Free Rendezvous With Danger by Margaret Pemberton

into the street and walked briskly to my waiting car. The light that had been so piercing was now golden and gentle. It bathed the ancient Town Hall in a warm glow, and danced on the peonies that grew thickly massed in troughs at either side of its front door. In the distance I could see the glint of the slow-moving water beneath the bridge, throwing back reflections of blue and green on to the crumbling stone.
    I had reached the car and was already easing it over the cobbled stones when, above the bustle and chatter of everyday street noises, came the sharp squeal of tyres from the far side of the bridge. A terrible scream nearly drowned the simultaneous sound of a car accelerating at great speed.
    I froze, skin ice-cold. Then pandemonium broke out as other shouts and cries followed in quick succession and people began running in the direction of the river.
    To the left of me, the Burgermeister ran down the steps of the Town Hall, to be joined by a shirt-sleeved man carrying the black bag of a doctor. Together they raced down the street, pushing their way through the crowd who had surged forward, mercifully blocking my view.
    After a few long, dreadful minutes, the watching women slowly began to move back across the bridge, standing in small groups in the village street, crossing themselves as they did so. Unwillingly I saw the silent procession approach. The Burgermeister, surrounded by white-faced villagers, was walking back over the bridge, the inert body of a girl in his arms.
    It was obvious she was dead. The legs hung at a deformed, improbable angle, the white of the bone showing, her bodice and skirt were saturated in blood. Her head lolled grotesquely, like that of a rag-doll, the scarlet headsquare still knotted beneath her chin. Mechanically I noticed, as the grim cavalcade passed me by, that someone had closed her eyes. Then they were gone; and I was left, sick and terrified, behind the wheel of the car.
    â€˜Pardon, Fraulein?’ The elderly man from the coffee-bar stooped low, peering concernedly at me. He crossed himself.
    â€˜Mother of God. He did not stop.’ He repeated it disbelievingly. ‘He did not stop.’
    â€˜Did you … see?’ I managed at last.
    â€˜Nein. The women say she was walking up the Ohringen Road. This maniac drove into her.’ His voice shook. ‘But not to stop. It does not seem possible.’
    I was vaguely aware of horrified voices outside the car, echoing his words, discussing, speculating. The old man was saying, ‘ If only she had stayed a little longer in my shop.’
    But it would have made no difference. At whatever time Christina had left, wearing my headsquare and looking so much like me, the driver of the car would have followed. Would have killed her …
    Dimly I heard the old man wish me goodbye and turn to join one of the whispering cliques that now thronged the street. I went through the motions of starting the car. Turned the key in the ignition, pressed my foot on the accelerator. Hardly aware of my actions I motored slowly over the bridge and past the spot where Christina had been murdered in full view of half the population of Niedernhall. Her bag and its contents lay scattered pathetically in the blood-stained dust and dirt of the country road.
    Driving crazily I left the village, hills and trees speeding past in an unseen blur. That it should have been my body lying in Niedernhall’s Town Hall I hadn’t a minute’s doubt. And when they found out that it wasn’t mine …
    I gripped the steering wheel hard with clammy hands, forcing myself to be calm. I mustn’t panic. A little way ahead I could see the gentle hills and vineyards of Kunzelsau. With a great effort I slowed down, and with Niedernhall lost to view, and Kunzelsau on the horizon, I drew up at the roadside bathed in sweat. I must think. Think.

Chapter Seven
    I’m not sure how long I sat there, struggling to get my thoughts in order. I