Brendon Chase

by B. B.

  The paper was spread out on the kitchen table and even the superior starched Emma rushed to see.

  There, as Hannah said, was a photo of the Dower House with Tilly sitting on the lawn, and close by, another smaller picture of Mr and Mrs Rumbold, the former in his shirtsleeves holding a spade.

  Cook read out aloud:

  ‘DISAPPEARANCE OF TWO BOYS

  By our Special Correspondent.

  ‘The two elder sons of Colonel and Mrs Hensman, who were staying with their aunt at the Dower House, Cherry Walden, Tilthshire, disappeared from the house on Monday night last, the seventh of May. They left a note to say they would return but since then nothing has been heard of them, nor has any trace been found of the missing boys. They were due to go back to Banchester on the Tuesday, but, owing to a younger brother falling ill with measles, their departure for school was delayed.

  ‘Considerable anxiety is felt in the village as to their whereabouts …’

  And after a description of the boys there followed a long statement by Rumbold ‘the gardener at the Dower House, an old family servant who has been in the employ of Miss Hensman for thirty-two years.’

  ‘If the mistress sees this,’ said Cook, ‘’e won’t be ’ere another day’ – and so on and so on until it came to the final passage.

  ‘The police have been informed and the countryside is being scoured, so far without success. It is thought in the village that the two boys, who are of an adventurous disposition, may have taken to the woods and are defying capture. The position, if this is the case, is a difficult one, for Cherry Walden is in thickly timbered country with many large woods close at hand, including High Wood, the famous game preserve belonging to Sir William Bary, Bt, Master of Fox Hounds, of Handley Hall. Farther to the west is Brendon Chase, eleven thousand acres of woodland, part of which is Crown land.

  ‘It is believed that some disaster has overtaken them as no word has been received from the runaways. They had no money with them and, as far as is known, no food of any sort save a small supply of oatmeal which they purchased at the village shop.

  ‘Search parties have been out and keepers and boy scouts have been scouring the countryside. The general opinion seems to be that they may be hiding, or in difficulties, in High Wood, as this extensive cover is within three miles of Cherry Walden and it is known the boys frequently went there after birds and butterflies.

  ‘It is considered highly unlikely that they could have reached the Chase which is eight and a half miles from Cherry Walden, but a search is being made in that direction also.’

  Then followed an account of an interview with the Reverend Whiting, ‘the boys’ tutor’.

  ‘The vicar, who knew the boys intimately, told our reporter, “They are fine young fellows and I cannot believe any mischief has befallen them. Both are extremely self-reliant and well able to take care of themselves.” ’

  ‘Well, I never,’ gasped Cook, ‘it takes the biscuit. Fancy it gettin’ in the papers like this; what will the mistress say!’

  ‘Won’t ’arf shake ’er up,’ said Hannah with evident satisfaction. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in Rumbold’s …’ The kitchen door opened suddenly and there was Aunt Ellen. ‘Cook,’ she began, then her gaze fell upon the paper on the table. The startled maids had shrunk aside. ‘Oh, ma’am, it’s all in the papers!’

  ‘What’s in the papers?’

  ‘You’d better look, ma’am.’

  Aunt Ellen looked. ‘I knew it, Cook, I knew it, I saw all this coming … I told the vicar so the first day …’ She took up the paper then crumpled it suddenly and threw it on the floor, her pince-nez trembling with passion. They fell off and she had to pick them up again. ‘The impudence … the impudence of the man. Send Rumbold to me in the morning room at once, at once I tell you,’ she screamed. ‘Don’t stand there like a lot of dummies!’

  She flung out of the kitchen. Cook sighed and shook her head slowly. ‘Dearie me, it’ll be the death of ’er. Rumbold’ll catch it proper. She’ll send ’im packing, bag an’ baggage.’

  She collapsed on a chair her shoulders shaking, not with sobs but with uncontrollable laughter.

