I waited for her to develop that obscure remark, but got no explanation. She began packing up the picnic basket and looked me over severely.
‘Willie, daughters do their best to deceive their mothers but they make the mistake of trying too hard.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Hilliard.’
‘Yous could have drawn off that skeezicks of the capitalist KGB and let her ride home instead of staying out all night.’
‘Possibly, Mrs. Hilliard.’
‘Are you aware that she is a girl of decided character, and when she knows what she wants she’ll take it?’
‘More or less, Mrs. Hilliard.’
‘Well, don’t let yourself be bullied like that Tommy Bostock. And another thing, Willie! Aren’t you supposed to be an agent of the KGB?’
My mouth was full of rabbit and pigeon pie. I mumbled unhappily that yes, in a sense I was, expecting to be on the receiving end of more of her invective. I did not realize that this accusation was a complete and deliberate change of subject.
‘Well, here’s their little friend Rachel disappeared. Alwyn’s whereabouts is unknown, but he’s probably not far off. Ionel Petrescu is on the spot ready to do anything for five hundred quid. If I were running the KGB, which,’ she added savagely, ‘I should sometimes enjoy, I’d get in touch with him pronto.’
I objected that it was only thirty-six hours since Rachel’s post-graduate partner bolted, and he was going to report that the Customs had nearly caught them. The yacht’s master could only say how the operation failed and that he had got clear away without being questioned.
‘Which gives you just time to vanish before the KGB joins the CIA in wanting to put you through the hoops, Willie. Don’t bother about leaving Tessa and me to face the music! We’re sweet innocents. We have never heard of Alwyn since he escaped to Russia. So there’s no music to face provided he isn’t caught.’
That was a very big ‘provided’. I pointed out that I was the only person concerned in whom British security had no interest—which could be invaluable—and that she and Tessa needed help to get Alwyn away. I added a comment on what the CIA and KGB could go and do to themselves.
‘Willie, we are not in the hunting field. But if that’s the way you feel—can you ride?’
‘No, I never have.’
‘Well, you’re going to, and side saddle. And you’ve brought it on yourself.’
We went separately down the hill: she to the house, I after a safe interval to John’s cottage. Soon she turned up carrying a vast quantity of dark blue cloth, two top hats and two veils.
‘We’re getting Alwyn out now,’ she said. ‘It’s one hell of a risk. I’m just gambling that we react quicker than the Great Powers.’
‘But the tide is high.’
‘And right for an afternoon swim. So long as he can slip into the water unobserved, he can cross the creek and no one will think anything of it. Now take off everything but your shirt and underpants and ma will dress the blushing bride.’
They were two riding habits she had brought which had belonged to the well-built Mrs. Rory, Alwyn’s mother. She was relieved to find that mine had to be padded out with a cushion, and so the other should not be far out for the broader Alwyn. Top hat, veil and John’s riding boots completed the costume. I fell over the immense skirt as soon as I moved and she showed me how to gather it up in one hand. Then she made me sit down while she painted and powdered me like a dockside whore.
‘Now, Willie, pay attention! You and Alwyn are going to the South Devon Agricultural Show where you have entered for the Ladies’ Hunters. I daren’t go with you. If I’m spotted, it could give the game away. So you’re on your own except for my guardian angel. Alwyn can sing falsetto. Let him do the talking if any. You don’t speak English at all. You can give girlish squeaks in a foreign language if you like. I think you both should be obscure foreigners. Visiting Arabs perhaps. No, they’d have Arab horses. Make it Persian noblewomen! Cousins of the Shah. Mother and daughter. You still look a bit masculine under your veil, Willie, but never mind that! I guess they have wrong hormones in Persia like anywhere else.’
Speed and decision—that was Eudora, and age had not slowed her down. I have been told that she was too impulsive to be a good Master of Foxhounds, but for her opponents in Spain and America she must have been fast and elusive as a fly. I’ll bet that file on the tea trolley was more full of attempts to swat her than any actual connection with the target.
