“You don’t know the way, of course,” said Major Cray. “But Sergeant Frayle can show you—and it will give you an idea of the lie of the land.”
“Yes sir,” said Jimmy Howe smartly.
The company was thirty strong—thirty-one including the colonel’s batman, who, for some unexplained reason, had obtained permission to take part in the exercise. Jimmy Howe was young, and it seemed to him a good sight when “B” Company marched out of camp, smart, orderly, and fully attired for battle. It made Jimmy feel quite queer inside to see them and to know that for the next two hours this magnificent body of men would be under his command. Sergeant Frayle was most helpful. He suggested that they should take the track across the moor to Gostown and come back by the road. It was just the right length and there was plenty to see. The men liked it. Jimmy Howe agreed at once and away they went.
The moors were gorgeous, the bracken was a rich deep brown—there was almost a purple tinge in it. The air was sparkling clear. Tiny white clouds raced across the sky. Jimmy Howe striding along with his men felt as though the world belonged to him. Presently the men started to whistle and Jimmy was glad, for it showed that they were enjoying themselves too. On they went, up hill and down dale, and at first Jimmy was so enchanted with everything he saw that he thought of nothing else, but after a bit he began to think of his mother and to wish that she could see him now—how wonderful it would be if she suddenly appeared and watched the company march past! (Wonderful, but quite impossible, for his mother lived in York.) And Aunt Deborah, thought Jimmy. Pity she couldn’t see him. She was a managing old lady, was Aunt Deborah; she managed the whole family—including Jimmy, of course. Yes, it was a pity she couldn’t see him now.
The company marched to Gostown, swung left, and returned by the road. It was a pleasant road and there was very little traffic on it—not that there was much traffic anywhere these days—a bus passed them at the top of the hill, and Sergeant Frayle informed Jimmy that it was going to Wandlebury. They were coming down the hill now, toward a wood, and beyond the wood Jimmy could see Ganthorne.
They were nearly home, and Jimmy, who was still full of zeal and ardor, was just beginning to wish that he had taken the men a bit farther afield when a most extraordinary thing occurred. Out of the wood rushed an old lady, and for a moment Jimmy thought it was Aunt Deborah herself (for she was dressed in the same démodé fashion, namely in a black coat down to her ankles and a small round hat covered with white flowers) but Jimmy’s first thought gave place, almost at once, to a second that was only slightly less alarming; the old lady was mad.
She rushed out of the wood and stood in the middle of the road waving frantically and shouting, “Help! Help! Help!”
“What on earth,” began Jimmy, turning to Sergeant Frayle, but he got no further. He was stricken dumb.
“B” Company was wavering and disintegrating before his eyes.
The leading ranks went first and the others followed—in a moment the whole company of seasoned men was rushing pell-mell down the road. The whole company with the exception of Sergeant Frayle, and even he seemed somewhat demoralized. He ran a few steps and stopped and looked back at Jimmy, registering expressions of anxiety, mortification, and indecision that would have done credit to a film star.
Jimmy had been too amazed to give any orders—which perhaps was just as well—but now he recovered and said briefly—“We’d better follow them, I suppose,” and took to his heels without more ado.
The old lady was surrounded by a solid wall of khaki when Jimmy arrived on the scene. It parted to let him through and closed up again behind him. He was now in the middle of the circle, face to face with Miss Marks.
“…the spy,” she was saying in breathless tones, “a German…perfectly certain…in the wood…asleep…and here is his gun,” she added producing a small revolver and holding it in an unpleasantly amateurish fashion so that it wavered around the little circle on a level with their belts. Fraser (who was standing quite near her, of course) disarmed her deftly; he opened the breach and half a dozen little bullets popped out into his hand.
“Oh, it was loaded!” exclaimed the old lady in alarm.
“Madam,” began Jimmy politely.
“There is not a moment to lose!” declared the old lady, looking around at the men with shining eyes. “You must scatter and surround the wood. You must creep upon him silently and take him unawares.”