  Sergeant Bunting’s solid British figure was often seen about the by-lanes of Cherry Walden in the weeks which followed the boys’ disappearance. He was most frequently observed in the neighbourhood of High Wood, especially at close of day and in the early mornings. Several wide-scale searches were made through this and other woods, much to the annoyance of both landlords and keepers, for the noise and bustle disturbed the pheasants. As Sir William Bary, Bt, MFH, remarked, ‘There won’t be a bird to shoot or a fox to hunt with all this trampling through my woods, just in the breeding season, too.’

  There were certain reasons why High Wood was suspect. The day after the boys’ departure Tilly ran away, a thing she very rarely did. In actual fact, she was searching for the boys whom she had heard leaving the Dower House the previous night. She was found roaming the fields close to High Wood where a keeper saw her coursing a hare. When the sergeant heard of this he put two and two together – as he thought – and believed that Tilly was trailing the boys.

  He had also closely questioned the vicar.

  ‘About these ’ere young gents, sir, did you ever go with them to High Wood after butterflies and sich like?’

  ‘Why certainly, Sergeant, we often went and I know they frequently went on their own. I should say they know every inch of the place.’

  ‘And did you go to any other wood where they might have gone?’

  ‘Well, let me see, yes, many of the smaller woods close to home and last August I took the elder boy, Robin, to the Chase. We went by car.’

  ‘Um,’ the sergeant looked thoughtful.

  ‘Personally I think it’s highly improbable they would go so far,’ said the Whiting, ‘but it is possible, of course. My belief is that had they gone to the Chase they would have taken their bicycles.’

  ‘Aye,’ rumbled Bunting, ‘but if we don’t find ’em in High Wood the Chase will ’ave to be searched. I’ve notified the police that side so they are on the lookout and they’ll let me know if they find any clues. It’s a shockin’ business for Miss Hensman, sir, ain’t it? She’s took it very bad.’

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed, poor lady, it’s most worrying for her.’

  ‘We dragged the Willow Pool last night,’ said Sergeant Bunting lugubriously, ‘but all we caught was a pike as long as me arm. ’Ad ’im fer supper.’

  After the visit of the reporter from the Morning Star, others arrived and filled the village – Cherry Walden had not had such excitement since Mr Baldrick’s ploughman had hung himself in the big barn. As it was no longer possible to conceal the truth from Harold he was told everything and was subjected to third degree methods by Aunt Ellen, Miss Holcome, the vicar and finally the sergeant. But he gave nothing away and when asked outright whether he knew of any plan he declined to answer rather than tell a deliberate lie. His stubborn spirit refused to yield and not all the tears of Aunt Ellen or the threats of Sergeant Bunting would move him. He was so miserable that he decided that at the first possible moment he would run away, too, but for the moment he was still convalescent and he had to bear his cross alone.

  The talk in the bar of the Woodman’s Arms always turned to the same topic. ‘Any news about they Dower ’ouse boys?’

  ‘Bin found in High Wood, starved to death,’ said one rumour-monger.

  ‘Run away to sea,’ was another version.

  Sir William Bary’s head keeper found himself in demand for the first time in his life and even the landlord stood him a pint in the hope of gleaning some fresh piece of news.

  Rumbold survived the wrath of Aunt Ellen, but only just. In the heat of words he gave in his notice, but, much to his relief, it was not taken and Aunt Ellen sobered down. To lose Rumbold, such a good steady man, would be the final catastrophe. He was so useful in running messages and doing odd jobs.

  But she forbade him to talk in the vill
age of the boys’ disappearance, an injunction he did not find hard to keep for he was a solitary, unsociable man and he did not drink. But he could not still the wagging tongue of his wife.

  Harold’s condition was improving rapidly. He was now allowed out in the garden but either Aunt Ellen or Miss Holcome always accompanied him; they haunted him like watchful shadows. Aunt Ellen was terrified that if he were allowed out alone he too would disappear; she would have liked to have him on a lead if it had been possible. It was patent that he knew a good deal more than he said and his stubborn silences proved his guilt.

  She even went to the length of locking his bedroom door at night – after she thought he was asleep. She was taking no chances. But this state of things could not continue; matters were coming to a head. The sooner he was back at school the better and the doctor thought that he was now well enough to go and would be better out of the way under strict school discipline.

