Dawn Undercover

by Anna Dale

  ‘They’re not weeds: they’re wildflowers,’ said Trudy casually. ‘And it’s the wrong season for daffodils. They bloom in the spring.’

  Dawn stopped what she was doing to stare in awe at Trudy, who had obviously been swotting up on gardening, and was surprised to receive a smile and a wink.

  Felix mumbled something about getting a glass of water and disappeared indoors.

  A lusty miaow reminded Dawn that she was in the middle of something. Having set down the cardboard box on the grass, she began to open the flaps one by one.

  ‘Out you come,’ she said to Peebles.

  The cat’s head rose out of the box and swivelled from side to side like a periscope. Dawn made an attempt to pick him up but he was obviously not in the mood for being cuddled. Springing through her arms, he streaked across the lawn and hid himself under a hydrangea bush. Luckily, Haltwhistle had followed his master inside so there was no danger of Peebles being hotly pursued. ‘Don’t worry … er … Kitty,’ said Trudy. ‘He’s probably a little bit out of sorts after the car journey.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dawn, ‘and I get the feeling that he’s not too thrilled about meeting Halt … I mean … Fred again.’

  Trudy nodded. ‘Poor old Peebles.’

  ‘Sardine,’ hissed Dawn.

  ‘No wonder he was making such a fuss in the car,’ continued Trudy, as she headed inside. ‘He was probably trying to warn us about our two extra passengers. If only cats could talk, eh?’

  ‘Mmm,’ agreed Dawn. It had been a humbling experience to have to phone P.S.S.T. and tell them that Felix and his dog had tagged along on the mission. Red had been very disappointed when Dawn explained how they had stowed away in the boot of the car. She felt particularly upset that she had let Socrates down after all the training he had given her. ‘Distracted by a crisp packet!’ she had heard him mutter. ‘I can’t believe you let them smuggle themselves right under your nose. A good spy is always on the alert, Dawn. Remember what I taught you!’

  Red had been in favour of concocting a story which would allow Trudy to bring Felix and his dog straight back to London. He was afraid that Felix’s parents would think that their son had run away or been abducted. If they contacted the police, Operation Question Mark would effectively be over, and the mysterious disappearance of Angela Bradshaw would never be solved. However, Felix insisted that no one would have any idea that he was missing. His parents were halfway up a mountain in New Zealand on a hiking holiday and Felix had told his au pair that he was staying with his best friend Josh for a couple of weeks. Therefore, it was decided that Felix should remain where he was.

  Sounding angrier than Dawn had ever heard him, Red had insisted that Felix should stay inside Daffodil Cottage until a parcel of suitably inconspicuous clothing could be delivered. Thereafter Felix should only be allowed outside occasionally, during which time he was absolutely forbidden to interfere in the mission. Dawn had passed on these instructions to Felix but she wasn’t entirely confident that he would stick to them. He did not seem like the type of boy who did what he was told.

  ‘Kitty!’ called Trudy, reappearing in the garden. She was holding a shopping bag and an umbrella. ‘I’m just popping out to the post office. Would you like to come?’

  ‘Yes, please … Mum,’ said Dawn loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening on the other side of the garden fence. It was the first time that she had referred to Trudy as her mother. It felt very weird.

  Dawn kept her wellington boots on but remembered to remove Clop before they set out for the post office. She sat her donkey on the windowsill in her new bedroom so that he could survey the street outside. With the keenness of one who had been forced to stare at the inside of a boot for most of the morning, Clop pressed his nose against the windowpane.

  They left Felix and Haltwhistle lying on their stomachs on the living room floor with a chessboard between them. A cupboard next to the television set was bursting with board games. According to Felix, Haltwhistle was already able to play draughts and ludo, and would probably pick up the rules of chess in no time at all. Dawn had her doubts – and she wasn’t alone.

  ‘That boy is crackers,’ said Trudy as they closed the front door behind them. ‘It’s perfectly clear to the rest of us that his dog is as daft as a brush, yet Felix continues to treat him like some kind of canine genius. I doubt that Haltwhistle could fetch a stick, let alone play chess.’

  ‘Fred,’ whispered Dawn.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Trudy. ‘Sorry.’

