Wiles of a Stranger

by Joan Smith

  "No, Lord Sacheverel sent them to me himself,” he replied, fondling the tiger.

  "What do you call him?” she asked, tousling his curls.

  "I don't have a name for him,” he said, gently removing her hand.

  "Bring them down to the saloon tonight to show your Uncle Charles, and we shall make names for them all, like Adam and Eve naming the animals,” she suggested, with a fond smile.

  What an actress she was, to smile and beam, while planning to rob the boy.

  "They already have that kind of names,” he told her. “I think I will call the tiger Algernon, after my brother."

  "Why don't you make the hyena Algernon?” she asked, her smile fading, as she turned to me. “He looks a little pale, don't you think, Miss Stacey? But you will be taking him out this afternoon, as usual?"

  "Yes, we always go out on fine days."

  "I think I will call the peacock after you, Aunt Stella,” Lucien said, but with no intention of irony or ill will. The peacock was a pretty, dainty bird.

  "Goose! A peacock is the male of the species, and I do not wish to be a peahen. I wish we had some peacocks for the park. I wonder how people get them to stay where they want them. Dear me, look at the time. I must dash. You will take Lucien out this afternoon? I don't like to see my little guy's color fading."

  "Yes, I will."

  She left. I thought she seemed nervous, more fidgety and chattering than usual. Small wonder!

  At fifteen to two, I got my pelisse and took Lucien down the servants’ stairs, to leave by the back door. Mullins sat in the kitchen, enjoying a small ale. When we came down, he arose and sauntered in a casual-seeming way toward the stairs, to take up his vigil above. Wiggins was also there, having Tess give his shoulders a final brushing, before going abovestairs to greet Major Morrison and Mr. Mills.

  "Time for your ride, is it?” Cook asked Lucien.

  "I am not riding today. I am going to collect a jungle for my animals. Have you got a box I can use? A good big box."

  "A jungle? My, I haven't got anything that big!"

  "The box the sugar and tea come in will do. It will only be a small jungle, Cook,” he told her, with a very superior air.

  "If it's only twigs and grass you're after, I fancy this little box will do you,” she said, rummaging in a corner for a smallish box.

  From the meadow, one has a fine view of the back of Glanbury Park. On that particular afternoon, it was the east side I wished to see. If a ladder went up to Mrs. Beaudel's window, or if she let herself down by a rope, I did not mean to miss it. It struck me then, in the clear afternoon sunlight, that a daytime kidnapping was not at all a likely thing. They would wait until darkness fell. Beaudel was not going to get the money invested in an hour. Arrangements with brokers and so on would take a few days.

  Lucien was soon busy pulling out weeds and newly sprouted trees to form his jungle, while I sat on the grass, staring at the east side of the building, where there was not a single suspicious thing happening.

  When he had collected his jungle, Lucien decided he would go to the stream to stir up the tadpoles. I was to guard his jungle box. My eyes went in slow arcs from stream to window, back and forth, back and forth, until I was tired of doing it. What a lack of logic on Mullins's part, and Morrison's too, to think anyone would be stupid enough to have herself kidnapped in midafternoon, when a few hours would lend her darkness and privacy. I was so certain the deed would be done at night that I got up to go and tell Mullins so.

  I looked back to the stream to call Lucien, and saw no sight of him. It was less than a minute, not more than thirty seconds, since I had seen his black head bobbing at the stream's edge. He was just bending over, I decided, and went to fetch him, my mind still more occupied with the other matter. Possibly Mullins and Morrison thought Stella would take her departure when Beaudel went to the bank to deposit the money. That was why they were alert in broad daylight.

  I called to Lucien, as I approached the stream, still looking about for him. I began to fear he had fallen in, and hastened my pace. There was no answer to my shouts. I looked all around, and saw only some trampled grass where he had been. Beyond the stream, at this point, there was thin brush. A few branches were still swaying, where he had pushed his way in. A rabbit or fox had caught his attention, I thought, annoyed.

  "Lucien!” I called. “Come back. We're going in.” There was no answer.

