Castle In The Clouds, Chapters 33 & 34

Chapter Thirty Three
Veronica clung to Gibbings. She had seen a way out. 'Come John, the rear door,' she said forcing him up.
She pushed him forward, pointing her finger towards the end of the eastern isle; Gibbings responded by running towards it, Veronica following, watching anxiously as he twisted the handle without success as Dawson's steps quickened behind, and then the door shuddering as Dawson's hand thumped against it.
'No you don't.'
'Get off!' Gibbings abandoned his grip on the handle, rounding on Dawson, thrusting the palm of a hand into his chest.
Dawson grabbed him, cuffing him with the back of a hand as Veronica's anger boiled. She lashed out, her fist catching Dawson on the lip and producing a red trickle. 'I warn you Dawson, I am not some helpless woman you can confine against her will - I am not Llewellyn's possession and if you persist with your present course I will fight you -'
Dawson had been knocked back a step, as enraged, he wiped blood from his lip. 'You will do as I say, woman,' he growled, advancing quickly, snatching Veronica roughly by the thighs and hoisting her to his shoulder.
'Leave her be.' Gibbings shouted above the wind buffeting the rafters, and then a shout from the vestibule laced with the authority of a clergyman. 'What in God's name is going on here? Unhand that woman; have you no respect for the House of the Lord?'
'It is not your Lord that I am responsible to, but my master, Thomas Llewellyn.' Dawson's heavy brows levelled; 'Mind your tongue and stand aside.'
As Dawson faced Reverend Robertson, his back exposed, Gibbings clenched his fists together, drawing back his arms and swinging them as one into the core of Dawson's spine.
Dawson roared in anguish, lost his grip on Veronica and she tumbled from his shoulder towards the church floor. Gibbings gaped in that instant, expecting Veronica's head to hit the ground but somehow she protected it with her arms, rolling away from him.
The fissures on Dawson's cheeks cracked like porcelain as he recovered, scowled and launched himself at Gibbings.
'Get off him you oaf!' Veronica sprang to her feet, leapt on his back, tightened both arms around Dawson's neck, heard him choke as in desperation he whirled, swinging her against the wall.
Winded, Veronica slid to the floor as Dawson bent low, clasping his knees, panting for breath. She grabbed Gibbings' outstretched hand and he pulled her to her feet; she looked up to find the Reverend heading for the rear door, keys jangling in his hand. 'Quick, through here -'
Gibbings and Veronica plunged through the vestry door, Dawson close on their heels.
* *

Llewellyn spared no remorse for his dead sister, she had contrived against him from the outset. This situation was her doing and she had paid the penalty; she'd had the opportunity to leave the castle with ample remuneration and refused - preferring instead to conspire against him. So justice had been done but it wasn't fully effected yet - there was another equally abhorrent figure to deal with - the gardener Gibbings, a most treacherous servant who had contaminated the pure mind of his beloved Veronica -
His objectives were twofold - to account for Gibbings, but overwhelmingly to rescue Veronica, so that their future happiness would be sealed forever. Gibbings must never again be allowed to taint the mind of his intended.
He had to have taken her. If Dawson hadn't already done so he would find them and rectify the situation.
In the castle basement, carved deep into the molten rock which formed the building's base, was the remains of an armoury which had once formed the core of the castle's stronghold. When he'd acquired the castle, Llewellyn had discovered several weapons still intact and though the pistols were no doubt unusable, the sabres he'd found were perfectly preserved in their sheaths.
Delving in the basement now, he selected one, drew it and held it close to his nose with a quivering smile. The perfect solution to the problem; the perfect weapon to effect Gibbings' demise.
Llewellyn didn't bother securing the castle entrance way, the thought didn't enter his mind. Out in the driving rain he marched down the slope. Somewhere in the village he'd find them, he was sure - they were trapped on the island after all.
* *

