Damsel in Distress

by Carola Dunn

  “Thank you, dear. You are staying at the Wedge and Beetle, I understand, Mr. Fletcher. I trust you find it comfortable?”

  “As a matter of fact, I haven’t tried it yet. I spent last night at Fairacres.”

  “Indeed! Of course, Edgar and Geraldine have not yet quite found their feet in their new position.” The dowager’s tone said clearly that she doubted they ever would, as evidenced by their inviting someone like Alec to stay.

  Her mastery of the veiled insult had to be admired, but Daisy wasn’t going to let her bully Alec. Not that he was exactly bullyable. He still looked amused, she noted, handing him his glass.

  “Edgar and Geraldine seem to have settled in very nicely,” she said brightly.

  Her mother sniffed, but she was not to be deflected from her primary target. Sitting down, and inviting Alec to do likewise, she said, “Who are your people, Mr. Fletcher? I don’t believe I’m acquainted with anyone of that name.”

  “My earliest ancestors of whom we have any record,” Alec expounded, “were medieval arrow-makers and bowmen. By the sixteenth century, the family took a literary turn. I regret to say we cannot claim John Fletcher, of Beaumont and Fletcher fame, but you have heard, perhaps, of Giles Fletcher the Elder? No? He was a poet and author of a book on Russia, and he passed on his gifts to his sons, Giles the Younger and Phineas, both noted poets and churchmen in their time. Giles’s sermons were much admired, and Phineas’s poems attacking the Jesuits were very well received, though for my part I prefer his delightful descriptions of rural scenery.”

  Daisy felt almost as dazed as her mother looked. Continuing, Alec managed to appear to take pity on them.

  “I shan’t bore you with the next few centuries,” he said with a sweeping gesture which seemed to unjustly exclude swarms of distinguished forebears. “My father had no literary aspirations. His vocation lay in the world of finance.”

  Mr. Fletcher the Elder had been the manager of a North London branch of the Westminster Bank, Daisy knew. Her suspicious glance at Alec was answered with the suspicion of a wink.

  Thinking back over what he had said, she realized the “record” of his early ancestors could well be no more than the name itself. Nor had he actually claimed to be descended from the poetical Fletchers. Oh, the tortuous mind of a detective!

  “Finance?” The dowager was at least slightly impressed. “You have followed in your father’s footsteps?”

  “No, I decided to dedicate my modest talents to the protection of society.”

  “The Army?” Lady Dalrymple asked eagerly. The Army was a perfectly acceptable profession.

  “The police,” Alec said blandly.

  “Good gracious!” Aghast, Lady Dalrymple stared at him, apparently trying to picture him in a blue helmet, swinging a truncheon. “I must say, I’d never have guessed,” she admitted in a weak voice, looking daggers at Daisy.

  “He’s quite presentable for a bobby, isn’t he?” Having thrown this provocation into the ring, Daisy decided her mother was ripe for the dénouement. “As a matter of fact, Alec is a Detective Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard.”

  “Oh, plain-clothes!” The elimination of the awful prospect of a son-in-law in police uniform mollified her, just as Daisy had hoped. In comparison, a high-ranking detective was endurable. “Chief Inspector? Your father was on very good terms with the Chief Constable, Daisy. Colonel Sir Nigel Wookleigh, a charming man. Perhaps you know him, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Not yet, Lady Dalrymple, but I have every expectation of making his acquaintance very shortly.”

  Since he didn’t mention that he was going to have to explain to the Worcestershire C.C. why he had been operating on his patch without permission, the dowager was pleased. At least her daughter’s friend moved in the proper circles. The rest of the visit took place in an atmosphere of astonishing cordiality.

  Daisy didn’t go so far as to announce that she was engaged to Alec. It was better if Mother believed her approval had been sought in advance. They would break the news before returning to town on Sunday.

  If they returned on Sunday! Daisy’s mind, otherwise occupied, had lost sight of the kidnapping and Gloria Arbuckle’s plight. Remembering, she was anxious to get back to Fairacres, though Binkie would have telephoned if anything urgent had come up. She extricated Alec from her mother’s laments over the parlous state of the world and left her grumbling about the shortness of their visit.

