The Hostage Heart

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  “Going upstairs? What for?”

  “What d’you mean, what for?” she said, annoyed that he was being stupid about it. It must be obvious. “I’m not part of the party. I only came down to say happy birthday to Zara, and now I’m going back up.”

  “But you mustn’t,” he said. “I haven’t had a dance with you yet, and I’ve been promising myself that for days. I wondered where you were. I kept looking for you. I thought you must be off dancing with some other lucky blighter.”

  He’d been looking for her? He’d been looking for her? Emma stared up at him in astonishment. Could he really mean it? But no, she told herself, don’t be so simple. You saw how he seized on the turquoise girl the moment he saw her. He’s just making a fool of you, being sarcastic.

  “I haven’t come to the party to dance,” she said. She wished he would let her go – it made it hard to think. “You can see I’m not dressed for it.”

  “Why not?” he argued.

  “Oh come,” she said shortly, “you can see I’m in a short dress and everyone else is in evening clothes. There’s such a thing as being too gallant, you know.”

  He laughed. “Ah, now I feel more at home! I don’t feel quite right without Miss Ruskin telling me off about something.” She blushed with a complex mixture of vexations, and he said, “Look, please dance with me. I promise no one will notice what you’ve got on. Honestly, they’re all too preoccupied with how they look themselves.”

  Doubt overcame her. He really seemed to mean it. He really wanted to dance with her. She could no longer feel he meant to make a fool of her; there still remained the likelihood that he was just being polite. She went straight to the bottom line, and said, “But your sister doesn’t want me to dance, and it’s her party.”

  “That’s the worst excuse you’ve given me so far.” He ran his fingers down her arm and took hold of her hand. “I don’t care a fig what Zara thinks, and I don’t believe you do, either. Come, please, come and dance.”

  He led her across the hall to the dancing-room. The band was playing a slow tune. “Good,” he said. “I hate that jiggling on the spot stuff. It’s no fun unless you can get your arms round your partner.” And he drew her to him and stepped away with her to the music, holding her close. Emma tried very hard to tell herself that it meant nothing; but just for that moment, she didn’t care. She was going to have this, and enjoy it, and to hell with what came after. She let herself relax into him, feeling the warmth and strength of his body, breathing in the scent of him. How long was a dance tune? Five minutes? Six? Well, if that was all she would ever have, she’d make sure she enjoyed every second of it. He drew her just a little closer, squeezing her hand, not seeming to want to talk, for which she was grateful. They stepped slowly, swaying in sweet harmony, as if they had been dancing together all their lives. Emma closed her eyes in bliss, and time very kindly ceased for a little while to exist.

  The dance was over. Sanity flooded back painfully into her blissed-out brain as the couples around them broke up into chattering groups and began to jostle their way off the floor. She was a member of the household staff, dressed in an unsuitably short dress, and batting right out of her league. She ought to get herself out of Gavin’s hair before her glass slippers turned back into clogs and tripped her up.

  “Well, thank you for the dance,” she said abruptly. “It was very kind of you.”

  Gavin, who had been smiling, suddenly looked taken aback, and she realised that in her effort to sound matter-of-fact she had in fact sounded cold and sarcastic, as if she hadn’t enjoyed the dance and didn’t think it was kind of him.

  “I didn’t ask you to be kind,” he said.

  “Well, it was kind, especially as I wasn’t dressed properly,” she said, “so thank you anyway.” It sounded belligerent.

  He drew back from her. “It’s I who should thank you,” he said politely.

  Now she had offended him, she thought. Worse and worse! All the warmth had evaporated, and they were suddenly like strangers, trapped by politeness and longing to be elsewhere. How could she be so awkward? She’d better make her escape before she accidentally knocked him down.

  “I must go,” she said hastily, pulling her hand away from his.

  “Oh, not yet, surely?” he said. “Stay and have another dance. No one will mind about your dress. Zara’s not even in the room.”

  “No, I have to go upstairs. I – I promised to look in on Poppy.”

  “Yes, I see,” he said. “Well, I don’t want to hold you up, as you’re in such a hurry.” And he gave an awkward little bow, and turned away.

