quickly up to London. I had a little flat on a top floor in Chancery Lane and I went straight there. I got out my climbing-boots, and an old windcheater that I always used on climbs because it had a smooth surface and wasn’t likely to catch on anything. I also found two flat bits of wood that would do for paddles.

  I lunched well away from Fleet Street, and in the afternoon I drove back to the Castle Arms. I asked if there had been any messages for me, but there hadn’t. It looked as though my letter to Blair had done the trick as far as the office was concerned.

  I decided that I’d have to skip my regular visit to the castle that night. Smith would wonder what had happened to me, but he wasn’t likely to do anything drastic just because I’d failed to turn up once. He’d be annoyed not to get his cigarettes and the new battery, but at least there was plenty of food and water at the tower for one more day. And if I was going to be in good condition for that climb, I needed sleep—a long night’s sleep.

  I turned in soon after dinner and slept soundly until three, the waking hour I’d mentally appointed. I put on my climbing-boots and laced them up tightly, stuck my trouser bottoms into my socks, zipped up the windcheater and crept downstairs. It was still quite dark. I let myself out and walked slowly up the hill to the kissing-gate, with the wooden paddles under my arm. The air was soft, the morning was fine, and there was almost no wind. Climbing conditions should be perfect. I felt exhilarated at the prospect of action, and not unhopeful.

  I reached the pontoon, and sat down to wait for daylight. Slowly, the old grey pile emerged from the shadows. It had never seemed more serene and beautiful. A line of someone’s verse came into my mind—“Look thy last on all things lovely every hour.” For all I knew, I was looking my last on the castle. If I slipped and fell into the moat from sixty feet with these heavy nailed boots on, I didn’t give much for my chances. But desperation left no room for fear—and at any moment now I was going to be much too occupied to worry.

  I watched the paling sky. The first faint trace of blue was beginning to show. I turned my glasses on the tower roof, but there was nothing visible—and nothing audible. Except for the twittering of birds, the first stirring of the dabchicks at the water’s edge, everything was still.

  Half past four! This was the moment. I stepped gingerly into the pontoon and untied the painter and pushed off. The water began to seep in at once and I watched it anxiously. It was rising fast but not, I thought, dangerously. It shouldn’t take me long to reach the castle. Very quietly, I lowered the paddles into the water. The pontoon proved to be shockingly unmanœuvrable, and I turned two complete circles before I got any sort of control over it. I hadn’t reckoned on that. But the knack soon came, and I began to make progress. I didn’t dare to hurry—silence was vital. The water lilies were a nuisance, slowing the boat and tangling with the paddles, but I found narrow leads among them and pressed on. In two or three minutes I had reached the wall. There was nothing to tie up to, but on this windless day I thought the pontoon would rest quietly where I left it. Anyway, with a bit of luck I wouldn’t need it again. I manœuvred it to the foot of the face that I was going to climb, and looked up. I could see daylight through the slats, sixty feet above me. They looked a hell of a way away! I stood up in the pontoon, steadying myself against the rough wall. I had the feeling that my platform might sink under me at any moment, but I didn’t care any more. I found my first fingerhold and my first toehold, and te
sted them both. Then I pulled myself gently clear of the pontoon. I was off!

  Chapter Fifteen

  The first few feet were easy. There were two good toeholds in broken stone and a deep crevice to get my fingers into and almost at once I was able to pull myself up to the first loophole. It wasn’t the usual slit, it was a small round aperture, just big enough to take my boot. I stood there comfortably and examined the wall above my head. The going looked pretty good as far as the second loophole, which was about halfway up the tower. The holds I had noted through the glasses were even better at close quarters. I continued to climb, slowly and steadily, relying on my feet for upward progress and using the handholds as anchors. There were plenty of handholds, where old mortar had fallen from between the courses of the stones, but good toeholds were rarer. I owed most of them, I imagined, to some ancient bombardment, that had chipped out lumps of solid stone.

