by Michelle Cox
Chapter 18
“Why’d you let her go?” Stan asked irritably as he and Elsie made their way through the squeaky gate at the end of the garden, Elsie wincing at its rusty cry, hoping it wouldn’t wake anyone.
“I’ve already told you, Stanley,” Elsie whispered. “You know what she’s like; she said she’d only be gone a little while.”
That had been over an hour ago, when Elsie, alternately lying on the bed and then pacing around Henrietta’s room, carefully watching the clock until exactly one hour had passed (the amount of time she had decided early on that she would wait), had finally in desperation decided to wake up Stanley. He had been flustered and bleary-eyed when he had come to the door, Elsie having had to repeatedly knock, each time a bit louder, and had mistook her presence outside his room in the middle of the night as being suggestive of something else entirely.
“Elsie!” he had said, surprised. “I didn’t think . . . I don’t know . . .” he spluttered, mentally chalking her erratic behavior up to that stupid officer’s attentions earlier in the night. He had obviously corrupted Elsie’s better virtues. “You should go back to your room, Elsie, though I’m . . . well, flattered, I suppose . . .”
“Stanley! Can I come in? Quick!” she said, looking up and down the hall and pushing in past him, much to his extreme shock.
“Elsie! You’re not dressed!” he said, turning away from her. “You’ve obviously been stirred up into a fit of passion by that . . . that officer-what’s-his-name. But we can’t be foolin’ around like this! What would your mother think? What would my mother think? This is just what she was afraid of, me coming here and—”
“Stanley!” Elsie hissed, interrupting him. “It’s Henrietta! She went out about an hour ago, and she isn’t back yet. I’m worried . . . it’s probably nothing, but I . . . I’m afraid.”
At the mention of Henrietta possibly being in distress, Stan spun back around and listened to the exceedingly limited amount of information Elsie had to relate, a sense of doom quickly overcoming him. He instructed Elsie to go back to her room and get changed, while he hurriedly pulled on his own trousers and shirt. They met back in the hallway a few minutes later and had crept down the stairway, Elsie clutching his arm as they went. Elsie told him about the message that she was to deliver to Clive should he turn up, that Henrietta had gone to a cottage to help an ill servant. Neither of them had any idea where to find this said cottage or even how to get out of the house. The massive front doors in the foyer near the bottom of the grand staircase were bolted shut, and they guessed that opening them would rouse the house.
“There must be a different way out,” said Stan, as he led them through the dark hallways until they found themselves eventually near the kitchen. Elsie was the first to spot the back door, but as they hurried across to it, they froze in fear as a noise sounded nearby on the back stairwell. Stan peered into the darkness lit only by the moonlight streaming in through the windows and saw a man emerge, who, upon spotting Elsie and Stan, seemed startled as well.
“Who are you?” the man asked with a frown.
“Who are you?” Stan asked, Elsie still holding onto his arm.
“Name’s Virgil. I work in the gardens . . . usually.”
“Well, we’re . . . guests,” Stan tried to say manfully.
“You don’t look like guests,” Virgil said, unconvinced.
“Hey! Listen here! We’re guests of Henrietta,” Stan added, forgetting to address her as “Miss Von Harmon.”
“Well, that explains it, then. She’s the creepin’ type, too.”
“She’s my sister!” Elsie said.
“That don’t change anything,” he said plainly, as if her comment was meaningless. “She creeps about here and there, she does.”
“Listen, bud. Have you seen her?” Stan asked, impatient.
“Tonight? Yeah . . . she was in the big room.”
“No, I mean, now.”
“Creepin’ about, you mean?” he added with a sly grin.
“Yes,” Stan said with exasperation. “Well, no! Come on; we’re in a hurry! Have you seen her or not? She said she was going to some cottage to check on some woman named Helen. Where would we find that?”
“I wouldn’t bother. Helen’s a daft old bat; Henrietta’s always down there. Don’t know why. She’s mesmerized by her, she is. But then again, some say she’s a witch . . .”
“Helen?”
