‘That’s one of the best arguments against bribery I’ve heard,’ said O’Neil; ‘no bribes, no Mancini. And count me out of this jaunt. You got a golf course, Sir Charles?’
‘I have a putting green.’
‘How many holes?’
‘Nine the last time I counted but we are having trouble with rabbits.’
‘Golf helps me unwind. After that plane scalped me I need to relax.’
‘Never knew you were a golfer,’ said Macdonald.
‘When you get the bug the only place you can be happy is on a golf course.’
’And you have this bug?’
‘Smitten.’
‘Typhus is a bug,’ said Mancini. ‘Why didn’t you get the typhus bug? Sir Charles, I believe you are wanted.’
Sir Charles, looking over his shoulder, saw his head gardener.
‘Tom, come and join us … gentlemen, may I introduce you to Tom, my head gardener.’
‘I’ve brought you the parachute, sir, what her ladyship was looking for.’
Sir Charles read its message out loud.
‘“Home in time for dinner, Love Harry and George.”’
‘That the air mail from the suicide pilot?’ said O’Neil.
‘My nephew had a fright last night.’
‘Not as big as the one he gave me.’
‘I think he was blowing off steam.’
‘If he wants to relax he should get the golf bug … it’s safer than diving airplanes damn near into the ground.’
‘I think the boy has guts,’ said Weinberger.
‘Fine, fine … so the boy’s the new Richthofen … fine, he has guts … I just don’t want them spilled down my suit.’
‘When I heard on the grapevine, sir, that her ladyship was keen to find the parachute, well, as soon as I found it, I brought it here after, that is, I made sure I knew where, You Know Who was.’
‘Where is Jack?’
‘He is spying on us, sir.’
‘Who is spying on us?’ said O’Neil. ‘I thought our visit to The Hall was private?’
‘It’s the grapevine,’ said Mancini, ‘the gardener’s telephone … sorry, couldn’t resist …’
‘Booze, women and puns, anything else you can’t resist?’ said O’Neil.
‘Yeah, punching you on the nose.’
17
On her way back to The Hall Marigold asked Mike, ‘Do they have running hot water?’
‘Only on Thursdays.’
‘So, it’s my lucky day.’
‘Yes.’
‘What happens the other days?’
‘There’s a pump in the courtyard or you can bathe in one of the lakes. Sir Charles thinks lake bathing is best when the lake is skimmed with ice.’
‘Have I asked the wrong question?’
‘We Brits do not like to be thought of as we think of the French.’
‘Backward?’
‘Their toilets are holes in the ground.’
‘You have flush toilets?’
‘Yes.’
‘And running hot water?’
‘Of course.’
‘And central heating?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve heard stories about English country houses.’
‘If it turns cold Sir Charles will order a fire lit in your room. You won’t have to ask. There’ll be a hot water bottle in your bed. He looks after his guests. Are you going to go along with his plan?’
‘I’m thinking about it. Why are we turning off the road?’
‘Trust me.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Local knowledge.’
The off-road track took them deep into a forest of densely planted fir trees. The sun disappeared. They’d entered a green cave.
Back home in the States her nanny would have rolled her eyes and said, ‘Miss Marigold, this ain’t a good place to dry your ball gown.’
‘We are being followed,’ said Mike. ‘This is Sir Charles’s county, nothing goes on that he and I don’t know about. When I stopped for gas …’
‘I thought you Brits called it “petrol”?’
‘I was trying to make you feel at home.’
‘For a tough guy you are very thoughtful.’
‘When I stopped for petrol on the way here I was told a man with an Irish accent had been asking the way to Kielder. In a side road near the railway station I spotted a Newcastle taxi; that’s like seeing a penguin at the North Pole. They don’t belong to this part of the world.’
‘Local knowledge?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s following us.’
‘Is that why you were driving fast?’
‘I always drive fast.’
‘The men who tried to kidnap me were in a taxi. Kielder was chalked on the side of the railway wagon in which I escaped. Do you think he has come all this way to kill me, to stop me talking? He must have worked it out that his liaison with the Hitler Youth is no longer a secret … that I’ve been rescued and will have spilled the beans.’
‘You have caused him a lot of bother.’
‘I have caused HIM “bother” … do you know what he and his pal did to me? If it is them, I wonder which one it is, Doyle or the Pied Piper? I’d be disappointed if it was the Pied Piper. The lump of brick with which I hit that ape should have given him more than a headache.’
‘Perhaps this gentleman is in the area because of the Hitler Youth. They are camped close to The Hall.’
‘And I’m unfinished business?’
‘Last night the IRA bombed the Newcastle Assembly Rooms. Anyone with an Irish accent is now regarded with suspicion. When a man with that accent asks if he is on the right road to Kielder, phones are picked up. He’s been tracked ever since he opened his mouth. Let’s stretch our legs; watch out for adders.’
