Which raised another question: Should he notify the police while he waited to get hold of Arbuckle? And if so, who?
He didn't have much faith in the local bobby's ability to do much more than move on a tramp or catch boys scrumping cherries. Call in the county force and his father would have the news within the hour, whereas if Arbuckle notified them, Phillip might manage to keep his own name out of things.
The best man for the job would be Daisy's friend, Detective Chief Inspector Alec Fletcher of Scotland Yard. Not that Phillip approved of the friendship. Daisy had a genius for picking the wrong sort. Just look at that conchie she'd been engaged to! Agreed, the Friends' Ambulances' work was not to be sneezed at, and the fellow had the grace to get himself blown up by a mine, just like any soldier, but it was the principle of the thing.
And now Daisy had taken up with a middle-class copper, a widower with a child at that. Still, he was no conscientious objectorâhe'd been an officer in the Royal Flying Corpsâand there was no denying the man knew his stuff. Clever was the
word; he'd even gone to one of those new provincial universities where they only took swots. He wasn't a bad chap, either, when he wasn't fixing one with an eye like an eagle's, sharp as a bayonet, enough to convince a fellow of his own guilt.
But Phillip had a feeling there were all sorts of obstacles to bringing in Scotland Yard. Was it worth a try?
“Hullo, caller, I'm connecting you now.”
The hotel receptionist was not at all keen to fetch Mr. Arbuckle to the telephone. “It's only just after eight,” she said crisply. “We don't disturb our guests so early unless they request a call the night before.”
Phillip glanced at the brass clock on the mantlepiece. Five past eight it was. He was dashed lucky Dalrymple was an early riser or he might still be lying under that hedge.
But nothing was more certain than that, if Arbuckle had slept at all with his daughter in peril, he would want to be roused for news of her. That was assuming he was actually there. Phillip had assured Gloria her father must be safe. It had seemed logical at the time, but kidnappers might not be logical.
There was only one way to find out. “I promise you,” Phillip asserted, “Mr. Arbuckle won't kick up a dust if you wake him, but he'll very likely have you shot out on your ear if you don't.”
“I'll take a message and give it to him when he comes down.”
“No soap. Just tell him my name and he'll come running.”
The woman put up a fight but eventually was persuaded to send a page-boy for the American.
“Petrie?” The tense, slightly breathless voice came over the wire so soon, either Arbuckle had run downstairs in his dressing-gown or he had been already dressed. “Is she okay? Where in all tarnation are you?” He sounded worried, but not as frantic as Phillip had expected.
“She
was
all right when I last saw her. At least, not hurt. Sir, I'd have given anything to ⦔
“Not on the telephone. There's no knowing who's got an ear to the wire. She's not with you?”
“No.” Phillip swallowed the lump in his throat. “I don't know where she is.”
“Then just tell me where
you
are.”
“At Fairacres. Lord Dalrymple's place. I expect his chauffeur would run me into Great Malvern.”
“This here lord, what have you told him?”
“Nothing. He didn't ask any questions, though, believe me, a few would have been justified.”
“Can he be trusted?”
“Of course!” The idea of the kindly but stuffy ex-schoolmaster getting mixed up in any shady business, let alone kidnapping, boggled Phillip's imagination.
“You know the guy? He won't spill the beans?” Arbuckle persisted.
“Oh, that!” Discretion must go with schoolmastering, he thought vaguely. Not upsetting the parents and all that. And he hadn't mentioned Phillip's bonds to his wife. “No, I should think he's pretty good at keeping mum.”
“Then I'll come to you. How do I get to this place?”
Phillip gave directions. “I'll tell them to expect you.”
“Don't tell 'em why,” Arbuckle said sharply. “Okay, I'll be right over.”
A click as the line disconnected left Phillip with his mouth open, about to ask what he should say. He had to give his hostâand still more his hostessâsome explanation for the imminent arrival of an American businessman at an ungodly hour of the morning. Hanging up, he cudgelled his brains for some story to satisfy the Dalrymples without saying more than Arbuckle would like.
Come to think of it, all this secrecy twaddle was dashed queer. Shouldn't they be rousing the countryside to hunt for
Gloria? Yet he himself had instinctively held his tongue when he could already have had search parties sent out.
His head was too muzzy still to work out his own reasons. Heaving himself to his feet, he returned to the front hall, where a youthful footman awaited him.
“Lor,” gasped the stripling, all agog at the sight of the battered gentleman. “Your motor must be smashed all to bits.” Recollecting himself, he straightened into rigidity. “If you'll please to come this way, sir, your bath'll be ready by now.”