“Course, Helen.” Virgil paused. “You didn’t think I meant Henrietta, did you? Or did you?” He looked toward the back door as if considering something. “Nah, you don’t want to be messin’ around the cottage after dark anyways; I’ve seen strange creatures circlin’ round there at night.”
Elsie’s grip tightened on Stan’s arm so much that he cried out in pain. “Elsie!” he said, turning to her. “He’s just trying to scare us!”
He turned back toward Virgil now. “Are you going to tell us or not? Otherwise, I might have to mention to the Howards how we saw a gardener creeping around the house in the dark.”
“Oh, all right,” Virgil said, shifting uneasily. “I was just havin’ a little fun,” he said with a scowl. “You go out the back,” he said, pointing his thumb toward the back door. “Down the end of the gardens. Go through the gate and follow the path down to the lake until you see the boathouse, and then it’s just beyond that. You’ll find it, unless you’re as stupid as you look.”
“Listen, mack!” Stan said, taking a threatening step toward him, but Elsie pulled him back.
“Stanley! Come on! Leave him!” she said and pulled him toward the back door, which they managed, thankfully, to open without a noise.
Having pushed through the gate now, the path was easy enough to follow in the bright moonlight, which lit up the whole terraced yard in a strange ghostly way.
“I hope this Helen is okay,” Elsie said, trudging behind Stan. “She must be bad off if Henrietta hasn’t come back yet.”
“I’m sure she is. Henrietta probably just fell asleep there,” Stan said unconvincingly. “You know how irresponsible she is.”
“Stanley! That isn’t quite fair, and you know it!”
“For all we know, she’s already been there and gone.”
“Gone?”
“You know, gone off with Howard somewhere.”
“Stanley! What’s gotten into you tonight? You seem all . . . flustered, like.”
Stan paused in his marching and quickly turned around to face her, surprising Elsie in his suddenness. “Well, maybe I’m not so sure where I stand,” he said, gesturing back toward the massive house. “I go looking for your brother half the night, and when I come back you’re in the arms of some officer, dancing about without a care in the world as to where I might be . . . lost, if you must know,” he said, looking away.
“Stanley!” Elsie said, biting back a smile. “You’re jealous!”
“Course I’m not jealous, Elsie, but, well, a man can only take so much.”
“That was just for fun! I was merely being polite,” she explained.
“It looked like more than good manners to me, Els,” he said, seriously. “You couldn’t stop looking at him all night.”
Elsie looked away and then back at him. “You might kiss me, you know, sometimes,” she said shyly, looking down at the ground. “We’re almost engaged . . .”
“Elsie!” he said, astonished. “Is that what you want?”
“Oh, forget it,” Elsie said, embarrassed now. “Come on, we’d better get going.”
They’d reached the beginnings of the beach now, and what looked like a small hut loomed up in front of them.
“Is this the cottage, do you think?” Elsie asked, puzzled.
“Didn’t he say there was a boathouse first?”
“What’s a boathouse, anyway?” Elsie asked, peering down at the water. “The water’s so black, isn’t it?”
“Well, seeing as it’s right by the water, this must be the boathouse,” Stan reasoned. “Lo
ok, the path keeps going . . .”
“Did you hear that?” Elsie asked, stopping and straining to listen. They were both silent, but all they heard was the lap of waves. “I think someone’s there,” Elsie said.
Stan seemed unsure. “You stay here, and I’ll run up the path and see if I see the cottage, okay?”
Elsie nodded, still looking out at the water. Stan disappeared, then, and Elsie took a step closer to the boathouse, peering into the shadows cast by the moonglow. Her stomach lurched when she thought she saw a woman . . .
“Henrietta?” Elsie called. “Is that you?”
“Easy, now,” hissed Jack in Henrietta’s ear. “No sudden moves.” They were standing in the shadows of the boathouse, Jack having forced her down here. The small motorboat sat moored behind them, carrying a fat man in an ill-fitting jacket and with a scar running across his face where his left eye had been. He had cut the motor a ways out to prevent any noise and had rowed the last little bit. Fletcher had timed it right, getting Henrietta down to the dock just as the boat was pulling up. He had been about to thrust Henrietta into it when they had heard voices—a man and a woman, it sounded like—coming down the path, and he had instead retreated against the side of the building, pulling Henrietta with him. He put his hand roughly over her mouth and held the blade of his long, thin knife at her throat. Breathing heavily, he watched what was happening.
