I was about to reach for the matches when I heard another sound. This one didn't come from the direction of the garden. It was soft enough to be barely audible, but my senses were already fine-tuned. I stood frozen with fear. The sound I had heard was the unmistakable creak of a floorboard. Someone was in the house with me.
I wasn't sure what to do next. I had no idea where the sound had come from. I didn't think the floorboards on the ground floor creaked. I knew there was a squeaky board on the stairs, and one on the upstairs landing. If the intruder was upstairs, I might have a chance to escape through the front door. But if he was on the stairs, he'd see me trying to open the front door. On the other hand, he could already have come down the stairs and be waiting for me in the hallway. Not a comforting thought. There was no point in going out to the garden. It was surrounded by high, ivy-covered fences on two sides and the bare wall of another building at the back. Encumbered as I was with skirts and petticoats, I knew I wouldn't be able to scale either of those fences.
I decided against lighting the lamp, on the off chance that he didn't already know I was here. Holding my breath and moving as silently as I could, I pulled open the dresser drawer that contained the cutlery. I would definitely feel more secure with a large carving knife in my hand. My fingers closed around a knife handle and I lifted it from the drawer. There was a gentle swish of metal against metal that made me hold my breath again. Then, knife at the ready, I walked down the hallway.
He wasn't on the stairs. Enough light came through the glass pane at the top of the front door to highlight the shape of the hallstand and to shine on the middle of the staircase. He could, of course, be standing at the top of the staircase, waiting for me to come past. In which case, maybe the glint of a long blade in my hand might dissuade him. My breath sounded as noisy as a puffing steam engine and I pressed my lips together to stop the sound from escaping. I drew level with the hallstand. I had reached the front door and still nothing moved. My hand reached for the door handle. One turn, one tug, and I'd be free.
At that moment I heard an intake of breath behind me. I spun around as a dark shape leaped from the drawing room doorway.
“Stay away from me, I'm armed!” I shouted loudly, waving the knife. I lashed out as he came at me and I saw the glint of metal in his hand. He also had a knife, though not as big as mine. He went to stab and I parried with my knife. There was a satisfying clash of metal and for a wild second I felt as if I was playing the part of D'Artagnon. As soon as this vision flashed through my head the knife came again and I was reminded forcefully that this wasn't playacting, it was real. He made another jab and as I reached to parry, he grabbed my wrist.
“I should have killed you then,” he hissed in a voice little louder than a whisper. His face was close to mine. It was then that I saw his eyes. I had seen those eyes before, in the second before he leaped at me in Paddy's office— that intense, desperate, burning gaze of hate or panic, or both. I struggled violently, trying to free my hand from his grasp.
“How much … did he tell you … The old guy?” he demanded. The words came out between jerks of my arm, trying to get me to drop my knife. I responded with a hefty kick at his shins and a stomp on what I hoped were his feet. I heard another intake of breath, which indicated I might have struck my mark. I fought to get my wrist free but his grip was like steel. At least while I was flailing around with my own knife only inches from his face he wouldn't find me an easy target. His knife flashed toward me. I put up my free arm and the blade sailed harmlessly through the fabric of my leg-of-mutton sleeve. I mouthed a silent thank-you to Gus for providing me with such out-of-fashion garments. There was the sound of cloth ripping as he wrenched the knife free from the fabric. It caught for a moment and I decided to try his own tactic. I made a grab for the wrist that held the knife. My fingers closed around it—a slim wrist, slim as a woman's—and I held on. He let out a growl and hurled me back against the front door. My head crashed against the solid oak and sparks shot across my vision.