by Anna Dale
‘I’m getting quite bored standing here,’ cut in Larry, ‘listening to you two rabbiting on. It’s rather fortunate that I won’t have to put up with your dreary chatter for very much longer.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Philippa. ‘Are you letting us go?’
Larry smiled unpleasantly, and brandished his revolver. ‘You might be ready to spend the rest of your life in jail but I am not.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘In sixteen minutes it’ll be ten o’clock,’ he said. ‘The church clock will muffle the sound of my gunshots nicely.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ said Philippa. ‘Dawn’s just a child, and I’m… I’m your daughter. Doesn’t that count for anything?’
‘No,’ answered Larry. ‘My freedom is all that I care about.’
Dawn gulped. She pressed her back against the bumpy stone wall, and tried to stop herself from quaking with fear. Her eyes were glued to the revolver in Larry’s hand. Gradually, she became aware of the distant hum of voices and the faint clatter of footsteps outside. She looked over to the window slit.
With the tip of his gun, Larry indicated to Philippa that she should move into the corner with Dawn. Once Philippa had complied with his wish, he approached the slit in the wall and took a swift peek through it.
‘Ah!’ he said, turning towards his captives with a chilling smile. ‘How convenient. It looks as if we shan’t have to wait until ten o’clock after all. The bell-ringers have just arrived for their Wednesday morning practice. In a minute or two they’ll start yanking on those ropes of theirs, and when they do …’
Philippa seized Dawn’s hand and began to squeeze it urgently – not once but several times. At first, Dawn thought that Philippa was trying to be of some comfort. Then she realised that the squeezes actually meant something. The long knuckle-crunching clenches were ‘dahs’ and the brief pinches were ‘dits’. Philippa was sending Dawn a message in Morse code:
W-H-E-N-I-S-A-Y-N-O-W-R-U-N-F-O-R-I-T
As soon as Dawn had worked out what the Chief was trying to say, she answered her with three long ‘dahs’ and then a ‘dah-dit-dah’ to show that she had understood.
Philippa let Dawn’s hand drop.
For three seconds nothing happened. Then Philippa made her move.
In Dawn’s experience, rugby tackles were usually carried out by big, burly muddy-kneed men on the television. She had never seen a young woman in a tailored suit and high heels launch herself at someone in such an aggressive manner. Larry was totally taken by surprise. When the Chief lunged at him and wrapped her arms around his knees he toppled over with a roar of rage.
‘NOW!’ yelled Philippa.
Dawn ran.
She hared over to the trapdoor, pausing briefly on the top rung of the ladder to glance at the Chief and her father grappling with each other on the floor. Then she climbed downwards as quickly as she dared. Her hands gripped the wooden ladder tightly and her eyes followed her fast-moving feet as they stepped on to each smooth rung.
Dawn had to pass through several levels and numerous trapdoors on her route to the bottom of the tower. She hardly noticed the beads of sweat gathering on her hairline or the rapid thump-thump-thump of her heart. All she could think about was reaching the bell-ringers before they had a chance to begin their recital. If just one toll rang out it would be enough to cover the sound of a single gunshot and that would be all Larry needed to put Philippa out of action.
‘Stop!’ shouted Dawn as her trainers made contact with a solid stone floor. Without pausing to catch her breath, she darted towards the nearest bell-ringer, who happened to be the lady in the pork-pie hat. ‘You mustn’t ring them!’ she said desperately, grabbing the woman’s sleeve.
The bell-ringer turned round and put a finger to her lips, and Dawn’s mouth dropped open in shock. She had been expecting to see the wrinkled face of an elderly lady – not the youthful countenance of Emma Cambridge! P.S.S.T.’s recruitment officer put an arm around Dawn’s shoulders and ushered her over to a corner.
‘Are you all right?’ whispered Emma.
‘Yes,’ said Dawn anxiously, ‘but Philippa’s not. She’s up in the tower with Murdo Meek – and he’s got a gun. He’s going to shoot her as soon as somebody rings one of those bells. You can’t let it happen!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Emma. ‘There won’t be any pealing of bells today.’ She nodded towards the other bell-ringers. They were all members of P.S.S.T.!
‘We persuaded the real bell-ringers to let us take their places,’ said Red.
