by Carola Dunn
Returning a few paces, he called to Lucy, “I’m off. Give me a couple of hours, and if I’m not back you’d better go and tell the others.”
“For pity’s sake, don’t do anything idiotic,” she responded. “Don’t let them see you.”
Phillip did not deign to retort. For one thing, he knew Lucy could easily squash him in a contest of words. For another, he was in far too much of a hurry. Somewhere on that hill his girl was being held against her will.
His long legs took him at a fast lope up the lane until he had a clear view of the hilltop. Then he clambered over the wall and set off across the short grass.
In spite of his resentment, he was mindful of Lucy’s parting injunction. The men probably had a look-out, but he was pretty sure there weren’t enough of them to watch in all directions and the chances were they kept an eye on the track Crawford had used. As Londoners, they might well discount the likelihood of anyone approaching cross-country. So Phillip, despite his impatience, headed around the hill.
From every angle, the summit had the same peculiar, truncated appearance. Now Phillip knew where he was. That was Brockberrow Hill, once a favourite place to bicycle for a day’s outing.
The excrescence on top was the remains of an Iron Age fort, unless it was Stone Age or Bronze Age or something. The Picts, or Early Britons, or whatever, had chosen a good viewpoint for their fortifications. From the top of the circular mound one could see forever. Inside, one was sheltered from the wind. There was even a ruined shepherd’s hut for refuge from showers.
That, of course, was where they had Gloria. How Crawford had ever found the place was a mystery, but Phillip would bet his bottom dollar on it.
He cast his mind back to the old days. The bicyclers—he and Gervaise and various friends and siblings—had always left their cycles at Brock Farm, on the far side of the hill from the track. Buying picnic supplies from the farmer’s wife, they used to walk up a footpath to the top.
It had not been much of a footpath, more of a sheep trail. The kidnappers could easily overlook it, or discount its signif icance, especially as trees hid the farm buildings from the top.
Quite a few stunted hawthorns grew on the upper slopes on that side, Phillip recalled. There were criss-crossing drystone walls, too, dividing pastures and sheep-pens, all good cover for a clandestine approach. And, come to think of it, a clump of thorn trees—more bushes, really—had taken root on the shallower inner side of the fortification mound. If they had survived the years, he could wriggle in amongst them to watch and listen in perfect safety.
Perfect safety, he assured himself, dismissing the faint echo in his mind of Lucy’s warning.
Climbing a wall, he saw down to his left the tall beeches around Brock Farm. Ahead was the slope—sheepless at present—scattered with hawthorns, just as he had pictured it. From the shelter of the nearest he scanned the hilltop, wishing he had brought binoculars.
No head protruded above the level brow of the mound; no sign of movement; no sound but the cawing of rooks in the valley behind him, the trill of a lark above, and an occasional far-off baa. All the same, Phillip avoided the path itself when he found it, and took full advantage of the cover of trees and walls as he made his way up the gentle slope.
Before tackling the last, bare stretch up to the track encircling the base of the ancient fortification, he paused for another survey. Nothing had changed.
He set off again at a jog-trot.
Pity it had stopped raining. Not only did rain obscure the vision, the discomfort distracted sentries’ attention from their business—one of the lessons learnt in Flanders which Phillip had never expected to think of again. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was raining again before nightfall, though. Here on the exposed upper slopes, a gusty wind was blowing, warm and damp, from the south-west.
Dashing across the track, he tried to remember the lay-out inside the fort. The one-time gateway, now just a narrow gap, was round to his left, he thought, a quarter circle from the head of the track, perhaps for some obscure, prehistoric defensive purpose. The thorn bushes, fortunately, were slightly to his right. He hoped.
He scrambled diagonally up the steep bank. Lying prone on the damp grass, his elbow in a patch of scarlet and yellow ladies’ slipper, he took off his hat and raised his bare head inch by inch.
No outcry greeted the appearance of his hair on the horizon. He moved up a little farther and found he had perfectly judged his position. The hawthorn thicket hid him from those below. They hid the men from him, too, but he heard their voices.
