The Kissing Garden

by Charlotte Bingham

  She smiled at him, at the same time blinking her eyes and frowning, as if suddenly bewildered. ‘It’s either the fire or the brandy. I can hardly keep awake. Here.’ She slipped her arms round George’s neck and kissed him once more. ‘Here,’ she whispered faintly. ‘Quickly. Down on this lovely furry rug. So warm, so sexy.’

  Looking at the beautiful woman in his arms, a pearl choker round her neck, her perfect, black silk clad body lit by the flickering of the fire, for a moment George nearly forgot the true purpose of his presence in her house.

  ‘George,’ Deanna whispered, her eyes slowly closing. ‘George?’

  ‘Yes?’ George whispered in return, feeling her body suddenly heavy in his arms. ‘Deanna?’

  He leaned back from her to take a better look, at the same time easing his hold on her. She began slowly to slide from his arms, finally to collapse flat on her back on the white rug at his feet.

  Even before he knelt down beside her to make absolutely sure, George knew she was completely unconscious. The only thing he was uncertain of was how she had come to be in this state. It was as if she had been drugged, yet he was the only other person in the room.

  ‘Apart from the footman,’ he muttered to himself as he knelt beside her, making sure of the depth of her oblivion before reaching over to the remains of the glass of brandy Deanna had been drinking. He ran the tip of his little finger round the bottom of the all but drained glass, then carefully tasted the retrieved drop of cognac.

  ‘Aha,’ he said to himself, sensing a slight but definite aftertaste. ‘So the butler did it – or the footman, anyway. Or else, who?’

  As to why, he knew not. What he did know was that what seemed like an intercession by Fate had provided him with exactly the opportunity he needed, so, grabbing hold of the chain and key, he stepped over the recumbent Deanna to begin his search for the hidden wall safe. After two false starts he found the panel which, far from needing pressure on some secret switch to release it, swung open as soon as George took hold of one edge to reveal the wall safe. A moment later he had the key in the door, the door open, and sight of a bundle of buff folders loosely held together with a thick black ribbon.

  Having quickly checked that the dossier was indeed the one he was after, George hurriedly made for the door, only to hesitate on the threshold to wonder if the footman whom he suspected of spiking Deanna’s drink was still on duty, and if he was whether he really was on his side? If he was and was also still around then it would not matter if George was seen leaving alone with a bundle of confidential documents under one arm. The man might even help him effect his escape, while on the other hand if George had read the runes wrong – as in the wrong person drinking the drugged brandy – then he could not afford to be caught in flagrante. So before he left the comparative safety of the library, George took a careful look through the barely opened door to check the lie of the land. Seeing an apparently deserted hallway he quickly tucked the bundle of stolen files under one arm, draped his jacket over his shoulder to conceal his booty, and ventured out into the unknown.

  At first sight it appeared the inner hallway where he found himself was in fact completely deserted, allowing him time to plan his next move. Leaving by one of the main doors he considered far too risky, particularly since he seemed to remember that for security reasons they were all kept tightly locked after dark and their keys left in the charge of the staff. The best and possibly only way out was going to be via a window, although once again George found himself hesitating as he wondered which particular one he should choose. As far as he could recall all the windows in the main rooms were fitted with lockable catches, leaving him the option of trying to drop to the ground from a first-floor window, a notion he found somewhat daunting when he considered the height of the windows in question.

  ‘You seem to be in a bit of a quandary, sir,’ a soft voice said from the shadows behind him. ‘Might I perhaps be of some help?’

  Turning quickly in surprise George saw the footman who had attended them earlier in the library emerging from the dark recess of a doorway.

  ‘That all depends,’ George answered carefully. ‘It depends on what you mean by a quandary and what you consider to be of help.’

  ‘By a quandary, sir, I mean the fact that you need to get the information you have to Mr Cornwall as soon as possible, and by help I would consider suggesting the best means of escape.’