‘So typical of you Brits to have a snake that can only kill babies. In the States we have rattlesnakes. Now, that’s a real snake. Have you eaten rattlesnake? I have … what you doing?’ She watched him unload a wicker basket. ‘Are we going to have a picnic? How very English to sit on the grass and drink tepid tea while being stalked by a murderer. You guys just love your tradition of the gentleman amateur. If it comes to war, take my advice: forget that Drake played bowls before he sailed to duff up the Spanish Armada. What I’ve seen in Germany leads me to believe the Nazis won’t give you time to say, “Christopher Columbus”.’
When Mike took a shotgun and a bandolier of cartridges out of the basket she shut up.
‘You Brits are as unpredictable as your weather. I suppose I should apologise … sorry.’
Some fifty yards from them a stag crossed the firebreak they were in at speed.
‘Get down … he’s picked up a scent … it’s not ours, we’re downwind … someone’s out there.’
The crack of a rifle being fired and Mike falling backwards on top of her were, to Marigold, simultaneous happenings.
‘You’re squashing me … oh, my God, you’ve been hit.’
She studied the splinter of wood sticking out of the gamekeeper’s thigh. Around its point of entry his trousers were showing a spreading stain of dark red. The big man had gone white. Was he going to pass out?
‘Have you got a knife?’
From a jacket pocket he produced a clasp knife.
‘Is it sharp?’
‘Of course it’s bloody sharp.’
‘Try not to move.’
The second shot bounced the Rolls up and down.
‘Lie on your back, put your feet up on the running board. I’m going to cut your pants. I have to see how bad this is.’
She saw blood pumping out of an arterial wound.
‘Take off your belt … you’re not going to pass out, I hope? I’m going to make a tour
niquet.’
‘That’s tight enough.’
‘One more notch … a tourniquet, Mr Mike, is not a bandana.’
A third shot, passing through one of the Rolls’ windows, showered them with glass; shards as sharp as razors nicked their faces, making them look a lot more badly injured than they were.
‘Give me the gun.’
‘Do you know how to use it?’
‘I’m an American.’
‘You a good shot?’
‘Daddy says I’m a natural.’
Without saying another word she hunkered off into the forest.
The tap she gave him on the shoulder when she returned from the opposite direction almost opened his bowels.
‘Indian medicine … Comanche.’
She packed the moss she’d foraged round his wound.
‘Press hard down on it and you’ll live.’
‘The Comanche taught you their medicine?’
‘Don’t be dumb, back home in the States Comanche are as rare as hens’ teeth. If we hadn’t killed them all we wouldn’t have had Colorado or Texas. I saw a Comanche use moss on a wound in a movie. It saved John Wayne’s life.’
From her next foray she brought a long pole with a piece of flexible material, a little larger than a spade’s blade, tied to its end.
‘It’s a fire beater.’
‘I know what it is.’
‘Take hold of it. When I give you the signal stick it up over the car’s roof. I’m betting that from a distance it will look like a human head. If someone takes a pot shot at it they will give themselves away; that’s when I get a chance to get even.’
She smeared her face with mud.
‘You hear a stone hit the car, that’s when you stick up the fire beater.’
She disappeared humming the Battle Hymn of the Republic. A stone hit the car. Mike raised the fire beater, at first tentatively, as if someone might be trying to peep without showing too much of themselves. When nothing happened he raised it all the way. The shot knocked it out of his hands, then all hell broke loose. Shotgun fire. Rifle fire. How quick could she reload? What rifle was the Irishman using? At times the shotgun sounded like an automatic. How many cartridges did she have?
18
In the shrubbery Jack was hearing everything Egghead and his American guests were saying. He was armed with a pea shooter and a bag of barley. When he’d called it a “barley shooter” Phyllis had laughed and wagged her fat cook’s finger at him. ‘If you don’t want people to laugh at you call it a “pea shooter”, that’s what we call it in England and you want to be English, don’t you?’ His school boy’s cap was pierced with twigs, his cheeks smeared with mud.
‘Ouch!’ said O’Neil.
Sir Charles and Tom exchanged glances.
‘Ouch!’
‘It’s the Northumberland Nettle Fly,’ said Mancini. ‘If it bites you three times you die or, in your case, O’Neil, it knocks that chip off your shoulder.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Sir Charles, ‘it is now my turn to apologise. We are not under attack from the Northumberland Nettle Fly, if indeed such an insect exists.’
‘Ouch!’ said O’Neil. ‘Why am I the only one getting stung? You guys bribed the insect?’
‘I fear we are under attack from a young man armed with that most deadly of school boy weapons, the pea shooter.’
‘If I catch him, I’ll take my belt to him.’
‘That will not be necessary, indeed it will not be allowed,’ said Sir Charles.
‘A Jewish refugee,’ said Mancini, all thoughtful after having listened to Sir Charles’ précis of what the Nazis had done to Jack. ‘The Mancinis love Jews, you know why? They have big families, like the Italians, and they all eat ice cream. They are good for business. Leave this to me. I have seven children. I know how kids think. Jack is playing a game with us, all we have to do is join in. Everyone put up their hands and shout, “surrender”. O’Neil, get your hands up. Jack, come on out, we surrender. We know where you are.’
‘How long do we give him?’ said Weinberger.
‘For as long as it takes … it’s like cutting a deal, give the guy time.’
