by Anne Weale
“It’s gone twenty past. Your watch must be slow,” he said, as she opened the door.
“No, it isn’t. I’m behindhand, I’m afraid. Edward, can we catch the next bus? The play doesn’t start until seven-fifteen, does it?” she asked anxiously.
“No, it doesn’t, but I arranged to meet the Lintons at seven. I don’t want to keep them waiting. Why the delay?” he asked.
“I can’t find Bolster. His meal’s been ready for an hour, but he hasn’t come in.”
“Oh, is that all?” Edward looked relieved. “I expect he’ll turn up presently. Are you ready?”
“Yes, just about. But can’t we wait a few minutes? It’s so unlike him not to be home by this time. He’s always ravenous,” Rachel said perplexedly.
“If you kept him in the garden, this sort of thing wouldn’t happen,” Edward remarked, checking his watch and looking across the green to see if the bus was coming.
“How can one keep a dog in the garden if he’s determined to get out?” she said, a shade impatiently, retreating to the kitchen.
Edward followed her. “You could have one of those running chains for him,” he said reasonably.
“He’d still be able to move about quite freely.”
Rachel’s mouth compressed. “He’d loathe it. How would you like to be stuck on the end of a chain all day?”
“I’m not a dog. The trouble is that you let him run wild and then when he disappears you, get into a flap.”
“But he doesn’t disappear,” she exclaimed. “I can’t remember him ever being late for a meal before. I think I’ll go down to the lane again and see if he’s coming.”
“Now, look here, my dear, this is carrying it too far,” Edward said firmly. “We can’t keep the Lintons waiting because a dog has run off.” He glanced at his watch again. “We’ve just time to catch our bus. Come on how, there’s a good girl.”
“Oh, hang the bus,” Rachel said, rashly. “It won’t hurt the Lintons to wait for ten minutes. I want to find Bolster. Anything may have happened to him. He could be lost or hurt or...” She broke off, gnawing her lower lip.
“Well, working yourself into a state won’t help,” said Edward. “Perhaps he is lost, but he'll turn up eventually. There’s no point in spoiling our evening by fretting over it.”
“Oh, Edward, how can you be so ... so stolid!” Rachel said angrily. “I don’t care if the evening is spoiled. I want to find Bolster.”
“In that case perhaps I had better go alone,” Edward said stiffly. “I’m sorry if I seem stolid, as you put it, but I really don’t know what you expect me to do. Striking attitudes won’t bring the wretched dog home.”
“Yes, why don’t you go by yourself?” Rachel said recklessly. “I don’t much want to see the play anyway. It’s probably over my head.”
Edward glared at her. “I suppose you’d rather we went to some moronic melodrama at the cinema,” he said sarcastically. “I’m sorry. I can’t pretend to share your enthusiasm for these Wild West epics and footling romances.”
“Well, I can’t stand dreary plays with everyone searching their souls and being madly intellectual,” Rachel retorted. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to ask if anyone’s seen Bolster.”
Without waiting for his reply, she brushed past him and hurried down the hall. Crossing the green, she stopped to speak to the old men on the bench beneath the elm tree. But neither they, nor a gang of small boys coming home from a stickleback hunt, had seen the dog. At the end of the village, she met Mr. Pickett, the village constable. He shook his head in answer to her questions, but promised to keep his eyes open.
“It’s hard to say where the old fellow might be, Miss Rachel,” he said sympathetically. “I’ve seen him all over the shop, one time and another. If I were you, I’d take a look up by the farm. There was several dogs up that way when I came past an hour back. They’re after Mrs. Collins’s bitch, y’know. Maybe he’s took up with them.”
Rachel thanked him and hastened towards the farm. But Bolster was not among the motley group of hopeful suitors lingering near the gates. By now she was convinced that something serious had happened to him and, since it was useless to search on foot, she ran back to the house to get her bicycle. Edward had disappeared and the plate of meat was still untouched as she hurried through the kitchen, stopping only to scribble an explanatory note to her aunt.
For the next hour, she cycled furiously round the country lanes, calling the dog’s name and hoping to hear an answering bark. But, although she went to all the places where he usually lingered on their walks, and shouted enquiries to everyone she passed, the search brought no result.
