Damsel in Distress

by Carola Dunn

The rain was pouring down in earnest now, breaching the leafy canopy in trickles, streams, and torrents. The larch’s needles were no protection. Uncomfortably seated on a narrow branch, clinging to the trunk, Daisy was soaked through in no time. She shivered.

  They had Gloria again. All Daisy’s efforts were for nothing—unless she could get back to Fairacres in time to send the men to the rescue before the kidnappers moved their victim elsewhere.

  Yet she dared not descend until she was certain they had given up searching. Fortunately, the thunder was distant now. Through the hiss and plop of falling rain, she listened to the sounds of the hunt dying away.

  “Bloody’orrible!”

  Daisy would have jumped a mile if she hadn’t been hemmed in by branches.

  “Gawd, I can’t wait to get back to the Smoke!”

  The voices sounded as if they were just below the tree, but through leaves and branches she saw the glimmer of torches and realized the men were on the path. She watched the lights bob away towards the cottage, having kindly helped her find her bearings.

  She waited what seemed like an age, then clambered down, though she could not be sure the others were not lying in wait. Pushing through the bushes, she turned away from the cottage and plodded gingerly into the inky night.

  Alec scowled at the map spread out on the desk in the viscount’s den. “Here and here and here, Mrs. Pearson?” He pointed to the three villages Daisy had telephoned from.

  “Yes.” The pretty young woman consulted her list. “And she said she had covered these others in between. She didn’t ring from each place.”

  “So she could have gone on to any of these three, or beyond if she made good time. Has anyone any reason to favour a particular direction?” He glanced around the circle of intent faces.

  “She was heading generally back towards Fairacres,” Pearson pointed out hesitantly. “I shouldn’t imagine she’d turn away again.”

  “A good point,” Alec approved. “These two are most likely, then, Astonford and Little Baswell.”

  “Astonford’s a tiny hamlet,” Petrie put in. “Doesn’t even have a pub, let alone a shop.”

  “The shop in Little Baswell will have closed long since,” said Miss Fotheringay, “but the pub will be open for another half hour.”

  “Heck, what does it matter?” Arbuckle asked. “We might figure out which village she went to but she could be anywheres now. We can’t comb the countryside.”

  “And if we could,” Bincombe gloomed, punctuated by a rumble of thunder, “if we had a hundred men, we might pass within a yard or two of her without seeing or hearing her in this weather.”

  Unfortunately he was right. Alec bowed his head in defeat, then squared his shoulders and said reluctantly, “Yes, we’ll have to wait till daylight. Maybe by then I’ll have come up with a brilliant plan to find her.”

  “Maybe she’ll be back,” Mrs. Pearson consoled him wearily.

  “You’re not waiting up to see, my pet,” her husband informed her. “Beddy-byes time.”

  “You’ll all want to be rested for tomorrow,” Alec said. “You’d better all go to bed, except you, Petrie, if you please. I want to hear everything you can tell me about the kidnapping. And from you, too, Mr. Arbuckle, if you don’t mind staying a while, sir.”

  “No sirree. But Lord and Lady Dalrymple may be a mite surprised to find us here when they get home.”

  “Great Scott, I’d forgotten all about them! We could go down to the Wedge and Beetle, but I haven’t booked for tonight and I don’t know whether they can accommodate me.”

  “You’d better stay the night here, Mr. Fletcher. I expect we can square it with Daisy’s cousins.” Miss Fotheringay eyed him sardonically. “We’ll just tell them she forgot she had invited you. They don’t know that’s inconceivable.”

  Acknowledging her mockery with a half-smile, Alec agreed, “It would be much more convenient to stay. I shan’t go to bed anyway, in case Daisy turns up.”

  “You need your beauty sleep too,” she told him. “We’ll take it in turns sitting up, won’t we?” she appealed to the others.

  “Not Madge,” Pearson said firmly, “but I’ll take my turn. I’ll make out a schedule.” He sat down at the desk and searched the drawers for paper and pencil.

  Alec did not argue. His eyelids felt heavy and gritty after the drive from London following a long day at the Yard, clearing up paperwork so that he could take an extra day off.

