by Carola Dunn
“Heck, if Honourable’s good enough for Gloria, it’s good enough for me, and even with the ransom paid, I’ve enough to support them in style. But it’s my impression of the boy—correct me here if I’m wrong—that he’d rather earn his keep.”
“He told me he hoped you’d find him a technical job, if Miss Arbuckle accepted him.”
“If and when he marries Gloria, my notion is to make him my technical adviser.”
“That would suit Phillip down to the ground!” Daisy knit her brows, struck by a sudden thought. “But what about the chap who advises you now? He’d be out of a job. Could he have foreseen it?”
“Don’t you worry about him, Miss Dalrymple. I’d never fire a trusted longtime employee for no fault of his own. Crawford’s been with me ten years, and I’ve him to thank for a good part of what I own today. It’ll be easy enough to find him something else to do for the same salary.”
Daisy pursued her thought. “What about people you’ve sacked for good cause? Phillip told me you haven’t any enemies, but I should think you must have made one or two.”
Arbuckle cast a shamefaced glance at Phillip, who was patiently submitting to one of Edgar’s lectures on the far side of the room. A fortuitous lull in everyone else’s conversations allowed his lordship’s wistful words to float across. “The other evening I nearly captured a small elephant. Pink, you know, with some yellow, and really quite pretty.”
Noticing Arbuckle’s scandalized face, Daisy said, “It’s all right, Edgar isn’t a dipsomaniac. I’m sure it’s another moth or butterfly.”
“Oh, sure. By golly, he had me worried for a minute there. Though come to think of it, why shouldn’t a lord be a lush same as any other guy? Well, like you were saying, ma’am, I haven’t got where I am without making an enemy or two. I guess I didn’t want Petrie to think Gloria’s poppa was the kinda guy to go round treading on people’s toes for kicks.”
“Are you?” Daisy ventured to ask.
“I am not,” he said emphatically. “But there’s guys have it in for me because I fired ’em, like you guessed, or because I beat ’em to a bargain, or because I wouldn’t invest and they went bust, or … heck, you get the picture.”
She nodded. “I wondered why you were concerned about Miss Arbuckle’s safety when you said American kidnappers know it’s good business to keep their promises. No one would pay ransom if they killed their victims even when the families obey instructions to the letter. But if it’s a matter of revenge …”
“If it’s a matter of revenge,” said Arbuckle in a hollow voice, “it’s anyone’s guess what they might do to my little girl.”
11
“Be like a Turkish bath later,” Binkie observed gloomily, as the searchers gathered in the stable-yard after breakfast.
The sky was still overcast, but Geraldine’s prophesied rain had not materialized. The air was muggy, already warm, without a hint of a breeze.
“You like Turkish baths, darling,” Lucy consoled Binkie. “Just think how shiny my nose is going to get. It’s hardly worth bothering to take face-powder.”
Truscott, wheeling out the last of the bicycles, hid a grin. “I’ve dusted ’em off, Miss Daisy,” he said, “and checked the brakes and tyres. You’re all set. And I topped up the oil in the Lagonda, sir,” he added to Tommy. “The level was down a tad. You want to keep an eye on it.”
Tommy thanked him, kissed Madge good-bye, and zoomed off down the avenue. The bicyclers set off at a more leisurely pace, Lucy and Binkie following the green Lagonda, Daisy and Phillip in opposite directions across the park.
Pedalling towards the Dower House, Daisy wondered whether she ought to have told the others what Arbuckle had said about the possibility of an enemy out for revenge. Their enthusiasm for the hunt had waned—except Phillip’s, of course—at the prospect of another hot day’s exertion on the offchance of sparing a girl they didn’t know a day or two of discomfort.
If they understood Gloria’s peril, they’d be keen as mustard to find her. The trouble was, Daisy was afraid if she told the rest, Phillip would find out, and the poor prune was already in a state. She didn’t want to send him into a tail-spin.
Coming to the Dower House back gate, she wheeled her bicycle through. Owen Morgan peered at her from among runner-beans twice his height, aglow with scarlet blossoms buzzing with bees. Hoe in hand, he emerged and touched his cap.
