“Miles. It was a pretty good choice, come to think of it, with all hayfields around, already mowed and stacked so no farmer was likely to come along. It looks as if Crawford's our man, doesn't it? I never did quite cotton to him.”
“Why not?”
Brow furrowed, Petrie thought. “He was an oily, smug sort of b ⦠chap,” he said slowly, “not exactly pudgy, just sort of too well-fed-looking, like an old maid's cat, but that's hardly ⦠No, by Jove, I have it. I never nailed it down before. It was the way he looked at Gloria!”
“Mr. Arbuckle has just told me he suspected Crawford had ambitions in that direction.”
Surging to his feet, Petrie pounded with his fist on the desk. “By Jove, if the bounder has laid a finger on her ⦠!”
Alec laid a calming hand on his arm. “We must hope he's chiefly motivated by money.”
“I can't believe it.” Arbuckle shook his head. “Sure, things look real bad for Crawford, but I just don't believe he'd do a low-down, lousy thing like this.”
“As I said, sir, we don't have anything like proof.” Alec had
few doubts that he was on the right track, but he would see things clearer after a good night's sleep.
Part of a night's sleep, he corrected himself, glancing at the brass clock on the mantelpiece. “I want to know more about his movements these past few weeks,” he went on, noting that Arbuckle looked as exhausted as he felt, “and just what you've said to him about the kidnapping, but that can wait until the morning.”
“I have to go to Lunnon to collect the dough, but I'll come by on my way. I would've anyways, to see if Miss Dalrymple's back. I'll be off, now, and see you in the morning.”
“Will you see Crawford in the meantime?”
“At breakfast, probably, before he goes off to Oxford.”
“Don't say anything to him,” Alec warned. “Not a word of our suspicions, and try not to alter your manner to him.”
He and Petrie went out to the hall to see the American off. Ernest appeared from nowhere with an umbrella and accompanied the small, somehow crumpled figure down the steps to his motor.
The rain was belting down. Was Daisy out in it somewhere?
Consulting Pearson's list, Alec said, “You've got the first watch, Petrie.”
“The drawing-room, I should think. There are French windows. If she comes and sees the light, she'll be able to get in easily. I say, Fletcher, I don't want you to think I'm not frightfully cut up about Daisy going missing. It's just that Gloria ⦠.” Words failed him.
“I know.” Walking with him to the drawing-room, Alec wondered if Petrie could possibly be feeling the same agony of apprehension. “Look here, I imagine you're known at most of the garages hereabouts? I'd like you to go in the morning and make enquiries at any Crawford might have made his way to that day.”
“Right-ho, old chap.” Petrie opened a door and flicked on a
light switch. “If no one's heard of him, we'll know for sure, won't we?”
“It would be awfully hard for him to argue his way out of it,” Alec agreed grimly, following him into a long room in which the finest furniture of two centuries melded into a harmonious elegance. He waved at floor-length blue brocade drapery on the far wall. “Is that the French windows? I'll draw the curtains back and make sure they're unlocked.” Opening the curtains, he reached for the handle.
“They're locked, sir.” The footman came in behind them, bearing the tray of decanters and glasses. “The key's in this here drawer. There you are. Will you be wanting another night-cap, sir?”
“Not for me, thanks, but you might leave it here. Mr. Petrie's staying up. Is the front door bolted and barred?”
“Yes, sir, but it's a Yale lock, the kind you can open without a key from inside.”
“Good. You can show me the way to my room, then, if you will, and go to bed yourself. Oh, here's the schedule, Petrie. You'll wake Bincombe in an hour or so.”
“Right-ho. Sleep well, old man. I must admit I'm dashed glad you turned up.”
He held out his hand, and Alec was shaking it when from the corner of his eye he saw the handle of the French window move. As he strode towards it, it opened, and over the threshold tottered a tatterdemalion mudlark.
“Alec, thank heaven!” croaked Daisy, and fell into his arms.
