The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

The prospect of the trek back through the dark filled her with dread. But it was nothing to the harrowing image of Frank at the door that still hovered over her conscience.

“Of course,” said Marthe, taking Ellen by the hand. “You’ll find it better going back. Return journeys are always easier.”

The two of them descended back down into the black interior of the tower. Marthe was right. It was easier going. But as they approached the light that marked their exit from the darkness, she let go of Ellen’s hand. Ellen stopped in her tracks. Petrified of moving an inch further. She looked at Marthe now standing in the arched doorway. The silhouette of her figure against the outside light morphed into an image of Frank. He stood there on the threshold, taunting her.

She called out “Marthe!” in the hope it would shake the image from her mind.

Marthe turned, took a few steps back and reached out her hand to Ellen.

“It’s all right. You’re almost out now.”

Holding on to the soothing warmth of this guiding hand, Ellen gingerly followed Marthe out of the tower and down the steps to the safety of ground level. The walls that now rose above them, though crumbling, gave Ellen a sense of comfort. It was a feeling reaffirmed by the surrounding trees and bushes, which seemed to have grown all the closer now – as if to protect her – on the walk back down around the outer walls. She caught the hint of smoke from a log-burning stove that told her the hamlet could not be far off. This added to her growing sense of ease, until she was startled by an almighty crack.

Ellen screamed. And stopped in her tracks. The violence of the impact as the stone smacked against the rock just ahead of Ellen, missing her by inches, left her trembling and breathless.

“My God!” Marthe yelled, flashing a look of shocked concern back at Ellen, then looked up at the tower that now loomed above them to see where the masonry had come from.

“That could have killed you!”

Ellen stood stock still. Unable to speak.

“I did say it was dangerous,” Marthe added, “but I’ve never seen such a huge stone fall here before.”

She took Ellen by the hand.

“Come on. You could do with a stiff drink. The Chasseur is only a few minutes from here.”

“Could we go straight on to the village instead, where Urs is meeting us?” Ellen asked, her voice still breathless. “I would just like to get away from here.

“Of course,” Marthe replied. “We’re not due to meet until about three. But there’s a nice little restaurant there where we can get something to eat.”

It was a good fifteen minutes down into the village. When they eventually arrived, Ellen’s nerves were still frayed from the falling masonry and the images of Frank still speaking to her from the back of her mind. She looked forward to sitting down with Marthe for a drink. The weekend hikers were out in force for their country walk, so the restaurant was already quite full, but they found a table in a far corner.

“I would recommend a veal sausage in an onion sauce with rösti. And a glass of Dôle. Do you like red wine?” Marthe asked.

Ellen nodded.

“Then let’s make that a bottle.”

“Santé,” Marthe added at last, raising her glass once the waitress had poured the wine. “You had quite a shock up there. This should do you good.”

She rested a comforting hand on Ellen’s as they drank. The gladdening warmth of this gesture both enthralled and disconcerted Ellen in equal measure. A confused blurring of emotions that left her pondering their drift.

Chapter 8

The Hotel St. Gotthard lay in a side street close to the railway station. For an early Monday morning the central square in front of the station seemed especially lively. Frank Eigenmann preferred to avoid stations even at the best of times – but today the throng of travellers reminded him all too vividly of all the other parts of the world he might be in at that moment and of his good fortune to enjoy the safety offered by this station in particular.

Frank had not told Achim he would be calling on him that morning. But his old friend did not seem surprised to see him. After their tense reunion, Frank was a little apprehensive. He wondered how he might be received if he turned up unannounced. But Achim seemed genuinely pleased and welcoming.

Gertrude had taken the two baby boys to the zoo, he explained, while he sorted things out. Maybe it was this brief parole from his responsibilities that made him appear less anxious, less ill at ease. Or perhaps it was Frank’s obvious disappointment over their meeting in the restaurant that prompted him now to make a special effort on his behalf.

“Here,” he said.

Fishing deep into the same mysterious rucksack which he had carried with him earlier and which he now took from the wardrobe, Achim pulled out a bottle and held it enticingly up for Frank to admire.

“Gerti hates me drinking this stuff, but whenever I’m in Alsace, I feel duty bound to buy a bottle. And since we have something to celebrate, I’m sure she won’t object, even at this hour on a Monday morning.”

Achim leaned the rucksack against the table, took the two tumblers that stood by the washbasin and poured a measure of the liquid with slow precision into each glass. Then handed one to his old friend.

“Here’s to us.” He tossed the drink back with infectious enthusiasm. Frank followed suit. And Achim watched his expression intently for every nuance of reaction.

“Don’t you find it exquisite?” he asked, when Frank failed to respond. “The very best Mirabelle brandy that money can buy.”

“Hmm” was all Frank managed in reply as he concentrated on savouring the elixir. He was impressed, but felt that Achim had misinterpreted the non-committal hum of satisfaction.

“My dear Frank,” he said. There was a genuine edge of