“Faugh! Hours, you said? I shan't survive five minutes.”
Phillip ignored her moaning. “There are Tommy and Madge,” he said as every head in the room turned towards them. There were few customers at this time, shortly before the lunch hour. He led the way, squeezing between the closepacked, oil-clothed tables, each with its bottle of HP Sauce, to where the Pearsons sat by the window.
“Thank heaven you've come,” said Tommy, standing up. “Madge is feeling sick.”
“Poor darling, I'm not in the least surprised,” Lucy commiserated. “You could cut the atmosphere in here with a knife.”
“How can you make such a fuss,” Phillip burst out angrily, “when Gloria's in danger?”
“Here, I say, old boy,” Tommy protested. “Steady! We're all doing everything we can to help.”
“Sorry.” Staring down miserably at the grubby tablecloth, Phillip wished he had never fallen in love. His calm, ordered world, its extremes of emotion the boredom of the office and the pleasure of working on the Swift, had vanished. The joy of
knowing Gloria and the hope of winning her had turned into this awful emptiness of dread.
He didn't think he could cope with it much longer.
Madge took his hand in both hers. “It's all right, Phillip,” she said gently. “You must feel as I did when Tommy first went to France; you haven't had time to grow numb. Just remember we're with you through thick and thin. You mustn't mind what Lucy says. It's just her way.”
“That's right, darling,” Lucy drawled. “Tommy, you'd better get Madge out into the fresh air quickly. She's turning green. You might move the Alvis round the corner for us, if you don't mind. It's rather conspicuous and I'd prefer not to be left alone in this frightful place.”
The Pearsons hurried out. Lucy sat down beside the window and, with her handkerchief, retouched the clear circle Madge had wiped in the condensation. Taking the opposite seat, Phillip did likewise.
“The A.C.'s still there,” he said with relief.
“That red car inside the fence? Lucky it's that colour. I'll be able to spot it quite easily when we get going.”
“Yes. Look here, Lucy, I'm sorry I blew up.”
“Not another word on the subject. Are you going to buy me tea? Blast, I forgot to ask Madge if it was any more drinkable than the coffee.”
To a request for a pot of China tea, the slatternly waitress responded that all they had was TyPhoo in the urn, milk and sugar already added. Lucy shuddered. They finally settled on a bottle of ginger-beer apiece.
Before long, mechanics from the works opposite streamed in for their midday meal. Phillip and Lucy garnered many a curious glance, but no one disturbed them. After the first rush, though, the waitress was not too busy to demand that they order something to eat if they insisted on taking up a table.
Lucy decided tinned tomato soup was the safest item on the menu. Phillip ventured upon sausage and mash, which he ate without tasting, his eyes glued to the clear spot on the glass.
The maroon motor-car continued to sit unmoving across the road. The workmen left, streaming back through the gate in the wire fence, past the A.C. Six, into the buildings. Lucy opened the copy of
The Queen
magazine she had brought with her and flipped idly through it. Time passed.
“Suppose he's gone out a back way,” Phillip said, beginning to despair. “Suppose he's taken a Morris for a spin and he stops off to see his men.”
“Someone from the factory would go with him,” Lucy told him firmly, “to make sure everything runs smoothly. Anyway, there's nothing we can do about it.”
The waitress reappeared. “Was you wanting anythin' else? 'Cause I got to sweep the floor afore the next lot comes in,” she said in a disgruntled voice. Phillip saw she had already up-ended the chairs on most of the other tables. “You been here going on four hours.”
“No wonder I'm stiff.” Lucy stretched. “I'll have another ginger-beer and some plain biscuits, please, Rich Tea or Marie.”
“Same for me,” said Phillip, massaging the crick in his neck as he turned back to his peephole.
“Let's switch seats so you can bend your head the other way,” Lucy suggested.
“Good idea.” As Phillip sat down on her chair, he wiped the window. Applying his eye, he saw two men standing beside the A.C. Six.
He jumped up. “Come on! He's leaving at last.”
“At last!” Lucy closed the magazine and stood up.
“Hoy!” exclaimed the waitress. “You going? What about this stuff you ordered?”
“Never mind that,” Phillip cried.
“We'll take it,” Lucy contradicted him. “Who knows when we'll get another chance to eat?” She stuffed the biscuits into her handbag.
Phillip tossed a florin on the table, grabbed the bottles and his umbrella, and ran through the forest of chair-legs to the door. He opened it and held it for Lucy, gentlemanly instinct prevailing, but he beat her to the Alvis although she quickly abandoned her attempt to preserve her shoes from puddles. By the time she wrenched open the door and jumped in, he had the engine started, the hand-brake off, and first gear engaged.