He picked her up and sat down on the nearest sofa with her on his lap, holding her tight, disregarding completely the effect on himself, the sofa, and the Aubusson carpet.
Streams of murky water ran from her bedraggled hair and torn clothes. Her face, turned up to his, was scratched and daubed with mud. As he kissed her chilly lips, all he was conscious of was the joyful singing in his heart.
Daisy snuggled against Alec's chest and felt safe for the first time in hours. She could have happily stayed there for just as many hours to compensate, but the reason for her struggling on to Fairacres, resisting the appeal of shelter in barn or haystack, still stood. She was safe. Gloria was not.
Reluctantly she raised her head from Alec's shoulder, and saw Phillip's anxious face.
“Phil, she's all right.” Daisy felt it was most improper to be cuddled on Alec's knee with Phillip, and the footman behind him, looking on, but she wasn't going to move until she absolutely had to. “They've got her in the witch's cottage in Cooper's Wood.”
“Little Baswell? By Jove, we ought to have thought of it! Right-oh, I'm off.”
“Don't be an ass, Petrie,” Alec said sharply. “You said there are four bruisers, at least. It'll take all of us.”
“Me too!” said the footman, all agog. “I knowed there were something up. I knowed it!”
“You too, lad. The two of you go and roust out Bincombe and Pearson, and ask Miss Fotheringay to come and take care of Daisy. Try not to wake her cousins.” As they rushed out, he looked down at her and smiled. “A hot bath is called for, I'd say. Is there anything else we need to know, sweetheart?”
“Not that I can think of. She's in the upstairs room on the right. At least she was until we escaped through the roof, and I don't expect they have another room secured. She couldn't get out that way without help. You see, I ⦠.”
“I see you went rushing into danger when you were supposed to be merely asking questions, without even the elementary precaution of telephoning your whereabouts first!”
“The only public 'phone was out of order,” Daisy said indignantly. “And I did take precautions. I hid my bikeâI hope we can find itâand borrowed a dog for camouflage.”
“A dog!” Alec laughed and hugged her. “My darling idiot.”
“There speaks a townsman. The wood is far too overgrown for cycling, and the day far too sultry to walk for pleasure, but dogs always have to be walked. They wouldn't have suspected a thing if Tuffet hadn't gone snooping around the side of the house.”
“And you snooped after? Just as I thought. The wood's very overgrown, is it?”
“Even the ride. There's a path of sorts trampled through the thickets, though the beginning of it may be hard to find if they've bothered to conceal it. But Phillip will find it. He knows the wood well, he'll be able to lead you straight to the cottage.”
“Good.”
“You'd never find it otherwise. They have the windows well covered so no light escapes, and they don't let Gloria have a light at all. Poor Gloria! I hope they didn't hurt her when they caught her. She didn't follow me up the tree, you see. I suppose she must have panicked.”
“Maybe she just doesn't know how to climb trees. Not everyone is as resourceful as you, sweetheart.”
“Oh Alec, I do like it when you call me sweetheart!”
He responded in a most satisfactory fashion, but their kiss was interrupted when Lucy swept into the drawing-room. She was as elegant as ever in fawn silk pyjamas and matching dressing-gown, even with her hair in a towelling bandeau.
“Daisy darling, what
have
you been up to? Too, too squalid! You'd better come along and have a bath.”
Reluctantly slipping down from Alec's lap, Daisy reeled. He caught her up.
“I'll carry her,” he said to Lucy.
On the landing they met the men. Phillip was still in evening dress but carrying boots, Ernest in his livery, Binkie and Tommy apparently dressed in whatever had come first to hand.
“Well done, Daisy!” said Tommy softly, grinning.
“I'll join you in a minute,” Alec told them. “Don't forget electric torches, one each if possible. Have we another motor? Five would be a squeeze in mine.”
“I'll get the Lagonda out. It's bigger than Bincombe's Alvis.”
“Ask Bill Truscott to go with you,” Daisy advised, thinking of the four roughs they would be facing. “Tell him it's by my request.”