  Emma watched him go. His gait seemed a little offended; but it was better that way. Another dance with him and she might have started to believe her senses instead of her common sense. Arguing herself into a more stable frame of mind, she wriggled away through the crowds and made her way to the buffet. There were already people around it, but she managed to sneak in at one end and, with a nod of complicity at the nearest waiter, who recognised her, she took a plate and loaded it with whatever delicacies were nearest at hand. Then she made her way upstairs, wondering why she could not behave like a normal human being around Gavin Akroyd. She was like a school kid, alternately blushing and surly. The poor bloke had danced with her out of kindness – hadn’t he? – and she had snapped at him as if he had insulted her. Oh well, she thought philosophically as she turned the stair, it didn’t matter. She was an employee in the house, he didn’t have to like her. He’d just think her a bit mad – if he ever thought of her at all, which was unlikely.

  As she passed her own room first, she thought she’d stop in and get into her nightdress and dressing-gown before looking in on Poppy. That would prevent her from having any pathetic thoughts of going downstairs again – not even as far as the first landing for a sneaky look at Gavin over the banisters! Quickly she undressed and put on her nightie and the ‘sensible’ dressing-gown she had bought in case of night emergencies – a full-length, high-necked, woollen thing with big pockets – and taking up the plate of goodies again she went out into the passage and along towards Poppy’s room.

  The sounds of the party were very faint and far away, for this was the opposite side of the house from the main reception rooms. A good thing, too, she thought, or Poppy would never get to sleep. As she went into the day-nursery, through which she had to pass to get to the night-nursery where Poppy slept, she saw a band of light in the further room, showing at the bottom of the closed door. The floorboards creaked under her feet and the light was quickly doused. Poppy reading in bed, she thought. But she didn’t need to be so guilty about it: Emma had said she’d come up and see her.

  Quietly she opened the night-nursery door, expecting to see Poppy curled up in bed pretending hard to be asleep. Instead, in the dark room – for it was a moonless night – she could just make out that the bed was empty.

  “Hello? Where are you?” she said. The child must be hiding, for a game. “Come on out, I’ve got the food for you. Lots of goodies!”

  She stepped one pace forward into the room, and, just as all the hair rose on the back of her neck with the realisation that there was someone behind her, there was a soft rush of movement and someone grabbed her. Hard hands, adult hands, bruised her, meaning business, and before she could scream something soft was clamped over her mouth. She struggled wildly, thrashing to and fro; the plate of food flew from her hand; she dragged her arm free to grab at the wrist in front of her, trying to tear it from her face, for she was suffocating.

  A vile, sickly smell was in her mouth and nose, clinging, cloying, choking. The pad which was pressed over the lower part of her face was impregnated with the stuff. She felt faint, dizzy, she wanted to vomit; she jerked her head against the restraining hands, but she was aware that her struggles were weakening, that she was slipping away from herself. A feeling of nausea and deep despair washed over her, a desperate, desolate sense of being lost; and then a black hole seemed to open under her feet and she fel
l into it, and down, down into oblivion.

  Chapter Nine

  Emma drifted back to consciousness slowly and reluctantly. Something had happened, and she didn’t want to know what. She floated just under the surface of waking, gradually becoming aware of pain: a raw burning around her mouth and nose; a bitter, biting pain in her wrists and ankles; cramped, bruised soreness from every part of her body that touched the hard, ridged surface she was lying on.

  The pain focused her mind, and at once the fear came in, like a radio being switched on. Danger, danger, danger! She opened her eyes, but it was pitch dark. As her senses sharpened, she realised that there were voices nearby: two people talking in low, urgent voices. She could hear them strangely muffled, through a heavy, growling noise that transmitted itself through her aching flesh and bones.

  “You said it was gonna be all right,” someone was complaining. “You said nobody’d hear us. You said everyone’d be on the other side of the house.”

  “Oh, shut your face! We got the kid, didn’t we?”

  “Well, I don’t like it. What about her?”

  “She must be the kid’s nurse or something. She’ll come in useful.”