  ‘Thank you,’ George said with a smile, now getting the picture. ‘Jack Cornwall recommended you for this position, did he?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir,’ the footman replied. ‘With instructions to keep a special eye on your good self. If you would like to follow me, Captain Dashwood.’

  George did as requested, tailing the footman across the hallway then down the corridor which he remembered led to the cloakrooms.

  ‘I would rather offer you the choice of a doorway, Captain Dashwood,’ the footman said, standing to one side to admit George to the gentlemen’s washroom. ‘But I’m afraid the kitchens remain staffed until Mrs Astley retires, while all the main doors of the house are now securely locked. The best way out would be for you to let yourself out via the windows over the basins.’

  ‘And the coach house?’ George wondered, looking up at his proposed escape route and trying to remember the exact lie of the land.

  ‘More or less straight in front of you once you’re safely outside. Follow the path that leads from the kitchen door. You’ll have to raise the coachman to get the keys for your car.’

  George looked round sharply. This was something he had not considered, having lived in the hope that when the coachman had taken his car away to park it for him on their arrival he would simply have left the keys in it.

  ‘Won’t that arouse suspicion? My leaving suddenly in the small hours?’

  ‘You’ve been called away urgently, Captain Dashwood. A personal matter. As long as Mrs Astley remains oblivious, there’ll be no need for questions.’

  ‘Perhaps you can make sure of that, yes?’

  ‘I shall do my very best, Captain. Bon voyage.’

  Left to himself, and realizing that time was at a premium, George hurried across the flagstoned washroom, opened the window above the hand-basins, climbed up onto the stand and eased himself into the aperture. Looking down he saw the drop was greater than he had imagined, possibly between ten and twelve feet, which meant that rather than jump and risk spraining or even breaking an ankle he would have to drop down onto the steep bank of grass below. So, folding the papers securely inside his jacket and keeping them in place by tying the arms, he dropped the package out of the window, turned himself round while still holding on to the central stone mullion, then eased himself out into the night, hanging for a moment by his fingertips before letting himself fall silently and safely to the ground.

  Making his silent way along the path to the coach-house where they always parked any overnight visitors’ motors, he hoped and prayed that his ally inside the great house had been wrong and that the coachman had in fact left the keys in the ignition of the Bentley. He knew very well that his sudden and precipitous departure in the small hours of the morning was bound to arouse some suspicion. Better by far to simply climb into his car and drive away before anyone had the chance to ask any questions. But as soon as he had reached the large outbuilding which had been converted into garages his worst fears were realized, for not only had his car been safely put away but the line of sliding doors which secured the front of the garages was closed and firmly locked.

  He could see his Bentley through the glass panels set high in the doors, the big car parked there with her hood up, ready for the road. But judging from the weight of the doors and the solidity of the locks there was no way he was going to be able to get at her. Even were he to break one of the glass panels and be able to reach a key in one of the locks well below the window, George imagined the heavy doors would probably be bolted on the inside as well at ground level. So there was in fact only one thing for it. H
e would have to raise the coachman.

  Shivering with the cold from the rain but unable to put his jacket on because of what it contained, he gritted his teeth and, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, climbed the steps at the side of the coach-house to knock on the door at the top. In response to a second knock a light finally went on, and a moment later by the sleepy dressing gowned figure of Martin, the head chauffeur, appeared at the door.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ George said crisply, ‘but I’ve been called to London urgently, and I need my car.’

  The chauffeur blinked at him, consulted his wristwatch and started to say something, only to be interrupted by George.

  ‘I know it’s late,’ he said with practised authority. ‘But I have a serious domestic emergency and have to leave now. So jump to it, man, and open up the coach-house immediately.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Martin said, in response to George’s officer-like orders. ‘I’ll just go tell Mr Robins first--’

  ‘No need for that,’ George assured him firmly. ‘As I said, this is an emergency.’