  “Someone wake me when it’s my turn,” Miss Fotheringay drawled, “or if the missing sheep returns to the fold. I’m for bed. Come on, Madge, darling. If we’re gone when the cousins get back they’ll assume Daisy’s gone up, too, which will spare all sorts of complications—for tonight at least.”

  “Good thinking, Miss Fotheringay.”

  “I can when I try. I’ll tell Lowecroft to have a bed made up for you. Good-night all.”

  The ladies departed just in time. Pearson had barely finished writing out his schedule when from the front hall came the sound of voices and a door shutting.

  Petrie turned to Alec. “I’d better introduce you right away, Fletcher.”

  “I’ll lie low,” Arbuckle said promptly.

  Alec followed Petrie out. As they emerged from the passage into the hall, the gentleman handing his dripping umbrella to the footman said irately, “Dash it, Geraldine, I know a copper when I see one!”

  Taken aback, Alec hesitated. Lord Dalrymple could not have caught more than a glimpse of him, was now not even looking their way. Besides, Alec was seldom if ever recognized as a policeman. Not that he himself objected to his profession being known, but he had promised Arbuckle to keep it quiet.

  “The small copper is common,” his lordship continued didactically, to Alec’s further bewilderment; though not particularly tall, he was above regulation height. Lord Dalrymple, bending to give an absent pat to the spaniel who lolloped to greet him, went on to assert, “What I saw was a Queen of Spain, a rare visitor. The man was talking through his hat. I should hope I can tell Issoria lathonia from Lycaena phlaeas!”

  “Yes, dear,” soothed Lady Dalrymple, “but the man is a noted authority. That was why he was invited to meet you.”

  “Authority!” her husband snorted. “Ass!”

  Petrie turned his head. “Butterflies,” he murmured, then moved on. “Lady Dalrymple, will you allow me to present Mr. Fletcher? I’m afraid Daisy forgot to mention to you that she had invited him. He wasn’t able to make it until today.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Fletcher,” her ladyship said severely, and at once turned back to Petrie. “Where is Daisy? She missed tea and had not come in when we left.”

  “The ladies have gone up to bed,” Petrie told her misleadingly. “They had a tiring day.”

  “Indeed! This treasure-hunting nonsense of Daisy’s has gone on long enough. I shall tell her so in the morning.”

  Meanwhile, Lord Dalrymple introduced himself to Alec, and continued eagerly, “Are you acquainted with the Lepidoptera, by any chance?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. I can tell a Peacock from a Cabbage White, but that’s about it.”

  “Large White, my dear sir, Large White. You refer to Pieris brassicae, I take it. A pest, to be sure, but not unattractive in its way.”

  “Are you coming, Edgar?” said his wife. “It is late and you will insist on going out at dawn.”

  “I was going to offer Mr. Fletcher a night-cap, dear.”

  “I’m sure you can rely upon Mr. Petrie to do the honours.”

  “Please do, my boy. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Fletcher. It’s true I like to rise early and go out before the heat of the day. Good-night.”

  Forbearing to point out that tomorrow was unlikely to be hot, Alec bade him good-night.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the viscount turned and said earnestly, “It was a Queen of Spain, I’d take my oath on it. A fritillary, you know.”

  Alec rather liked him, but he could see why Daisy didn’t choose to make her h
ome with her cousins.

  He and Petrie rejoined Arbuckle, Pearson, and Bincombe in the den. The footman came in a moment later with decanters of brandy and whisky.

  “I knows Miss Daisy’s not come in yet,” he said in a hushed, enigmatic voice, with a significant look. “Mr. Lowecroft’s gone to bed. I’m the only one on duty. If there’s aught I can do to help, just ring, and you knows, Mr. Petrie, sir, I can keep mum.”

  “Good fellow,” said Petrie, turning to Arbuckle. “Whisky, sir?”

  “I could bear to take a drop.”

  More appreciative than Petrie of Ernest’s offer, Alec soberly told the youth, “It doesn’t look as if there’s anything to be done now. Tomorrow’s another matter. If Miss Daisy isn’t home yet, we may need every man we can get.”

  14

  Pearson declined a night-cap. Handing Alec the schedule for the night watch, in an unstated acceptance of his authority, he went upstairs to join his wife. Alec took his seat at the desk and accepted a spot of brandy. Arbuckle sipped his Scotch and muttered something blasphemous about the Prohibition.