Veronica thought ahead, marching to the outer door and tugging the handle, before turning towards Robertson for the key.
The noise of Dawson's fist intensified and then the door began to bulge as he applied his shoulder to it. Gibbings cast a sharp glance back, 'It won't hold for long.'
Robertson nimbly slid the key into the lock and ushered them out into the open, locking the external door after them. 'There is a small chapel at the rear of the church garden,' he whispered. 'God willing you will be safe there until you are able to commence your journey.'
'And if not?' Veronica raised her voice above the sudden crescendo of the wind, 'Are you now so certain of the innocence of this island?'
'It was free of violence until your arrival, which is all I know.' There was an edge to Robertson's voice, resentment on his face as he strode towards the rear of the vicarage.
'Foolish man, his principles blur his vision,' Veronica uttered with enough velocity for him to hear. 'Come John, it seems we have no refuge other than the chapel.'
The gravestones stood stark, greying monoliths in a storm, a reminder if any was needed of the peril they were in, but anger clouded Veronica's mind - fury at the Reverend's intransigence, at the way the thug, Dawson, was pursuing them in blind ignorance, in the cause of his "master," who was insane.
If it wasn't for John Gibbings she would regard the shipwreck as the disaster it should have been. But now, even though in great peril, his words loomed large, words she hadn't a chance to answer. "Are you beyond my reach, Veronica?"
"Beyond her reach?" he was every bit within it. Those recollected words shafted arrow-like through the anger she felt, as thoroughly soaked from the driving rain they hurried through the undergrowth to the chapel.
'John Gibbings,' she said, breaking open the door with her foot, 'you are within my reach - I am in love with you, I have fought against it as much as you - though this is not a particularly ambient location to admit such -'
'Damn the location, Veronica, and your highly polished language. All I want is you - and security for my daughter.'
'You shall have both.' Veronica allowed Gibbings to embrace her, to draw her close. Outside, within the vestry, Dawson would soon break through. Well let him come, she would be ready.
* *

Llewellyn had the sabre, he had the means to eliminate Gibbings and dispose of the body in much the same vein he had Dorothea's.
For Gibbings was the only entity which stood between him and his dream -
The cluster of buildings that constituted the hub of the village lay ahead; he only needed the correct one - and it couldn't be that difficult. The inn would be his first port of call, and from there he'd branch out - if he needed to.
The door to the inn was ajar. He pushed it open, the bar was empty and so he climbed the stairs to a room at the top; in the dim light he made out a figure he thought he recognised, that of a man slumped in a chair, a swab to his head, with a tall thin man at his side attending him.
But he gave it no thought, because the ones he sought weren't there.
He heard the tall thin man shout, but his words didn't register - he stumbled down the steep stairs using the railing but not conscious of its support and then outside towards the square where a blast of wind buffeted him. But it had no effect, because a voice was guiding him within, venomous, calling out the name “Gibbings” - he was here in the vicinity and should be accounted for.
Veronica was here and she should be rescued -
At the crossroads the vicarage lay ahead, but he didn't give it thought, he passed it by along with the church - and then he stopped -
Contrasting with the howl of the wind there was a deeper sound, the thud, thud, thud, of a door being struck, could this be Gibbings?
Perhaps Veronica had managed to find refuge - and perhaps any minute he might break through -
If so, he was on hand to rescue the love of his life.

Chapter Thirty Four
Llewellyn drove his tiring body into the wind, forcing his legs to the limit of their endurance; his arms were beginning to flail but his right hand clung steadfastly to the sabre.
Dawson heard his floundering steps in the aisle. 'She's through here,' he grunted, 'with the gardener, but I'm about to change that.' With one further thrust of the shoulder and a splinter of oak he'd broken through.
Dawson hurried into the small box room to find it empty, its outer door swinging back and forth in the storm. Beyond the church the grounds looked empty, descending into undergrowth, with wild heather and bracken rustling furiously in the wind.
'We must find them - and quickly,' Llewellyn gasped, 'before harm comes to Veronica - this is not of her making.'
'I fear,' Dawson sneered, 'she needed little persuasion to flee.'
'It is all that wretched gardener's fault.' Llewellyn wiped rain from his mouth. 'You should have paid more attention to his activities; you were hired to protect her,'
Lofting his head as waves thundered in the distance, Llewellyn raised the sabre, the fingers of his free hand fumbling with the sheath, then finally baring the blade he said angrily, 'Let it not bother you unduly however - I shall soon account for him.'
* *

'The smell is rancid, the air full of decay; can you not smell it, John Gibbings?'
'Would you suggest we open the door?' Gibbings asked, raising his head to watch the rain stream down the chapel's greasy windows, 'Shall we see how long it is before they find us?' He sniffed. 'Women!'
'Men -' with all their witless sarcasm.' Veronica turned her head slowly, forcing a smile as they sat huddled in a recess of the long-disused chapel. 'You realise if he finds us the "game," as they say, is up?'
'We cannot run with nowhere to run to,' Gibbings snapped.
'Kiss me, John Gibbings.'
He sprang forward. 'What?'
'Well, what else will we do to pass away the time?'
Veronica coiled an arm around his neck, held him close, her kiss gentle on his mouth; she felt his rigidity. 'John,' she asked, inching apart, 'is your desire not as great as mine?'
Gibbings sighed, wrenched himself from her grasp. 'This is not the place - and I should be protecting you not hiding like some defenceless animal while Llewellyn's damned henchman closes in - desire has nothing to do with this.'
'Does it not? Does your attitude not derive solely from the fact that you are the man and I am the woman - do you think that should count for anything?'
Veronica traced a finger down Gibbings' cheek and said softly, 'I can see that in your eyes at least - it does.'
Gibbings said nothing, but his blue eyes exuded an added hue that reflected his resentment.
Veronica sat forward, and clasping her hands around her calves studied him. 'Do you think that the gravity of our demise escapes me - how long before the causeway becomes clear to cross?'
Gibbings shrugged. 'I could tell by the light were it not for this storm, the time must be approaching. Damn this man Llewellyn that he should ever have come here.'
'And damn me -'
'Damn you no -' Gibbings let out a great sigh. 'You are the one good thing that's happened - it's just that I feel so powerless to help you.'
'Then let us take our chance - up and go - I trust your judgement, John Gibbings, it cannot be long before the waves relent.'
Veronica held out her hand, allowed Gibbings to pull her up. She met his eyes and asked a question. 'What is it, John?'
'Even with your hair a mess, you look so beautiful.'
She pushed him onto the porch, and together they prepared to brave the storm.
* *