  “But suppose they come looking for her?”

  “Why should they? She’s in her nightie, isn’t she? They won’t start looking till they don’t show up for breakfast. We got hours yet. Now shut up and gimme a fag.”

  The voices stopped. Now she understood her situation. The growling noise was a motor engine. She was in the back of a van of some sort, lying on the bare floor, her wrists and ankles tied, and some kind of cloth over her head. She had been kidnapped, along with Poppy. Presumably Poppy was also in the back of the van, somewhere near, probably tied up too. Oh God, what would they do to her? What did they want? Money, presumably. Mr Akroyd was rich. If it was money, they would take good care of Poppy, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t hurt her. Oh, she prayed not. She hoped it was money. Mr Akroyd would pay to get Poppy back. But what of her own case? Suppose the criminals decided she was expendable? What might they do then? Her stomach curdled in fear.

  The van picked up speed, and every time it went over a bump some part of her hit the ridged metal floor. There seemed to be an awful lot of bumps. It was agony; but at least the pain kept her mind off her fear. Then suddenly the front left corner of the van dipped, and the floor heaved up under her. She heard one of the men say, “Look out!” and at the same moment her trussed body was flung sideways, her head struck something hard and sharp, and she slithered sickeningly into unconsciousness again.

  Gavin decided to give Emma five minutes, and then go up after her. He blamed himself for the misunderstandings between them. OK, she was very touchy, but after all, as an employee her position was not as straightforward as his. It was up to him to make the situation clear. He was sure she was attracted to him, but she obviously couldn’t afford to assume anything, and in his wretched shyness he had failed to make it plain to her that he was interested in her. He must tell her so in words of one syllable, and take it from there.

  It was difficult for him to get away from the party, for every few steps he was waylaid by another guest, and he couldn’t just brush them aside rudely; but he worked his way as quickly as he could across the hall, and once he got to the foot of the stairs he was home free. He hurried up to the nursery floor. Emma had her own room there, just along the passage from the schoolroom and night-nursery. Her door was shut but the light was on, so at least she had not gone to bed and to sleep already. He knocked; waited; knocked again. He called out, close to the door, “Emma, it’s me, Gavin. Can I talk to you?” But there was no reply.

  Then he remembered she had said she’d promised to look in on Poppy. Maybe she was there still. He went along the passage, through the day-nursery, and opened the door to the night-nursery. A single glance showed him the bed was empty. He snapped on the light, and in one second had taken in the state of the room: the bedclothes flung back and dragged half off the bed; the framed photograph of Misty on the bedside locker knocked over; the bedside rug rucked into a heap as though by dragging feet; and on the floor in front of him a plate broken into three pieces and various bits of party food scattered about, some of them trodden into the carpet.

  The truth scalded into his brain. He turned and ran back to Emma’s room, flung the door open, saw that the room was empty and undisturbed, and ran for the nearest telephone. Having summoned the police, he went back down to the first floor landing, almost to the same spot where Emma and Poppy had hidden earlier in the evening, looking for a servant. Better still, he saw Mrs Henderson come out of the room below him, and leaning over the banisters he called urgently, “Jean! Up here!”

  She looked up, and saw from his face that something was wrong; so that when he beckoned she obeyed instantly and without fuss, making her way through the guests and quickly up the stairs to him.

  “What is it?” she asked. Quickly he told her what had happened. She frowned. “But why d’you think they’ve been kidnapped? They may have slipped out on some little expedition of their own.”

  “Emma wouldn’t take Poppy out at this time of night. And you can see from the room there’s been a struggle. No, I tell you they’ve been snatched!”

  “Shouldn’t we at least search a bit before we call the police?”

  “I’ve already called them. If they’ve been taken, every second counts – you must see that.”

  She capitulated. “Yes, of course. What do you want me to do?”

  Gavin looked relieved. “I don’t want the guests to know until they have to, but they mustn’t leave the house. Can you quietly round up the servants and post one on each door? And put someone reliable on the front stairs, to stop anyone coming up to the nursery floor. I’m going back up to keep guard, to make sure nothing’s touched.”