  Petrie supplied himself and Bincombe with whisky and soda. “All right, Fletcher,” he said, “what can we tell you?”

  Lord Gerald interrupted in a burst of unwonted loquacity. “Look here, old man,” he said to Alec, “Lucy may not show it much but she’s deucedly fond of Daisy. Do anything for her. And I’d do abso-bally-lutely anything for Lucy, don’t you know. Do a good deal for Daisy, come to that. So you’ve only to give the word.”

  Alec gravely thanked him.

  “I mean,” the large young man persevered in his laborious effort to explain himself, “we all rallied round for Miss Arbuckle, but after all, we don’t know her.” He cast an apologetic glance at the kidnapped girl’s father. “Except Petrie, what? But Daisy is … well, Daisy, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do indeed,” Alec agreed, with a painful clenching of his heart. Where was she? Was she lost, hurt, helpless in the hands of villains?

  “That’s all right then,” said Bincombe, relieved. “Wake me when it’s time.” Swallowing his whisky in a single gulp, he silently departed.

  Turning to Arbuckle, Alec said, “I’ll have your story first, sir. Just a minute while I find some paper to make notes.”

  “Nothing in writing! It’s too damn dangerous.”

  “I find going over notes of a conversation often brings to one’s attention points one had not previously noticed.”

  “No!” said the American adamantly. “You want me to play along, you do it my way.”

  Alec conceded the point, hoping his memory would prove less fuzzy than his tired eyes. He let the touchy gentleman tell the story without interruption, making mental notes of questions to be asked, points to be clarified.

  Arbuckle produced the notes he had received from the kidnappers, which he carried on him at all times. They were printed in pencil in block capitals on ordinary notepaper available anywhere. The wording was uneducated, but in an awkward way which could well be faked. Though Alec had never worked on a kidnapping—they were rare in Britain—he knew such was often the case.

  Several instances of American slang, spelling, and phrasing, though possibly also faked, suggested that “the Yank” Petrie had reported to Arbuckle was in fact American. There was always a chance he was some English criminal whose copied methods had earned him the nickname, but Alec was sure he’d have heard at least a rumour of such a man.

  “I guess me telling you about the Yank’s just hearsay,” said Arbuckle as Alec pored over the notes, “but Petrie will confirm it.”

  “I’m not concerned about hearsay,” Alec assured him. “You’re not giving a formal statement or evidence. I want to know everything: hearsay, opinion, conjecture, distant possibilities.”

  Rather red in the face, Arbuckle said, “Waal, there’s something I told Miss Dalrymple that I’ve kept from Petrie here. I’m sorry, son, but I didn’t want you thinking Gloria’s poppa was the kind to go stepping on people’s corns on purpose. The fact is, I’ve made a few enemies in my time.”

  “Which of us hasn’t?” said Alec, and Petrie nodded solemnly. His blank look suggested he was trying hard to recall any enemies he had made in his time.

  Arbuckle explained how, in the course of his business dealings, he had inevitably offended various people. Asking him to make a list of names, Alec turned to Petrie.

  His account, where it covered the same events, coincided closely with Arbuckle’s, allowing for different viewpoints.

  “Any comments or ideas?” Alec invited.

  “Well, there is one thing, Chief Inspector.”

  Arbuckle sat up. “Chief Inspector? That’s real high up, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty high up,” Petrie assented in a modest tone which suggested he accepted the credit for providing a police officer of superior rank.

  “Swell! I guess that means you’ve got some leeway, Mr. Fletcher, when it comes to acting on your own?”

  “A certain amount,” Alec said cautiously, trying not to envisage what his Super, let alone the A.C., would think of his present activities. “What were you going to say, Petrie?”

  “Oh, it’s just something that’s rather puzzled me. If you don’t mind my saying so, sir,” he said to Arbuckle, “I was a bit surprised that the Studebaker had no spare radiator hose in its tool-kit. They’re always splitting or getting punctured, or even just falling off. Crawford knowing all about motor engines, I’d have expected him to keep such a basic spare part to hand.”

  “Crawford’s my technical adviser, not my chauffeur, son. He keeps an eye on the Studebaker but I don’t hold him responsible. I left Biggs back home, seeing I mostly drive myself anyhow.”

