The Turnarounders and the Arbuckle Rescue (33 page)

‘One more thing,’ said Burrowes, as they reached the threshold.

Ralf held back a sigh. Here we go.

‘What can you tell me about Urk Fitch?’

Well, that was lousy police work, Ralf thought. What was the man playing at? First he wouldn’t believe him about Brindle or the Muntons and now he seemed to have mad old Urk Fitch in his sights as a possible suspect. Find out for yourself, if you’re so smart, Ralf thought angrily and was vague in his answer, telling Burrowes nothing he didn’t already know.

He and Hilda turned to go but his sister paused at the door. Her huge smile at Burrowes didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Pork for Christmas dinner, is it Inspector?’ she asked, nodding at a paper wrapped parcel on the chair next to him. ‘I do love a bit of crackling!’

Ralf took small comfort from the guilty look Burrowes gave them as they left.

The events of Grianstad night might have been enough to throw a pall over Christmas for everyone, but Hilda, with her relentless optimism, refused to let it. After verbally tearing strips off Ralf when they got back in the early hours she forbade him, and the Arbuckles, to even speak of it, determined instead to make the holidays as cheerful as possible.

To everyone’s surprise Michael had started to make a remarkable recovery and
, though in plaster and walking on crutches, he was released from hospital on 23rd December. On his return to King’s Hadow, he was treated like a returning hero. Gifts were brought, special dishes of food prepared and delivered and by that evening a semblance of colour had returned to his cheeks and he was receiving visitors propped up in an armchair by the Arbuckle’s fire.

Ralf woke on Christmas morning to find a frayed old sock hanging from the end of his bed. Nos Darras and the Elk Cub Rat Rah message had featured prominently in his dreams but the gnawing worry they’d created was abruptly replaced by a pang of sadness. He had a sudden recollection of his other life in the future and wondered how he could have taken his yearly visits from Santa for granted? The mood was dispelled when he opened his gifts, though. Inside the stocking were nuts, chocolate, a new pair of thick woollen gloves and, wonder of wonders, an orange! Ralf held it to his nose and breathed in its heady smell. They hadn’t had citrus fruit since October and it had only been at the raffle draw that he realised how much he’d missed it.

‘Thanks for the presents, Hilda,’ he said when he got downstairs and gave her a hug.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, eyes creasing merrily. ‘That stocking was from Father Christmas. Your gifts from me are under the tree.’ She ruffled his hair before putting on her coat and galoshes. ‘Now don’t you go prodding at them while I’m gone!’ she warned. ‘The bird’s in the oven but put the potatoes on at two.’

Ralf was annoyed that Hilda had to work. ‘Of course the Kingston-Hawkes can’t cook for themselves on Christmas Day,’ he muttered, as she was leaving. But he couldn’t stay cross for long. He spent the morning with the Arbuckles and then hurried home to lay the table and put the potatoes in the oven to roast.

When Hilda got back from the Big House she looked worn and even the thought of cooking a second meal must have been exhausting. She tied her apron with her usual brisk good humour but, before she could start work, Ralf grinned and ushered her out of the kitchen. He had everything under control and for once, Hilda could relax with a small glass of port and lemon and listen to the King’s Speech.

Christmas dinner in Kings Hadow, he thought, was so good it ought to become law, even if he had made most of it himself. There was a crisp brown goose (a gift from the Sedleys), roast potatoes, stuffing, little sausages, steaming gravy, melt-in-the-mouth bacon, carrots (which he avoided), parsnips and buttered peas (which he did not). The Christmas pudding, aged for weeks in a dark corner of the pantry, was bursting with fruit, spiked with sixpences and soused with a large shot of Old Bill’s rum. They ate it (eyes watering with pleasure) with cold, thick cream, fresh from Sedley’s Farm. The Arbuckles were all there in newspaper party hats and pulling homemade crackers. For a while Ralf and Leo forgot the blood spattered Village Hall, the Echoes, the Shadow King and their future lives and enjoyed the moment.

They exchanged gifts. Ralf had a second hand but still beautiful compass from the A
rbuckles, a copy of ‘King Solomon’s Mines’ from Hilda and two copies of ‘The Dandy’ from Leo. Ralf laughed when he opened that one as he’d bought Leo a couple of ‘Beanos’.