  Dawn gave Trudy a curious sideways glance. Ever since the unexpected arrival of Felix and Haltwhistle, her behaviour towards Dawn seemed to have changed. Her biting comments had ceased, her voice had softened and she had even made the odd attempt to be quite chummy. Dawn found Trudy’s sudden friendliness a little unsettling. Maybe she’s realised that I’m not quite so bad after all, thought Dawn. Compared to Felix, that is.

  ‘Deadheading?’ The woman behind the counter at the post office glanced up from the piece of card which Trudy had pressed into her hand. ‘What kind of business did you say you were in?’

  ‘I’m a gardener,’ said Trudy.

  ‘Oh, that sort of deadheading,’ said the postmistress. ‘Thought for a minute you might be scouting for work up at the abattoir.’

  ‘No,’ said Trudy firmly.

  Thankfully not, thought Dawn.

  ‘So, you do weeding, digging, pruning and mowing, too, do you?’ said the postmistress her eyes roaming over the card upon which Trudy had written a few lines advertising her services. ‘How very physical.’ She stared hard at Trudy as if she was sizing her up. ‘Sure you can manage all that, my love? You’re a bit on the skinny side. Don’t look as if you could lift a spade – never mind dig a hole.’

  ‘I’m tougher than I look,’ insisted Trudy, her fingers tightening around her umbrella. Dawn hoped that Trudy wouldn’t lose her cool and hit the postmistress over the head with it.

  ‘Well … ’ The postmistress seemed to deliberate for a moment. She stroked her brassy hair. ‘I suppose I could put your card in my window … for a small fee.’

  Trudy parted with a five-pound note. Then she seized Dawn’s hand and pulled her across the chequered floor into a corner of the post office, muttering ‘the nerve of some people’ under her breath. Hearing the tinkle of the bell above the door, Dawn slipped away from her to see who had just come in, leaving Trudy to seethe quietly behind a spinner full of greetings cards.

  Apart from a gaunt young man in a khaki boiler suit who had been examining the same packet of envelopes for several minutes, and another, older, man with a neat white beard who was tying up a parcel with string, there was now a new customer in the post office. She was a middle-aged lady with rouged cheekbones and a beaky nose. The drooping brim of a straw hat hid her eyes from view. She wore a loose-fitting lavender sundress, and carried a wicker shopping basket over one arm.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Arbuthnot,’ said the postmistress.

  Dawn’s ears pricked up immediately. Mrs Arbuthnot! When Angela Bradshaw had recognised the voice of Murdo Meek, he had been commenting upon the prize-winning cucumber of the very woman who had just walked through the door! Dawn grabbed a colouring book from a shelf and casually leafed through it, intending to listen, with every fibre of her being, to the ensuing conversation.

  ‘A good morning it is, indeed, Miss Flinch,’ said Mrs Arbuthnot, the brim of her hat undulating as she spoke. ‘We’ve had a nice drop of rain. I don’t think I’ll need to use my watering can today.’

  ‘You’re one person who won’t be needing much help from our newest resident,’ said the postmistress, Miss Flinch. Dawn thought that she sounded quite smug.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Flinch?’ said Mrs Arbuthnot.

  ‘Sandra Wilson,’ said Miss Flinch, her square jaw working up and down at speed. ‘Recently arrived in Cherry Bentley. She’s a gardener, don’t you know. I’ve just this minute put her card in my window. Let’s hope she hasn
’t got green fingers when it comes to cucumbers, eh, Mrs Arbuthnot? How many years on the trot have you won that trophy?’

  ‘Nine,’ said the man with the white beard, perching his parcel on the counter. ‘Isn’t that right, Bess?’

  ‘Er … actually, it’s ten,’ said Mrs Arbuthnot modestly.

  ‘A grand achievement,’ said the man, ‘and, if I may say so, Bess, you looked quite splendid in your photograph.’

  ‘So did you, Larry,’ said Mrs Arbuthnot. ‘I’ve always wanted to enter the funny-shaped vegetable category, but I can’t seem to get my cucumbers to grow imperfectly. It must have taken considerable skill to grow a beetroot in the shape of a steamroller.’

  ‘It was a fluke, I assure you,’ said Larry.