“Good idea,” said Phillip. “He's a good chap. Take care of yourself, old bean. Come on, fellows.”
Alec carried Daisy to the bathroom where Lucy was already running a steaming bath. He deposited her on a chair and stood for a moment gazing down at her, shaking his head.
“Squalid is the word. Straight to bed and I'll see you in the morning.”
“Right-oh, Chief,” said Daisy. “Alec, you will take care, won't you?”
“You can count on it, love,” he assured her with a grin. “The last thing I want is to meet your mother for the first time sporting a black eye!”
O
n Daisy's arrival, now that there was something to be done, all desire to sleep had left Alec. Nonetheless, having picked up the Dalrymples' chauffeur at the lodge, he let the man take the wheel of the Austin. Truscott knew the way to Cooper's Woodâand the rain was still coming down by the bucketful.
Peering through the opened windscreen, the chauffeur followed the red tail-lights of the Lagonda down the lane. Petrie, also familiar with the route, was at the wheel of the car in front. Its owner, Pearson, sat beside Alec in the back of the Austin.
“The others may think I should be in on the planning,” he said self-deprecatingly, “but I'm quite prepared to leave it to you, sir, don't y'know. This show's a bit different from storming a French village held by the Boches. We couldn't very well go in with machine-guns blazing in the middle of Worcestershire, even if the girl weren't there.”
Alec blenched. “Ye gods, no! I trust none of you has a service revolver hidden in his pocket?”
“No. Bincombe said something about shotguns but I soon set him straight.”
“You have my eternal gratitude, Mr. Pearson. My superiors are not going to be happy about this caper at best. If someone
got shot, I'd be in the soup over my head and swimming for my life with no land in sight.”
“You'd be back on the beat and I'd be struck off the roll,” said the solicitor wryly. “No firearms. Right-oh, what's the scheme?”
“Dammit, I wish I'd asked Daisy more about her hole in the roof.”
“Her
what?”
“She and Miss Arbuckle escaped through a hole in the roof, I gather. Knowing Daisy, she probably made the hole.”
“But how did they get down from the roof?” Pearson queried, sounding stunned.
“I don't know,” Alec said regretfully. “If there's a ladder, we might use it to climb up and abstract Miss Arbuckle before we tackle her captors.” He raised his voice to be heard above the tattoo of raindrops dancing on the hood. “Do you know the cottage, Truscott?”
“No, sir, that I don't.” The chauffeur shook his head, silhouetted against the headlamps' light reflected off water sheeting from the sky. “If you don't mind me asking, sir, what's this about Miss Daisy escaping? From what Mr. Phillip said, I thought we was going to rescue her. I'd do a lot for Miss Daisy, but if she's safe I've the missus and the nippers to think on.”
Letting Pearson explain the situation, Alec tried to devise a plan. Again and again he wished he had asked Daisy more questions. He had been so thankful to see her safe and sound, however filthy, that he hadn't been able to think of anything else.
“So it's Mr. Phillip's young lady's to be rescued?” said Truscott. He gave a philosophical sigh. “Ah well, I'll do my bit. The missus wouldn't hear of aught else. What was you wishing me to do, sir?”
“We'll all follow Mr. Petrie through the wood to the cottage, with only his torch lit if at all possible. If he directs it at the ground, it shouldn't be visible very far off. Then we'll surround the cottage. I'm assuming it's pretty small, so we shan't be too
far apart. If anyone finds a ladder, we'll try to get the girl out first.”
“I take it, sir,” said Pearson, “your aim is to bag the kidnappers as well as rescue Miss Arbuckle?”
“Ideally,” Alec agreed, unsure whether the “sir” was addressed to him as a superior officer for the nonce or because of his age. It made him feel ancient, though Pearson could not be more than five or six years younger. “We'll do our best to take them in,” he continued, “but the girl's safety must be paramount. Otherwise I'd wait and try to catch the ringleader, as well as his minions.”
“Of course.”