Finally, forgetting everything but the need to find him, she pedalled up the drive to the Hall.
Daniel must have turned in at the gate a few moments ahead of her, as he was just getting out of his car when she reached the house, and the gardener was taking a suitcase from the boot.
“This is a very unexpected pleasure,” he said sardonically, as she rode up.
Rachel ignored him. “Mr. Hodge, have you seen a large black dog about today?” she asked urgently.
“Why, no, miss. Not that I recall. What’s the trouble, then?”
“Our dog has disappeared,” she said miserably. “I’ve looked everywhere else in the village. I was hoping he might be here.”
“What makes you think he’s lost?” Daniel put in.
Rachel explained the circumstances.
“H’m, I see,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s likely he’s here, but you might take a scout round, Hodge, to make sure. No, don’t rush off, Rachel. You can’t cover much ground on a bike. I’ll give you a hand.”
Stripping off his jacket, he tossed it to the gardener and then slid behind the wheel again.
“Come on,” he said. “If we’re going to find him before it gets dark, we’ll have to get cracking.”
“But you’ve only just got home,” Rachel protested uncertainly. “I can manage.”
“Don’t argue. Get in,” he said crisply.
Torn between reluctance to accept his help and her fears for Bolster, Rachel allowed Mr. Hodge to take her bicycle and climbed in the car.
“Now look, don’t start thinking the worst,” Daniel said, as they moved off. “But personally I can’t see Bolster losing his way. What’s probably happened is that he’s bashed into a car and is either a bit stunned or lame in one paw. Have you checked with old Pickett?”
Rachel nodded. “Yes. He hasn’t seen him.”
“Then we’ll make sure he hasn’t shown up while you’ve been out. If he’s still missing, we’ll take a look along the Branford road.”
Returning to her house, they met on the doorstep an agitated Aunt Florence who said there had been no sign of Bolster since her return from the Vicarage.
“Oh dear, the poor creature! He may have been killed,” she wailed distractedly.
“Don’t worry, Miss Burney. We’ll find him,” Daniel said confidently.
“Oh, if only Richard were here,” Aunt Florence said, wringing her hands. “How good of you to help us, Mr. Elliot. Rachel dear, I think I shall ask Miss Vine to come and sit with me. I don’t like being alone after dark. One hears of such dreadful things happening to unprotected women.”
“Yes, do. I’m sure Miss Vine will be glad to come over,” Rachel said quickly, anxious to pursue the search, although her hopes were dwindling.
It was half-past ten when they finally returned to the village and called at the Constabulary House in case Mr. Pickett had gleaned any helpful information.
“I’m sorry, Miss Rachel. I reckon it’s hopeless tonight,” he said gloomily. “I telephoned Albert Weed over at Norton and Sergeant Brown at Grassford, but neither of them have heard nothing. Seems like there’s nothing more to do, not till morning.”
“No, I suppose there isn’t,” Rachel said huskily. “Anyway, thank you for helping, Mr. Pickett. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
> “I’d feel just the same if my old Rover was missing. Try not to get too down, though. Dogs are hardy creatures. He may turn up tomorrow, right as rain. Leave your back door open tonight. Then if he should come home, he won’t find himself locked out, poor old fellow.”
“Yes. Yes, I will,” Rachel said dully.
Back at the house, Daniel helped her out of the car. Rachel fumbled in her pocket for the latch-key, and he took it from her and opened the door.
“I’ll make some coffee. We could both do with it,” he said briefly.
Rachel was too miserable to demur at this suggestion, and when she attempted to fill the kettle, he pushed her gently but firmly into a chair and said, “I can manage. You' put your feet up for five minutes.”
“Do you think it’s possible that he is all right? That he might turn up tomorrow?” she asked, watching him take cups and saucers from the dresser.
“Sure. I know a dog once that disappeared for three days and showed up as if he couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Where do you keep your coffee?”
“Oh, in the pantry. I’ll get it.”
She attempted to rise, but a strong hand on her shoulder held her down.
“Relax. I’m not the helpless type,” he said, with a grin. “What d’you label the tin? Tea? Sugar?”