  I approached the middle loophole with more than a climber’s care, for it gave access to the first-floor room of the tower and I couldn’t be certain that Smith had made no change in his sleeping-arrangements. I raised myself cautiously till my eyes were level with the bottom of it, and peered in. But it was all right—the room was empty. I drew myself up and got a foot in the loophole and rested again. I had been on the wall for twelve minutes. I glanced around, across the moat to the broad surrounding fields—but only to make sure there was no one about. “Keep your eye on the ball and to hell with the scenery!” is a pretty sound climbing adage—and the only panorama I was interested in at that moment was the view of Smith’s face when he didn’t have his gun any more.

  I inspected the wall again, and there was a pitch ahead that I didn’t at all like the look of now that I was near it. One essential toehold was no more than a rough granite edge where a sliver of stone had weathered and sliced off. I’d be all right if it held, but I didn’t feel too sure that another bit might not slice off, too, under my weight. Still, it was either that or back to the water. I pressed on, and got a foot firmly in place, and heaved myself up. It seemed all right. I found a deep crack for my right hand, moved my right foot to a new hold and, with relief, took my weight from the dubious one.

  Then, suddenly, it happened. The new toehold just disintegrated and in a second I was hanging by my hands alone. I was so close to the wall that I couldn’t look down. I could find no place for my toes anywhere. The situation had become a bit desperate. At that moment I’d have given a good deal to know that I had a reliable leader above me, with a nice length of rope and a good anchorage.

  I looked along to the right, and there were a couple of fairish toeholds about eight feet away, almost in the middle of the face. From there, upwards, it didn’t look too bad. The problem was to reach them. The only way was by a hand-traverse along the crack between the courses, and I started to work my way slowly along it. After a moment I found a hollow as big as an eggcup, that made a very firm hold for fingers, and when I’d passed it and got my left hand there I took my whole weight for a moment on the one hand while I poked out some loose mortar with the fingers of the other. I was nearly there now. I shifted along a bit farther, and found the new toehold, and the second one, and breathed again. I pressed close to the wall, getting the maximum friction hold from my clothes, and relaxed a little. My arms, constantly raised in a way that impeded circulation, were beginning to feel the strain badly.

  Still, I hadn’t much farther to go, and I felt reasonably confident. As a technical feat, the climb didn’t amount to much. Certainly, compared with the four hundred feet of the Eagle’s Nest Arête, the almost vertical, well-nigh ledgeless buttress in the Lakes that I’d climbed for fun at Easter, it was child’s play. The only thing was, there hadn’t been a man with a gun at the top of the Eagle’s Nest!

  Soon I set off again. Inch by inch and foot by foot I worked my way delicately upwards, moving gradually over to the left until I was almost in a vertical line with my starting point. In a few moments I had reached the third and last of the loophole slits. I was only a foot or two now from the bottom of the parapet.

  I listened, but I couldn’t hear anything. No limping steps, no sounds of talk. I was too early for them. I climbed a little farther and got a foothold in the loophole and looked up. My fingers were only a few inches from the iron slats. I squeezed myself between two of the corbels and made a final effort and gripped one of the slats. I had a bit of a shock as I put my weight on it, because it was much springier than I’d expected and sagged a bit in the middle. But I was all right—I’d made it!

  Now I had to work my way past the jutting corbels to the part of the wall that was clear. The brackets looked bigger and more formidable close to, and I could see they were going to take some negotiating. I squeezed up against the first one, swinging on one hand like a monkey from a branch, and passed my other hand round the protruding stonework, groping for the next bit of slat. I just managed to reach it. I took a firm hold, and drew myself round the face of the stone. Good! If I could pass one, I could pass them all. I looked up again—and suddenly I froze.

  Smith was slumped against the parapet, immediately over my head. He was lying at an odd angle, presumably so that he could still reach the door with his foot. From the almost imperceptible movement of his body, I judged him to be asleep or dozing. I could see an area of trouser, and a bit of blanket, and an inch or so of hairy wrist. I pulled myself up as high as I could into the arch between the corbels, and I saw that his right hand was in his trouser pocket. What was more, so was his gun! I could just see the butt.