Jimmy was about to protest when he felt a gentle touch on his arm. It was Sergeant Frayle. He had taken the revolver from Fraser and was holding it out for Jimmy to see. “Look, sir,” he said in an undertone. “It’s a Jerry revolver, and the bullets are those soft-nosed things…”
Jimmy looked. He had not seen a revolver like it before—it was quite different from his own. “D’you mean it’s true?” he asked incredulously.
The sergeant was sure it was true—he knew Miss Marks—but it was difficult to explain the matter to his officer. It was all the more difficult because by this time Miss Marks had recovered her breath and was giving her orders in a loud clear voice.
“Scatter!” cried Miss Marks, waving her umbrella. “Come upon him simultaneously from all sides. You, Shadwell, and you, Hollingford, to the south of the wood—Gheales, Barrington, and Willis to the north. Hide yourselves carefully and bar his escape, he cannot harm you, for we have taken his weapon. Quickly!” cried Miss Marks, brandishing her umbrella like a sword. “Quickly and quietly—he may wake at any moment and slip through our fingers…and you, Fraser,” she continued, turning to her faithful friend. “And you, Benson,” she added, picking out the champion boxer of the battalion. “Follow me, and I will lead you to him.”
“Look here,” began Jimmy, who had managed to find his tongue.
“And you,” she added, turning to him. “Follow me, all of you; we will take him like a rat in a trap.”
“Sir!” said Sergeant Frayle in agonized tones. “Sir, what would you—could we—shall I—”
Jimmy Howe swallowed something that seemed to have stuck in his throat. He said a little stiffly, “All right, Sergeant Frayle. Carry on.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Frayle. “I think we should do as Miss Marks suggests—unless you can think of a better plan, sir.”
“Carry on, Sergeant Frayle,” repeated Jimmy and this time he smiled.
“Thank you, sir,” said Frayle with a sigh of relief. He really was unutterably thankful that young Mr. Howe had taken it so well. It wasn’t many that would have—thought Frayle. It showed he was a bit of all right. He wouldn’t lose by it, either. Frayle would see to that…
The men were scattering now, some to one side of the wood and some to the other. They were running along quickly with bent backs, creeping through hedges and vaulting over walls. Miss Marks herself, with the few faithful followers she had chosen, was waiting until her troops had taken up their position before advancing upon the enemy.
“Madame,” said Jimmy—and this time “Madame” heard him for he had been warned by Sergeant Frayle that the lady was deaf. “Madame, I think it will be best if you leave this to me. Your dispositions are excellent,” said Jimmy with the ghost of a smile. “I couldn’t improve upon your plan of battle but I should prefer you to remain here with two of the men.”
“Remain here!” exclaimed Miss Marks in surprise. “Dear me, no. I am not in the least tired.”
“It isn’t that exactly,” said Jimmy, abandoning his high-flown language and coming down to brass tacks. “It isn’t a question of whether you’re tired or not. It’s just that you would be better out of it. If he really is a spy—and I suppose he must be or he wouldn’t have had that revolver—”
“He is a spy,” interrupted Miss Marks. “Quite apart from the revolver his appearance is sufficient indication of his nationality—the cephalic structure is definitely Teutonic,” added Miss Marks, clinching the matter once and for all.
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“Oh!” said Jimmy vaguely. “Oh—well then—that’s all the more reason why you should be out of it, because he’ll be a pretty tough customer and there may be a bit of a scrap.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Marks. “We must take him by surprise. You have no idea where the man is. If you start looking for him he will wake and hear you and have time to conceal himself—possibly to make his escape.” She looked around and added, “Are you all ready?”
“Give them another two minutes,” suggested Jimmy. “You want them all around the wood before we start.”