“Look here,” Phillip said, following him up the stairs, “an American gentleman by the name of Arbuckle is going to be popping in to see me in about half an hour. We don't want to disturb anyone, so just park him somewhere out of the way and drop me the word, will you?”
The footman glanced back, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “You can count on me, sir,” he whispered. “I'll tip you the wink.”
What the deuce did he think was going on? Phillip wondered.
Wallowing in the bath was bliss but, regretfully, he made it a quick wallow. He didn't want Arbuckle to arrive and be left fuming and fretting. When he got out, he hurried, wrapped in a borrowed dressing-gown of startling buttercup hue, to the assigned bedroom. Clean clothes awaited him there, laid out on the bed and emitting a pungent odour of mothballs.
The grey flannel bags and white shirt could have belonged to anyone, but he recognized the lightweight blue and grey herring-bone tweed jacket. It was Gervaise's, no doubt resurrected from a trunk in boxroom or attic. Phillip's soul revolted against donning his dead friend's clothes.
He forced himself to be practical. He was no good to Gloria lounging about in a bright yellow dressing-gown. His nose revolting against the stink of naphtha, he dressed.
Adjusting the navy, grey-striped tie in the looking glass, he
regarded his reflection and winced. The clothes hung loose, exposing wrists and a good deal of sock. Gervaise, though taller than the present Lord Dalrymple, had been somewhat shorter and broader than Phillip. Phillip liked to consider himself a natty dresser, except when delving into motor-engines, of course. At present he looked, and smelt, like an overgrown orphan clothed by the Salvation Army.
A shock of damp blond hair usually confined by pomade didn't improve the picture. Nor did the trickle of blood seeping from his head wound. The hot water of the bath must have started it up again. Luckily someone had thought to provide a large white handkerchief. Clamping it to his head with one hand, the other holding a hairbrush, Phillip endeavoured to subdue his rebellious locks.
The young footman, Ernest, brought his cleaned shoes. “Brilliantine, that's what you wants,” he observed sagely.
“Can you get me some?”
“Yes, sir, but her ladyship's waiting to bandage you up. Looks like you need that worser nor hair stuff,” he added, kneeling to tie the shoelaces so that Phillip didn't have to let go the redstained handkerchief. “She's in her sitting room, an' not to worry, the Yankee gent didn't turn up yet.”
Phillip wasn't sure whether he was glad or sorry that Arbuckle hadn't yet arrived. On the one hand, he was impatient to set about rescuing Gloria. On the other, he was beginning to think he must be an absolute duffer not to have rescued her while he was actually with her. A cleverer chap would surely have found a way. How was he to explain his failure to her father?
L
ady Dalrymple liberally bedaubed Phillip's wounds with boracic ointment, as she had very likely done in her time for hundreds of scrubby schoolboys. Though she accepted with reluctance his refusal to have sticking plaster on any but the worst cuts on his hands, she insisted on bandaging his head. By the time she finished, not much hair was visible to be pomaded.
“Oh dear,” she said, looking him up and down, “I'm afraid you will have to miss Church.”
“I'm afraid so,” Phillip said without regret. “I say, a fellow, an American chappie, is going to drop by here this morning to have a word with me. It's fearful cheek, I know. I hope you don't mind awfully.”
Obviously a bit put out, she muttered something about “rackety young people nowadays.”
Aloud, however, she said with conscious graciousness, “Not at all. You must consider Fairacres your home from home until you feel well enough to return to the Grange.”
“Thanks awfully,” said Phillip, deciding instantly that he was feeling pretty rocky. He wasn't going home to face his parents' interrogation.
“This American was responsible for your accident, I take it?
Disgraceful! Foreigners should not be allowed to drive in this country. I understand many of them are accustomed to motoring on the wrong side of the road.”
Phillip murmured a vague agreement.
“I hope he means to make proper amends.” She stood up. “Have you breakfasted, Mr. Petrie?”
“As a matter of fact, I'm most frightfully hungry.” Weak with hunger, he thought, as he rose with a huge effort to his feet.
Once again she eyed him askance, from bandaged crown to exposed ankles, sniffed with wrinkled nose, and blenched. “Fortunately our only guests this weekend are my brother and his family. But perhaps you are too shaken up to come down?”
“I do feel a bit grim.” This time Phillip's agreement was wholehearted. He was only too delighted to cater to her sense of decorum by breakfasting in his room. “Could you possibly have Mr. Arbuckle shown up when he arrives?” he requested.
“Certainly. Perhaps seeing your condition will persuade him he ought not to drive in England. And I shall send up your breakfast immediately.”
