Dawn Undercover

by Anna Dale

  A duck.

  Dawn gave a shiver, and the soap slipped out of her hands.

  ‘Bernard!’ she said out loud. ‘The duck that went missing!’ He was a mallard, reasoned Dawn, which meant that his head was green, but the rest of his body was mostly grey – just like the feather she had found! She jumped out of the bath and left a trail of damp footprints on the floor. On reaching the chair, she slid the feather from her shorts pocket and stroked it gently.

  She could barely bring herself to imagine what had happened.

  Somebody must have snatched Bernard, thought Dawn sadly – and then silenced his quack. Having done the dreadful deed, she realised that the mystery person must have plucked the poor old duck and used his feathers to torture Bob.

  As she returned to the bathtub, all sorts of questions began to besiege her brain. How had someone managed to sneak into the offices of P.S.S.T. and steal information? Was Murdo Meek the man behind the theft, and if so, was he also responsible for doing away with the duck? Could Seth Lightfoot be the heartless rogue she was looking for, or was another of her suspects the guilty one?

  Deciding that she did not have time to consider these possibilities, Dawn began to lather her shoulders. She mustn’t lose sight of her immediate priority, which was to check out Palethorpe Manor.

  She had worked out that Bob Chalk’s debilitation had not been an accident. The chances were that Miles Evergreen had also been a victim of the unknown villain – but, as yet, she had found no proof. Whether the perpetrator was Murdo Meek or not, Dawn figured that she would have to be extra vigilant when she embarked on her night-time mission in a few hours’ time.

  Dressed in her darkest clothes (navy trainers, a pair of jeans and a slate-grey hooded top) Dawn crept down the stairs. She checked her appearance in the hall mirror and was disappointed to see that the end of her nose was still pinker than normal, despite having smeared it with several fingerfuls of Trudy’s moisturising cream. She shrugged at her reflection. It wouldn’t matter in the dark.

  Dawn trod softly into the kitchen. She could tell by the debris on the work surface that Felix had taken on the role of chef that evening. Beside an empty jam jar, a broken eggshell and a discarded wrapper she saw two brown sandwiches on a plate. Neither sandwich looked very appetising, but she reminded herself that a spy must carry a snack at all times – and also, that beggars couldn’t be choosers. She wrapped the sandwiches in a paper bag and slid the package into her rucksack, which also contained her radio set and binoculars. Inside the pouch in her top she had tucked her shell phone (in case of emergency) and her miniature camera.

  Trudy was still recumbent on the sofa but she had taken off her shoes and placed a couple of cushions behind her head to make herself more comfortable. Dawn found that she had to shake her quite vigorously to get her to open her eyes.

  ‘Don’t shut me in the potting shed!’ said Trudy in the manner of someone who had just awoken from a nightmare. ‘Oh,’ she said, blinking at Dawn. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Just thought I’d tell you that it’s nine o’clock and I’m off,’ said Dawn. ‘Tonight’s the night I explore Palethorpe Manor.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ said Trudy, struggling into a sitting position. She gave a massive yawn.

  ‘No, that’s OK,’ said Dawn. ‘You’re worn out. Besides,’ she said, thinking of something that Socrates had told her, ‘a spy is at her most cunning when she’s on a solo mission.’

  ‘Well … if you’re sure,’ said Trudy reluctantly. ‘Don’t take any unnecessary risks, though, Dawn … and if you’re not back by midnight, I’m coming to find you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dawn was quite touched, though she half-suspected that Trudy’s offer was prompted by her belief that a child could never be as capable as a grown-up.

  ‘Where’s Felix?’ asked Trudy suddenly.

  ‘Don’t worry. He’s upstairs,’ said Dawn. ‘I listened at his bedroom door and heard all these little beeps and explosions coming from inside. I think he must be busy vaporising aliens on his Game Boy.’

  ‘Either that or “wonder-dog” has learned another skill,’ said Trudy with unconcealed sarcasm. ‘Good luck, then, Dawn.’ She leaned back against the cushions and, in a matter of seconds, had fallen asleep again.