  It was obviously enough, for a second later George heard the chauffeur clattering down the steps after him.

  George was already in the driver’s seat and trying to fire the engine up by the time the man had begun to roll the heavy doors along their rails so that the car could reverse out. But due to the increasing drop in the night’s temperature the engine refused to start. He was just about to make one last attempt to spark it into life when he became aware of another figure standing on the driver’s side of the car, the person who had in fact just flicked on the light switch.

  ‘Is there some sort of problem, Captain Dashwood?’ Robins the butler wondered, leaning so close to George that he could see the man was still wearing his pyjamas under the tailcoat he had hastily donned. ‘We were given to understand you would be staying until morning, sir.’

  ‘There is a problem,’ George returned brusquely, checking out of the corner of his eye that his jacket was still safely concealing the files on the passenger seat beside him. ‘I was just saying to your man here, I have to return home immediately.’

  ‘In response to a telephone call, sir?’

  ‘Well of course! What else, man? A carrier pigeon?’

  ‘It’s just that all calls to the house come through our own switchboard, sir, even at night. When there is no-one in official residence.’

  ‘So?’ George said, breathing an inward sigh of relief as the engine finally burst into life and preparing to back the Bentley out of the garage.

  ‘The fact is no call came through the board tonight, sir!’ the butler called over the roar of the revving engine.

  ‘How would you know?’ George shouted back, engaging the gearbox in reverse.

  ‘Part of my duty, sir! Is Mrs Astley not travelling back with you?’

  ‘Of course not!’ George shouted. ‘Now if you don’t mind taking your hand off the door, I really must go.’

  ‘Before you do, sir, I really would rather check that everything is all right with Mrs Astley!’

  Sensing that the man was about to lean in and reach for the ignition key, George realized he would have to make a dash for it, knowing that the moment they woke Deanna and she saw her precious wall safe open, the game would truly be up. He therefore jammed his foot on the throttle and shot the big car straight out of the garages.

  By the time he had swung the car round to head for the archway at the top of the mews, both Robins and Martin the chauffeur were in full pursuit. Ramming the Bentley’s gears into first, George prinked the throttle only to hear the engine miss a beat. All he needed now was for the car to stall, but knowing that the surest way to make that happen would be to panic, George calmly slipped the gears back into neutral, revved the engine to make sure he had sufficient power, then again engaged first gear and floored the accelerator. Unfortunately the brief delay had given Martin enough time to take a flying leap onto the passenger side running-board while the slower and heavier figure of Robins was trying to get a hold somewhere on the back of the car.

  As the Bentley leapt forward, its enormous tyres screeching on the cobblestoned yard, in his driving mirror George saw Robins fall to the ground as he failed to get a grip anywhere on the back of the bodywork. But Martin still had a firm hold on the passenger door, and was leaning into the car in an effort to grab hold of the steering wheel with his free hand, which he managed to do just as the car reached the archway. Too late the man realized the mistake he had made as in response the car slewed violently to the left, throwing him off balance. A second later, as the car roared safely out of the yard, George glanced quickly in his mirror to see the chauffeur flat out on the ground, with Robins, who had been fruitlessly pursuing him on foot, now nowhere in sight.

  Fearing that Robins might have gone for a car of his own in which to mount a pursuit, George accelerated as hard as he could up the long drive which led out of the five hundred acre estate, past the home paddocks and lakes, until finally he crested the rise which ended in a pair of lodges either side of the heavy ornamental iron gates – gates which as they came fully into view George saw to his horror were closed.

  Cursing roundly, George realized he would have to take the chance of ramming his way out, particularly when he caught sight of the beams from another car’s headlights closing on him down the drive. So, with his foot still flat to the boards, George aimed the car straight at the middle of the gates, which burst open on impact, allowing the Bentley to roar out on to the open road.