“Morning, miss. How is the treasure-hunt going?”
“Not too well,” she admitted with a grimace, amused that the cover story had spread as far as her mother’s gardener.
She regarded the dark young Welshman appraisingly. He was on the skinny side, but wiry. Supposing they found Gloria and decided to rescue her, able-bodied men would be in short supply.
But for Daisy’s intervention, Owen might have been tried for murder. She had arranged this job with her mother, too. A nice boy, he was eternally grateful. She might just temporarily shanghai him.
“Later on I might want to ask for your help, Owen,” she said.
He beamed. “There’s happy I’ll be, look you, miss, to do aught I can for you.”
She smiled, nodded, and went on towards the house. Bill Truscott was another who might join the troops, she reflected, and perhaps the footman, Ernest, who had for some reason taken a fancy to Phillip.
But it was no use enlisting volunteers until they knew where the enemy was bivouacked, if that was the proper military phraseology. Fuming at the waste of time, Daisy went into the house.
The Dowager Lady Dalrymple complained not only about her daughter’s absence yesterday but the early hour of her presence today. Daisy apologized profusely and left as soon as she could, aware that the briefness of her visit was another cause for offence. She was not doing frightfully well at putting her mother in a good temper to meet Alec.
Perhaps it would be best to put him off this weekend, she thought as she rode on. Only he had such trouble getting away at all, she hated to postpone the introductions any longer. She had known him jolly nearly six months already. Who was she to rag Phillip for a few weeks’ hesitancy before he plucked up the courage to present the Arbuckles to his family?
His devotion to Gloria was indubitable. Daisy was dying to find out what sort of girl inspired such feelings in her previously untouched friend.
She had plenty of time to consider the various charms which might appeal to Phillip, having decided to cycle straight to the farthest village on her list before the day grew any hotter. What was more, eyeing the sky, she suspected an afternoon thunderstorm was not out of the question. This way, when she was exhausted she would not face a long ride home with lightning flashing about her head.
The clouds darkened but still no rain fell as she worked her way back towards Fairacres. She telephoned two or three times to report her lack of success. Madge told her Tommy had learned of an American stopping to ask directions a week or two ago, but from the description of man and motor, it was Arbuckle himself. Phillip and the other two had had no better luck than Daisy.
A depressingly lonely picnic lunch, on top of a rise in the hope of catching any whisper of breeze, made Daisy wish she had not proposed solo searching. However, it also reminded her of how lonely Gloria must be feeling. She pedalled on, and approached the last village just when the prospect of the tea awaiting at Fairacres became unbearably enticing.
Little Baswell was one of the villages Daisy and Binkie had failed to reach the day before. The land roundabout belonged to an estate neighbouring Fairacres, well within reach of children on ponies or bicycles.
They had ridden that way quite often, the chief attraction being a favourite nursery-maid who had married the village blacksmith. Mrs. Barnard had always provided a slap-up tea for her former charges without expecting any notice. Surely she would provide Daisy with at least a cup of tea to cheer her on her way.
Freewheeling down a slight slope, Daisy noticed that the woodland on her right had gone to rack and ruin. Fallen trunks lay e
nmeshed in brambles and bracken; hazel and holly struggled with saplings for light and air under the tall oaks, ashes, sycamores, birches, and wild cherry trees. She remembered Cooper’s Wood as a pheasant covert, well cared for at least to the eye of a passer-by. For some reason she had always gone around it, not cut across, still less explored, though it was an extensive wood, larger than most in the area.
Then she remembered why she had avoided it. Gervaise and Phillip had once taken her to spy on the aged crone, bent and wrinkled, who lived in the middle. They said she was a witch, who ate children for supper. She boiled them in her cauldron, picked the meat from the bones, and used the bones to tell fortunes and cast spells.
In fear and trembling, Daisy had told her sister. Vi, a year older than Gervaise, asked their nurse, who assured Daisy the woman was just a gamekeeper’s widow, allowed to stay on in the cottage when her husband died. The boys retorted—not in Nurse’s hearing—that the witch had used a spell to make the grown-ups believe she was an ordinary person. Though Violet was sceptical, she couldn’t prove they were wrong. Daisy had swallowed the tale for long enough to make avoiding the wood a habit.