Tessa and John had gone ahead two hours earlier with the horses. We loaded the car with Alwyn’s habit and two side saddles, and at the last moment I remembered scissors and a razor for his beard. Then we shot through Molesworthy and twenty minutes later left the car in the usual screened parking place. Nobody was about. Eudora was prepared to bluff it out if anyone was. All she dreaded at this point was the police.
During the weeks which Alwyn had spent in the derelict she had worked out a fairly safe method of communication. First she showed herself on the foreshore, her unmistakable figure dreamily enjoying sunshine on water which reflected the valley green in its own deeper green. As soon as she had given Alwyn time to notice her and made sure that no casual passer-by was immediately opposite, she retreated into a gap between bushes and hoisted a notice in large letters, black on green. Her message was SWIM NOW.
Meanwhile she sent me up the slope where I found the horses in a clearing, Tessa giggling and John’s grin splitting his face; they had been watching my progress with that damned skirt in both hands. When we had fetched the side saddles and all other necessaries from the car they put me on Tessa’s quiet mare and arranged my flow of cloth, assuring me that for a beginner side saddle was much safer than riding astride. So long as I kept my right leg over the pommel and my left under the third pommel I could not fall off. It did indeed seem impossible provided the mare herself did not fall. How to unlock myself then was beyond me.
Always walk, they told me, and concentrate on keeping the hands low and the body upright; then if I passed anyone at all knowledgeable I would not look utterly ignorant. In an emergency I was not to trot, which I should find vilely uncomfortable, but canter. They showed me how to communicate with the unfortunate animal—the aids, they called them—but warned me not to try to be too clever. I could trust my horse to do whatever Alwyn’s did. I should also remember that I would have the hell of a job re-mounting without help, let alone arranging my skirt.
After half an hour of this Alwyn came running and dripping up the hill. John quickly cut off his beard and shaved him. Eudora went to work on him as she had on me, producing an enamelled, frightening, old harridan under the veil who would have been sure of at least a Highly Commended because the judges would not dare give her less.
Meanwhile I told him the events of the night—or those which concerned him. To my astonishment he was utterly loyal to the CIA and not in the least indignant.
‘You none of you understand them, not even you, Eudora,’ he said. ‘If it pleases them to treat this ancient land as a banana republic, who cares? We have only to be polite. They can’t do any harm. They started off by investigating our labour troubles and arriving at the most fascinating fiction. Then they began getting in the hair of MI5, for they don’t trust our security or anyone else’s. I’ve no doubt that, as you told Willie, we just laughed off the question of Petrescu and said he wasn’t a Romanian at all. But they wanted to know for sure and they kept on after him. And if you think Russian submarines and Russian trawlers are a joke, you have another think coming. That’s where the real battle of the Cold War is today, and Mornix and I were in the front line.’
‘And it was the CIA who framed you, not the KGB,’ Eudora said.
‘Nonsense! It’s inconceivable. I know they forced the investigation on our people, but from their point of view they were justified. I knew Rachel. I introduced her to her Minister. And they were right—she was a Russian agent. I couldn’t tell them what we were up to in the Mornix case. The feeding to a spy of false and co
rrect information was a little too subtle for them. Of course I was suspect to them, and of course Willie is! Now, can you keep Rachel quiet for a day or two?’
‘I shall keep her very quiet, Alwyn.’
‘And where will our clothes be? Where will John collect the horses?’
‘A horse box will meet you on the lane below Berrystone Rock. Not mine. Police might have the number. Forrest’s box.’
‘I can’t let him take that risk for me.’
‘He is taking no risk, Alwyn. I have lent two horses to Persian friends of mine. He has kindly agreed to drive them to the Show. If the police ever get on to him, how should he have known who they really were? He will have your clothes and will put you out wherever you like. Then he will drive straight back with the horses and tell me where you are and how I can reach you.’