Listening, he slithered over the top and under the spiky branches.
“ … don’t fink we’re gonna let yer pick up the bunce on yer own and scarper back to the States wiv it, do yer? Not bloody likely!”
“Come off it, would I vamoose and leave you guys holding the baby?” Crawford’s voice was not so much oily as slimy, Phillip decided with loathing. His chuckle was still more repulsive. “Still and all, by golly, she’s a baby worth holding, which is one reason I won’t skedaddle with the dough. I’ll be back to …”
Phillip missed his next words. Seeing red, he forgot his good resolutions and rose to his knees, prepared to rush down and strangle the bounder whatever the consequences.
A thorn raking down his cheek brought him to his senses. Joining Gloria would not help her. With a silent groan he moved a little further down the slope to where he could see the men and glare his hatred at their oblivious heads.
Crawford and three others stood in a group to the left of the one-room, tumbledown stone shepherd’s hut, between it and the gateway.
“Blimey, guv, we don’t none of us hold wiv none of that!” one of the men was protesting. Phillip recognized his anxious tone. “You swore …”
Crawford cut him off with an unconvincing laugh. “That’s so. I guess I must have gotten a bit carried away Oh, well, that’s all right. Now, how can I convince you I don’t plan to make a get-away without you?”
“Two of us goes wiv yer, or yer can ’and over yer passport, mate, that’s what,” the biggest man said menacingly.
In the momentary silence Phillip noticed, beyond them, an Army tent pitched against the bank. At least Gloria did not have to suffer their company all the time, he thought with gladness.
Of course, though it seemed an age since Daisy staggered into the drawing-room at Fairacres, Gloria had only been here since the middle of last night. Phillip vowed that she should never spend an entire night in the hut. He must get back to Lucy and organize the rescue party.
But he didn’t dare leave until Crawford had driven off. Besides, he might hear something useful, might even catch a glimpse of Gloria. He checked his wrist-watch: still time enough before Lucy started worrying.
“My passport?” Crawford said uneasily, his hand moving to cover his breast pocket.
“’Sright, mate. Long as you’re stuck in England, we’ve gotcha by the short’airs.”
“Reckon we oughta ’ave one or two of us watching the pickup, too,” said another. “’Case anyfing goes wrong, they can get back ’ere and warn the others.”
“Rats, nothing’s going to go wrong.” Crawford sounded distinctly irritable now. “These plutocrats have nerves of steel when it comes to playing the market, but hit ’em with something like this, and by golly, they crumble faster than a stale cookie. I’ve jollied Arbuckle along and he’s fallen for it, no if, and, or but about it. You should see him. He’s in a dandy funk! The old coot hasn’t gone within a mile of a cop.”
The men continued to wrangle over collecting the ransom, then, without a decision, moved on to complaints about their quarters. Crawford told them it was their own fault they had to leave the gamekeeper’s cottage. They were lucky he had found them a fall-back, pure curiosity having led him to investigate the significance of the word CAMP on a map.
“It won’t be for long, anyhow,” he added. “Tonight’s the night.”
“Then ’and over that there passport!”
Voices raised in a row over the passport allowed him to make a hasty withdrawal from the hawthorns without worrying about rustling leaves. Hat in hand, he crawled back over the crest of the mound and slid down the bank. Bounding down the hillside, he headed directly for the quarry.
Behind him a motor-car engine coughed to life. He raced for the nearest wall, dived over it, and lay flat.
A pair of inquisitive sheep turned their heads to stare, then ambled over to take a closer look. Phillip twitched as one nibbled hopefully at his hair.
“Pa-aa-ah!” it said in disgust, and started on the grass two inches from his nose.
Hearing the engine noise grow louder as the A.C. rounded the hilltop, he didn’t dare raise a hand to push the beast away.
The sound of the engine retreated. Phillip rose to a crouch and peered over the wall. The maroon car was half-way down the track, heading away from him at an angle, but the driver’s side was towards him. He must not move on yet.
He watched the A.C. Six reach the bottom. Crawford climbed out to open the gate, drove through, shut it again, and zipped off back towards the main road.