  “We could have stayed a little longer,” Alec protested mildly as they drove off. “It seems a pity to have upset her when we were getting along swimmingly.”

  “You did charm her, darling! But in just another few minutes she’d have found cause for complaint in our staying too long. I’d rather she had too little of us than too much. Besides, I’m simply dying to find out whether Phillip and Lucy have picked up Crawford’s trail.”

  Phillip peered through the rain-smeared windscreen at the dingy building: ERT’S CAFE said the sign painted on the steamed-up windows.

  “Surely this can’t be the place?” he said uncertainly.

  Lucy sighed. “I’m afraid it must be, old thing. It’s right opposite the factory entrance, it only needs a ‘B’ to make it ‘Bert’s,’ and it looks as if it serves poisonous coffee. And there’s the Lagonda, down that alley. Bite the bullet, hold your nose, let’s go.”

  Jamming his hat down further on his forehead, Phillip stepped out into the drizzle. In the forecourt of the Morris factory, behind the wire fence, he saw a maroon A.C. Six.

  He ducked his head back into the Alvis. “Crawford’s still here,” he hissed.

  Lucy stopped powdering her nose for long enough to say, “I should jolly well hope so, or Madge and Tommy really botched it.”

  Opening his umbrella, Phillip went round the pointed, “duck’s back” rear of the polished aluminium two-seater and opened the door for her. In her smart, high-heeled strap shoes Lucy perched on the running board, gazing down with dismay at the muddy puddles between her and the café.

  “Perhaps I’ll just wait here.”

  “He may stay for hours yet. Do come along.”

  She sighed again, cautiously stepped down, and picked her way to the door. As Phillip opened it, a hot, moist blast of air saturated with stale grease and cigarette smoke hit them.

  “Faugh! Hours, you said? I shan’t survive five minutes.”

  Phillip ignored her moaning. “There are Tommy and Madge,” he said as every head in the room turned towards them. There were few customers at this time, shortly before the lunch hour. He led the way, squeezing between the closepacked, oil-clothed tables, each with its bottle of HP Sauce, to where the Pearsons sat by the window.

  “Thank heaven you’ve come,” said Tommy, standing up. “Madge is feeling sick.”

  “Poor darling, I’m not in the least surprised,” Lucy commiserated. “You could cut the atmosphere in here with a knife.”

  “How can you make such a fuss,” Phillip burst out angrily, “when Gloria’s in danger?”

  “Here, I say, old boy,” Tommy protested. “Steady! We’re all doing everything we can to help.”

  “Sorry.” Staring down miserably at the grubby tablecloth, Phillip wished he had never fallen in love. His calm, ordered world, its extremes of emotion the boredom of the office and the pleasure of working on the Swift, had vanished. The joy of knowing Gloria and the hope of winning her had turned into this awful emptiness of dread.

  He didn’t think he could cope with it much longer.

  Madge took his hand in both hers. “It’s all right, Phillip,” she said gently. “You must feel as I did when Tommy first went to France; you haven’t had time to grow numb. Just remember we’re with you through thick and thin. You mustn’t mind what Lucy says. It’s just her way.”

  “That’s right, darling,” Lucy drawled. “Tommy, you’d better get Madge out into the fresh air quickly. She’s turning green. You might move the Alvis round the corner for us, if you don’t mind. It’s rather conspicuous and
I’d prefer not to be left alone in this frightful place.”

  The Pearsons hurried out. Lucy sat down beside the window and, with her handkerchief, retouched the clear circle Madge had wiped in the condensation. Taking the opposite seat, Phillip did likewise.

  “The A.C.’s still there,” he said with relief.

  “That red car inside the fence? Lucky it’s that colour. I’ll be able to spot it quite easily when we get going.”

  “Yes. Look here, Lucy, I’m sorry I blew up.”

  “Not another word on the subject. Are you going to buy me tea? Blast, I forgot to ask Madge if it was any more drinkable than the coffee.”

  To a request for a pot of China tea, the slatternly waitress responded that all they had was TyPhoo in the urn, milk and sugar already added. Lucy shuddered. They finally settled on a bottle of ginger-beer apiece.