“It means we absolutely must take them by surprise, so that they don't get a chance to use Miss Arbuckle as a shield. They'll have a man on look-out, especially after Daisy's escape. No lights as we get near the cottage. We'll have to work by touch.”
“This rain will cover a certain amount of noise.”
“Yes, we're lucky there.”
“Are you going to invoke the name of the law, sir?”
“I hadn't thought. Given that I'm here strictly in an unofficial capacity, what would you advise?”
“Hmm. In view of the threats against Miss Arbuckle, and the possibility, however remote, that they might get away with her, I'd say not.”
“You're a copper, sir?” Truscott asked. “A policeman, I mean?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher,” Pearson introduced him, “of Scotland Yard. But keep it under your hat. What next, Mr. Fletcher? Say we have the place surrounded but haven't got the girl out. Shall we try to break in or try to draw them out with some sort of sound?”
“The downstairs doors and windows may be barred or reinforced. If we haven't got the girl, we'll try to draw them out. What shall we do? We can hardly just knock on the door.”
“Daisy could, pretending she was lost and cold and preferred shelter at any cost.”
Alec shuddered. “Thank heaven you didn't come up with that little notion back at the house! She'd have done it.”
“One of us could fake it. I've done some amateur theatricals in my time.”
“Let's hear you.”
“Let me in,” Pearson begged in a high voice. “I'm freezing!”
“Lor, sir, that's Miss Daisy to the life!”
To the discriminating ear of a lover it didn't sound in the least like Daisy, but Alec supposed it would do for a bunch of Cockney criminals. “Throw in a bit of a stutter,” he suggested. “Teeth chattering.”
“P-please let me in. I'm f-f-freezing.”
“Not bad. You can perform if we decide to go that way. Any other ideas?”
They discussed other possibilities but came back in the end to the pseudo-Daisy. The men must be eager to recapture her so her voice would bring at least one to the door.
“I'll give you a choice of back-up,” said Alec. “Petrie, who's the keenest, or Bincombe, who's the best with his fists, I'd guess.”
“Petrie. Deprive him of the chance to get to his girl and he might go off half-cocked and take it anyway.”
“All right. For the rest of us, I'll have to talk to him first about whether there's a back door, and the positions of windows. We shan't be able to see so I hope he remembers.”
“Looks like the rain's lightening up a bit, sir,” Truscott reported. “Nearly there.”
Before Alec had time to consider the effect on their plan of the end of the downpour, the Austin pulled in behind the Lagonda. Truscott doused the lights. Alec had caught a glimpse of tree-trunks, unobscured by curtains of water. The rain had
decreased to the point of no longer penetrating the foliage above.
He stepped out of the car. A chilly douche promptly hit his hatless head and trickled down his neck. He swore silently.
An electric torch snapped on. By its light, the six men gathered in a huddle, and Alec questioned Petrie about the cottage and its immediate environs.
“There's a back door. We once watched the witch coming out of it to feed her chickens. No windows in the end walls downstairs, only upstairs, I'm pretty sure. Well, almost sure. I haven't been near the place since I was a boy, remember. The other windows are small enough to make it dashed difficult for a man to climb through. I think.”
On that shaky basis, Alec ordered the disposition of his troops.
“All right, Petrie, how do we get there?”
“The beginning of the ride is back here. It's so overgrown I nearly missed it.”
They followed him back along the lane a dozen yards. In the torch's narrow beam, the mass of bushes and small trees seemed to Alec unbroken, impenetrable, but Petrie soon found a path.
He extinguished the torch. “It's light enough to find the way without,” he said, and plunged between two thickets.
Alec realized the clouds had parted and the first faint light of midsummer's early dawn was painting the world in tones of grey and charcoal. A crow's sleepy caw came from the tall trees edging the ride, and nearby a small bird twittered.
“Wait! That's torn it. I was relying on darkness for surprise,” he explained as Petrie returned, “as well as heavy rain to cover any sounds.” He held out his hands palms up. The only falling water was dripping from the surrounding leaves.