  The setting sun looked like a giant piece of barley sugar melting slowly in the sky. Twilight was mere minutes away. Dawn stood on the doorstep of Daffodil Cottage, her rucksack strapped tightly to her back. She glanced quickly up and down the street to check who was about.

  Sailing past the garden gate on an ancient bicycle, with the air of someone who longed to be in the Famous Five, was the vicar of St Elmo’s church. For a moment, Dawn thought that the vicar had updated her image by dyeing her hair a violent green, but when she looked harder she realised that it was, in fact, a rather garish bicycle helmet.

  On the other side of Cow Parsley Lane, sitting on a bench with his nose in a book, was a spiky-haired teenager who kept dipping his hand into a bag of crisps. Behind him, and to the right, was Mrs Cuddy, wobbling on a stool as she watered a hanging basket in her porch. Not one of them seemed to be aware that a young girl was standing, observing them all, from her doorstep.

  Satisfied that she had managed to emerge from Daffodil Cottage without being noticed, Dawn set off. She moved a little more purposefully than her normal unhurried amble. Remembering not to let the front gate clang behind her, she stepped out on to the street.

  Dawn could tell that Peebles was up to mischief by the skittish way in which he crossed the road. He pounced on the shoelaces of the boy reading his book before taking a perfectly judged leap on to a low brick wall. Running lightly along it, the cat chose to stop directly in front of Bluebell Villa, where Mrs Cuddy had finished her watering and disappeared inside. Almost instantly, two little white heads appeared at a window and began to yap non-stop. Peebles did not seem to be in the least bit bothered. Ignoring the dogs, he tucked his paws underneath him, as if he were settling down for a snooze. The barking became even more impassioned and Dawn heard a thud, and then another, as Honeybunch and Lambkin threw themselves against the pane of glass in front of them.

  Predictably, the incessant barking began to attract quite a lot of attention. The vicar, who had almost reached the end of the lane, looked over her shoulder to see what all the fuss was about and nearly came off her bike. A woman in a dressing gown opened her front door, and craned her neck to see what was going on. Curtains shifted and faces appeared, the reddest of which was Mrs Cuddy’s. The old lady rapped on the window with her walking stick and waved her arms in an attempt to frighten the cat away (a tactic which had absolutely no effect). Only the boy on the bench seemed oblivious to the commotion caused by Peebles. Dawn figured that the book he was reading must be awfully good.

  Preferring not to be spotted by any of the villagers, Dawn put her head down and increased her pace. She was fairly sure that everyone’s eyes were focused on Bluebell Villa, but she didn’t like to take any chances.

  Dawn had planned her route carefully. As she walked through the village, she used a few techniques that Socrates had taught her to check if she was being followed: taking long looks over her shoulder whenever she crossed a road, and suddenly turning to put litter in a bin or to pick up something that she’d dropped on purpose. She was rather suspicious of a couple walking their basset hound, who seemed to be behind her for about half a mile, but eventually the couple stopped to chat to the post mistress, Diana Flinch, and she did not bump into them again.

  As she turned down a footpath, leading to a wood called Craddock Clump, Dawn felt confident that nobody was on her tail. The sun had sunk below the horizon and the light was fading fast but, just as she had anticipated, the moon was in its fullest phase. She looked up at it gratefully, and continued on the path as it dipped downhill towards the wood.

  Nipping in between the trees, Dawn slipped her rucksack from her shoulder and took out her lunch box, intending to make contact with
P.S.S.T. before it got too dark to see the knobs and switches on the radio set. She seized the aerial and cast about her for a suitably high nook in which to wedge it. However, Dawn was distressed to find that all the trees in Craddock Clump were Scots pines with tall, straight trunks and, try as she might, she could not reach even their lowest branches.

  She wished that she had been able to transmit from the birch thicket, as she had done before, but she knew that this was against the advice of Socrates. It was recommended that every radio transmission should be made from a different spot in order to stay one step ahead of the enemy. Dawn decided that she would just have to hold the aerial in the air and hope for the best.

  ‘Shrimp calling Barnacle,’ said Dawn. ‘Come in. Over.’

  There was a noise like someone squeezing a packet of crisps and an unpleasant tinny humming. Dawn checked that she was tuned into the correct frequency and twiddled the aerial in her fingers.