  Before long, mechanics from the works opposite streamed in for their midday meal. Phillip and Lucy garnered many a curious glance, but no one disturbed them. After the first rush, though, the waitress was not too busy to demand that they order something to eat if they insisted on taking up a table.

  Lucy decided tinned tomato soup was the safest item on the menu. Phillip ventured upon sausage and mash, which he ate without tasting, his eyes glued to the clear spot on the glass.

  The maroon motor-car continued to sit unmoving across the road. The workmen left, streaming back through the gate in the wire fence, past the A.C. Six, into the buildings. Lucy opened the copy of The Queen magazine she had brought with her and flipped idly through it. Time passed.

  “Suppose he’s gone out a back way,” Phillip said, beginning to despair. “Suppose he’s taken a Morris for a spin and he stops off to see his men.”

  “Someone from the factory would go with him,” Lucy told him firmly, “to make sure everything runs smoothly. Anyway, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  The waitress reappeared. “Was you wanting anythin’ else? ’Cause I got to sweep the floor afore the next lot comes in,” she said in a disgruntled voice. Phillip saw she had already up-ended the chairs on most of the other tables. “You been here going on four hours.”

  “No wonder I’m stiff.” Lucy stretched. “I’ll have another ginger-beer and some plain biscuits, please, Rich Tea or Marie.”

  “Same for me,” said Phillip, massaging the crick in his neck as he turned back to his peephole.

  “Let’s switch seats so you can bend your head the other way,” Lucy suggested.

  “Good idea.” As Phillip sat down on her chair, he wiped the window. Applying his eye, he saw two men standing beside the A.C. Six.

  He jumped up. “Come on! He’s leaving at last.”

  “At last!” Lucy closed the magazine and stood up.

  “Hoy!” exclaimed the waitress. “You going? What about this stuff you ordered?”

  “Never mind that,” Phillip cried.

  “We’ll take it,” Lucy contradicted him. “Who knows when we’ll get another chance to eat?” She stuffed the biscuits into her handbag.

  Phillip tossed a florin on the table, grabbed the bottles and his umbrella, and ran through the forest of chair-legs to the door. He opened it and held it for Lucy, gentlemanly instinct prevailing, but he beat her to the Alvis although she quickly abandoned her attempt to preserve her shoes from puddles. By the time she wrenched open the door and jumped in, he had the engine started, the hand-brake off, and first gear engaged.

  She slammed the door. “Creep forward till we can see around the corner,” she advised.

  Instinct now shrieking at him to move fast, he had to acknowledge the common sense of her suggestion. Slowly letting out the clutch, he inched forward.

  “Stop!” said Lucy. “Damn, if you go any farther the bonnet will stick out and I still can’t see the gate. Can you?”

  He craned his neck. “Not quite.”

  She groaned. “All right, I’ll get out and stand on the corner. Where’s the umbrella?”

  “Here. Leave the door open.”

  Lucy had barely peeked around the building when she ducked back. “He’s coming this way,” she said breathlessly, closing the umbrella and hopping in.

  “Back into Oxford. Dash it, I hope he’s not going to stop in the town.”

  “Gosh, yes. We could easily lose him there.”

  But Crawford drove steadily through the town centre, turning north at Carfax, then branching left on the Woodstock Road.

  “At least he’s not heading for the Midlands,” Phillip observed with relief. “This is the way home via Chipping Norton and Evesham. Oh Lord, do you think he’s just going to drive straight back to Malvern?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. We’ll see, if you don’t get too close so you have to overtake or look suspicious.”

  Phillip eased up on the accelerator.

  Through the village of Woodstock, past the gates of Blenheim Palace; up the long slope into the Cotswolds: then Chipping Norton, Moreton-in-Marsh, Bourton-on-the-Hill—Phillip’s spirits sank lower with every mile they followed the maroon motor-car.

  “He’s not going to stop.”

  “We’re only half-way. Phillip!” Lucy clutched his arm. “He’s turning off! No, don’t slow down, drive on past. He might glance back.”

  Reluctantly, Phillip obeyed. Crawford had turned into a narrow, unpaved lane, its entrance half obscured by hedges and overhanging trees on either side. The A.C. Six was already out of sight. Phillip stepped on the brake and put the Alvis into reverse. Lucy closed her eyes, crossing her fingers as he backed along the main road.