‘You’re either both lacking in imagination or tuned in to each other’s thoughts,’ said Old Bill. ‘Come on now, Ralf, open your parcel from Niall.’

Ralf looked doubtfully under the small tree. ‘There aren’t any more,’ he said. He hoped that Niall liked the diary they’d sent and that the socks would be useful. He secretly doubted though whether Niall had had the time or opportunity to worry about a present for his kid brother.

‘No, here’s something,’ said Leo plopping a tiny ball of newspaper into Ralf’s lap. Everyone was watching expectantly. Ralf weighed it in his hand.

‘Come on!’ said Tom. ‘We’re dyin’ o’ curiosity here!’

Ralf grinned and unwrapped it as Hilda watched approvingly.

‘Whoa!’ said Leo. ‘That’s a beauty.’

Ralf was too stunned to speak he just held it up for them all to admire.

It was a marble, but not just any marble. It was the most fantastic marble Ralf had ever seen, a deep, midnight blue, suffused with miniscule stars that glinted from its inky depths and winked in the gaslight.  Where on earth had Niall got it?

There was a brief note with it:

Merry Christmas, Ralf.

It’s very special so don’t go losing it to anyone up at the school! I’m serious. It’s one of a kind.

N.

‘I’ll treasure it,’ Ralf whispered. All around him nodded, not letting Niall’s absence tarnish their otherwise perfect day.

When Leo and the Arbuckles finally left, Ralf (who’d been lolling, stuffed and satisfied in Niall’s big chair and staring into the depths of his galaxy) was surprised when Hilda came back in, carrying a brown paper parcel.

‘I found it on the doorstep,’ she said. ‘It’s addressed to you.’

Tentatively Ralf took the package and gave it a little shake. His eye was drawn to a label written in a scrawling, untidy hand. ‘
For you and your friends.
’

Hilda was looking at him expectantly. Puzzled, Ralf began peeling away the paper. Under the first layer, lay five little bundles of pungent smelling leaves tied with string. He passed one to Hilda who sniffed it and examined the different shaped leaves. ‘Fennel, St. John’s Wort and this twig here is Hawthorn,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen one of these in years. What else is there?’

Tentatively, Ralf pulled away the next layer of paper. Inside were five small, furry rabbits’ paws. Ralf’s chair scraped on the floor as he recoiled in disgust and he almost dropped them.

‘Someone seems to be worried about you,’ said Hilda calmly.

Heart still pounding, Ralf couldn’t quite keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘So they sent us dead animal parts to cheer us up?’

Hilda laughed. ‘They’re charms, you mooncalf!’ Ralf looked at her blankly.

‘Rabbits’ feet for good luck. Fennel and Hawthorn to ward off evil and St. John’s Wort to keep ghosts away. It’s as old as the hills. You’ve no idea who they’re from?’

Despite the image of Urk Fitch that was now lurking in his brain, Ralf shook his head.

‘Well, you’ve got a friend, that’s clear,’ said Hilda. Tidying as she talked, she stuffed one of the rabbits’ feet and a bundle of herbs into Ralf’s marble bag with the Galaxy. Then she retied the parcel. ‘You can give these to the others when you see them.’

On Boxing Day morning Ralf did just that. He was explaining the significance of the unusual gifts to Seth and Alfie on the snow covered Green when Leo Shifted up.

‘Something’s up!’ Leo burst out excitedly. ‘Old Bill was talking about a ‘special meeting’ at breakfast, but he clammed up when I walked in. I thought it might be something about the bloodba
th on Grianstad but he said to mind my own until the village gossips let the cat out of the bag.’

‘The Sedley
s were talking about it too,’ said Alfie. ‘It’s unreal!’ He started rummaging in his pockets and patting himself down. It’s that actor bloke, Hart. Ah, here it is!’ Alfie pulled a rumpled sheet of newspaper from his pocket and handed it to Ralf. ‘He only went and got his self kidnapped!’

ABDUCTED!

