“Open it at once, you fool,” I exploded, not caring about her feelings. “There’s a highwayman out there.”
“I’m so, so sorry about this.”
“She’s raving, Waldo. Smash the window pane.”
Waldo had already taken off his shoe and was thwacking hard at the glass with the wooden heel. Once. No effect. Twice the glass still held.
“Hurry,” I yelled. I couldn’t bear the neighing of the horses. “I’ll smash it.”
Waldo shoved me away and thwacked with all his might. A thin crack split the pane and at the fourth blow it shattered. Waldo was about to put his head through the jagged hole when something appeared at the window. A face. It was of perfect plump roundness, framed by a fringe of red-blond hair at top and bottom. At first glance it was friendly. But there was malice in the piggy eyes and something nasty in the way the glistening, rosebud lips were pouting.
“’Allo Vera,” the man said.
Mrs. Glee put her crochet on her lap and looked at the man, “So its you.”
“Not a very friendly greeting.”
“Bert—they’re just children.”
“Always liked nippers,” Bert leered. “You know me.”
“Go easy.” Mrs. Glee’s hands, those wrinkled hands holding the crochet, were trembling. Her face, though, was calm.
“Orders is orders,” Bert shrugged. “No loose ends.”
The rest of us watched this strange conversation in bewilderment, for things were happening too fast. Rachel screeched suddenly and Mrs. Glee frowned.
“Quiet, please,” she said. “For your own good, be quiet.”
“But what’s happening?” Rachel gasped, “Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m nobody.”
“Mrs. Glee?!”
“I beg you to listen to Bert. It will be better for all of us, if you do.”
I had never been so bewildered in my life. Mrs. Glee was clearly frightened, I could see that. But other things were wrong. She knew this thug, Bert. They were trying to kidnap us. Emily had been right. Our new governess was not who she pretended to be. There was something twisted out of shape about Mrs. Glee. Never mind that now, I had to act.
“I’m sorry too,” I said, bunching my hand into a fist.
I thwacked Mrs. Glee with all my might, leaving a mark on her face. At the same time Waldo seized a splinter of glass and held it to her throat.
“Call off your man,” I snapped pinioning her arms, “or Waldo will cut your throat.”
Mrs. Glee was trembling uncontrollably. “Stop it, stop it! Please. Someone will get hurt.”
Flicking my eyes, I saw that Bert held a pistol, inches from Rachel’s head. We were outflanked.
“Put the glass down Waldo,” I hissed.
“No,” Waldo barked, his hand quivering at Mrs. Glee’s plump throat.
“He has a gun,” I said quietly.
Waldo turned and saw Bert’s derringer. In a flash it was all over. Mrs. Glee stood up and handed something through the window to Bert. He took the key and unlocked the carriage door and was inside, bringing a rank stench of sweat, grease and gin with him.
“Room for one more,” he grunted, as he heaved his lumbering body into the carriage. Squashed up as we were, we had no choice. The villain sat massive on the bench. The gun lay limply in a fat paw. I saw Waldo eyeing it, but signaled him no. It wasn’t worth taking a chance now, for this was a desperate game.
“The driver?” Mrs. Glee asked the thug.
“Out.”
“We bringing him along?”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. Your game’s done.”
“Bert!”
“Shut up.” Bert closed his eyes. I could see him looking at us through his sandy lashes.
Were they talking about our coach driver, Hodges? The gentlest of men, with horses, or indeed anything on four legs. Was he even now struggling bound, in a ditch, bleeding? Or worse, surely they wouldn’t have murdered him?
“You better not have hurt him,” I burst out. “My father will kill you if you’ve harmed Hodges.”
Abruptly, the carriage rumbled off, jerkily and swaying side to side. The horses whimpered and neighed accompanied by the brutal crack of the whip.
“What is this?” Waldo spat, his eyes red in a furious white face. “Who are you? What are you doing with us?”
“Questions, questions, questions,” Bert smiled, while Mrs. Glee sat whey-faced.
“If you’ve hoping for a ransom, forget it. Our parents aren’t rich.”
Bert grinned as though this was a huge joke. “I’ve had enough of you,” he murmured. “Any of you pesky brats opens your mouf again, I’ll cuff you.” In his hammy hands, a set of handcuffs had appeared, along with the pistol.
My gaze flickered over the faces of my friends, shadowy in the dark interior of the coach. Rachel, sucking her lower lip in agitation. Isaac, pale as chalk. Waldo, eyes glittering with fury. We had to wait, watch, be patient and when it came, seize our chance.
Bert seemed to read my mind. He turned to me, his eyeballs barely visible between two rolls of fat. Plump lips opened and a blob of spittle just missed my feet. Shuddering, I sank back in my seat and felt Waldo’s hand gripping my arm. Stay strong, he seemed to be signaling. If we held our nerve, surely our chance to escape would come?
The Maharajah's Monkey Page 21