  It was the Whiting who had the unpleasant mission of breaking the news to Harold that, on the following day, he was to return to Banchester. Aunt Ellen thought it wiser that the vicar should tell him for she wanted to avoid a ‘scene’.

  She asked him to dinner and afterwards, as Harold and the Whiting were strolling round the garden, the bomb fell.

  ‘I have to tell you, Harold, that you are returning to school tomorrow. The doctor considers you are now quite fit to do so and your aunt is in a very worried and nervous state. I did suggest that you should remain a little longer taking lessons with me but she feels it would be better if you went back to Banchester as soon as possible so that she should be relieved of the responsibility.’

  Harold, pacing along beside the Whiting, felt a deep sinking of the heart. Go back to Banchester without his brothers! Why, it was unthinkable! He resolved to make a bid for freedom that very night. He would try and make the Chase before daylight and somehow or another find his brothers. He had a vague idea of the way, for he had pored over the map many times. It was pretty direct. He could not for the life of him think how he would find his brother outlaws once he reached the Chase but he would trust to luck.

  He looked up to see the Whiting regarding him keenly, wondering, no doubt, how he would take the tidings. ‘Well, if Aunt Ellen says so I suppose I must,’ he replied meekly. ‘I’d much rather have stayed and had lessons with you.’ Harold affected to be not unduly worried.

  ‘And I have no doubt,’ went on the Whiting, ‘that in a few days your brothers will be joining you.’

  Harold did not reply. He was watching the martins circling about the gables of the Dower House. They had already started to build their nests under the eaves, those cunning little mud castles which looked as though they were part of the masonry. The Whiting and Harold watched them for a while, then slowly paced on. ‘And try and get me some chalkhill blues,’ went on the vicar. ‘You should find them on the Downs. I hope to get about soon; now June is in, the white admirals should be out in High Wood.’ The Whiting looked at his companion with a sidelong quizzing glance. But he saw no sign pass across Harold’s face.

  Westwards the sun had set; the mirror of the Willow Pool shone out between the copper beeches in the paddock like a silver dish.

  Harold was lying awake in his room watching the daylight die away and the tall limes outside the window grow ebon black. There was no moon now but the sky was clear of cloud. He could see the Milky Way over the dark-maned cedar on the lawn and in at the open window came the sweet scents of the summer night.

  He had made no preparations for flight; it would have been too risky. He would go just as he was. The night was warm; he would not suffer from cold, but he had a horrid doubt as to whether he would be able to find his way in the dark. He had memorized the route; across the Cherry Walden road and fields, parallel to the Market Harrowby–Brendon main line.

  People were still moving about the house. He heard Miss Holcome come up to her room and the maids going up the back stairs to bed and at long last Aunt Ellen ascending the front stairs.

  His door gave a faint creak. She was coming in. He lay quite still, breathing heavily. He heard her listening and gave an extra loud snort as though he was turning over in his sleep just to let Aunt Ellen know he was there. Then the door softly closed again. A faint creak and click followed. Had Aunt Ellen turned the key on him? He could not credit her with such sound sense! After lying perfectly still for some minutes he very gently tiptoed across the floor and tried the handle. As he thought … it was locked on the outside. He tried to peep through the keyhole but all was darkness, she had left the key in the lock. This must have been so because there was a dim light under the door: the lamp was still burning on the oak chest on the landing.

  Now he was sunk! Locked in like a common malefactor! Next he went to the window. In summer the big heavy shutters of his bedroom were always left open and the window too, though it was only open at the top. When he tried to push up the lower sash it made so much noise he jumped back into bed, his heart beating fast. But Aunt Ellen had now put out the landing light and had gone to bed. The house was as quiet as a vault.

  Squeak! The sash was up at last and Harold looked out. It was a horrid drop to the gravel path and herbaceous border. It looked miles and miles. He couldn’t face it. He was trapped. On the morrow he was to be delivered, bound, into the enemy camp.

