Dawn Undercover

by Anna Dale

  Dawn turned out the light in her bedroom, pulled back the curtains and looked out on to Cow Parsley Lane. She saw yellow strips and squares gleaming from the neighbouring houses, which otherwise had been blackened by nightfall. There were no streetlamps so she wasn’t able to see clearly enough to be sure that the road was empty.

  In the living room, she received two frosty stares from Trudy and Felix and several thwacks on the leg from Haltwhistle’s tail. Peebles had decided to drape himself over the ancient television set in the corner. He observed Dawn with his green, glassy eyes.

  Dawn smiled timidly. ‘Aren’t you going to wish me luck?’ she said.

  No one did.

  ‘I think it’s a really stupid idea for you to go by yourself,’ said Felix, who had cast the microdots aside and was positioning pieces on a chessboard. He glanced at Dawn and gave her a worried sort of frown. ‘At least take Haltwhistle with you.’

  ‘It’s best if I don’t,’ said Dawn, choosing not to mention that his dog was a colossal nuisance and would probably ruin any chance she had of following Meek, ‘but thanks for the offer,’ she added politely.

  ‘I think it’s insane for you to go at all,’ said Trudy. She was clearly agitated and could not seem to keep her hands still. Snatching up the microdot viewer, she twiddled it in her fingers. ‘How does this thing work, then?’

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Dawn. ‘The viewer magnifies those tiny little photographs called microdots. You just hold one of the microdots under one end of the viewer and look through the other end.’

  Trudy followed Dawn’s instructions. ‘The thought of a traitor at P.S.S.T. makes me feel quite faint,’ she said, one eye pressed to the viewer. ‘I’d willingly pack my bags, right this minute, and leave Cherry Bentley, tonight.’

  ‘I don’t believe that anyone at P.S.S.T. could be mixed up in all this,’ said Dawn. She had been giving the matter some thought. ‘Isn’t it possible that Murdo Meek or a really crafty burglar friend of his could have pinched the information from Bob’s file?’

  Trudy snorted. ‘If you went on tiptoe, held your breath and happened to know a spell that would make you invisible you still wouldn’t have a hope of making it past Edith. She’s got eyes in the back of her head, that woman.’

  ‘It’s no good, Trudy,’ said Dawn in heartfelt tones. ‘You won’t change my mind. This is my last chance to find Angela Bradshaw and I’m not going to pass it up.’

  ‘I never realised what a stubborn little madam you are,’ said Trudy resignedly. ‘Have it your own way, then – but don’t blame me if it all goes wrong.’ She picked up a second microdot and examined it under the viewer. ‘What’s this supposed to be a picture of? It looks a bit like a beetroot, but it’s lumpy in all the wrong places. What on earth possessed you to take a photo of this?’

  ‘That’ll be Larry Grahams winning the funny-shaped vegetable category at the Garden and Allotment Show,’ said Dawn, ‘on the day Angela vanished. I took photos of the pictures on display in the village hall.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I really should be going, now.’

  ‘Oh. Bye, then.’ Trudy threw down the microdot and selected another from the coffee table. Her hands were shaking and she looked quite teary-eyed.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Dawn. ‘I’ll be all right. I got eighty-one-and-a-half per cent on my spying test, remember.’ She turned towards the door and found Felix barring her way, his arms firmly folded.

  ‘I’ve decided,’ he said. ‘You’re not going anywhere without Haltwhistle. He’s loyal, he’s fearless – and if anyone sees you walking a dog, they won’t wonder what you’re up to, whereas if you lurk around the duck pond on your own …’

  ‘I don’t need him,’ insisted Dawn.

  ‘Yes, you do! You’re forever harping on about that old fellow, Socrates, and how he advised you that spies always need an excuse to be where they are.’

  ‘I’ve already got an excuse,’ she said, and – to prove it – Dawn opened her rucksack and lifted out her toy donkey. ‘This is Clop,’ she said. ‘I dropped him this afternoon when I was feeding the ducks – at least that’s what I intend to say if anybody challenges me.’

  Trudy lowered the microdot viewer and gave Clop the once-over. ‘What a drab little bundle!’ she said. ‘He looks as if he’s been around for years. No one would ever guess that Izzie threw him together less than a week ago.’