  From the sound of her still roaring engine and her ever-increasing acceleration George realized the car had miraculously sustained no immediate mechanical or physical damage, due no doubt to her great weight, the speed of the collision and the fact that the heavy gates were in fact only secured by a none too heavy chain. But then thanks to the relatively easy exit his pursuer’s car had also escaped damage, and in his mirror George could see it was not losing any distance.

  He could only guess at what make the car behind him was, although he knew that the cars the Astleys kept were all fast and powerful. As he was leaving he had in fact noticed a brand new SS Jaguar parked beside the Bentley, and to judge from the shape of the headlights he could see getting ever closer to him in his driving mirror, his bet was that this was the car his pursuers were driving, meaning he had a race on his hands.

  By the time they had both passed through the gates he still held a good hundred-yard advantage, but that was soon reduced to a lead of less than twenty thanks to the narrow twisting road which led from Riverdean to the main London road, more suited to the lighter Jaguar than the heavy Bentley. But the tortuous country lane was also to George’s advantage. He held the Bentley to the crest of the narrow road and – always provided there was nothing coming in the opposite direction – he knew he could prevent his pursuers from overtaking him until they finally swung onto the London road, now only some half a mile off. Once on the broader, straighter road it was all going to be down to driving skills and sheer horsepower, a prospective contest which would probably be to the advantage of the newer and lighter model of car which was so urgently trying to find a way up alongside the Bentley.

  ‘Luck is what we need!’ George shouted aloud to his car as he swung it hard into a right hand bend, giving the wheel plenty of opposite lock as he felt the rear end begin to slide away from him. ‘Good luck for us – and bad luck to the enemy!’

  Yet it would seem that the lady Luck had deserted him, for as they raced towards the London road the Bentley’s engine began to misfire. Dreading the thought that it might be either an airlock in the petrol line or, worse, dirt in the fuel, George pumped the throttle, but the car just spluttered all the harder while continuing to lose power. Moments later the car behind him was swarming all over his tail, as George saw when he checked his mirror.

  What he also saw was that the man riding in the passenger seat, whom he assumed to be Robins, was now half standing to take better aim with the pistol
he had in his hand.

  Before he could fire a shot, George jammed on his brakes as hard as he could, an emergency move totally at odds with the expectations of the driver behind him, since he immediately ploughed the Jaguar into the back of the Bentley. At once there was the sound of breaking glass and the crash of metal as the cars collided, the impact knocking the still spluttering Bentley up onto the left hand verge where for a moment its rear wheel lost its grip and spun hopelessly. George quickly checked his mirror again, hoping that the crash would have knocked the would-be gunman clean out of the open-topped car, only to note that although the collision had extinguished the Jaguar’s headlamps he could just make out the silhouette of Robins not only still in place but back on his feet and seemingly about to take aim once more.

  Then, as quickly as it had deserted him, his luck returned. When he floored the throttle one more time in a do or die attempt to get the Bentley back motoring, the engine gave one tremendous backfire and allowed George to accelerate away. He heard what he thought was a second backfire, only to realize that it was a bullet when the shot shattered his windscreen. Unable to see for a moment, George continued to drive the Bentley one-handed, shaking the files free of his jacket and pushing them safely to the floor before rolling the garment into a ball and using it to punch out the rest of the lethally jagged glass.

  If he had been cold before, driving in only his shirtsleeves with no windscreen now to protect him from the full blast of the night wind George was frozen down to the very marrow of his bones. Though he longed to slow down sufficiently to at least pull his jacket around him, one glance in the mirror told him he was not yet far enough from his pursuers to afford himself that luxury. Instead he pressed on faster and faster until there was nothing reflected in his driving mirror except the night.

  Nor was there anything on the London road. In fact it was not until he was well past Reading that he saw any traffic at all, and that was just a handful of trade vehicles making an early entrance into the town. After that George had the road more or less to himself, arriving outside Jack Cornwall’s flat in Ebury Street shortly after two o’clock.