Phillip rose, sparing a regretful glance for the muddy, grassstained knees of his flannels. Another pair of bags ruined! He set off at a steady run for the quarry.
The Alvis was gone.
He gazed around, hoping he’d come to the wrong spot, but no, there were the broken, wilting branches he had half noticed before. His watch showed he was five minutes late. Lucy might have given him a few minutes extra! She was on her way back to Fairacres to tell the others he had gone and done something idiotic. Fletcher would think the kidnappers knew they’d been found. What he’d decide to do, goodness only …
“Pssst! Phillip, is it all clear?”
“Lucy! Yes. What the deuce … ? Where’s the Alvis?”
She emerged from the bushes, brushing her skirt vigorously. “I moved it. There’s a van hidden behind those branches and I was afraid someone might come for it.”
“A brown Ford van? With a butcher’s name on it?”
“Green, unmarked. It could be a Ford for all I know.”
“Never mind, it must be the one because it’s them all right. They’ll have painted it, to disguise and camouflage it. I say, suppose I disable it, so they can’t get away?”
“No, better not. If they try to go somewhere before we’re ready, they’d be forewarned. Come on, we must get back to Fairacres. The Alvis is over here.”
Phillip took two steps after her and stopped. He had been torn from Gloria’s side before. He found he simply could not bear to leave her voluntarily, even if she was not aware of his presence.
Across his mind flashed Crawford’s description of her: “a baby worth holding,” and his vow to return for her, ambiguously retracted.
“I’m staying,” Phillip announced. “If something goes wrong, perhaps I’ll be able to help Gloria.”
“Oh bosh!” Lucy turned, exasperated, hands on hips. “If she’s still all right now, nothing frightful’s going to happen at least till they have the ransom.”
“That’s tonight. What if Fletcher can’t get things organized in time?”
“I’m sure he will. I’m coming to have considerable respect for Detective Chief Inspector Alec Fletcher. All the same, he’s going to need all the men he can get, and if you go and get yourself caught before the rest arrive … .”
“I shan’t,” he said obstinately, “unless I absolutely have to try to protect her. Crawford said … .” His voice got tied in a knot in his throat. He tried again. “They talked of harming her even after getting the money.”
“I see. But Phil, I’m not at all sure I’ll be able to find the way here again. All these hills look alike to me.”
“Daisy knows it. Tell her they’re at the ancient fort on Brockberrow Hill, where we used to picnic. Listen, you’d better tell Fletcher they don’t trust Crawford so they may have more than one man fetching the ransom.”
“Where from?” she asked, tacitly agreeing to pass on the information, and thus to Phillip’s staying.
“I don’t know. They’ll tell Arbuckle where and when to drop it off, and with luck he’ll pass it on to Fletcher.”
“How many men are there?”
“I only saw three, but there was probably one watching the track, and maybe one in the hut with Gloria. Oh, there’s a tent, too, besides the shepherd’s hut. Don’t want anyone falling over the guy-ropes.”
“Draw a diagram,” Lucy suggested.
Her fountain pen ran dry before he had done more than inscribe the broken circle of the mound in the margin of a page of The Queen. A search in his pockets produced a handkerchief, two pound notes, small change, a Scout knife, and a propelling pencil with no lead.
“Damn! I mean, dash it.”
“Damn, by all means.” Delving into her handbag again, she sighed. “Lipstick. It’ll be wrecked. Do you think Arbuckle will replace it, as well as my shoes?”
“Give him a list.” With the clumsy implement, Phillip drew the fort on top of an advertisement for a Charity Ball at the Royal Albert Hall. XT showed the position of the tent, XH of the hut, and a dotted line the beginning of the track. He studied his handiwork, dissatisfied. “Oh well, Daisy knows it. The tent’s pitched just round to the left from the gateway.”
“I still think you should come back with me, to tell them yourself.”
Phillip shook his head. “I’m staying,” he said firmly, and strode off before she could confuse him with useless arguments.
Behind him the Alvis started up. It caught up with him and stopped as he climbed over the wall. Lucy beckoned.