  ‘She didn’t!’ said Dawn, hugging her donkey tightly. (She was afraid that Trudy might have hurt his feelings.) ‘He’s mine. My very own.’

  ‘You smuggled him to Cherry Bentley?’ said Trudy, looking somewhat impressed. ‘You’re a sneaky one, you are.’

  Dawn checked her watch again and gaped in horror. ‘Could you let me past, please,’ she said to Felix. ‘I’ve only got ten minutes to make it to the duck pond.’

  Stepping aside grudgingly, he told her to be careful.

  Trudy said the same.

  ‘I will!’ said Dawn as she hurried into the hallway. ‘And I’ve got my shell phone with me in case I have any problems. See you later, then!’ She opened the front door and prepared to set foot outside.

  ‘Wait!’ yelled Trudy from the living room. ‘What’s she doing there? She shouldn’t be there! Dawn! Hold on!’

  But Dawn didn’t. She was already late and, if she delayed any longer, she might miss the rendezvous between Murdo Meek and his co-conspirator. Trudy’s feeble, last-ditch attempt to stop her from getting to the duck pond on time was not going to cut any ice with Dawn.

  ‘Nice try!’ called Dawn over her shoulder. Then she pulled the front door closed behind her and hurried away into the night.

  The duck pond was a very different place in the dark. By day, its waters were ruffled by webbed feet and pocked by breadcrumbs. At night, however, its surface was as smooth and shiny as a slick of oil, and there was not a quack to be heard. All the ducks, moorhens and coots had put their heads under their wings and were huddled together on the island in the middle of the pond, or hidden in the reeds and bushes surrounding it.

  Dawn crept around the edge of the duck pond and took refuge under a weeping willow tree. Crouching beside its trunk, she watched and listened, expecting Meek or his fellow spy to appear at any moment. All was tranquil until the church clock struck the hour, sombrely informing the village that it was ten o’clock.

  Any minute now, thought Dawn, her eyes straining to catch the slightest sign of movement in the darkness. She slipped a hand into her rucksack and drew out Clop with the idea of placing him somewhere nearby for her to ‘discover’ should the need arise. However, once she had tucked him under her arm, she found that she was loath to put him down: his little woollen body felt so warm and comforting. Dawn and her donkey sat together in companionable silence – and waited.

  Apart from the toot of a car horn and the plopping sound of what Dawn supposed was a little amphibious creature taking a dip in the pond, she heard nothing: no footsteps, no breaking twigs, no murmur of voices.

  The first she knew about the person creeping up behind her was when a hand closed over her mouth.

  Dawn didn’t have a chance to squeal or struggle. She only just managed to shove Clop up her jumper before another hand gripped her face and pressed a strong-smelling cloth over her nose. Its odour was sweet and overpowering and, within seconds, Dawn felt herself slipping into unconsciousness.

  The room had uneven, stony walls and no carpet. There wasn’t a scrap of furniture, apart from the makeshift bed upon which Dawn had found herself when she came to. The bed was nothing more than a hard, wooden bench and a couple of itchy blankets.

  Dawn had failed to find any windows in the room, but it hadn’t been easy to search for them with her hands tied behind her back and a blindfold fastened tightly over her eyes. She hadn’t come across a door, either.

  There was no way of knowing to which location her kidnapper had brought her. Dawn could not imagine where she was, although she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she was in
some sort of medieval prison cell. She hoped that she was somewhere in Cherry Bentley but, having no idea how long she had been unconscious, Dawn had to face the possibility that she might be hundreds of miles away.

  Feeling chilled, woozy and horribly alone, Dawn returned to the bench and attempted to snuggle underneath a blanket. Judging by the small mound in her jumper, Clop was still with her, and that thought lifted her spirits a little. Not wishing to lie on her stomach and flatten him, Dawn tried to find an alternative resting position but her bound hands and a bulky object in her pocket made this very difficult.

  Spies weren’t supposed to cry. Socrates had told her that. If they were unfortunate enough to be captured, they kept a cool head and seized the first chance they could to escape. Dawn felt close to tears but she blinked them away. She was hugely disappointed to have been abducted, not to mention scared out of her wits, but she was also determined to act like a proper spy and to stay calm – no matter what.