  The Banchester boys would know all about his brothers’ escapade, they would have seen it in the papers. He would have no peace. He simply must get away. But how?

  Tie the bed sheets together? A risky business, they might tear, though even a broken leg would be preferable to Banchester tomorrow without his brothers. But the drop was too great; he simply dare not try it.

  What a peaceful night it was! A perfect June night. Below him he could see the pale blobs of a blossoming tree by the garage and the clipped yew hedge. Out in the paddock sheep were moving about; in the silence of the night he could hear them. One coughed once like an old man. Moths flew past; one came and buzzed round his head. Cherry Walden clock struck midnight.

  Wearily and with a little shiver – for he had been standing at the open window in his pyjamas – he got back into bed. It was no use. Just his luck, he thought. At last he fell asleep.

  It seemed to Harold that he had only just dropped off when he was suddenly awake again. Some sound had roused him. He did not know what it was. He lay listening, very still and rather frightened. A moth tapped on the window and an owl was screeching from the cedar but it was something else which had roused him from deep sleep.

  Creak! The key was turning in his lock again! It was Aunt Ellen coming to see if he was really still in bed! He shut his eyes tight and then half opened them, expecting to see the faint light of her torch. But instead all was darkness. But the door was opening, very, very slowly. Was it some horrible dream? Was Aunt Ellen walking in her sleep? Harold had once seen in his dorm at Banchester a boy walking in his sleep and the horrible expression on his face was indelibly imprinted on Harold’s mind.

  Wider, wider … and then the terrified boy saw a dim form, a shapeless dark form with a white blur for a face.

  With something between a gulp and a gasp Harold buried his head under the bedclothes. This was some terrible dream. The figure at the door was not Aunt Ellen, it was not Miss Holcome … it was a ghost!

  7. Tally Ho!

  Harold, buried deep under the bedclothes, felt something shake him by the shoulder. He was on the point of leaping from his bed and yelling for help when a voice, a familiar voice, said gently: ‘Little John! Little John! Wake up! It’s me! Robin, Robin Hood from the brave greenwood come to release thee, my merry man!’

  ‘Robin!’ gasped Harold, struggling into the air again and peering into the dim face of his brother. ‘Why … what on earth!’

  ‘Don’t make a row,’ whispered Robin. ‘How are you, old boy; are you better?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ gasped Harold. ‘They are sending me back to school tomorrow. I wanted to run away and join you
tonight but Aunt Ellen locked me in.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Well, you must decide quickly. We’re only here to get more supplies’ – Robin spoke rapidly in a whisper – ‘we’ve run out of salt and we haven’t had anything sweet for days, so we’ve bagged three pounds of sugar from the kitchen and some pots of marmalade. It’s taken us since dusk to get here but we must be away before daybreak. We shan’t have time to make the Chase before it’s light so Big John and I thought of hiding up in High Wood until tomorrow … I mean … tonight. It’s after three now so we shall have to be moving – there’s no time to lose.’

  Harold did not need any further urging. He dressed rapidly as well as he could in the darkness, while Robin sat on the bed and talked in whispers. ‘Tilly heard us getting into the house,’ he said; ‘she barked like anything, I wonder you didn’t hear her.’

  ‘No, the first I heard was you opening the door. I thought you were a ghost. Where’s John … Big John I mean!’

  ‘Oh, he’s packing up the stuff in the kitchen.’

  ‘What sort of time have you been having in the Chase?’ whispered Harold, as he frantically tied his shoelaces.

  ‘Oh rippin’! Absolutely rippin’! We’ve killed a wild pig and smoked it and bagged no end of birds and rabbits, an’ we’ve got an old hollow oak tree to live in. You’ll love it. Are you quite sure you are fit enough to come?’

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Harold, ‘course I am.’

  ‘And free from germs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Big John and I don’t want to get measles, you know, it would spoil the whole thing,’ said Robin.

  Harold stood up. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Right, follow me!’

  They stole out of the room though not until Robin had slyly made up a dummy figure in Harold’s bed by rolling up a rug. And he took care to lock the door again as they stole out. That would puzzle ’em!