“Here, you’d better take the biscuits and ginger-beer. Toodle-oo, old chap. Do take care!”
He watched the motor-car’s duck’s back rear disappear up the lane. As soon as it was out of sight, he dashed back towards the quarry. He’d be damned if he was going to let those swine make a clean get-away if he could help it.
His first notion was to remove the van’s radiator hose, as an act of poetic justice. But if one of them left for some reason, he would discover the tampering as soon as the radiator boiled, which would be too soon to stop him warning the others. Whatever Phillip did must look like a natural occurrence, he thought as he reached the slate-pit.
No wonder Lucy had found the van. The conspicuous wilting leaves on the broken branches hiding it were another sign of the Londoners’ lack of familiarity with the countryside. It was a Ford all right, its green paint spanking new but applied in a decidedly slapdash fashion.
Phillip tried the rear doors, finding them unlocked. There was no tyre pump to be seen, and the tool-box contained no patching kit—in London, of course, such things were readily available.
He let the air out of the spare tyre, then stabbed one front tyre with the corkscrew on his pocket-knife. Considering the state of the lane, a puncture should come as no surprise, and spares often went flat just sitting. They would have no reason to suspect sabotage.
Grinning, Phillip sang softly to himself as he returned to the lane: “‘He had to get under, get out and get under, to fix his automobile!’”
A swirl of wind spattered his face with spots of rain as he climbed the wall again, jumped down into the meadow, and set off for his own private thorn-patch.
19
“Mr. Arbuckle, my lady.” The butler’s air of long-suffering suggested he was becoming accustomed, if not resigned, to the American’s habit of arriving at hours when no real gentleman would call uninvited.
“Show him in, Lowecroft,” said Geraldine, equally long-suffering. “Edgar, we shall go up and dress for dinner. The rest of you … .” She paused, and sighed. “The rest of you and Mr. Petrie and Miss Fotheringay, shou
ld they condescend to return, will no doubt forgo that nicety if pressed for time. Daisy, you had better invite Mr. Arbuckle to dine with us.”
“Thank you, Geraldine. You see, he’s …”
Geraldine held up her hand. “No, I don’t wish to know.”
Edgar looked rather wistful, as if he wouldn’t have minded a little elucidation, but he followed his wife from the drawing-room, only pausing to greet Arbuckle as he came in.
“It’s sure swell of your folks, Miss Dalrymple, not to shoot off their mouths about all this to-ing and fro-ing,” Arbuckle said. Waving a sheet of blue notepaper, he advanced on Alec. “Mr. Fletcher, I’ve gotten the instructions for dropping off the dough. I found this in my suite at the hotel when I got back from Lunnon.”
Alec took it. “Plain Basildon Bond, like the others, but this one is in ordinary handwriting, rather shaky.”
“Gloria’s,” said Arbuckle heavily, dropping into a chair. “At least she’s still alive.”
Daisy, beside Alec on the sofa, craned her neck to read over his shoulder.
“Do tell,” Madge begged.
“It’s directions to a quarry in the Cotswold Hills,” said Arbuckle. “I’m to go alone, at sunset, and leave the dough in the back of a van I’ll find parked there.”
“And then they’ll let Miss Arbuckle go?” Tommy asked hopefully.
“It’s more complicated than that.” Alec frowned. “Mr. Arbuckle is instructed to go away as soon as he’s dropped the money, then return at dawn to pick up directions explaining where to find his daughter. I don’t like it.”
“If I do anything different, I’ll never see Gloria again.”
“She says they’ll be watching him,” Daisy put in.
Restlessly on edge, Arbuckle stood up again. “So things have got to go their way. I’m doing what I’m told tonight, and I better get back to the hotel so if they’re watching they see me leave from there.”
“Won’t you stay for dinner? My cousin asked me to invite you.”
He shook his head. “Please tell her ladyship I’d be tickled to death some other time, Miss Dalrymple, but I’m not fit for company right now, even if I could spare the time. Mr. Fletcher, I sure hope I can trust you not to call out the troopers.”