  That was my first apprehension of anything amiss. He was not badly behaved. He would have answered at least, if he had not wanted to come just yet. I called again, louder, and again heard nothing but the gentle swishing of the leaved branches, then a quiet sound of running feet.

  Without thinking, I leaped across the stream and pushed my way into the tangle of brush, just at the point where the branches had been moving. Ahead of me, in the clearing, I saw a woman dressed in black, walking at a quick, awkward gait, hurrying, with some heavy burden in her arms. As I looked and shouted, she turned and peered over her shoulder at me. It was Mrs. Cantor, the milliner from the village. There was no mistaking her black eyes She wore an expression that would have curdled cream.

  It was not the expression that turned my blood to water though. It was the little black shoes protruded from one side of her bundle, and the black head glimpsed from the other side. She was carrying Lucien in her arms, an inert bundle. He was unresisting, obviously unconscious. I couldn't even allow myself to think the other—that he was dead.

  A wild scream, my own, rent the still air, as I took flight after her. I didn't get farther than three steps before a heavy blow fell across my temple. I saw an arm in a dark coat, with a gloved hand at its end, holding some sort of stick or stone, swing past my face, just at the corner of vision. Then darkness and oblivion came over me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a cellar they took us to, not a large one, but a small, dark, damp, moldy cave of a place, containing nothing but our own bodies and a pile of coal in a corner. It was too dark to read my watch, but I had the instinctive feeling that not a great deal of time had passed since I was knocked on the head in the meadow.

  As soon as I realized I was not dead and gone to hell, I began feeling in the darkness for Lucien, praying he was here, and not buried. He was lying beside me, wriggling like a pig in a basket. I was surprised to discover I had not been tied. They counted on the blow to keep me unconscious until we were securely locked in this hole, it seemed.

  "Are you hurt, Lucien?” I asked.

  A muffled sound came from his head. Feeling around, I found a gag binding his mouth, and removed it.

  "We have been kidnapped, Miss Stacey!” he said, his voice sounding hollow in the cave, and not entirely displeased at such dashing goings on. “By daylight! If Algernon hears of it, he will think me a flat. Did they hurt you?"

  "Yes, my head hurts where they hit me, but I'm all right. No bones broken,” I replied in a low voice. “Whisper, in case they are listening nearby."

  "My hands and feet are tied up,” he told me.

  I fumbled until I discovered the ropes, but in the darkness it was hard to undo the tight knots. It was a fine cord, but very strong. It seemed an eternity before I managed to work the wrist bindings loose. “I will get the ones off my ankles myself,” Lucien told me. With my fingernails in shreds, I let him do it.

  "The first thing we have to do is find the door,” he chattered on as he worked, speaking in low tones.

  There were small, scrabbling sounds coming from the corners of the cave, suggesting the presence of rodents. My own instinct was to stay away from the corners, but as soon as he got his bonds loose, Lucien stood up and started prowling about, very softly.

  "Don't be afraid, Miss Stacey. I'll take care of you,” he told me, in a reassuring way.

  "You must be very quiet, Lucien. If you feel a door, don't jiggle the handle."

  "I will listen at the keyhole first. There's stairs here,” he said, excited. “I'll go up. There must be a door.” I followe
d him to the foot of the stairs, waited with my heart pounding while he made his ascent, and came back down again. “There is a door, with a doorknob."

  "I'll try the knob, very quietly,” I told him, and crept up the dark steps, feeling my way. First I listened, hearing nothing but silence beyond. The knob made no sound as I turned it. It was not locked, but it was bolted firmly on the other side. We were locked into a cellar somewhere in the pitch black, with no notion where we might be, and no means of escape. I went back down the stairs and sat on the floor with Lucien, trying to fight off the panic.

  "I hope you are not frightened,” he said, his little hand finding its way into mine. His voice was beginning to show signs of strain.

  "Just a little,” I confessed.

  "Why do you think they kidnapped us?"

  "For ransom money, Lucien. That is why people are kidnapped. You must not worry. Your uncle will pay them, and we will be allowed to go home."

  "He won't pay much for you, Miss Stacey,” he felt obliged to inform me.

  "No, I don't suppose he will."

  "I will make him rescue you, after they send me home."

  "Thank you,” I said, biting back a worried smile.