They waited. Jimmy kept looking at his watch—two minutes seemed an endless stretch of time. He thought of all sorts of things as the hand of his watch crawled along. He had time to wonder, somewhat anxiously, whether the story would reach the mess—and in what form; to wonder whether he had been right to condone the breach of discipline—but what could he have done? He thought of Nelson’s blind eye—and then decided that Nelson’s blind eye was quite a different matter; it had been used not to condone but to disobey. He could think of no parallel at all. Whoever heard of an old lady appearing suddenly from the shelter of a wood and assuming command of a company? This brought him back to Miss Marks. He looked at her. She was standing in the middle of the road with her feet slightly apart and her umbrella grasped firmly in her hand. Her lips were set in a firm line and the light of battle shone in her eye. Jimmy had intended to make a further suggestion—a suggestion that Miss Marks should walk on toward Ganthorne and give the alarm—but he saw that such a feeble subterfuge would be useless.
“Time’s up,” said Jimmy at last.
“Good,” said Miss Marks, who had been feeling the strain of waiting. “I shall go first and lead the way. You must follow, single file, for the path is narrow and—”
“I shall go first,” said Jimmy.
“But I know the way.”
“You can direct me.”
“It would be much better—”
“Then you must take the revolver,” said Jimmy, holding it out to her as he spoke.
Miss Marks looked at it. “Is it loaded?” she inquired.
Jimmy nodded.
“I have my umbrella,” said Miss Marks a trifle uncertainly.
“No,” said Jimmy, shaking his head. “The leader of the expedition must be properly armed.”
“But you must not shoot him,” said Miss Marks anxiously.
“I shan’t shoot him unless I have to,” said Jimmy and with that he stepped in front of her and led the way into the wood.
Miss Marks followed, directing him, and behind her came Fraser and Benson. They trod softly, avoiding dry twigs and trying to use the woodcraft they had learnt, but the crackle of leaves beneath their feet sounded very loud.
“This way,” whispered Miss Marks. “Through here…along this wall…wait a moment. Yes, we turn to the right here. Yes, I remember now, this is the path. He is behind that hedge of rhododendrons.”
Jimmy jumped the ditch, climbed the bank, and peered through the hedge. Then he turned his head and nodded… (“Thank goodness!” said Markie to herself.) He signed to the two men to divide and go around, one on each side. They melted away and left Markie standing alone on the path.
Just for a moment Markie wished she had not come. The woods were still and gloomy, and a few large raindrops began to fall. Markie could feel them pattering on the top of her hat. She began to unfurl her umbrella and then stopped…it seemed unsuitable.
The rain will waken him, thought Markie. He will spring up and find himself surrounded. Perhaps he will fight, or try to get away! Oh, I do hope they will not shoot him! All the glory and excitement seeped out of Markie as she stood there on the path, and she saw her adventure as a poor affair…one miserable unsuspecting fox and thirty hounds creeping up to him through the bracken. She could bear the suspense no longer. She did not want to see, but she had to see what was happening on the other side of the hedge. She stepped over the ditch, mounted the bank, and took up her position beside Jimmy.
“Go back,” he whispered. “Go back—you’ll be in the way.”
She did not hear him—it might not have made much difference if she had—and instead of beating a retreat she dropped on her hands and knees and peered between the black snaky stems of the rhododendrons.
The man was still there. He was wakening now…sitting up and looking around…groping for his revolver. He was still searching for it feverishly amongst the leaves when Fraser and Benson appeared from different directions and advanced upon him. Jimmy, seeing them there, pushed through the bushes, shouting, “Hands up! You’re surrounded!” The man sprang to his feet and immediately Fraser and Benson closed with him, seizing his arms.
“Don’t hurt him whatever you do—don’t hurt him!” cried Markie and she, too, forced her way through the bushes and arrived upon the scene.
“What on earth are you fellows doing?” asked the man in perfectly good English. “I suppose I’m trespassing. If so, I’m sorry. I sat down for a few minutes and I must have gone to sleep…you gave me a damned good fright. I suppose it’s your idea of a joke!”
He spoke like a gentleman—an English gentleman. Jimmy fell back and the hand that held the revolver dropped to his side. How frightful! he thought. Good Lord, this is the last straw! The whole company has spent an hour stalking the fellow—I shall never live this down—never.