  ‘Shrimp calling Barnacle,’ she said more urgently, pressing her free hand against an earphone.

  Red’s voice was barely audible. He sounded as if he were trying to speak with a harmonica in his mouth. Fortunately, Dawn managed to catch the gist of what he was saying.

  ‘Yes, I have several things to report,’ she said, her eyes darting about the wood to make sure that she was alone.

  ‘I went to Ogle Lodge today and discovered that Edgar Palmer was doing a sponsored bike ride on the first of July, so I can cross him off my list of suspects … oh, and I’ve found conclusive proof that Bob was tickled by feathers. Over.’

  ‘One less suspect. Got that,’ said Red’s fuzzy voice, ‘but can you repeat last sentence … mmphzzz … Over.’

  ‘BOB,’ said Dawn, enunciating each letter carefully, ‘TICKLED. OVER.’

  ‘Rrbblpfzz … say again,’ came the reply.

  Desperately, Dawn spun the aerial like a majorette’s baton. ‘Bungalow Onion Bungalow,’ she said, resorting to the Cumberbatch Alphabet, ‘was tickled using feathers from a Doodah Unicorn Chutney Key ring. He’s got a phobia, you see. I found the missing piece of Puddle Armpit Puddle Egghead Roundabout.’

  ‘Bob … tickled by a duck? Jmmshzzz … what was that last bit? Over.’ Red sounded perplexed.

  Dawn rubbed her forehead anxiously. Socrates had instructed her to keep all radio messages as brief as possible. Perhaps she should abandon this transmission and try again tomorrow.

  ‘Must wait until next broadcast,’ said Dawn. ‘Am on my way to Palethorpe Manor … you know … the Hurrah Onion Unicorn Sausage Egghead on the Hurrah Idiot Leotard Leotard. Over and out.’

  Dawn stuffed her lunch box back into her rucksack and rejoined the footpath. It took her around the eastern boundary of the wood; then along the edge of a field and on to a grassy barrow from where she could see the hill with the dark uneven shape of Palethorpe Manor on its crest.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Prowler at Palethorpe

  The hill took longer to climb than Dawn had anticipated. Its angle was steep and, although the moon was shining brightly, she didn’t find it easy to see where she was planting her feet. Dawn fell on her bottom twice. The first mishap occurred when she ricked her ankle in a rabbit hole and then, about ten minutes later, she slipped on something squidgy and landed, rather haplessly, on a thistle.

  Exercising the self-control of a true professional, Dawn did not utter the slightest squeak on either occasion. She dusted herself down, glanced at the sprawling wreck of a building on the hilltop, and continued with her ascent.

  To be certain that she was heading in the right direction, it was essential for Dawn to look up regularly at Palethorpe Manor, but every time her eyes fixed on the dilapidated stately home, she felt her scalp prickle. In the moonlight, all she could see was a bulky, black rectangle, and the harder she stared at the house, the more it seemed to swell and sway as if it were alive. It was the sort of house, thought Dawn, that might appear in people’s nightmares – and she did not relish the prospect of venturing inside it.

  Bravely, Dawn continued to climb higher until she was standing in front of a ragged wire fence which she supposed had been erected around the house to keep out any inquisitive villagers. She turned round and looked back down the slope to check that no one had been following her. The moon had draped a silvery film over the hillside, and as far as Dawn could see, she was quite alone.

  After her exhausting climb, Dawn figured that it might be a good idea to have a moment’s rest before exploring Palethorpe Manor. As she sat cross-legged on the ground, she wished that she had brought something sweet and comforting with her – like a bar of chocolate. Then, remembering the sandwiches which Felix had made, she rooted around for them in her rucksack.

  She slid one out of a paper bag and stared at it. The sandwich was squashed and misshapen and, worst of all, it smelt odd. Dawn peeked at the filling and realised straight away that what Felix had taken to be ‘funny-looking cheese’ was, in fact, lard. No wonder the sandwiches had been left on the plate, untouched.

  Felix might be a brainbox at school, thought Dawn as she dropped the sandwich back in the bag, but he’s a real dumbo in the kitchen.