  She drifted in and out of sleep for the next quarter of an hour or so. Then her eyes flicked open when she heard a creaking sound followed by a loud crash. Wishing that she could see what was going on, Dawn sat up. She knew that a person had entered the room when she heard footsteps. Then somebody spoke to her. It sounded like a man’s voice, but because he chose to communicate in a hoarse whisper she could not be sure.

  ‘Hello, Dawn,’ he said.

  ‘My name’s Kitty. Kitty Wilson … and I’d very much like to go home, please. My mum will be wondering where I am.’ The fear in her voice was real.

  The man laughed unpleasantly. ‘Don’t bother lying to me, child. I know who you are … and I rather think that you’re familiar with my name, too, aren’t you, Dawn?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m Murdo Meek.’

  Dawn tried her best not to tremble. So, Meek hadn’t drowned in the Thames ten years ago.

  ‘Murdo who?’ she said. ‘Haven’t ever heard of you. Sorry.’

  ‘Continue with your little charade for now, if you must,’ whispered Meek amusedly. ‘You’ve got pluck – I suppose that’s why you were recruited by P.S.S.T. Yes, I know everything, Dawn. That conniving bunch thought they could outwit me, didn’t they? It was quite a shrewd idea to send a spy young enough to be above suspicion. Not really playing fair, though, were they, Dawn?’

  ‘My name’s Kitty,’ she said, ‘and … and I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do!’ hissed Meek. ‘Why else were you loitering about near the duck pond at such a late hour?’

  ‘I dropped my toy there this afternoon,’ insisted Dawn. ‘I went back to look for him.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Meek savagely. ‘You were skulking by the duck pond because you expected me to be meeting someone there. Poor, foolish girl! When you read my message, you had no idea that it was meant for you. “Meet me by the duck pond. Ten p.m. Tonight.” It was good of you to be on time.’

  Dawn was astonished and appalled in the same moment. Meek had set a trap and she had fallen straight into it! She had been so busy congratulating herself on finding the message in the garden of The One-eyed Stoat that she hadn’t stopped to question why it had been written in plain English. The reason was all too obvious, now. Uncertain of Dawn’s decoding abilities, Meek had opted to make things easy for her by neglecting to use any code whatsoever. He had lured her to the pond so that he could kidnap her under cover of darkness, with no one to witness his dastardly deed.

  To be duped with such ease was mortifying but, somehow, Dawn managed to conceal her feelings. Keeping her face blank, she stuck steadfastly to her story.

  ‘I went to the duck pond to search for my toy,’ she said, ‘and I don’t understand why you won’t believe me.’

  ‘Confound it, girl!’ Meek seemed to be losing his patience with her. She heard him pacing around the room, his shoes striking against the floorboards. ‘Admit to me that your name is Dawn Buckle!’

  ‘I’m Kitty Wilson,’ said Dawn.

  Meek’s footsteps came towards her. She felt him tugging at the ropes which bound her wrists. Then her arms flopped forward. For the briefest of moments, Dawn dared to hope that she had proved convincing enough for him to free her – but she should have known better.

  ‘Hold out one of your hands,’ said Meek in his strange, husky voice.

  Dawn was still none the wiser as to his true identity. Reluctantly, she obeyed his order.

  ‘Tell me again who you are,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Kitty …’ began Dawn. Then she gasped as something grabbed the tip of her forefinger and squeezed hard. ‘Ouch!’ she said, and bit her lip.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Meek again.

  ‘Kitty Wilson,’ said Dawn in a voice that was very high-pitched. ‘I’ve got a mum called Sandra, a … a brother called Wayne and my pets’ names are Fred and Sardine.’ Whatever it was that had attached itself to her finger tightened its grip. The pain reminded her of the occasion when she had caught her finger in a letterbox. Her eyes moistened.

  ‘If you tell me the truth, I’ll make it stop,’ said Meek in kindlier tones.

  Dawn gritted her teeth and said nothing. So this is how he wheedles his information out of people, she thought. He tortures them with some kind of finger-clamping device. From the depths of her jumper, she felt Clop willing her to hold her nerve. If Meek thinks he’s going to make me crack, she thought bravely, he’s sadly mistaken.

