The absurd thought came to Curtis that if something had happened to da Silva, if there had been foul play, he would never touch his hair again. His throat tightened crazily then, and he stood alone in the desolate folly, choked by the absence of a man he barely knew.
The endless, horrible day dragged on. Curtis ranged over the grounds till twilight fell, seeing nothing, then retreated to the library again before dinner, because the presence of the other guests was beginning to scrape on his nerves like barbed wire on skin. He was staring at a page of an Oppenheim novel he thought he’d read before when Armstrong and Holt came in.
“We’re looking for Grayling,” Armstrong said. He seemed a little more friendly than he had the previous night. “Want to make a fourth at billiards?”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Missing your partner?” asked Holt with a touch of nastiness.
“Who, da Silva? Hardly. I like to win now and again.” He was not in the mood for this bloody pointless banter, the endless meaningless chaff of people without purpose or employment in life. Holt was right about that much; it was no way for men to live. Although Holt seemed to enjoy it well enough.
Another day, and he would leave this damned place, Curtis told himself. One more day to look for da Silva.
Recklessly, he asked Armstrong, “What happened there? Pinching the spoons, was he?”
Holt glanced at Armstrong and opened his mouth, but Armstrong was already replying cheerfully, “Caught him fuzzing the cards. Holt was quite right about him being a sharp, you know.”
“Well, by God,” Curtis said. “I owe you an apology, Holt, you’re quicker on the uptake than I. I was quite in the dark about that.”
Armstrong gave a bray of laughter. “You’re not the only one in the dark. Eh, Holt?”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Holt snapped. “What about that game, Curtis?”
Curtis indicated his knee in answer, and the younger men retreated. He thought he heard a very quiet murmur of subdued speech from the other side of the door as they left.
The earlier whisper of fear was now a scream. He did not believe that da Silva had been playing cards with Holt and Armstrong last night. If he had, it was just possible that he had been caught cheating—it was not the act that Curtis doubted, but the being caught in it. But in that case the two young men would have made a terrific fuss, which Curtis would have heard. It was out of the question that Holt would have let such a thing be brushed under the carpet. They were both lying.
That meant Holt was in on the business.
Curtis didn’t know why he hadn’t considered that before. James Armstrong was a boisterous fool, idling away his days in play. Holt had a brain, and a nasty streak. An up-and-coming man, a bright fellow, seeing James Armstrong’s opportunities and helping him exploit them. Serving the decadents he despised with their just deserts.
Yes, Holt was in on it, Curtis was sure. He knew what was going on, and he hadn’t liked that remark of Armstrong’s just now. His smile had been false as hell, and he had changed the subject with a wrench. He should have been crowing at the story of da Silva caught cheating at cards. Instead, he’d led the talk away from Armstrong’s words…
You’re not the only one in the dark.
Curtis thought about that. He thought about the conversation last night, and da Silva’s shuddering admission of his dislike of caves and underground spaces. Then he shut his eyes and breathed very deeply, because what he was thinking made him feel nauseated, and enraged, and terrified as he thought of that dreadful black sinkhole where a body might fall for miles…
And a little hopeful. Because there were those who wanted their enemies dead, and there were those who made them suffer first. Surely, if one hated a man, and knew that he feared dark caves, might one not leave him alive there, underground, at least for a while?
Curtis was never afterwards sure how he got through the rest of the evening. He made what must have been appropriate remarks. He ate, and drank. He did not spring on Holt or Armstrong and choke the lives out of the bastards. He went to bed early, and made himself sleep for two hours, and at one o’clock in the morning, he took the flashlight and moved as quietly as possible downstairs.
He let himself out of the kitchen door and set off for the caves, skirting round the gravel drive and stony paths for a good quarter-mile to avoid the carrying sound of crunching feet.