“We'll just have to storm the place,” Petrie said impatiently, already turning back to the path.
“That's the most risky for Miss Arbuckle. You go ahead, but
don't rush in. Pearson and I will study the lay-out and see if we can't come up with a better scheme. All right, fellows, let's go.”
Close behind Petrie, Alec stayed ready to grab him if he seemed about to run amok. He found himself dodging scarce seen branches which whipped back into his face, jerking his trouser turn-ups from the determined grasp of brambles, squidging through ankle-deep mud. His admiration for Daisy, who had traversed this jungle in pitch darkness in a thunderstormâand in a skirtâgrew by leaps and bounds.
Petrie stopped so suddenly Alec nearly ran into his back. “I think the cottage is under that sycamore,” he whispered, pointing at a tree towering over the brush choking the ride. “Yes, there's the chimney, see?”
“Good man.” Alec turned his head. “Pearson, come and have a look.”
They squeezed past Petrie and picked their way forward. The only sound they made was the squelch of the mud beneath their feet, hidden by a rising ground mist, but all around the birds were singing now. Greys paled and hazy colours emerged. The air smelled richly of green, growing things.
The path curved around a gorse bush speckled with yellow blossoms. Alec stopped dead as one end of a thatched roof came in sight.
Motioning Pearson to keep still, he inched ahead. A blotchy wall, a broken window ⦠.
He halted, heart in mouth, but nothing stirred.
Another step.
The door stood open, a black hole like a missing tooth in a decaying face. “Too late,” said Alec with a sigh. “They've cut and run.”
Â
Warned by the maid who answered her bell that “her ladyship's in a proper taking,” Daisy toyed with the notion of breakfast in bed.
She dismissed it as cowardly. Geraldine was
her
cousin's wife, and the whole show had been her idea. It was up to her to smooth ruffled feathers.
Besides, she had to find out what had happened last night. Worry had stopped her going back to sleep, though it was still quite early. She had a sinking feeling that if Gloria had been rescued, she would have heard about it by now; but the others might hesitate to disturb her after yesterday's ordeal.
Actually, she felt perfectly well. The stiffness was not much worse than after the first day's bicycling. Some of the scratches smarted a bit, in spite of Lucy's free hand with the boracic. The ones on her face she smothered with a good coating of face-powder before she went down.
In the dining room she found Edgar and Geraldine finishing their breakfasts, and Lucy and Madge in the middle of theirs. The men must still be asleep after the activities of the night.
Lowecroft came in with fresh tea as Lucy shook her head at Daisy, her mouthâalready vividly lip-sticked despite the early hourâturned down. No Gloria.
“Lord Dalrymple has caught a lobster,” Madge said brightly.
A vision of Edgar in oilskins hauling in lobster-pots crossed Daisy's mind even as she asked, “Moth or butterfly?”
“A moth,
Stauropus fagi.
” Edgar beamed at her apparent interest.
“A particularly spectacular one?” Daisy queried, crossing to the sideboard and loading a plate with everything in sight.
“The adult form is not spectacular,” her cousin admitted regretfully. “In fact, it may be mistaken for a bundle of dead leaves. However, I obtained some eggs which I believe it had just laid, and which I hope to hatch. The larva is quite ostentatious. It may be said to resemble a lobster in some respects. Its head, for instance, looks somewhat like a lobster claw.”
The diversionary tactic worked only until the butler left the room. Then Geraldine ruthlessly interrupted.
“Yes, dear, I am sure the caterpillar will be a fascinating sight. Daisy, what is this my maid has been telling me? While delighted to welcome your friends, we cannot approve of the sort of high jinks, to use a vulgar phrase, you young people indulged in last night.”
“No, indeed,” Edgar seconded her with a stern frown, changing instantly from the dotty lepidopterist to the censorious schoolmaster. “Such frolics may suit modern notions, but we choose to preserve the old-fashioned proprieties at Fairacres.”