  “Yes, all right. What about the police?”

  “I’ve told them to come to the back hall, and no sirens. When they arrive, can you bring them quietly up the back stairs?”

  She nodded and went away, and blessing her quiet efficiency, Gavin went back up to the nursery, where he stood at the door, contemplating the real reason why he was sure it was a kidnap. A piece of cake which Emma had brought up to Poppy had been squashed into the carpet, presumably during the struggle, and it bore quite clearly the ridged imprint of a large, man’s boot.

  When Emma regained consciousness, the van was bumping less violently. They must be on a smoother, better road. She had been thrown or rolled against the side of the van, and now she found that by bracing herself against it and pressing with her heels on the floor, she could steady herself a little, enough to stop herself rolling back and forth. It was very tiring, though, and she couldn’t keep it up continuously. Her hands and feet were going dead from lack of circulation, and her head was throbbing abominably. She wanted to drift off to sleep again, and struggled with herself to stay awake and alert. Something might happen; she couldn’t just give up.

  They were cruising steadily and, from the engine noise, fast. Then she heard one of the men say, “Oh shit! Oh no, oh shit, shit!”

  “What?”

  “Fuzz, coming up behind us.”

  “Don’t panic. They can’t be onto us already.”

  “What’ll we do! What’ll we do!” The van lurched under sudden acceleration, and Emma groaned weakly as her head hit the floor again.

  “Christ, slow down, you maniac!” the older man said. “D’you want to draw attention to us? I tell you they can’t be after us yet. Just drive normally.”

  “I can lose ’em,” the other one pleaded. “Lemme lose ’em!”

  “In this thing? Calm down, I tell you! We’ll bluff it out.”

  Emma’s heart had risen at this exchange. The police were after them already! She must concentrate, keep conscious. When they were stopped, she’d make such a noise the police would have to hear. They’d be rescued! Oh thank God, thank God!

  After a tense silence, the younger voice rose in e
lation. “They went straight past! They weren’t after us!”

  “I told you so, you dummy!”

  “Thank Christ for that. I thought we’d had it.”

  “I told you it’d be all right. You panic too easily. All the same, they’ve seen us now. We’ll have to dump this thing.”

  “But you said—”

  “Sooner or later they’re going to put out an alert on the van, stupid, and then those coppers’ll remember where they saw us.” A pause, then the older man went on, “There’s a place up ahead. I’ll tell you where. We can dump it and you can go out and nick something.”

  “Aw, Boss—!”

  “Stop whining. We’ll be OK. Just take it easy. Put the radio on.”

  Emma’s heart sank again. She was so desperately disappointed, her eyes filled with helpless tears, which she struggled against. It was hard enough to breathe, without being choked up with tears. The men went on talking in low voices, but she could no longer hear what they said over the noise of pop music.

  Now the motion of the van changed again. She felt it slow, then a hard turn to the left, and then a slow but agonising progress over bumps and hollows. She guessed they had turned off the main road onto a track of some sort. The floor of the van bucked under her like a horse, and she could not brace herself enough to avoid being thrown about. She gritted her teeth, and wondered how Poppy was faring. She had made no sound yet. Was she still unconscious?

  At last the van stopped, the engine was cut, and there was blissful stillness. Emma drifted into unconsciousness for a few minutes – she couldn’t help it – and when she came to again, it was quite silent. The men must have got out. She wondered if she could do anything to improve the situation – get this cloth off her head, at least – then she could breathe more easily, and see where Poppy was, and whether she was all right. The cloth was a bag of some sort, she thought. If she rubbed it against the floor of the van she might be able to drag it off. The problem was that her head hurt so much, and any movement made the throbbing worse. But she had to try. Slowly, painfully, she worked at it; and as she rubbed and rubbed, she thought about the kidnappers. Two of them, one older and well-spoken, though his accent slipped a bit now and then; the younger one with an ordinary London accent, who sounded a bit stupid – probably he was the strong-arm man. It was he who had been driving, certainly. Was that all, or were they part of a larger gang? And what was going to happen now?