Free Strangers in Company by Jane Aiken Hodge Page B

shaking hand. “What’s the matter down there?”
    â€œLet me pass.” It was Cairnthorpe, with his torch, and Marian was glad to stand close against the cold stone and let him by. A babble of voices was coming up, now, from the darkness. Mike’s, anxious; Mrs. Spencer’s; Mrs. Duncan’s; and then, above them all, Mr. Hilton’s, high with fright, “Martha! Martha! Where are you?”
    No answer. Mike’s torch swung back up towards them, its beam pitifully weak, but still strong enough to show a dark something on the stair, a little above where he stood.Mrs. Spencer spoke, with authority. “I’ve done some first aid, let me get to her.”
    More scuffling, and Cairnthorpe’s voice, also surprisingly authoritative. “Please stand still, everyone but Mrs. Spencer. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
    â€œMartha!” There was a sob in Mr. Hilton’s voice now. “Is it Martha? I only stopped to tie my shoelace. Is it Martha?”
    â€œI’m afraid so.” Mrs. Spencer’s voice was sober. “I’m afraid she’s hurt herself. Badly.”
    Dead. That tone could mean nothing else. Marian put out a firm hand to take Stella’s trembling one. “Do you want us to start back up?” she called down to Cairnthorpe. “Or can we help?” It was interesting, she thought that in this moment of crisis, it was Cairnthorpe who had taken command, not Mike.
    But, now, incredibly, a furious argument broke out between them as to who was to stay and who go for help. Common sense surely suggested that Mike, the Greek speaker, should go for help and Cairnthorpe stay with what was now tacitly admitted to be the body. But Mike refused, point-blank. He was responsible, he said, for the group. He must stay and organise the appalling task of getting Mrs. Hilton back up the dark stair.
    Here another voice broke in. Mrs. Duncan’s, Marian thought. “She should be left where she fell,” she said. “For the police.”
    â€œNonsense,” said Mike robustly. “The candles won’t last much longer, for one thing, and what have the police to do with an accident like this?” But, somehow, the argument was over. Cairnthorpe said something under his breath, then turned and started back upwards.
    As the sound of his careful footfalls and the light of his torch dwindled together, silence fell on the party below, broken only by the painful, smothered sound of Mr. Hilton’s sobs. “Those shoes,” he said. “I shouldn’t have let her come. Oh, Martha.…”
    â€œSomeone had better take him up.” This was the Professor, nearer to the scene of the accident than Marianhad expected. “And then I think between us, Mike, you and I and Mr. Adams might …” Straining her eyes, Marian saw Mike’s torch swing round to illuminate Edvardson, who was bending over the huddled figure on the stair. “Yes,” he said, “she lost her right shoe, poor woman.” He raised his voice a little. “Mrs. Frenche, are you there?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œDo you think you and Miss Marten could help Mr. Hilton up? You’ve got a candle, haven’t you? And then perhaps the rest of the party would follow you, and leave the three of us.…”
    â€œYes, of course.” It was obvious sense, and Marian was only surprised that it was Edvardson who had suggested it, not Mike, whose job it was. But then, just because it was his job, it was understandable that Mike should be badly shaken. “Wait here,” Marian told Stella. “I’ll fetch poor Mr. Hilton.” But he was already on his way up to them, being passed carefully from group to group, with light, sympathetic touches and murmurs of would-be consolation in the dark. His face, in the dim candlelight, looked ghastly, but, mercifully, he was now in some degree of shock. Tears trickled uncontrollably