The old woman was probably long since dead. Judging by the condition of the wood, her cottage might well have been abandoned. Could it possibly be where Gloria was imprisoned?
Would the kidnappers have dumped Phillip so close to their hide-out?
Coasting to a halt as the lane levelled, one foot on the ground, Daisy tried to visualize the area as seen on the map. She intended to cycle home along a cart-track through the fields and then across the Fairacres park to the house. That way wasn’t much more than a couple of miles. By road, with a motor-vehicle, from here to the spot where Edgar found Phillip must be more like six or seven miles. At least five, anyway.
Still not far, but she recalled what she had said to Phillip: To people used to the anonymity of the metropolis, a mile or two from home was another world. Five miles must be about the distance from fashionable Mayfair to the dockside slums of Limehouse, with the whole City of London, business heart of the Empire, in between.
The Yank might have a different view of the matter, but having disobeyed his order, they were not likely to tell him.
Daisy peered into the gloomy thickets of the wood. The urge to explore warred with the urge to hurry to Fairacres or Mrs. Barnard’s for tea. What a triumph if she returned to announce she had found Gloria!
A russet-furred squirrel chattered at her angrily from a branch overhanging the lane. Somewhere in the depths of the greenery a woodpecker hammered, paused, and hammered again.
Just what Phillip had heard in his captivity! Of course it meant nothing; every copse and spinney had its squirrels and its woodpeckers. All the same, the sounds crystallized Daisy’s intentions. She’d go and have a look at the witch’s hut.
The tangle of brambles and bushes looked impenetrable just here. She pushed her bike on a bit until she found an opening, but it was little more than a rabbit path, still no good for cycling.
“Blast!” said Daisy. On a bicycle she might have pretended to be looking for a short-cut, but even Cockneys must realize no one would choose to walk for pleasure in this heat, under those threatening clouds. If they saw Daisy poking about, they’d be suspicious—always supposing they were there.
She didn’t know her way through the wood, so she could not march right along like someone on an errand. What she needed was a dog. Dogs had to be exercised whatever the weather. No one could suspect a dog-walker.
The Barnards had had a dog, a lurcher called Kitchener. He must be long dead, but dog people seldom go without.
Daisy hopped onto her bicycle and set off again at a brisk pace. She’d pop into the village shop and the pub with her questions, then kill two birds with one stone: Get a cup of tea and borrow a dog.
The all too familiar negative answers to her queries rather dampened her zeal, but she rode on to the smithy. Amid showers of sparks and the clang of iron on iron, Ted Barnard was forging a shoe for a vast, patient carthorse. Daisy waved to him. His grin white in his blackened face, he waved back with his hammer.
She wheeled her bike around the smithy and leant it against the back wall, out of the way. The Barnards’ whitewashed brick cottage was right next door, its tiny front garden ablaze with sweet williams, candytuft, tall blue delphiniums, and fragrant mignonette.
Mrs. Barnard, stout and grey now but as motherly as ever, was delighted to see Daisy. So was Tuffet, a tousled, duncoloured bundle of energy with bright brown eyes behind her shaggy forelock, who danced around Daisy’s feet, stumpy tail wagging madly.
“Go to your basket,” Mrs. Barnard ordered. “She’s got more bounce than I can cope with, Miss Daisy, and that’s a fact. You just set yourself down for a nice cuppa, dear. The kettle’s on the hob.”
Over seed-cake and an amazing assortment of home-made biscuits, Daisy told Mrs. Barnard about her writing career. “And now I’m doing some articles on London museums for an American magazine,” she finished.
“Well I never, fancy that! Such a naughty little moppet as you was, too, always running after your poor, dear brother and always a heap of pinnies to be ironed, so quick as you dirtied ’em.”
Daisy laughed. “Unlike Vi, who was always clean and tidy, and still is.” She looked down ruefully at her dusty blouse and skirt. “One of the advantages of writing is that no one sees you a lot of the time. Mrs. Barnard, do you remember Gervaise frightening me half to death with a tale of a witch living in Cooper’s Wood?”
“That I do, dear, being as how it was me sat up with you through your nightmares for a week after.”