Phillip thanked her and returned to the bedroom. The bed looked immensely inviting. Turning his back on temptation, he sank into an easy chair by the window.
The glorious morning sun, shining on the formal gardens below and the park with its oaks and chestnuts, only reminded him of the tiny gloomy room where his beloved was imprisoned. How terrified she must be, all alone. He wished he were still there to comfort her, and, given enough time, to work out how to escape.
He had botched it, he thought wretchedly, and the worst of it was, Gloria was the one to suffer for his bungling.
Before he could worry himself into a decline, Ernest brought up his breakfast. “Cook says she hopes as how you still likes your eggs done four minutes,” he announced, setting his tray on a small folding table, “and coffee to drink.”
“Tell her, yes.” The eggs in their eggcups nestled under knitted cosies beside a full toast-rack, butter and marmalade dishes, and a small plate. Phillip peeked under the silver cover over the large plate. “Bacon, sausages, kidneys, absolutely ripping! Mr. Arbuckle's still not here?” He slathered butter on a piece of toast.
“No, sir. I won't have to tip you the wink on the quiet, like,” the footman added regretfully. “Her ladyship said to bring the gentleman straight up here when he arrives.”
“Yes, do, please,” said Phillip, topping the first egg. “Perfect! My compliments to Cook. When Mr. Arbuckle gets here, you might ask him if he's eaten this morning.”
“Righty-oh. I mean, very good, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”
Phillip mumbled his thanks through a mouthful of egg. The very taste of it made him feel better.
Surely the kidnappers would feed Gloria? It was in no way to their advantage to let her go hungry. The thought took the edge off his appetite; nonetheless, when Ernest ushered in Arbuckle a few minutes later, both eggs, most of the toast, and half the plateful had vanished.
Pushing back his chair, Phillip jumped up. If he had thought the American sounded too little concerned, the sight of him was enough to confound that impression. The man's long face was pale and hollow-cheeked, with dark pouches under his bloodshot eyes. He looked as if he hadn't slept a wink, and had aged ten years overnight.
Phillip's bandaged head gave him a shock. “Jeez, they sure ⦠.” He stopped, glancing at the footman who was fetching a second chair. He held up the jacket folded over his arm. “Here's your coat.”
“Thanks.” Phillip slung it over the back of his chair and held out his hand.
Arbuckle shook hands without appearing to notice the sticking
plasters. In a low voice he asked, “You haven't told anyone?”
“Not a soul. Come and sit down, sir. You don't mind if I finish my breakfast?” he went on, as Arbuckle slumped onto the chair the footman moved to the table. “Will you join me?”
“Coffee, thanks. I'm not hungry, son.”
Behind him, Ernest shook his head slightly: the American gent had not breakfasted.
“You must eat, sir, to keep up your strength.” Phillip nodded to the young footman, who winked and slipped out.
The moment the latch clicked behind him, Arbuckle leant forward, saying eagerly, “Okay give me the low-down. You said she's all right? She's not hurt?”
“Only her hands.” Phillip displayed his own. “She's a real sport. You see, her hands were tied in front and mine behind me. I couldn't do much of anything but Miss Arbuckle found some broken glass and had a go at the cords around mine. It was getting dark, and we both got a bit sliced up.”
“Getting dark? This was last night?” He frowned as Phillip nodded. “She freed your hands and you escaped?”
“By Jove, no!” cried Phillip, outraged. “You can't imagine I'm the sort of blighter who'd toddle off and leave her there!”
“Pardon me.” Arbuckle leant his elbows on the table and sank his head in his hands. “I'm half out of my mind with worry. How about you start at the beginning and just tell me what happened?”
“Right-ho. They knocked me outâyou saw that?”
“Yep,” the American said wearily. “That is, I saw you attacked with a crowbar. I figure they only had enough chloroform prepared for me and Gloria. I ought to ask, how's your head?”
Gingerly, Phillip pressed the tender spot. “Sore, but it seems to have stopped aching. I woke up with a heck of a headache. We were shut up in ⦠.” He stopped as Ernest entered with another trayful.
“Fresh coffee, sir,” the footman said cheerfully, unloading,
“and another cup an' saucer. More toast. An' I took the liberty of bringing a spot of breakfast for the gentleman.” He set down a plate in front of Arbuckle and whisked away the cover.
“Good man!” Phillip approved.
“Thanks,” said Arbuckle with more politeness than enthusiasm. He grimaced but picked up knife and fork. “Okay, I guess you're right, I better eat.”
Ernest reluctantly departed, looking about to burst with curiosity. Phillip took up his story.