  "What should we do now?"

  "Let us just sit here a moment and think."

  That is when we discovered the only thing in the room other than ourselves and the mice was a great pile of coal. I preferred to sit on the coal than on the floor, so that is what we both did. Lucien pretended to be chilly, to give him an excuse to cuddle up against me. I put my arm around him, and we sat together in the dark, thinking.

  "How long will it be before I am rescued?” he asked.

  "Not too long, I hope. A few hours—maybe tonight."

  "I am hungry already."

  "It's not long since lunch. Why don't you try to rest—sleep?"

  "I think I should be making plans,” he countered.

  He didn't sleep, but he was quiet, which gave me the opportunity to cudgel my brains, and curse my stupidity at not thinking it might be Lucien who was kidnapped after all, as I had first thought. I wondered who the man was who helped Mrs. Cantor. Probably her husband. It wasn't Wiggins at any rate. But it was Wiggins and Stella who had engineered it. They had not meant for me to see Mrs. Cantor. Lucien was to have been carried off alone. But Lucien knew Mrs. Cantor too. Without seeing her, he could not positively identify her, however.

  "Did you see the woman who snatched you up?” I asked.

  "No, somebody hit my head and when I woke up, it had a bag over it. It was dirty. When we were in the carriage, somebody tied up my arms and legs. I felt them do it, but I didn't say anything. I wonder why they covered my head. Maybe to hide where they were taking us."

  "You have no idea where we are?” I confirmed, wondering if we were in the cellar of the millinery shop at the edge of the village.

  "I know where we are not. I peeked up under the edge of the bag when the carriage jostled me. I got one look out the window, and I didn't see anything I knew. I know all the houses on the way to the town."

  "What did you see?"

  "Just bushes, growing close to the road."

  "No buildings at all?"

  "No, but don't worry, Miss Stacey. Major Morrison will rescue us."

  "I hope so,” I agreed, but a worse idea was taking root in my mind. It was Major Morrison who had suggested I take Lucien to the meadow in the first place. It was Morrison who had got my father involved in the whole mess, and was active every step along the way since, as I muddled deeper and deeper into it. For that matter, I had only Major Morrison's word for it that Wiggins and Stella had ever kidnapped anyone. Only his word for it that he was Sacheverel's son, mysteriously called Bertie, when the man's name was Sheldon.

  Worst of all, Morrison had a place hired the size of whose cellar must approximate the size of this one, and whose access road was lined with bushes. He was involved with Miss Little, and I had seen him with my own eyes making love to Stella. He was one of them. He seemed genuinely fond of Lucien, but then the plan did not call for killing Lucien, only robbing him. Lucien had not seen his abductors—he could be set free when they had the money. I could not.

  A longer perusal of the facts pointed out one startling inconsistency—Morrison had paid the money that was to be used for ransom, so what was the point in it all? What had he gained? The rose Jaipur? It seemed an unnecessarily involved plan, but to find him innocent was even more complicated, with so much evidence against him.

  We remained in the cellar all night without food or drink, or anyone so much as coming to the door to see if we were alive or dead. Mercifully, Lucien fell asleep, and slept for what seemed to me like several hours. I walked all around the room, feeling the ceiling with my hands, in hopes of finding a trapdoor There was none—nothing but dirt and cobwebs.

  When he awoke, we talked quietly for a while. He complained of hunger, and I assured him we would soon have food but my own greater need was for water. My throat was dry and cracked.

  At some time during that long black afternoon and night, I too dozed off for a few hours. I was awakened by the sound of the bolt being drawn on the other side of the door at the top of the stairs. I looked, frightened to death, to see who it was, but saw no more than a pair of shoes and a skirt, with some light shining behind. I crawled closer to check that it was Mrs. Cantor, and saw a masked face.

  The shock of it nearly killed me—to see a piece of sheeting with two holes cut for eyes. She was doing it so Lucien could not positively identify her, of course. She swung a lantern to and fro, examining us to see we were still alive, took advantage of the brief illumination to look around our cellar. All I saw was the extent of the coal pile, that nearly reached the ceiling. I knew well enough the futility of quizzing her.