Eudora and Tessa kissed us and dropped our veils—bridal veils in a way for we were setting off into an unforeseeable future. Sometimes on tracks, mostly on by-roads we rode to the north, passed by a few cars and fascinated holidaymakers but without a sight of police as far as the village of Frogmore at the head of its creek which we could not avoid. There we walked our horses slowly, I trying to sit like a statue as ordered. A police car parked in a side street paid no attention to us beyond curiosity. According to Alwyn, it was probably posted in Frogmore to stop him breaking out to the south-west in case he was still somewhere near Molesworthy.
But there was an incident which bothered me more than this first evidence of road controls. In Frogmore, playing happily around the garden of a pub, were two children who looked vaguely familiar. At a table with beer in front of him was their father. He was three-quarters turned away from me, but that was enough, given the children. He was the pleasant fellow from the Russian Naval Attaché’s office whom I had met in the zoo. It was a safe guess that Rachel had reported her meeting with Tessa in Frogmore and that he knew how to read a map imaginatively. Alwyn was not surprised at his presence in the district. Though the movements of Iron Curtain diplomats were limited, they could hardly be refused permission for an innocent family holiday. He did not think that the fantastic uniform worn by class-ridden, imperialist horsewomen was likely to interest him.
About sunset we were circling Berrystone Rock but came on no horse box. Eventually we dismounted—I with skirt hung up on the pommels to reveal hairy, male legs above the boots—and settled down to wait and wait. Our situation was very tricky. If we were seen it was going to be hard to explain why a county dowager and niece—experience had shown that Eudora’s Persians were an unnecessary complication—all togged up for a horse show, should have got themselves benighted on the way, tethered their horses and taken to cover instead of walking to some well-travelled road and yowling for help in whatever disaster had struck them. Eudora or her quick-thinking guardian angel had gambled that there would be no interested observers after sunset; but to set off in the morning, crumpled, bristles showing through worn make-up, horses looking as if they too had never been put to bed, was asking for trouble.
About midnight we at last saw the lights of a car on the farm track which circled our miniature peak. It could be the police or it could be rescue, so we heaved those abominable skirts over our heads and very cautiously approached. The occupants of the car were standing in the beam of dipped headlights in order to be recognised. They were John Penpole and Forrest.
Unsure of what story the innkeeper had been told, Alwyn confined his remarks to the least possible greeting, his falsetto sounding very like a bad-tempered old lady with bronchitis. Forrest was too much of a John Bull for that nonsense. He said straight out:
‘Mr. Alwyn, I only want your word that you are innocent.’
‘My word of honour, old friend.’
‘Then cheerful does it!’
He asked nothing about me. At first he thought I was really a woman and, I suspect, scented romance.
He explained that with the best will in the world he dared not pick us up with his horse box. A police check was known to be on the two main roads between Totnes and Dartmoor which he would have to follow before crossing. He reckoned that the police would be satisfied after glancing into the cab and the back and seeing two ladies and two horses, but they might make a note of the number of the box. He was sure to be observed leaving Molesworthy and returning, and he could think of no story which would not lead to further investigation of Eudora and himself.
Car lights were switched off, horses unsaddled, fed and watered. We then held a council of war. The pair had decided for us, quite rightly, that while our disguise might pass just to reach Berrystone Rock we would never get away with it on a long day’s journey. Food for the horses or alternatively asking someone’s permission to put them out to grass was going to be impossible. Our only hope was to continue as a couple of hearty fellows on a riding tour, for which they had brought the necessary change of clothing. If some time, when the heat was off, we were to telephone Forrest he would find a plausible excuse for driving his horse box out of Molesworthy empty and returning with it empty—having discreetly unloaded the horses at the far end of the bracken path.
There seemed nothing else for it. I suggested, however, that I alone should continue as a woman until we were past all likely road controls. I had three good reasons for this. First: that when the third pommel was between my legs I felt as secure as a baby in a basket; second: that at a distance, my superb outfit would add an unquestionable note of social distinction and we could pass as Lady Enid Paddington-Penzance followed by her respectful groom. And the third reason was that if we were stopped Alwyn could gallop like a highwayman for any safety he could find while Lady Enid was being shamefully disrobed by the police.