“We woke up in a small room with the door and window barred. With my hands tied there wasn't a damn thing I could do. Actually, I don't know that I could have done much anyway, but if Miss Arbuckle had managed to free my hands, I'd have had more of a chance when they came for me.”
“Came for you?”
“Four of 'em. I got past the first two,” Phillip said with pardonable pride. “You see, I overheard them talking. They'd been told to ⦠er ⦠rub me out. I can't understand it.” He shook his head, puzzled anew at his continued existence.
“That you're still alive? Don't question it, son, just thank the good Lord.” Having cut up his bacon, Arbuckle put down his knife and shifted his fork to his right hand. “But who told them to bump you off? They didn't mention a name?”
“Not exactly. They all sounded English, and they just called him âthe Yank.'”
Arbuckle groaned. “I knew it. This business never smelled to me like a homegrown Limey plot. Much more the kinda thing they do back home.”
“You have enemies in America?”
“Enemies! Who needs enemies? All it takes is a few bucks in your pocket and half the world feels entitled to a share.”
“They referred to you as âMr. Moneybags.' It was because
the Yank didn't think my father could come up with much cash on short notice that he told them to get rid of me. And that's why I went for them when they came for me.”
“Nothing to lose.” Arbuckle nodded. “Still, you've got guts, one against four and your hands tied.”
“Well, by my reckoning I wouldn't be any use to GloriaâMiss Arbuckleâdead, so I might as well give it a try. But it was nearly dark and I didn't see the second pair of men till too late. They bagged me with chloroform. I couldn't believe it when I woke up this morning under a hedge. And what luck to find myself here at Fairacres!”
“So this Lord Dalrymple took you in?”
“I must say it was jolly decent of him. I was a frightful mess.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Not well. He's my father's neighbour, of course, but he's only a distant cousin of the people who used to live here when I was growing up.” Phillip started to attempt to tackle the intricacies of entails, primogeniture, and inheritance through the male line.
Arbuckle was not interested. “Never mind all that baloney. You told me on the 'phone he wouldn't spill the beans, but if you don't know him that well ⦠. I hoped I could maybe ask his advice as well as yours.”
“My
advice?” Phillip was staggered. No one ever asked his advice.
“Sure thing. I'm a stranger in England. I've learnt a bit about the way business works over here, but I don't pretend to unnerstand the rest. And with my girl in trouble, I don't pretend to be able to think straight.”
“I don't expect I can, either. I ⦠I'm dashed keen on Miss Arbuckle, you know. The police are the people to advise you.”
“No!” Arbuckle dropped his fork, his shoulders sagging. “If I contact the police, they'll kill Gloria.”
Phillip opened his mouth, and closed it again. The silence lengthened.
“K-kill her?” he stammered at last. “What makes you think so?”
“When I came round from the chloroform, there was a note saying so beside me in the auto.”
“They left you in the car?” He clung to irrelevant details to avoid the enormity of the threat to the girl he loved. “There in the lane?”
“No, not there, or Crawford would have found me pretty quick. I guess they fixed the radiator with your bit of hose. They drove it back to the hotel and parked it with the top up in an out-of-the-way corner, under that big old tree out front.”
“The cedar? Yes, no one would go near it there. But Crawford must have returned to Great Malvern when he found the Studebaker gone?”
“That poor guy! I feel real badly about him. He walked miles to a garage, and when he got there he found he'd left his notecase behind.”
“They pinched mine,” Phillip said, still aggrieved.
Arbuckle stuck his hand into his pocket. “Here, you'd better take this.” He brought out a fistful of notes.
“I wasn't angling for money!”
“No, no, but you'll need a few bucksâquidsâand you don't want to have to ask your folks. You can pay me back later. Now, where was I?”
“Crawford left his wallet behind.”
“That's so, and I guess it took him a while to talk the garage man into driving him back to the Studebaker.”
“And it wasn't there when they got there.”
“Crawford thought he must have mistaken the spot. All these lanes of yours look pretty much alike.”
“It's quite easy for a stranger to get lost,” Phillip agreed, refilling their coffee cups.
“They motored around awhile, till the mechanic figured he'd been had for a sucker. To cut a long story short, Crawford ended up hoofing it darn near all the way back to Great Malvern, except for a short ride on a hay-wagon. He was beat and he was kinda mad, though in general he's a real cool customer.”
“He must have thought you had abandoned him, having somehow replaced the hose.”
“You'd think a guy oughta know after ten years that's not how I treat my employees,” said Arbuckle, rather querulous. “Waal, he spotted the Studebaker there under the tree, but what with one thing and another he just went on up to his room to nurse his blisters and his grievances.”