The waters were receding as Rothman reached the causeway, though the debris deposited by the heavy waves rendered it barely passable. But he didn't let that deter him. He couldn't, despite the possible damage to his prized motor vehicle - for the circumstances that had induced his lengthy drive to a location he had no desire to return to, were dire enough to pierce even his conscience.
Rothman had witnessed the change in Llewellyn, from shrewd City businessman to hopeless dreamer - he had seen the deterioration in his appearance, his attitudes and even his increasingly bizarre bodily gestures. And the focus of his dreaming was the enigmatic Veronica Day.
A woman of extraordinary beauty, refined, unconventional in a way that he himself
was; with first class breeding but with an air of mischievousness entwined. Was it her attractiveness that had so beguiled Llewellyn, or was it something inherent in the man himself? Some form of madness waiting to manifest itself with Veronica the unsuspecting trigger?
It was, he thought, the latter.
Whatever the truth, he sensed the change in Llewellyn spelled peril for Veronica. Why, when he'd departed the island just a few days past with such nonchalance should that disturb him so?
He'd an image to live up to; that of a wealthy, sophisticated but carefree young man, an image entirely at odds with his current course of action -
Veronica Day -
There was no denying it, he felt aroused at the very thought of her -
His tingling skin, as he approached the village wasn't a result of the unusual chill - he accepted as much but fought against the conclusion - excitement and Veronica Day seemed inextricably bound.
The castle lay ahead, looming dark against low grey clouds, its turrets engulfed in mist.
Uninviting, unwelcoming in the gloom, stark and uncompromising, and yet Rothman could feel the adrenaline swelling his veins.
He abandoned his Rolls Royce at the bottom of the slope, negotiating the wet cobbles with less caution than he should, reaching the entrance to find the main door flapping back and forth like cardboard in the wind.
An air of foreboding swept over him the moment he stepped inside; the draught that funnelled through the hall approach seemed more akin to a cold wind.
And the whine of the wind was the only sound that met Rothman's ears as like the uninvited guest he was, he searched through a castle void of any life.
Concern mounted to new heights the moment he reached the basement room that had served as an armoury in days long gone; its door wide open as was every other in the deserted former fortress - but this was different, because within the box-shaped room, amidst weapon encasements, wherein most of the explosive fire-power had been rendered useless by age, one case stood empty, the wooden cover hanging from its hinges. The positioning of the retaining brackets told him a sabre had been taken.
Llewellyn had been here. He'd seen his luggage lying unopened on his bed, a weapon had gone - and where now was the king of the castle? More to the point where was Veronica - Dorothea - the intimidating new butler Dawson - just what had happened?
Veronica was resilient, but she was more than that, and in a sense she'd become an
incumbent of the castle under false pretences - it was patently obvious Llewellyn wasn't the attraction for her -
Had there been an attempt to confine her; had she tried to escape?
Had Llewellyn tracked her? Was that the reason the weapon had been removed from its mounting - and where were the others?
Rothman negotiated the treacherous slope down from the castle, reaching the bottom cobbles with the intention of driving to the village and then a dark shape riding the waves - a human form, made him start.
Limbs broken, grotesquely disproportionate to the body, soaked clothing covering its bulk like a shroud - and then a fearful apprehension that this figure so suddenly appearing before his eyes might be Veronica.
Rothman's heart stopped and then resumed beating with an alarming irregularity as he approached the shoreline. He waded in, stooping down amidst the spray that showered his face, took the body in his arms and rolled it over - to stare directly into Dorothea's wide-open, lifeless eyes.
Here was a relief he shouldn't have felt - a woman was dead. But what cruel fate had determined her demise?
Could a similar fate have befallen Veronica? Rothman dare not let that thought take hold of him as, leaving Dorothea's body on the shingle, he returned to his motor vehicle and headed for the village.