She managed a thin smile. “Coffee.”
“The perfect housewife. A place for everything and everything in its place, mm?” he said dryly.
The coffee was hot and strong, and made her feel a little better. But it couldn’t dispel the nagging anxiety inside her. She looked at the tin plate in the corner by the broom cupboard and her mouth quivered.
“I suppose it’s silly to be so worried about a dog,” she said bleakly. “It isn’t as if he were valuable or anything. It’s just that we’ve had him so long. He’s part of the family.”
“How did you get hold of him?” Daniel asked.
“I went to the R.S.P.C.A. home in Branford. They board dogs while people are on holiday, you know, and a friend of ours was collecting her corgi. Bolster was a stray. He was only a puppy then. The man who looked after the animals got talking to us about them and he said that Bolster would have to be put down soon because he wasn’t the kind of dog that people wanted. He looked so miserable, poor darling. Bolster, I mean—not the man. I couldn’t leave him there to be destroyed, so I rang up Daddy and explained and he said I could have him.”
She finished her drink and stood up, wandering restlessly about the kitchen.
“You must be tired,” she said, glancing at him. “The Hodges will be wondering where you are.” He rose. “I’ll take another look round.”
“Oh, please, you mustn’t,” she said quickly. “It won’t be any use in the dark, and you’ve helped more than enough already. I—I’m very grateful, Daniel.”
He moved across the kitchen and took her lightly by the shoulders.
“Take some aspirins and go to bed,” he said quietly. “It won’t do any good to sit up worrying. I’ll come round first thing in the morning and we’ll have another hunt for him. But ten to one he’ll be back, and you’ll be whaling the daylights out of him.”
“I hope so.” She tried to muster a laugh, but suddenly his kindness was too much for her control. A sob rose in her throat and she tried desperately to stifle it, her mouth working. The next thing she knew was that Daniel’s arms were round her and he was stroking her hair, and she was crying all over his clean white shirt. It was several minutes before she managed to control this shaming display of weakness and tried to pull away.
“I’m terribly sorry. I hardly ever cry,” she said in a muffled voice, her cheeks scarlet.
Daniel gave her a little squeeze. “That’s what shoulders are for, or didn’t you know?” he said softly. Then, tipping up her chin, “Feeling better?”
“Yes, much. Oh dear, your shirt’s absolutely soaked. I—”
Behind them, the door opened and Miss Burney and Miss Vine stopped short, their jaws dropping.
“Oh dear!” Aunt Florence exclaimed, trying hurriedly to back out but finding her way blocked by Miss Vine. “Oh dear! We had no idea...”
Daniel thrust a handkerchief into Rachel’s hands and moved away from her.
“I’m afraid we’ve, had no luck yet, Miss Burney,” he said calmly. “Rachel’s pretty worn out. Perhaps you’d help her to get to bed.”
“Yes, of course. You poor child. How distressing for you,” Miss Burney said solicitously patting her niece’s shoulder.
“I thought you were in bed, Aunt Flo,” Rachel said, blowing her nose.
“Oh no, dear. I wouldn’t go to bed until you came home. Miss Vine asked me over to her house for a cup of tea. I should have left a light on.”
“Well, I’ll be off,” Daniel said briskly. “Can I see you across the road, Miss Vine?”
Miss Vine simpered. “That would be very kind of you, Mr. Elliot. It is rather dark tonight,” she said archly.
When they had gone, Miss Burney accompanied Rachel upstairs and insisted that she should take one of her own sleeping tablets.
“They’re quite harmless, dear, and not at all habit-forming,” she assured her. Then, in a worried tone: “How very unfortunate that Leora Vine should have seen that ... er ... incident in the kitchen just now. I’m afraid she put quite the wrong construction on it, and you know how she delights in gossip.”
“What incident, Aunt Flo?” Rachel asked, genuinely puzzled.
Miss Burney flushed and avoided her eyes. “You don’t have to explain it to me, dear, Naturally, being so distressed over Bolster—”
“What are you talking about? Explain what?” Rachel cut in perplexedly.