“Is she still alive? Does anyone live in that cottage now?”
“Nay, the old ’oman died a few years sin’—ninety-four, she were! Mr. Feversham up at the big house being too old himself to care for shooting or much else nowadays, he’s let the cottage moulder and the coverts grow wild.”
“I thought I might go and have a look at the place. It would be a good setting for a story. Only I’d rather like company. Do you think Tuffet would like to go for a walk with me?”
At the magic word, the dog bounded from her basket and came to sit at Daisy’s feet, peering up hopefully through her fringe.
“It’s my belief,” said Mrs. Barnard, laughing, “as she’d love to go with you. Nor you needn’t be bringing her every step of the way back if it’s out of your way. Tell her to go home and she’ll be on the doorstep in no time flat, begging for her dinner.”
Daisy stopped at the telephone booth by the pub, but it was out of order, so she rode on back to Cooper’s Wood with Tuffet racing beside the bicycle, short legs at full stretch.
Finding the narrow path, Daisy lugged the bike a few paces in from the lane and hid it under a straggly laurel she was sure she’d recognize. The dog at her heels, she continued along the path until it forked.
Both branches led onward into the depths of the wood. Daisy hesitated but, nose to the ground, Tuffet forged ahead down the right-hand path, so she followed.
A jay screeched a general warning. The muted sounds of birdsong ceased abruptly. In the eerie quiet under the thick canopy of leaves a twig snapped like a pistol-shot beneath Daisy’s sandal. She stopped, heart in mouth. Nothing came to her ears but the scuff of Tuffet’s feet in the damp, crumbling leaf-mould.
The path gradually swung back on itself, towards the lane. Loath to retrace her steps in the heavy stillness, Daisy kept an eye out for a side turning. Before she found one, a dense mass of holly barred the way.
Or rather, it barred Daisy’s way. The dog scurried on, hot on the trail of a rabbit, squirrel, fox, or pheasant.
“Tuffet!” Daisy called reluctantly, in a low voice, to no effect. She tried to whistle, but her mouth was too dry.
So much for her camouflage. Presuming Tuffet would find her own way home, Daisy turned back. She soon came to another path leading the way she wanted to go—or did she? It led around the giant bole of a once-pollarded oa
k, wreathed with ivy, which had concealed it from the opposite direction.
She took it, telling herself firmly she had no reason for nerves as the chances that she had chosen to explore the right wood were practically nil. All the same, she walked carefully, avoiding stepping on dry twigs, like in the Red Indian games Gervaise and Phillip had occasionally let her join.
The path twisted and turned, but as far as she could tell continued inward. She had to duck under low branches, climb over a fallen tree-trunk, unhitch her skirt from grasping brambles, and stop now and then to wipe the sweat from her brow.
She must be mad!
Birds were twittering again, having decided the intruder was harmless. Then came another jay’s screech. A moment later, Daisy heard the patter of feet on the path behind her and Tuffet rejoined her with an ecstatic yip.
Heartened, Daisy pushed on. Around a last bend and they emerged into what must once have been a pleasant ride.
The abandoned bridleway had sprouted a forest of birch saplings, and blackthorn thickets, and masses of purple-pink rosebay willow-herb. Still, the going looked somewhat easier, and it seemed likely that the cottage would have been sited somewhere near the ride for accessibility. Tossing a mental coin, Daisy turned left.
She followed the path of least resistance. Within a few yards, her suspicions were aroused. The way was too wide and, though twisting around obstacles, too straight for fox or badger, or even deer. Though the ground was too dry and hard for footprints, here and there a plant appeared to have been crushed beneath a heavy boot. She spotted the odd broken branch, withered leaves brown against the green backdrop. In a blackthorn, among the swelling sloes, hung a scrap of blue cloth.
Daisy found she was holding her breath. She let it out silently and proceeded with stealthy tread.
Quickly tiring of this slow means of locomotion, Tuffet bounced ahead. To make use of the camouflage, Daisy ought to behave like a legitimate dog-walker, she realized, not skulk along like a poacher after pheasants. Besides, skulking was hard on tired legs. She tramped on at a more normal pace.