  ‘How I wish I hadn’t had to miss the show this year,’ said Miss Flinch. ‘I do so enjoy spending a summer’s afternoon looking at a load of plants and vegetables. The show fell on my birthday, you see, and Neville had promised to take me on a romantic outing. A visit to a tank museum wasn’t quite what I’d been expecting, but we had a nice picnic afterwards.’

  ‘It’s a shame you couldn’t come to the show,’ said Larry, ‘but there’s a very nice display of photographs in the village hall. Perhaps you’d care to take a look at them when you have a moment to spare.’

  ‘Those photographs still up?’ said Miss Flinch, stifling a yawn. ‘It’s about time they were taken down, don’t you think? Everyone must have seen them by now.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Well, I must be off,’ said Larry, shaking the contents of a paper bag in his hand. ‘Time to feed the ducks! I’d be obliged if my parcel could catch the midday post, Diana.’ He dipped his head politely. ‘Goodbye, ladies.’

  ‘Wasn’t it a dreadful shame?’ said Diana Flinch, once the bell above the door had finished jingling.

  ‘You’ve lost me, I’m afraid,’ said Bess Arbuthnot.

  Diana Flinch gestured towards the door through which the man with the white beard had just departed. ‘Mr Grahams was awfully upset when that duck went missing from the pond.’

  ‘I don’t expect they ever caught the culprit …’

  ‘No,’ said Diana Flinch, ‘but there have been rumours.’ She leaned over the counter towards Bess Arbuthnot and cupped her hand around her mouth in a secretive manner (quite pointlessly, as it turned out, because she did not even attempt to lower her voice). ‘I’ve heard talk that roast duck sandwiches suddenly appeared on the menu at a certain pub not long after that old mallard vanished.’

  ‘Poppycock!’ said Bess Arbuthnot. Plainly, she was shocked. ‘I refuse to believe that the landlord of The One-eyed Stoat would be involved in something like that.’ She delved in her basket and drew out a purse. ‘I’ll have five second-class stamps, if you don’t mind, Miss Flinch,’ she said in clipped tones.

  ‘Right you are,’ said the postmistress sulkily. She produced a sheet of stamps and began to tear off a corner. Without looking up, she bellowed, ‘Seth Lightfoot! Are you still dithering over those envelopes? Make up your mind. Do you want them or not?’

  The man in the boiler suit gulped, and threw down the packet he was holding. In his haste to reach the door, he tripped over his own shoelaces and crashed into some pots of glue which had been displayed attractively in a pyramid. Without pausing to pick them up, he yanked open the door and ran off.

  ‘Well, thank you very much!’ called Diana Flinch in the manner of someone who wasn’t grateful at all. She began to grumble about mucky fingerprints on her envelopes and the heartless destruction of a work of art.

  Bess Arbuthnot paid for her stamps and left almost as swiftly as Seth Lightfoot.

  ‘Let’s go, too,’ said Trudy, nudging Dawn’s elbow. ‘If I have to listen to that busybody for one more minute I might feel obliged to tell her exactly what I think of her.’

  Wow. What luck! It’s open, thought Dawn as they approached the village hall. It was an old, red-brick building with arched windows and two solid, oak doors. Sitting on a chair, outside with a plastic bucket in his lap, was an elderly man. A toothpick was jutting from a corner of his mouth. Dawn stopped and read a poster which had been stuck to one of the doors.

  ‘Please can we have a look at the art exhibition?’ she said to Trudy.

  ‘You can, if you like,’ she replied, ‘but potato prints aren’t really my thing. Why don’t I have a sit-down over there, on that bench by the pond, while you check out the paintings.’

  ‘OK, Mum.’

  Trudy smiled weakly and released Dawn’s hand. She looked pale, tense and exhausted. Dawn knew precisely how she felt. Pretending to be a different person was immensely draining. She wished that she could switch off her brain for a while and relax in the sunshine with Trudy – but she couldn’t. She had work to do.

  ‘I’d like to see the exhibition, please,’ said Dawn, dropping the twenty pence entry fee into the man’s bucket.

  He chewed on his toothpick, nodded vaguely and waved her inside.

  Dawn spent a couple of minutes wandering up and down admiring the artwork of Cherry Bentley Primary School. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some photographs pinned to a large sheet of yellow sugar paper in one corner of the hall and, reaching into her pocket for her miniature camera, she casually ambled towards them.