They doubtfully approved this plan. John, foreseeing unexpected movement with the instinct of an experienced huntsman, had brought out powder and powder puff belonging to Amy—I never dreamed that she used any—and a short, toy moustache, rather wider than Hitler’s, which was merely comic at close quarters but possibly effective if we did not pass police too near. At any rate it was the only disguise Alwyn would have besides his glasses and his greying hair.
‘But what’ll ye do with the extra saddle?’ John asked.
It would be essential when I returned to manhood, but we certainly could not carry it.
‘You’ll have to drop it on us, John, and take the side saddle back,’ Alwyn said. ‘We daren’t telephone you or Mrs. Hilliard, so we must fix a rendezvous. Let’s say in the valley of the Otter. Day after tomorrow in the afternoon. We ought to be able to make it by then if we get there at all.’
They drove off and we dozed a little till dawn. When and how to start off was the next problem. We must not pass any police so early that they would be suspicious nor leave Berry-stone Rock so late that we risked being caught out by the farmer on whose land we were. There was no cover to hide us, so we simply had to mount and stand still or walk in circles ready to move off as soon as anyone was in sight. When we saw some early riser gaping at us from a distance, we took refuge in woodland outside Harberton. At eight we set out.
We had to cross two main roads, which might have been easy enough if we did not also have to cross the main railway line to Cornwall which ran between them and parallel. This limited possible routes to three. One of them led us too close to Totnes; another involved too long a ride down the Plymouth road; the third and nearest had the advantage of taking us straight into fairly wild country, but if there were police at the bridge over the line we should have to pass them close to.
We were able to reconnoitre this road from above. Police were checking traffic, but far enough away for Alwyn to use his absurd moustache with safety. The lady and her groom crossed without incident. Once out of sight I stopped to powder my face and to arrange top hat, veil and skirt. I passed Alwyn’s careful inspection and we rode on towards the railway bridge saying nothing and very nervous. The bridge was unguarded and we crossed it exchanging a glance of relief. But just ahead, at the j
unction with the second main road, was a police car very well placed. Any traffic turning back on sighting it would immediately be suspect.
Our only hope was an isolated church on the right of our route. Just conceivably it could be our destination—lady of the manor dropping in to dust the pews or arrange the flowers or grab the vicar’s surplice for its monthly wash. There was no easy way for a horse to enter the churchyard, so Alwyn dismounted and told me to hold his gelding while he walked round the church out of sight of the police. We had no time at all to prepare any plan and I had not the least idea what he meant to do; nor at that moment had he. Meanwhile I sat like a picturesque statue of largish maidenhood, erect and keeping my hands low as instructed.
He said afterwards that his vague idea was to swipe something from the church—flowers or a choir boy’s collar or whatever presented itself—hand it to me very formally and ride back. I think his sacrilegious plan might have been too obvious. A much better one was provided by a fast goods train roaring and rumbling under the bridge. His gelding, admirable in traffic but with no experience of the railway age down in Molesworthy, became alarmed. So did I, for I had no idea how to hold one horse while keeping my seat on another. The police were watching our sidling and swerving with interest, no doubt in the hope that I would fall off and they could come to the help of beauty in distress, but my groom came dashing out of the churchyard, hissed at me to let go of the reins and—safely covered by our circlings—made some sort of indecent assault on the gelding with the point of a pocket knife.
It took off towards the main road with him in pursuit. A cop gallantly leapt out of the car to hold up the traffic and Alwyn and horse bolted across the road. Then came a really brilliant touch. Instead of moving on and leaving me to follow he led the gelding back over the road, tipping his cap to the driver of the car as he passed with the horse’s neck partly obscuring his face. He mounted and we returned the way he had come. I suppose that when all the flurry was over the police must have wondered what the hell our church business was, but our behaviour, however eccentric, was in keeping with village life and its inexplicable ways.
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