‘And to borrow a few of their clothes,’ said Socrates, winking at Dawn from beneath a peaked cap.
‘I’m so pleased to see you!’ said Dawn. She beamed at Jagdish, Socrates and Red.
‘Likewise,’ said Red. He beckoned to the others. ‘Right, let’s give this Meek fellow the shock of his life.’ Treading softly across the floor, he stopped in front of the ladder and gripped it with his freckled hands. Before climbing upwards, he glanced over his shoulder at Dawn. ‘You’re absolutely sure that this chap really is Murdo Meek?’
Dawn nodded fervently.
‘Well,’ said Red, frowning, ‘you can be sure that the cunning old rascal won’t get away from us this time.’
With Red leading the way, the three P.S.S.T. members ascended the ladder. Each man had a grim, determined look on his face.
‘Aren’t we going, too?’ asked Dawn, and Emma shook her head firmly.
‘You’ve been put in quite enough danger already,’ she said, steering Dawn through the doors which led into the nave of the church, ‘and although I wouldn’t mind helping to capture Murdo Meek – I don’t think I’d better leave you on your own.’
‘I can look after her,’ said a voice, and Dawn grinned as Trudy rose from one of the pews. She was cradling something in her arms.
‘Peebles!’ said Dawn, rushing forwards. ‘You made it!’ To her delight, Trudy lowered the cat into Dawn’s outstretched hands. Peebles purred loudly as Dawn hugged him to her chest. ‘I’m so glad that you’re OK!’
The cat’s claws pricked her skin as the door of the north porch creaked open and, with a woof and an ungainly bound, Haltwhistle entered the church followed by an out of breath Felix.
‘I thought I told you to stay put,’ said Trudy frostily.
Felix pulled a face. ‘We were far too worried about Dawn,’ he said. His eyes lit up when he spotted her halfway up the nave of the church. ‘Yahoo!’ he yelled, breaking into a run. ‘You’re safe, Dawn! Thank goodness for that!’
‘Out!’ said Trudy, slapping Haltwhistle lightly on his behind. ‘You, too, Felix. Murdo Meek is at large in this church. It’s not safe for you to be here.’
‘Stop ordering me about,’ said Felix. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have found Dawn at all. It was my dog who picked up her scent.’
‘And it was my idea to get Peebles to search all the buildings in this area,’ snapped Trudy.
‘So that’s how you tracked me down!’ said Dawn. She squeezed Peebles in her arms. ‘I’m so glad that everything worked out. Where’s Clop?’ she said airily.
There were blank expressions all round.
‘Clop’s the name of my donkey,’ she reminded them. Dawn wondered if all the excitement had addled everyone’s brains. ‘That’s how you knew where to find me,’ she said. ‘I tied my donkey to Peebles’s back …’
Wordlessly, Felix reached into his pocket, withdrew his hand and opened his palm.
Sitting in its centre was a little, pleated tail.
Chapter Twenty-two
Mission Accomplished
The strands of wool which Dawn found scattered at the base of the gravestone were so few in number that they wouldn’t have filled an egg cup. She picked them up carefully, one by one, and when she had finished she looked at the pitiful heap in her hand, which, together with the pleated tail, was all that was left of Clop.
Dawn bent her head, and did what spies were not supposed to do.
Poor, brave
Clop. Even though she hadn’t witnessed it, Dawn was certain that she knew what had happened. Guessing that Peebles stood very little chance of outrunning a pair of nippy terriers, Clop had decided to distract them by throwing himself from the cat’s back. He had hoped that this would give Peebles the head start he needed to dash away to safety.
Somehow, Clop must have wriggled free of the harness, but Dawn had knotted his tail so tightly to the rope that it had been left behind when he leaped. She pictured her donkey’s dear, earnest little face, and knew that he would have shown no fear when he was snatched out of the air.
Dawn’s fingers closed over the scraps of wool in her hand. She felt as if her heart would break.
To the sound of the church clock striking the hour, Dawn scrabbled in the dirt. She was making a hollow in the ground, between the roots of a yew tree. It took her until the very last strike to bury Clop’s woollen remains. Then she bowed her head respectfully.