  ‘You’re being very stubborn, Dawn …’ said Meek, but the rest of his sentence was drowned out by a deafening clang which resonated around the whole room. Dawn found herself wishing that she had brought her ear-muffs with her when eleven more thunderous booms rang out – but by the time the last note had died away, she could not have cared less about the throbbing sensation in her ears, or the pain in her finger, for that matter. A lifetime of living with her father and his large and varied clock collection had caused her to develop a particularly sensitive ear when it came to recognising chimes and other noises that clocks were inclined to make. The clock, which had just struck midnight, was familiar to her. She was one hundred per cent certain that it belonged to St Elmo’s Church – which meant that she was still in Cherry Bentley!

  Dawn pieced together all the clues she had amassed in an effort to pinpoint her whereabouts. The room had bare boards, rough lumpy walls, no windows, hardly any furniture to speak of and it was a stone’s throw from the clock. A shiver ran through her when she realised where she was. I’m in the church tower, she thought.

  Ignoring the burning pain in her fingertip, Dawn concentrated on listening to the hoarse whisper of her captor as he asked her repeatedly to admit her name was Dawn. Could the voice belong to Charles Noble? As the head bell-ringer it was likely that he would be able to visit the church whenever he pleased.

  Heartened by the thought that Daffodil Cottage was less than a mile away, Dawn began to formulate an escape plan. With any luck, Meek would soon tire of her refusal to comply with his wishes, and remove the object that was pinching her finger. Once both her hands were free, Dawn intended to throw one of the blankets over him, rip off her blindfold and run as fast as she could to the exit. It would be her best chance to get away from him. If she allowed Meek to retie her hands, she would be just as helpless as she was before.

  ‘What a tiresome girl you are,’ said Meek when, for about the fiftieth time, Dawn declared that her name was Kitty Wilson. She felt relief as well as excitement when the pressure on her fingertip began to ease. Slowly and deliberately the fingers of her other hand closed around the blanket.

  ‘Not everyone responds to that method of persuasion,’ said Meek as the clamp finally released Dawn’s finger, ‘but there are other ways to extract the truth.’

  Dawn braced herself. Then she moved like lightning – which was something of a new experience for her. Springing off the bed, she hurled the blanket at where she estimated Meek to be standing. From his roar of fury, she knew that she had aimed well.

>   The blindfold was bound tightly and Dawn had to paw at it to get it off. She stood, bewildered, for a second. Then she stared around the barren room, her eyes desperately searching for a way out. Just as she had surmised, there was no door! She glanced at Meek. The blanket had fallen over his head but he was struggling vigorously beneath it and was likely to be free of it in no time at all.

  Dawn’s panic-stricken gaze fell on an oil lamp which was resting on the floor. Then her heart lifted as she spied something behind it.

  ‘A trapdoor!’ exclaimed Dawn joyfully.

  She raced over to the square hole in the centre of the floor and sank to her knees, but before she could place her foot on the first rung of the ladder below, her arm was seized roughly and she was dragged to her feet.

  ‘It’s you!’ cried Dawn, goggling at the man beside her. Meek glared back at her, his mouth twisted into a livid scowl, and thrust his face into hers.

  ‘YOU … INFURIATING BRAT,’ he said, the hairs on his beard scratching her skin.

  Dawn tried to squirm away from him. ‘Larry Grahams,’ she said in amazement. ‘I … I never suspected you.’

  Larry threw her a look of contempt. ‘That’s because you’re just as thickheaded as all the rest,’ he said, no longer needing to speak in an indistinct whisper. ‘I gave those dimwits at S.H.H. the biggest clue they could wish for – and still they couldn’t guess my real identity.’ Keeping a tight hold on her arm, Larry reached into the pocket of his corduroy trousers and produced a crumpled piece of paper. He shoved it into Dawn’s hand.

  ‘Well?’ said Larry.

  ‘Um,’ she said, staring at the message which she had stumbled across several hours before in the garden of The One-eyed Stoat.

  Meet me by the duck pond. Ten p.m. Tonight. M.M.

  ’Study it, carefully,’ said Larry.

  Dawn scrutinised the note but she didn’t have the first idea what she was supposed to be looking for. If the words had a hidden meaning, she was quite unable to deduce what it was.