  “Gloria—Miss Arbuckle—drives too,” Petrie told Alec proudly.

  “Yet Mr. Crawford was driving you on this occasion,” Alec said to Arbuckle. “Why was that?”

  “Gloria wanted to show me Hereford.” He pronounced it Her-ford. “When Petrie took her there, she found out Nell Gwynne was born in the city and thought I’d be interested. I’m not real hep when it comes to history—like Henry Ford says, history is bunk—but I took a fancy to that old story of Nell Gwynne, the orange girl, and your King Charles. Now Crawford, he’s almost as keen on your history and the countryside as Gloria is. Spends all his weekends exploring. So when he hears we’re going to Her-ford, he says he’d like to come along and he’ll drive.”

  “It was his idea to go with you, then?” Alec asked.

  Arbuckle pondered. “Gee, I couldn’t swear to it. He was interested when we were talking about it, all right, but I’ve a feeling Gloria asked him along. She was pleased, anyhow, because him driving let her and me admire the scenery. I guess she doesn’t pay much attention to the scenery when she’s out with Petrie,” he added slyly.

  Petrie blushed, confirming Alec’s surmise as to the reason for his concern over Gloria Arbuckle.

  “So you think Miss Arbuckle invited Crawford to go.” Alec hated to see a promising lead evaporate. “Tell me, what happens when a radiator hose goes? Am I right in supposing it’s quite spectacular?”

  “By Jove, yes!” said Petrie. “The remaining water boils and there’s clouds of steam hissing all over the place. You jolly well know it’s happening, which is just as well because if you don’t stop right away, the engine overheats and can be ruined.”

  “Steam?” Arbuckle frowned. “I’ll be darned if I recall clouds of steam.”

  “You don’t recall whether there was steam,” Alec asked sharply, “or you do recall that there was not?”

  “There was not,” the American said in a flat voice. “Crawford said over his shoulder something was wrong. He pulled into the gateway and opened the hood. The bonnet, you call it. Then he muttered about the radiator, took some piece out—the hose, I guess. He put it in his pocket and I didn’t see it. He said he’d have to find a garage, and off he went.”

  “He didn’t look in the tool-box?”

&nbs
p; Arbuckle shook his head, reluctantly. “He musta known there wasn’t a spare there.”

  “You didn’t hold him responsible for the Studebaker. He might assume the tool-kit was complete and not check it beforehand, but if so, you’d expect him to look there for a spare hose when it was needed. On the other hand, if he was aware of a deficiency, wouldn’t you expect him to replace it?”

  “Y-yes. Maybe he just hadn’t gotten around to it.”

  “I assume in fact there was no spare hose. Petrie, did you look in the Studebaker’s tool-box?”

  “No. I saw it on the running board, a topping mahogany chest, which would practically hold my whole engine,” Petrie said enviously. “But Crawford being an engineer, I took it he’d have used the spare if there was one. It’s a simple repair. Besides, I was pretty sure I had a piece I could use.”

  “So the …” Alec started.

  Arbuckle interrupted. “Listen, I know what you’re suggesting. But this guy’s been with me ten years, my right-hand man. Maybe he did see changes coming, like Miss Dalrymple said, but he knew I’d see him right.”

  “Changes?” Much as Alec deplored Daisy’s penchant for meddling, anything which raised her suspicions was worth investigating.

  With a sidelong glance at Petrie, Arbuckle shrugged. “A business that doesn’t change dies,” he said unhelpfully.

  Alec appeared to go along with him. “You drove the Studebaker here tonight?” he asked. “Petrie, may I ask you to go and take a dekko in the tool-box?”

  “Right-oh.” Petrie caught the keys Arbuckle tossed him and departed.

  “Changes?” Alec pressed.

  “Waal, now, you’ll have maybe figured out that that young man is sweet on my girl. Gloria’s nuts about him, and I’ve found no reason to think he wouldn’t treat her right, nor that all he cares for is her pocketbook.”

  “You’ve made enquiries?”

  “You betcha! I’m not saying he’s the smartest cookie in the jar, but he’s a decent guy and willing to work, no lounge lizard, and he knows automobiles. That’s my business, see, investing in automobile manufacturers, but I’m a real simp when it comes to the technical side.”