The man had run off, but the woman was coming toward them now. “That’s you’re sister, isn’t it?” Jack whispered, and Henrietta nodded. “Tell her you’re fine and to go back,” Jack hissed. “No funny stuff,” he said, removing his smelly hand slowly from her mouth.
“Hen?” Elsie called out again.
“Elsie!” Henrietta called out to her, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “It’s me!”
“What are you doing down there? I thought you were with Helen, you said.”
“Don’t! Don’t come down, Els! I’m . . . I’m with Clive, you see . . .” she shouted to her.
“Oh!” Elsie said, halting. “I . . . I’m sorry!” she called out hesitantly.
Just then, however, Stan came hurrying back down the path, having found the cottage dark and quiet. He had knocked a couple of times, but no one had come to the door and he felt it wrong to just walk in. Irritated, he decided to return to Elsie and, taking a deep breath, had turned and quickly strode back. Coming from the opposite direction now and seeing the boathouse at a new angle, he could swear he saw the figure of a man standing behind what looked like . . . could it be? . . . Henrietta?
“Hey!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”
Startled, Jack turned suddenly toward Stan now, still gripping Henrietta as he did so and flashing his knife, gleaming brightly as the moon reflected off it. Simultaneously, the man in the boat started the motor, and it purred loudly. Stan took a few slow steps toward them.
“Stay where you are, or she gets it!” Jack shouted almost hysterically over the noise of the boat engine.
Elsie screamed.
“Shut up, you bitch, or I swear to God I’ll cut her!” Jack said, quickly turning now toward Elsie.
Stan took advantage of the few seconds that Jack’s attention was diverted with Elsie to rush forward to at least get himself closer to Jack and a terrified-looking Henrietta.
Caught off guard, Jack instinctively moved backward, still clutching Henrietta, while Elsie clamped her hand over her own mouth and sank to her knees to prevent any more sound from escaping.
“Let her go,” Stan tried to say bravely.
“Fletcher!” called the man in the boat. “Hear that? Sirens! Cops are on the way.”
Jack looked desperately at the boat. The whine of the sirens was getting closer.
“I’m going, Fletcher! Now or never,” grunted the man in the boat, pushing off now from the dock.
“Get out of my way, kid, or I’ll cut her!” Jack snarled.
“No! Let her go!”
In the same instant that the man in the boat put the throttle all the way down, Henrietta attempted to twist away from Jack’s grip, and partially, at least, succeeded.
Jack, holding Henrietta only by the wrist now as she strained against him, looked piteously at the boat as it pulled away and then at Stan, who was tentatively coming toward him. Desperate, Jack let go of Henrietta and made a dash for the woods, a startled Stan taking several seconds to understand what had just happened before taking off after him.
For a short time Jack seemed to follow the path to the cottage, Stan gaining on him as he did. Once at the cottage, however, Jack slipped around the back and went into the woods beyond, Stan finding it harder to follow now. There was no more path, for one thing, just broken foliage where Jack had torn through it, and there was no moonlight showing through the thick growth, either. Still, Stan kept going, desperate to catch this villain, not being able in the moment to comprehend exactly why, whether it had to do simply with the thrill of the chase or if it was to somehow prove himself to Henrietta. (Or shouldn’t he have said Elsie?) Or was it to prove himself to Inspector Howard, finally once and for all, that he wasn’t the pipsqueak, as he so annoyingly called him. Bravely he continued running, trying his best to gain on Jack, his heart nearly bursting in his chest as he ran. Only occasionally did he stumble on a fallen branch or a root, the foliage as he rushed through it scratching him and at times even ripping his skin. Still he raced on, faster now, convinced that he saw Jack just ahead . . .