When she heard a scuffling sound, Dawn looked up. Coming down the path leading from the church, flanked by Red and Socrates, was Larry Grahams. His clothes were rumpled, his hair was unkempt and his scowl was so hostile and threatening that she could not bear to look at his face for very long. Behind the three men came Jagdish, who was holding Larry’s revolver. At his side, with a ripped sleeve and a swollen lip, strode Philippa. Unlike her father, she showed no trace of bitterness at having been captured by P.S.S.T. Neither did she cower or hang her head in shame. Flicking back her shiny tresses, she carried herself with dignity and poise, which, reflected Dawn, was the appropriate sort of behaviour for a Chief, albeit a rather traitorous one.
Emma came next, with Trudy and Peebles a few paces behind. The cat seemed thoroughly worn out. He had settled himself comfortably in Trudy’s arms and did not look as if he wished to be disturbed for several days. Bringing up the rear were Felix and his hairy hound. For a split second, Dawn wondered if she had been wrong about Haltwhistle. Was he, as Felix had always maintained, a dog of staggering intelligence? Had he picked up her scent at the duck pond and tracked her all the way to the graveyard? And if so, had his keen sense of smell been demonstrated before? Did his nose lead him to the door of the Dampside Hotel and, a few days later, through the thicket of birch trees on the trail of Angela Bradshaw? Could it be possible that Haltwhistle had lured her into Charles Noble’s garden with the sole purpose of guiding her to the lard-smeared rung on the ladder?
Haltwhistle let out a booming bark when he spotted Dawn crouching beneath the yew trees. He hurtled towards her, his ears flopping up and down, skidded to a stop and lathered her knee with his slimy tongue. Then he sneezed twice before sitting down to scratch himself.
‘No,’ said Dawn, dismissing the notion that Haltwhistle was a great deal smarter than he looked. ‘It’s quite unthinkable. I was right about you the first time.’
A small group of villagers approached Red and Socrates as the two men frogmarched Larry down the path. Dawn identified Charles Noble among them and realised that they must be the genuine band of bell-ringers. When Charles began to address the Head of P.S.S.T., she left her position beneath the yew tree and moved closer so that she could hear what was being said.
‘He may be your neighbour,’ said Red, gripping Larry’s arm tightly. ‘But he also happens to be a criminal mastermind.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ said Socrates, doffing his peaked cap and returning it to Charles. ‘We’ve been after this bloke for years.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Charles in a stunned voice. ‘Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake? This man’s a respected member of the community.’
‘We couldn’t be more certain,’ said Red. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us …’
‘Hang on a minute!’ shouted Dawn. She glanced warily at Charles. ‘I think he might be involved.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Charles, regarding Dawn with a startled expression. ‘The idea that I could be mixed up in anything underhand is totally ridiculous! I’m a law-abiding citizen. How dare you cast aspersions on my character, you young monkey!’
‘What makes you suspect this chap?’ asked Red. ‘Enlighten us, Dawn.’
‘I overheard him talking about Bob in the pub,’ she said.
‘Utter claptrap,’ said Charles. ‘I don’t know anyone called Bob! This child is obviously lying through her teeth.’
‘I’m telling the truth,’ protested Dawn. ‘You called him “Little Bob”!’
To her dismay, Charles began to laugh, and the rest of the bell-ringers followed suit. ‘“Little Bob” isn’t a person,’ said Charles when he had managed to straighten his face. ‘It’s the name of a round.’
‘A round what?’ said Dawn.
‘It’s a bell-ringing term,’ said Charles. ‘A round … a series of notes rung on a set of bells … a tune, if you like.’
‘Oh,’ said Dawn, feeling rather stupid. She was relieved when a smart, black estate car drew up beside the lychgate of the churchyard, and everyone’s attention was diverted. The car’s engine was turned off and somebody opened the passenger door. It was a middle-aged woman with long, straight hair and a pale, troubled face. Dawn had never seen her before.
Felix had, though.
‘GRANNY!’ he cried, running down the path towards the new arrival. He spread his arms wide and gave her a big, chest-crushing hug.
‘John! My Long John Silver!’ said the woman, calling Felix by his preferred name. Her voice shook with emotion as she asked him if he was all right.