  Even after she had pushed her unsavoury snack to the very bottom of her rucksack, the smell of lard lingered in her nostrils. It was a weird, faintly unpleasant sort of odour, which was strongly reminiscent of something else …

  Haltwhistle’s breath!

  Dawn gaped as three static images fanned out in her mind like a hand of playing cards. The first was a block of lard; the second – a ladder; and the final one was Haltwhistle’s tongue.

  Earlier that day, when they had been trespassing on Charles Noble’s property, Dawn had witnessed Haltwhistle doing something rather strange, and afterwards, his breath had whiffed of the very same substance which Felix had mistakenly used as a sandwich filling. At the time, it had occurred to her that licking the rung of a ladder was not a normal thing to do, even for a dog; but as Haltwhistle was rather inclined to do stupid things, she had not given it a great deal of thought.

  Dawn looked at the facts. A seasoned cook such as herself knew a fair bit about lard. It was soft and greasy. It also tended to become transparent once it was rubbed on to something, leaving a gleam but nothing more. What if someone had deliberately smeared lard on to one of the rungs of the ladder? Whoever it was must have known that Miles would slip and lose his balance as soon as he put his weight on the rung and, very probably, plummet to the ground.

  Charles Noble had been inordinately keen to get rid of the ladder after the ‘accident’. His handyman, Reg, had considered its destruction to be a shameful waste. Had Charles been prompted to reduce the ladder to sticks and sawdust because he could not bear to be reminded of his window cleaner’s nasty fall? Or was he just trying to cover his tracks?

  A roving light on the upper floor of the manor house put all thoughts of Charles and the ladder out of Dawn’s mind. Keeping low to the ground, she moved along the fence, pressing her shoulder against it every few yards to test for any areas of weakness.

  After a couple of minutes, she found an unstable fence post and some sagging strands of wire which she was able to prise apart wide enough to wriggle through. She crouched very still for a moment, her heart thumping, and watched the light swing back and forth at a window underneath the eaves. Then she made a dash for the porch. As she did so, Dawn almost tripped over a fallen sign which said ‘DANGER’ and ‘KEEP OUT’.

  The house must once have been a splendid place to live. Its entrance was framed by four massive columns which were cold and smooth to the touch. Dawn slipped between them, trying to avoid the lumps of rubble which littered the floor of the porch. Now that she was no longer out in the open, and the moon was hidden from view, Dawn found it much more difficult to see. The darkness became a deeper, treacly black as she twisted a doorknob the size of her father’s fist, and stepped into the hallway.

  From the outside the house had seemed frightening, but now that she was
on the inside, Dawn found it even spookier. As she groped her way along a wall, she could feel her hair standing on end.

  A series of muffled thumps coming from the floor above made her hold her breath. She lifted her chin and stared blindly in the direction of the upper level. Who was up there? And what were they doing, creeping about in a condemned house after dark? Three nights ago, she had spied someone on the hillside with a torch. Could that person be the very same one whose footfalls she could now hear through the ceiling?

  Dawn’s heart quickened as a thought occurred to her. Was this where Angela Bradshaw was being held prisoner? The idea seemed to make sense. No rational, law-abiding person would dare to set foot in a derelict building which was in danger of falling down. It would be the perfect place for a cunning kidnapper to keep his victim under lock and key.

  Dawn stubbed her toe against something hard and wooden. She resisted the urge to say ‘ow’ and bit her lip instead. Kneeling upon the object and exploring it with her hands, she discovered that she had found the bottom step of a flight of stairs.

  Climbing them did not prove to be a problem. The steps were uncarpeted but Dawn was naturally stealthy, and her trainers had soft soles. When she arrived at the top of the staircase, she paused and listened. A rumbling droning noise reached her ears. It sounded as if someone were speaking behind a closed door. Immediately, Dawn realised the significance of this. There’s more than one person, she told herself as she edged along the gloomy corridor towards the voice.

  Dawn knew exactly where to stop. Torchlight seeped through the cracks in the door, giving it the appearance of a rectangle outlined in gold. As gently as she could, she turned the doorknob and gave a little push. Then she prepared to take a peek through the gap she had just created.