  Somebody had taken great pains to write the words ‘Garden and Allotment Show’ as fancily as they could, with the result that they were almost impossible to read. The photographs had been arranged in a circle around the words which meant that Dawn had to tilt her head to get a proper look at them. They all seemed to feature a person showing rather a lot of teeth with a trophy or rosette in one hand and a particularly fine example of a marrow or a bunch of sweet peas or a pot of jam in the other.

  Dawn found the photograph of Bess Arbuthnot. She was wearing a hat with a narrow, stiff brim, a dress with a lace collar, and a pair of white gloves. In the crook of her arm she held a magnificent cucumber, the size and lustrous colour of which Dawn had never seen in any supermarket.

  Flicking open one end of the box of chocolate raisins with her finger, Dawn lifted it until it was level with the photograph of Bess Arbuthnot and pressed the shutter release button. She then proceeded to do the same with the other photographs. In one, she saw Larry Grahams holding up an unusually shaped beetroot, his face glowing with pride. Seth Lightfoot, the man whom Dawn had seen leaving the post office in great haste, was in five different photographs. He was dressed quite scruffily and appeared to be looking at something on the ground in each picture.

  When she had finished, Dawn tucked the miniature camera back into her pocket and sauntered out of the hall. So far, so good, she thought, delighted that her photographing session had gone so smoothly.

  Dawn had presumed that she would find Trudy alone on the bench, having a quick snooze or watching the ducks rush across the pond to snap up breadcrumbs thrown by Larry Grahams. She was surprised to catch her ‘mother’ chatting amiably with Seth Lightfoot. Trudy and Seth were sitting on opposite ends of the bench with Trudy’s shopping bag between them.

  Seth was resting one of his hands on a street-cleaner’s barrow. There was a dustpan and brush tied to one of its handles, and a filthy toy panda had been attached to the front of the barrow. The panda had a proud look about him, despite being rather tatty and minus one ear. He reminded Dawn of a figurehead on the prow of a ship.

  ‘Chewing gum is the worst,’ confided Seth with a grimace.

  Trudy nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Can’t shift it when it’s sticky, you see. Have to wait until it’s good and solid. Best time to tackle gum is on a nice, frosty morning. The cold weather sets it rock hard on the pavement. Then I get out my scrapy-thing and give it a prod. Comes off lovely … like a crusty old scab.’

  ‘Aha, that’s how it’s done,’ said Trudy.

  Seth coughed modestly. ‘It’s easy when you know how.’

  ‘And how long have you been a litter collector?�
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  ‘Officially,’ said Seth, ‘I’m called a “refuse technician”. Been doing the job for … well, it’ll be nine years this Tuesday, as a matter of fact. Before that I was a cleaner on a cruise liner. Travelled all over the world.’

  ‘How wonderful,’ said Trudy. ‘I bet you saw some sights.’

  ‘More vomit than I knew what to do with,’ said Seth, ‘when the sea got all choppy, like.’

  Trudy nodded and looked slightly anxious. Then she caught sight of Dawn approaching them.

  ‘Ah, here’s my daughter,’ she said, not quite succeeding in hiding her relief. ‘Did you enjoy the exhibition, Kitty? Well … Mr Lightfoot –’

  ‘Call me Seth.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to have met you … Seth … but I really must be going.’

  ‘Oh, yes … me too,’ he said hurriedly. ‘There’s a styrofoam cup on the ground over there that I’m just itching to pick up. Perhaps we can have another chat again some time.’ He got to his feet and turned to face Dawn. ‘Goodbye, little girl.’

  Dawn didn’t answer for a moment. She was taken aback. From a distance, Seth had seemed to be about twenty-five, but now that she was able to study him up close, she could see the creases around his eyes and the corners of his mouth – which meant that he was at least ten years older than she had first presumed. As soon as she got back to Daffodil Cottage she decided that she would take a look at the five of diamonds and see if his name was listed as a suspect.

  Trudy’s voice floated up the stairs. ‘What was that you said, Dawn? Nathan? On a moped? Are you sure?’

  Dawn planted her elbows on the windowsill of her bedroom and gave Clop an enquiring look. Her donkey gazed at her steadfastly, which was enough to convince Dawn that her assumption was correct.

  ‘Yep,’ responded Dawn. ‘It’s definitely him.’