Fears grow for safety of actor, Charles Hart, after police reveal National Security connection.

In a statement released this morning, Scotland Yard confirm that Charles Hart had recently met with high ranking officials in the United States, after growing speculation...

‘I knew it!’ Leo exclaimed. ‘You don’t suppose –’

‘Come on,’ interrupted Alfie. ‘The meeting’s starting any minute. Shall we go and have a shufty?’

They edged round to the front of the Village Hall to see a group of men in the shelter of the porch, talking in hushed, serious voices, their hats pulled low. Near the open doorway Major Kingston-Hawke was in uniform under a greatcoat and was deep in conversation with Ron and Tom Arbuckle. Ralf took in the oddness of the scene. The Major did not normally socialise with the village men. Yet, here he was, hanging on every word the Arbuckles said. 

‘Buzzing, innit!’ said Alfie ch
eerfully. ‘Look, here come the Feds.’

Sure enough, the familiar black Wolsely was inching down the freshly cleared High Street with a strained looking Burrowes behind the wheel. There was a tense moment as he tried to park and slid on the ice but eventually he managed it and emerged from the vehicle in gumboots and heavy overcoat to shake hands with Gloria’s father.

A signal from the major and the villagers broke their huddles and followed them in to the Hall.

‘Come on round the back. We might be able to hear what’s happening inside,’ said Alfie, trotting ahead of them.

They could see nothing but a blank brick wall and a small high window but their luck was, for once, in – the window was slightly open and, though the voices were faint, they were able to hear the men talking inside.

They were so focused on straining to hear what was going on inside
the Hall that the sudden noise took them by surprise. There was a whooshing thud directly behind them and they all jumped.

‘Has it started?’

It was Valen, hair springing out of her plaits at all angles, looking tense.

‘What did you do that for?’ Alfie gasped. ‘You nearly gave me a blimmin’ heart-attack!’

But Ralf was in no mood for jokes. ‘Did you just Shift?’

‘How else was I supposed to get back here without being seen?’ she snapped. ‘The Hatchers are being right crabby again and I’m grounded. Not that you care!’

‘Val of course, we care –’ Leo began but Alfie cut him off.

‘Oi!’ he whispered. ‘It’s starting.’

A chair scraped on the stone hall floor and they heard Burrowes clearing his throat.

‘Gentlemen. First, I’d like to thank you for coming. As you’ve probably read in the press, we now have reason to believe that Charles Hart was kidnapped.

‘At the end of October, after an extensive intelligence operation, a Nazi operative, codename Fritz –’

‘That was imaginative,’ giggled Valen.

‘– was apprehended in Balham –’

Seth turned to Alfie. ‘They caught a spy in London,’ he explained. ‘Hart must’ve been taken by the Germans!’

‘I get it, okay. I’m not an idiot!’ said Alfie, witheringly. ‘Now Shhh! Some of us are trying to listen!’

‘...information gleaned under questioning pointed us to a farmhouse in the Tunbridge area. Unfortunately, we arrived too late. Evidence at the site confirms that Mr Hart was being held captive there by a person – or persons – unknown. However, by the time we got there the bird, as they say, had flown.’

Ralf heard mutters of ‘Shame!’ from the men in the Hall and craned his neck to get his ear closer to the window.

‘Indeed,’ Burrowes continued. ‘That aside, working on the information Fritz has given us – and he’s been most helpful since the consequences of silence were explained to him – the authorities feel sure Hart is still in the south of England and are continuing their investigations around Chax Forest itself.’

‘Why would they do a damn fool thing like that?’ asked a voice Ralf recognised as Frank Duke’s. Evidently he didn’t think much of Burrowes’ information. ‘Hart’s well away. Probably, locked in a dungeon in Berlin by now.’

Burrowes cleared his throat. ‘That’s one opinion. However, because of the state of National Emergency the borders are, of course, closed and Scotland Yard think it unlikely that the kidnappers were able to spirit Mr Hart out of the country.’

‘If you’ll allow me, Inspector,’ the Major interjected. ‘You all know Hart well and I’m sure you’ll want to do your best to help the investigation along. The Inspector has a strong suspicion that he may be nearby.’