  A Napier swerved around the Alvis; its chauffeur shook his fist.

  Just past the lane, Phillip stopped again and engaged forward gear. They plunged into the green tunnel beneath the trees.

  18

  The Alvis squelched, sloshed, and jolted along muddy ruts with grass growing in between. Phillip hoped the suspension was up to it. He wouldn’t have chosen to drive his Swift this way.

  He remembered sadly that he might never see the Swift again.

  They emerged from the tree-tunnel and started uphill. The drainage was better though the potholes were just as bad. The hedges gave way to high banks topped with drystone walls. An occasional gateway showed steep hillsides of short-cropped pasture, where fleeing sheep added to Phillip’s impression of the rarity of motor-vehicles.

  “No side turnings,” Lucy observed.

  “Thank heaven.”

  “And I think the rain’s stopping.”

  The bank on their right ended. Now they could see the sheep-dotted slope rising beyond the low wall. The few trees were scattered, twisted thorns or clumps of oaks in the hollows of the hills.

  “There, I saw his hood,” Lucy exclaimed in triumph. “He’s not far ahead, just around a bend or two. Slow down.”

  Phillip caught a glimpse of something moving less than a quarter of a mile ahead, before a particularly vicious pothole made him clutch the steering wheel. He returned his attention to his driving. If they had a puncture or broke a spring, they would lose Crawford for good.

  A moment later Lucy leaned forward and peered round Phillip. “There’s what looks like a farm track up to the right,” she said. “A pale streak winding back round behind the hill. I don’t think it’s the lane. Gosh, he’s turned up it. Phillip, stop! If I can see him, he can see us. Go back a bit.”

  “Are you sure it’s not the lane?” Phillip asked in an agony of doubt even as he braked.

  “Pretty sure. I can see what I think is the lane curving round to the left between the hills. See, over there. There’s a double line of walls. It must be this lane. Go back, he’ll see us!”

  “No, with no sun shining to reflect off the glass we’ll be less likely to catch his eye if we’re not moving, and we can watch him, too. Where … ? Oh yes.”

  The maroon A.C. crept up the track, crossing the slope at an angle. As the car disappeared around the hillside, Phillip started the Alvis forward again.

 
Around a couple of bends, they came to a gate. As Phillip slowed, Lucy said, “That’s it. Look, you can see the tyre-marks in the mud, and there’s the beginning of the track. No!” she exclaimed as he turned the wheel. “We can’t follow him up there. He’d be bound to see us, or even meet us face to face. It looks to me as if the track circles the summit.”

  Something tugged at Phillip’s memory. Frowning, he got out of the car and went to lean against the gate, staring up at the crest of the hill. An odd shape, as if a handleless frying pan had been set down upside-down on top, it was vaguely familiar.

  He turned back to Lucy. “I have to go and look. Crawford’s got to have Gloria hidden up there, somehow. Why else should he go up?”

  “There’s something fishy up there all right, but you can’t drive up and you can’t leave the car here for him to find. You’re not planning anything asinine, are you, Phillip? Trying to rescue Gloria single-handed will just mean two people for the rest of us to rescue.”

  Flushing at the accuracy of her guess, he returned to the driver’s seat. “What shall we do, then?” he asked a bit sulkily.

  “Drive on until we find somewhere to hide the car, behind a wall or something. Then you can go off and reconnoitre. At least you had the sense to wear walking boots.” She glanced down ruefully at her muddy footwear. “I can’t go slogging cross-country in these, though they’re already ruined.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Arbuckle will pay for a new pair,” Phillip consoled her, driving on.

  The lane continued to rise for a few hundred yards, curving to the left between a shoulder of the odd-shaped hill and a lower ridge to their left. Then it abruptly swung right and began to descend. Still nowhere to conceal the Alvis. Phillip was starting to fret when Lucy cried, “Oh, perfect!”

  “By Jove, a quarry!”

  The flat floor of the abandoned slate-pit was level with the road and thickly overgrown. Phillip pulled over among the trees and bushes.

  Lucy took out her vanity-case and powdered her nose.

  Between the trees, the ground was stony. Getting out, Phillip saw that the Alvis had left no tracks. He strode back to the lane and turned. The car was invisible.