Eye of the Needle(60)

She had one foot on the lowest stair when she heard the tapping sound. She stopped, frowned, decided it was the wind rattling something and took another step. The sound came again. It was like someone knocking on the front door.

That was ridiculous, of course. There was no one to knock on the front door—only Tom, and he always came to the kitchen door and never knocked.

The tapping again.

She came down the stairs and, balancing the tea tray on one hand, opened the front door.

She dropped the tray in shock. The man fell into the hall, knocking her over. Lucy screamed.





SHE WAS FRIGHTENED only for a moment. The stranger lay prone beside her on the hall floor, plainly incapable of attacking anyone. His clothes were soaking wet, and his hands and face were stone-white with cold.

Lucy got to her feet. David slid down the stairs on his bottom, saying, “What is it? What is it?”

“Him,” Lucy said, and pointed.

David arrived at the foot of the stairs, clad in pajamas, and hauled himself into his wheelchair. “I don’t see what there is to scream about,” he said. He wheeled himself closer and peered at the man on the floor.

“I’m sorry. He startled me.” She bent over and, taking the man by his upper arms, dragged him into the living room. David followed. Lucy laid the man in front of the fire.

David stared at the unconscious body. “Where the devil did he come from?”

“He must have been shipwrecked…the storm…”

But he was wearing the clothes of a workman, not a sailor, Lucy noticed. She studied him. He was quite a big man, longer than the six-foot hearth rug—and heavy round the neck and shoulders. His face was strong and fine-boned, with a high forehead and a long jaw. He might be handsome, she thought, if he were not such a ghostly color.

He stirred and opened his eyes. At first he looked terribly frightened, like a small boy waking in strange surroundings; but, very quickly, his expression became relaxed, and he looked about him sharply, his gaze resting briefly on Lucy, David, the window, the door, and the fire.

Lucy said, “We must get him out of these clothes. Fetch a pair of pajamas and a robe, David.”

David wheeled himself out, and Lucy knelt beside the stranger. She took off his boots and socks first. There almost seemed to be a hint of amusement in his eyes as he watched her. But when she reached for his jacket he crossed his arms protectively over his chest.

“You’ll die of pneumonia if you keep these clothes on,” she said in her best bedside manner. “Let me take them off.”

The man said, “I really don’t think we know each other well enough—after all, we haven’t been introduced.”

It was the first time he had spoken. His voice was so confident, his words so formal, that the contrast with his terrible appearance made Lucy laugh out loud. “You’re shy?” she said.

“I just think a man should preserve an air of mystery.” He was grinning broadly, but his smile collapsed suddenly and his eyes closed in pain.

David came back with clean nightclothes over his arm. “You two seem to be getting on remarkably well already,” he said.

“You’ll have to undress him,” Lucy said. “He won’t let me.”

David’s look was unreadable.

The stranger said, “I’ll manage on my own, thanks—if it’s not too awfully ungracious of me.”

“Suit yourself,” David said. He dumped the clothes on a chair and wheeled out.

“I’ll make some more tea,” Lucy said as she followed. She closed the living room door behind her.

In the kitchen, David was already filling the kettle, a lighted cigarette dangling from his lips. Lucy quickly cleared up the broken china in the hall, then joined him.

“Five minutes ago I wasn’t at all sure the chap was alive—and now he’s dressing himself,” David said.

Lucy busied herself with a teapot. “Perhaps he was shamming.”

“The prospect of being undressed by you certainly brought about a rapid recovery.”

“I can’t believe anyone could be that shy.”

“Your own lack in that area may lead you to underestimate its power in others.”

Lucy rattled cups. “Let’s not quarrel today, David—we’ve got something more interesting to do. For a change.” She picked up the tray and walked into the living room.

The stranger was buttoning his pajama jacket. He turned his back to her as she walked in. She put the tray down and poured tea. When she turned back he was wearing David’s robe.

“You’re very kind,” he said. His gaze was direct.

He really didn’t seem the shy type, Lucy thought. However, he was some years older than she—about forty, she guessed. That might account for it. He was looking less of a castaway every minute.

“Sit close to the fire,” she told him. She handed him a cup of tea.

“I’m not sure I can manage the saucer,” he said. “My fingers aren’t functioning.” He took the cup from her stiff-handed, holding it between both palms, and carried it carefully to his lips.

David came in and offered him a cigarette. He declined.

The stranger emptied the cup. “Where am I?” he asked.

“This place is called Storm Island,” David told him.