‘I’m super, thanks, Granny,’ said Felix with a grin. He led her through the lychgate. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
‘Hello,’ said Dawn, shaking the woman’s outstretched hand. ‘You must be Angela Bradshaw.’
‘I am indeed, my dear,’ said Angela, smiling, ‘and you’re Dawn Buckle. I’ve heard quite a lot about you.’
They drove back to London in two fast cars, an ice-cream van, and the elderly white hatchback which rattled a bit when it tried to do more than sixty miles an hour.
Larry had been handcuffed and sandwiched between Socrates and Red in the back seat of a BMW, with Philippa in the passenger seat and Emma at the wheel; Jagdish had ridden with Nathan in the ice-cream van, which, owing to some sort of malfunction, played its melody whenever Nathan depressed the brake; and Edith acted as chauffeur in the smart, black estate car whilst Felix and his granny lounged in the back with an arm each around Haltwhistle. Dawn had guessed, quite rightly, that Trudy would like some company in the hatchback. On the outward journey they had sat together in the two front seats and on the homeward stretch they did the same but, this time, the cardboard box had been abandoned, and Dawn held Peebles in her arms.
During the sixty-mile drive, Trudy talked non-stop and Dawn was content to nod intermittently and ask the odd question whenever she could get a word in. Before they had reached the outskirts of London, Dawn had learned how Trudy had spotted Philippa Killingback lurking in the background on one of the microdot photographs. Realising that the Chief of S.H.H. had been present at the Garden and Allotment Show on the day that Angela went missing, Trudy had known, instantly, that something very odd was going on. She had alerted P.S.S.T. immediately, and, when Dawn had not returned from her night-time mission, she had scoured the village with the help of Felix, Peebles and Haltwhistle. A little later Nathan had joined in the search, having been parked only a few miles away.
According to Trudy, the rest of P.S.S.T. had not been sluggish either.
Firstly, they had descended upon Philippa’s London residence in Belgravia, past which Dawn had probably sailed in Emma’s MG on that memorable Tuesday morning just over a week ago. Finding no one at home, they had searched the building from top to bottom, coming across Angela behind a locked door in the attic. With confirmation that Murdo Meek was definitely alive, they had left a reluctant Izzie in charge at the Dampside Hotel, and raced to Cherry Bentley.
To Dawn’s bewilderment, their small convoy of vehicles (wi
th the BMW at the front and the white hatchback in last place) did not proceed to the headquarters of P.S.S.T. in Pimlico. Instead, they made their way to Crouch End, parked in a street called Farthingale Row and walked round the corner to a second-hand bookshop. It was a run-down place called ‘Endpapers’ and, by the look of the items displayed in its window, it appeared to favour books with dull jackets and even drearier titles.
Philippa crossed the threshold first, and, behind her, Red guided Larry over the doorstep. The notorious spy had a hat pulled down over his eyes and was wearing a pair of earplugs, presumably so that he had no idea where he was being taken. The rest of them followed the Chief into the shop in dribs and drabs.
‘Got anything by Florence Lawrence?’ said Philippa to the bespectacled girl behind the counter.
This was obviously some kind of password, because the assistant gave her a furtive wink before saying, ‘Yes, indeed, madam. Right over here.’ She walked to the back of the shop, did a sort of tap-dance on an oriental rug, and stepped neatly to one side.
Dawn watched as the rug began to wrinkle. Then it disappeared through a hole in the floor. She saw a flight of carpeted stairs leading downwards and waited her turn before stepping on to them. At the very bottom was a priggish-looking man with a propelling pencil wedged behind his ear. He was sitting behind a desk, and rose swiftly to his feet when he spotted Philippa Killingback.
‘Ma’am,’ he said civilly.
She nodded at him. ‘Good afternoon, Tarquin. I need you to issue some passes.’
‘Certainly, ma’am,’ he answered, opening a drawer in the desk. He took out two handfuls of badges which, because they were round and attached to silver chains, looked a little like sink plugs.
‘S.H.H. VISITOR’, read Dawn, before hanging a badge around her own neck. She felt a thrill shoot through her. Glancing at the others, she saw Nathan with a big grin on his face and realised that he was equally as excited to be allowed inside the nerve centre of S.H.H. Nathan nudged her arm.