  I felt far more agitated at that moment than at any time on the way up—for I could reach it! This was my opportunity; my first real chance, and probably my last. If I could get it away without disturbing him, and reach the roof before he woke, our worries would be over. But getting it was going to be ticklish. I drew myself up as high as possible with my left hand and cautiously inserted my right hand between the slats. The butt of the gun wasn’t clear of the pocket; it would need easing. I felt like a man de-fusing an unexploded mine. One touch on that wrist could set everything off. I got two fingers on the butt and pressed them together in a pinching movement and tried, very gently, to draw out the gun. There was resistance; the corner of the pocket was still holding it. I didn’t know whether to go on trying to ease it out, or make one quick grab which would be disastrous if it failed. I tried easing it again, but it wouldn’t come. I’d have to grab! If I succeeded, I’d have to disable him with the gun before he had a chance to get at Mollie and start mauling her. I had no choice.

  By now the pull on my left arm was almost unendurable. I grasped the slat with my right hand, to ease the pressure for a moment, and let go with my left—and somewhere along the roof there was a sharp, metallic twang. In an instant, Smith was wide awake, with the gun in his hand. He gazed around uncertainly. I heard him go over to Mollie’s corner, and come back again. He leaned out over the parapet. Then he glanced down—and saw me. At first he looked quite incredulous. Then an evil grin spread slowly over his face.

  “Well!” he said, “if it isn’t Mr. Curtis! Another cat burglar, eh?—and a very accomplished one, too. You know, I’m almost inclined to offer you a partnership. This is most amusing.”

  It didn’t amuse me. I felt like hell. I felt worse than I’d ever felt in my life.

  I said, “I can’t hang on here for ever, Smith. What happens now?”

  He swung the gun playfully. “How about a rap or two on the knuckles, Mr. Curtis?” He brought the butt down on the back of my left hand, not hard, but very painfully. I had to loosen my grip.

  “If you do that again,” I said, “I shall fall.”

  “So I imagine. Perhaps a swim will cool your ardour for these adventures.”

  “I’m wearing climbing-boots,” I said. “I’m pretty tired. I’ll never get ashore if I fall. And if I don’t, you won’t.”

  He grinned. “You think of everything.” He put the gun back in his pocket.

  I said, “Can I come
up?”

  “How would you get out of the castle door?”

  I’d forgotten the door. It was locked, of course, and the key wouldn’t unlock it from the inside. “Then I’ll have to climb down again,” I said.

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry Miss Bourne can’t come and wish you good morning—she’s still wired up. But I’ll release her in time to see something of your descent. I’m sure she’ll be most impressed by your skill.”

  I began to move back past the corbel on the left.

  “Perhaps,” he said, following me along, “now that you’ll be less busy you’ll find time to bring those cigarettes to-night. I get in a very bad temper when I can’t smoke. And we’re almost out of water.”

  “I’ll be along,” I said.

  I found the first loophole with my foot, and rested. I wasn’t at all looking forward to the climb down. Not that a descent is actually worse than an ascent, but all the hope and excitement had gone out of the day. I was a broken army in retreat. Still, you can’t descend a sheer wall with half your mind, and I forced myself to concentrate again on the job. Once, when I looked up, I caught sight of Mollie’s face, peering through the slats. It was rigid with horror. I didn’t look again.

  I had no difficulty in remembering the holds. They were etched in my mind as deeply as in the wall itself. I managed the hand-traverse successfully, negotiated the dangerous bit where the granite had broken away, and reached the middle loophole. The rest was easy. Ten minutes later I was lowering myself into the pontoon. Relieved of my weight, it had made very little more water. I sloshed out a few gallons with my hands, and paddled slowly off through the water lilies. It sank under me as I touched the bank.