But Markie had been watching the man’s eyes—his tongue was glib enough but his eyes were darting hither and thither like the eyes of an animal in a trap.
“Fear nothing,” said Markie, in correct if somewhat stilted German. She could read German with the greatest of ease, but speaking it was a different matter. “Fear nothing. You are trapped. All is discovered; but they will do you no harm if you come quietly. Any attempt at escape is useless.” She waved her umbrella as she spoke and, as if it were a signal, half a dozen more khaki figures rose from the bracken at the edge of the clearing.
“Gott in Himmel!” exclaimed the man in dismayed accents.
“Be tranquil,” continued Markie soothingly. “Fear nothing. I shall not allow them to harm you. This officer has your weapon but he will not use it unless you attempt to escape.”
“What are you saying to the fellow?” inquired Jimmy, looking at Miss Marks in awe…he knew enough German to be aware that the conversation was being conducted in that language, and he had realized (with relief) that his prisoner was a prisoner and not a harmless individual after all. Miss Marks explained what she had said.
“Of course,” agreed Jimmy. “He won’t get hurt unless he makes a bolt for it—or at least we shan’t hurt him—but if he tries any funny tricks I can’t answer for the consequences.”
“You have his gun,” Miss Marks pointed out.
“Yes,” agreed Jimmy. “It was pretty smart of you to disarm him…just run your hands over him, Fraser, and make sure he hasn’t got another…No? All right, then, take him back to the road and we’ll form up and march him into camp. Sergeant Frayle, you had better remain here with a few men and make a thorough search of the wood.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Frayle.
“The police will have to be informed,” added Jimmy. “You will remain here until you are relieved.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Frayle, delighted to observe that young Mr. Howe was reassuming command in such a competent manner.
The remainder of the company was recalled by a few blasts on a whistle. They fell in quickly and marched into camp. Miss Marks marched with them, toddling along beside Jimmy in silence (for the pace was a little too rapid and she had no breath for speech). She was torn between the conflicting emotions of pride and regret. Pride in the fact that she really had accomplished something definite for her country, and regret for her prisoner, walking disconsolate and sullen between his captors. He might have been quite a nice boy (thought Markie)
if only he had not been born a German, with that regrettably square head.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Doctor’s Diagnosis
Markie was in bed. She had fainted in the middle of supper—had rolled right off her chair and collapsed in a heap on the ground—and she knew nothing more until she found herself lying on her bed and heard the terrific fuss going on all around her. “Not brandy,” Jane was saying. “Not until the doctor comes. Don’t cry, Wilhelmina—go and fill two hot water bottles.”
“She’s dead!” wailed Wilhelmina.
“Nonsense, go and do what you’re told,” said Jane sharply.
“But Markie is never ill!” exclaimed Jerry’s voice. “Oh dear, she must have been doing too much—and look how thin she has got—two safety pins in her waistband!”
“It was the excitement,” said Jane’s voice soothingly. “And we’ve all got thinner. Don’t worry, Jerry…smelling salts—there, on the dressing-table—I think she’s coming around.”
“I am perfectly well,” declared Markie in a shaky voice, and she endeavored to rise.
“Lie still, darling!” cried Jerry.
“Just until the doctor comes,” added Jane.
“There is no need for the doctor.”
“We’ve sent for him.”
“I won’t see him.”
“Darling Markie, you must. He’s coming. He’ll be here in half an hour.”
“I won’t see him,” said Markie, but she said it feebly, for she felt so ill that nothing seemed to matter very much.
Dr. Wrench was small and thin and agile. He had a brown face, somewhat wrinkled, and a pair of very brown eyes; it was therefore a foregone conclusion that his intimates should call him Monkey. He arrived at Ganthorne in his car before Jerry had expected—though not before she had hoped to see him—and instead of ringing the bell he let himself in and came bounding up the narrow stairs, two steps at a time. He was in Markie’s bedroom, standing at the end of the bed and looking at her before she knew he was in the house.
The Two Mrs. Abbotts Page 20