Her aunt plucked nervously at her beads. “Well, dear, when you’re engaged to Edward, it was rather odd for Mr. Elliot to show his sympathy in such a very familiar manner. I daresay you were too upset to notice, but at the moment we came in, he—he was holding you in what one might almost describe as an embrace.”
“Well, it wasn’t one,” Rachel said shortly, turning away to hide the rush of color in her cheeks.
Having forgotten to set her alarm clock, Rachel slept long past her usual rising time, and woke to find Miss Burney putting a cup of tea on the table by her bed.
“Good morning, dear. How are you feeling?” her aunt enquired.
Rachel struggled up on her elbows and blinked at the bright sunlight.
“Oh lord, I forgot the alarm,” she said guiltily. “I’m terribly sorry, Aunt Flo. You must be starving. How sweet of you to make the tea. Then, remembering: “Is Bolster back?”
Her aunt shook her head. “I’m afraid not, dear.”
Rachel slumped against the pillows. “Oh, what can have happened to him?” she exclaimed wretchedly.
She was sipping the tea and bracing herself for the effort of getting up and going about the day’s chores, when the back door bell began to ring.
“Dear me, whoever can that be? I can’t go to the door in my dressing gown,” Miss Burney said nervously.
“I expect it’s the butcher’s boy. I ordered some steak for lunch. I’ll shout down and tell him to leave it on the table,” Rachel said, slipping out of bed and padding across to the window.
But it was not the butcher’s boy who stood below. It was old Ben Tubbitt. And beside him, on a make-shift string leash, sat Bolster. After the first second of mute disbelief, Rachel gave a strangled murmur of joy, then flew back across the room and seized her aunt in a boisterous hug.
“It’s him! It’s Bolster!” she cried exultantly. “Oh, where’s my housecoat? Hang on, Mr. Tubbitt. I’m coming!”
Shrugging swiftly into her robe, not bothering to find her slippers, she fled across the landing and raced downstairs to open the door.
“Bolster! Oh, Bolster, darling! Where have you been?”
For several minutes, Mr. Tubbitt had no chance to explain how and where he had discovered the truant. At the sight of his mistress, Bolster boun
ced forward, his behind waggling excitedly, his upper lip drawn back in a hideous grin. As for Rachel, she dropped to her knees on the doormat and flung her arms round his thick woolly neck, delighting in the exuberance of his greeting and much too happy to mind his cold moist nose nudging her neck.
“But where did you find him, Mr. Tubbitt?” she asked at last, standing up, but still fondling the dog’s ears.
“Ah, well, there’s quite a tale there, Miss Rachel,” the old man replied, pushing back his cap and scratching his grizzled forelock. “You see it were like this—”
“No, before you start, come inside and I’ll get us all something to eat,” Rachel cut in quickly. “Oh, what a relief! I could hardly believe it when I saw you from-upstairs.”
So, very willing to accept her invitation, Mr. Tubbitt scrubbed his boots on the mat, stowed his cap in his pocket and settled himself at the kitchen table.
The explanation of Bolster’s disappearance was very simple. Mr. Tubbitt eked out his pension by doing odd jobs. At present he was looking after the garden of a bungalow the owners of which had gone abroad for three weeks.
“A spot of weeding and that, Miss Rachel,” he told her. “So the place is tidy when they come home.”
Rachel nodded. She knew the people by sight, but they had only recently come to the neighborhood a few months earlier and did not seem to be sociably inclined. No doubt that was why they had bought Rose Bower, as it was called. The bungalow was some way out of the village, set well back from the road, and screened by tall hedges.
It seemed that old Ben had been working in their garden all the previous day. About noon, he had sat down near the potting shed to have a bottle of beer and a sandwich. Suddenly Bolster had appeared, cadging for scraps. The beer and the hot sun had made Ben sleepy. When he awoke, the dog appeared to have gone off, and, still feeling drowsy, he had locked the shed and ambled home.
He had not intended to go to the bungalow again until the weekend. But this morning, having mislaid his tobacco tin, he thought he might have left it in the shed at Rose Bower. As soon as he had opened the gate, he had heard a dog barking and, unlocking the shed door, had found Bolster shut up inside.