Nothing could have prepared him, however, for what came next. One moment he was running full tilt, and the next, he was stopped dead in his tracks when two pairs of strong arms, appearing out of nowhere, grabbed him and threw him to the ground.
“Ow!” Stan said, his head hitting the ground hard. A boot held his head to the dirt, his arms were wrenched behind his back, and a pair of handcuffs were clamped on his wrists.
“Gotcha!” said a gruff voice.
“Hey!” Stan tried to say into the dirt, but all he got was kick in the ribs.
“Shut up!”
There was movement all around then as Stan perceived what seemed to be cops appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Didn’t they realize that Fletcher was getting away? he thought desperately, unless they had caught him, too . . .
Clive ran up then, holding out his badge and nodding toward the cops resting their boots on the captive.
“Get him up!” Clive ordered them with a shout and drew back his arm to sink a punch into Stan’s gut as he stood limply between the two cops holding him up, when Clive, suddenly recognizing him now despite the darkness of the woods, stopped in midair and let out a loud groan. “This isn’t him,” he said, dropping his fist disgustedly and turning his head away. “This is the pipsqueak.”
Chapter 19
The next couple of days at Highbury proved to be quite a knot of confusion in need of careful unraveling. Naturally the whole house had been woken that night when the Winnetka police had arrived in full force at Highbury. Not being able to get through to anyone at the house via telephone, Clive had quickly called the Winnetka police from the Three Gables Inn and informed them of the situation. He had also called the chief in the city and reported what was happening and that he suspected Clancy was being held somewhere against his will. Clive had driven at high speed, then, to Highbury, arriving at the scene well after the police, but, as fate would have it, just as they were mistakenly nabbing Stan, Fletcher having apparently slipped past them.
Stan was understandably angry at first, but he softened considerably after being praised profusely by Henrietta and Elsie for his brave actions by the boathouse, which, really, they said, had truly saved Henrietta from being thrown into the boat and hauled away, and even by Inspector Howard, who sincerely begged his pardon for the mix-up and who admitted that Stan had done a fine job. This moment in the spotlight, plus the extra devotion from Elsie, seemed to eventually ease his ruffled feathers. “Just so long as no harm came to Henrietta,” he said, sheepishly, though Elsie caug
ht the emotion in his voice and stored it away to be thought about later.
If she were honest with herself, there was a part of her that had been questioning Stan’s true feelings ever since they had begun courting, just shortly after Henrietta had thrown him over, in fact. Elsie hadn’t ever minded taking Henrietta’s hand-me-downs, so long as the castoffs, as it were, fit her just as well or better, which, up until now, she had been convinced of. But now, after last night, a mirror of sorts had been thrust in front of her in which she was forced to judge whether the fit was suitable or not, and she wasn’t so sure anymore. Why had Stanley lurched to save Henrietta and not her? she could not stop wondering, for example. She told herself not to be silly, that of course he had to try to save Henrietta first—Jack had had her by the throat with a knife! Of course that made sense! The mirror, though, Elsie was realizing upon closer inspection, appeared to contain a crack, a tiny shard of which had found its way inside her, creating the smallest sliver of a doubt. It had perhaps always been there, but Elsie was unfortunately conscious of it now, and she desperately hoped it would not grow into something bigger as time went on. She loved Stanley, after all! But more than once the next day, she had to admit, and even on the long drive home, disturbing visions of Lt. Barnes-Smith and his charming smile had appeared before her eyes, confusing the issue all the more.
After the police had found Elsie and Henrietta by the boathouse, Henrietta had hurriedly directed them up to the cottage to check on Helen, where they had rescued her, just barely alive. Helen had accordingly been rushed to the hospital and was still there now, critically ill.
Henrietta had also related to Clive and the police all that Jack had told her in the cottage, how it had all been a setup, and how they were to rendezvous with Neptune in a small town on the Mississippi, though Clive was sure that to chase them there now would be futile. The setup had gone beyond Fletcher posing as the chauffer to capture Henrietta, however. In truth, it had also been Neptune’s gang members who had led Clancy to believe that he was indeed rendezvousing with Moretti.