  "Who are you?” Lucien asked, his voice a pitiful squeak of terror. He was trembling, and I was not far from it myself.

  "Breakfast,” the woman said, in a voice distorted to hide its true sound. She took a tray from a table, put it on the top step, banged the door and slid the bolt.

  "I expect it is bread and water,” Lucien said, his voice quavering. He was familiar with the ways of villains, from his books.

  It was slightly better than he prophesied. Two rough chunks of bread each, and a cup of tea, but we were hungry and dry enough to consume every iota of both, with never a thought until they were gone that they might contain poison, or a sedative.

  "I am still hungry,” Lucien said in a small voice.

  "Never mind, my dear, it is morning now, and soon we will be rescued."

  He talked on about the mask, and the reason for it, and finally accepted my opinion that she was trying to frighten us. I am convinced a child would find amusement in a flaming house. Before long, he was climbing up the coal pile and sliding down. He was at this when Mrs. Cantor, still masked, came for the tray. With her stage voice, she told me to leave it on the top step then return below, which I did, as she carried a butcher knife. As soon as I came down, she took the tray and bolted the door.

  "Ouch!” Lucien exclaimed suddenly, in a loud voice.

  "Be careful, Lucien,” I cautioned.

  "There's something sharp in here,” he said.

  I ran forward to feel in the blackness with my fingers, hoping for a weapon—an axe, a shovel. There was a sharp edge of tin, but it could not be dislodged. It was attached to something. I pushed the coal aside, to follow the contours of the thing, a sort of large, rough tray it felt like. Its end was buried a foot in the coal pile, and above, it continued for several feet. I had to climb up the coal heap like Lucien to follow its path. It went right to the top of the wall.

  I was confused as to what it could be, until I reached the end, at the outer wall of the house and realized it was a coal chute. The coal was put into the cellar from the yard beyond, to save carrying bags of coal into the house and down the steps. I was weak with hope as I considered there must be some opening, some covered hole to allow the coal
down the slide. I explored carefully with my fingers, feeling a sharp, circular ridge of metal. Without too much effort, it slid softly out, to land on the ground outside. A weak ray of light penetrated the gloom.

  How welcome it was! Columbus could not have been happier to spot America. I shushed Lucien, who was babbling excitedly, and clambering up the coal pile beside me.

  We peered together through the hole, our tunnel of vision showing us a patch of earth where a few blades of grass had sprung up. Beyond the clearing there was a spinney, a rough expanse of thicket. If it was not the thicket surrounding Mr. Kirby's house in the county, it was one very like it.

  My first excitement died away as I realized the hole was too small to let us escape. And it was not likely anyone but our captors would walk within shouting distance of it. Still, it was good to see the light again, to feel a breeze fan our cheeks, to know the real world was still spinning out there, waiting for us. It gave courage to struggle on.

  "I think I could squeeze out that hole. I am very small,” Lucien said.

  "You'd never make it,” I said, measuring the space with my eyes against his shoulders.

  "I know I could,” he insisted, pushing his head through the metal-lined hole. It was about eight inches in depth, the thickness of the walls of the house.

  "I don't want you to get stuck,” I said, to dampen his enthusiasm, and pulled him back.

  He again wriggled his way into the opening, bracing his feet against my hips. When he got his shoulders through, I knew the thing was done. To this day, I don't know how he did it, though I have seen dogs wiggle their way through holes much smaller than they. There was a deal of wriggling and squiggling, as he hunched his shoulders into the smallest possible size, then edged through, his little feet kicking behind him, as I shoved gently, with a silent prayer to God above.

  Soon he was crouched on the ground outside, smiling in at me, his face as black as the ace of spades from his confinement in the coal hole. His whole suit was grimed like a chimney sweep's.

  The next item was for him to go for help. Sending him to Glanbury Park was risky. If Stella or Wiggins saw him before he reached his uncle, he might end up back in the coal hole, or in some other prison. Major Morrison was a doubtful conspirator. The constable, I thought, was our safest bet. But where were we? How far had he to go, and in what direction? He might well be picked up as a runaway parish child, the condition he was in. All this had to be considered and a decision taken in a second, lest our captors glance out the window and see him.