‘Spare the rod and spoil the child,’ said O’Neil. ‘The teachers who taught me were Jesuits.’
‘That explains a lot,’ said Mancini.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Never mind, just put up your hands. It’s your fault he’s not coming out. You haven’t surrendered?’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Sir Charles, ‘I think we have stood here looking foolish for quite long enough. I suggest we leave the field of battle.’ He looked at his watch. ‘May I suggest we all meet in the gunroom … say, in an hour? Bert will show you the way.’
‘Then it’s off-piste and into the cow pats,’ said Weinberger. ‘You sure you got size thirteen boots?’
19
Lady Elizabeth called the Baby Austin, Bashful. When she accelerated she told it, ‘walk on’. Once she’d driven it to a garage and filled it with petrol all by herself with not a servant in sight. She’d asked the garage man, ‘How many carrots do I give it?’ Among her ‘set’ it was the ‘thing’ to self-drive short distances.
Visiting CB made her feel she was doing ‘good’. The poor, dear man had lost a wife and now a daughter. It took courage to visit the afflicted. At her side a Dundee cake bounced in a cardboard box. She’d show her sympathy with a gift of food; going empty handed was out of the question.
The taxi coming towards her was on the wrong side of the road. Its driver, going so fast, he’d no option but to take the tight corner racing driver style.
Because she and Sir Charles owned the road Lady Elizabeth saw no reason to obey that silly rule which said you must drive on the left. It was HER road. On this occasion her aristocratic arrogance saved her life.
The fleeting glimpse she had of the taxi led her to believe it had been in a fight; one of those dreadful bare knuckle fights she’d read about in history books. Its madman driver had been looking at her through a porthole of broken glass. She picked the Dundee cake off the floor, where the near-miss had jolted it and tucked it back into its box. CB would be too full of grief to notice the dog hairs sticking to it.
20
Sir Charles looked round the kitchen. ‘Where is he?’
Phyllis knew from the look on Sir Charles’ face that he meant business. On the other hand, Master was a good actor. She’d worked for him since leaving school. She knew his moods. Only when he winked did she relax. Jack was not in for a scorching after all.
‘He’s in the pantry, sir. He saw you coming. A rat couldn’t have moved quicker. What’s the bairn done now?’
‘Shooting barley at the Americans. Phyllis, make a pot of tea, please, and three mugs.’ He raised his voice. ‘Jack is fond of tea, aren’t you, Jack?’
‘You should have been an actor, sir.’
‘I was, Phyllis. For three years I played the British Embassy in Berlin, trouble was I only had walk on parts. Hitler was always top of the bill. Jack, come out, drinking tea will make you English. Jack, do please come out, I want to talk to you.’ He played his ace. ‘Egghead wants to talk to you. I know you are peeking … look, my flag of surrender.’
He waved George’s makeshift parachute. Jack peeped round the door.
‘How’d you know I call you Egghead?’
‘Because I’ve been around a long time. It’s my job to know what’s going on … do come out and join our tea party. Phyllis, you be mum. How many sugars, Jack?’
Egghead was a clever cove. He knew how to get his own way. He asked easy questions that a chap didn’t mind answering … before a chap knew it, a chap was having a conversation as if nothing had happened.
‘Jack, how many sugars?’
‘Three.’
‘Heaped spo
ons or level?’
‘Heaped.’
‘We are waiting.’
Jack took his time.
‘Sit here,’ said Sir Charles, ‘here’s your tea.’
‘Can I not have lemonade?’
‘On a hot day like today tea is refreshing, better than cold lemonade. It is the English way … and you want to be English, don’t you, Jack?’
‘Yes, or American.’
‘When you answer Sir Charles,’ said Phyllis, ‘do try and smile. You’re not sucking a gooseberry, are you? You are not going to get told off, is he, Sir Charles?’
‘No … I’m just going to shoot him.’
‘Nazi!’ Jack ran to the door.
‘Jack, the door is bolted. I anticipated you might do a runner. As I told you before, I’ve been around a long time. You know I’m not a Nazi. You know I’m not going to shoot you.’
‘Mr O’Neil would.’
‘Indeed he might. He has cause. Do come and sit down. I want to talk to you about country house etiquette.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Come and sit down and I’ll tell you.’
‘Has he upset the Americans, sir?’ said Phyllis.
‘If it comes to war he may well have stopped America coming to our rescue. One of my guests has a bump on his head as big as one of those gobstoppers I used to suck when I was Jack’s age. What was your ammunition, Jack? Golf balls?’
‘Barley.’
‘I always used rice but I think you are a better shot than I ever was. You are angry because you do not wish to admit that what you did was wrong. By all means unbolt the kitchen door and run off, but, always remember, you cannot run away from your conscience.’
‘Come and sit down,’ said Phyllis, ‘and listen to what Sir Charles has to say. It seems to me that Sir Charles has a lot more to be angry about than you.’
‘Let’s play the Anger Game,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I am going to put my hand, palm outwards, against the wall. When I do so I want you to hit it. You can be gentle or vicious … striking out will dissipate your anger. It’s like smashing plates and saucers.’
Spies on Bikes Page 11