She slammed the door. “Creep forward till we can see around the corner,” she advised.
Instinct now shrieking at him to move fast, he had to acknowledge the common sense of her suggestion. Slowly letting out the clutch, he inched forward.
“Stop!” said Lucy. “Damn, if you go any farther the bonnet will stick out and I still can't see the gate. Can you?”
He craned his neck. “Not quite.”
She groaned. “All right, I'll get out and stand on the corner. Where's the umbrella?”
“Here. Leave the door open.”
Lucy had barely peeked around the building when she ducked back. “He's coming this way,” she said breathlessly, closing the umbrella and hopping in.
“Back into Oxford. Dash it, I hope he's not going to stop in the town.”
“Gosh, yes. We could easily lose him there.”
But Crawford drove steadily through the town centre, turning north at Carfax, then branching left on the Woodstock Road.
“At least he's not heading for the Midlands,” Phillip observed with relief. “This is the way home via Chipping Norton and Evesham. Oh Lord, do you think he's just going to drive straight back to Malvern?”
“I haven't the foggiest. We'll see, if you don't get too close so you have to overtake or look suspicious.”
Phillip eased up on the accelerator.
Through the village of Woodstock, past the gates of Blenheim Palace; up the long slope into the Cotswolds: then Chipping Norton, Moreton-in-Marsh, Bourton-on-the-HillâPhillip's spirits sank lower with every mile they followed the maroon motor-car.
“He's not going to stop.”
“We're only half-way. Phillip!” Lucy clutched his arm. “He's turning off! No, don't slow down, drive on past. He might glance back.”
Reluctantly, Phillip obeyed. Crawford had turned into a narrow, unpaved lane, its entrance half obscured by hedges and overhanging trees on either side. The A.C. Six was already out of sight. Phillip stepped on the brake and put the Alvis into reverse. Lucy closed her eyes, crossing her fingers as he backed along the main road.
A Napier swerved around the Alvis; its chauffeur shook his fist.
Just past the lane, Phillip stopped again and engaged forward gear. They plunged into the green tunnel beneath the trees.
T
he Alvis squelched, sloshed, and jolted along muddy ruts with grass growing in between. Phillip hoped the suspension was up to it. He wouldn't have chosen to drive his Swift this way.
He remembered sadly that he might never see the Swift again.
They emerged from the tree-tunnel and started uphill. The drainage was better though the potholes were just as bad. The hedges gave way to high banks topped with drystone walls. An occasional gateway showed steep hillsides of short-cropped pasture, where fleeing sheep added to Phillip's impression of the rarity of motor-vehicles.
“No side turnings,” Lucy observed.
“Thank heaven.”
“And I think the rain's stopping.”
The bank on their right ended. Now they could see the sheep-dotted slope rising beyond the low wall. The few trees were scattered, twisted thorns or clumps of oaks in the hollows of the hills.
“There, I saw his hood,” Lucy exclaimed in triumph. “He's not far ahead, just around a bend or two. Slow down.”
Phillip caught a glimpse of something moving less than a
quarter of a mile ahead, before a particularly vicious pothole made him clutch the steering wheel. He returned his attention to his driving. If they had a puncture or broke a spring, they would lose Crawford for good.
A moment later Lucy leaned forward and peered round Phillip. “There's what looks like a farm track up to the right,” she said. “A pale streak winding back round behind the hill. I don't think it's the lane. Gosh, he's turned up it. Phillip, stop! If I can see him, he can see us. Go back a bit.”
“Are you sure it's not the lane?” Phillip asked in an agony of doubt even as he braked.
“Pretty sure. I can see what I think is the lane curving round to the left between the hills. See, over there. There's a double line of walls. It must be this lane. Go back, he'll see us!”
“No, with no sun shining to reflect off the glass we'll be less likely to catch his eye if we're not moving, and we can watch him, too. Where ⦠? Oh yes.”
The maroon A.C. crept up the track, crossing the slope at an angle. As the car disappeared around the hillside, Phillip started the Alvis forward again.
Around a couple of bends, they came to a gate. As Phillip slowed, Lucy said, “That's it. Look, you can see the tyre-marks in the mud, and there's the beginning of the track. No!” she exclaimed as he turned the wheel. “We can't follow him up there. He'd be bound to see us, or even meet us face to face. It looks to me as if the track circles the summit.”
Something tugged at Phillip's memory. Frowning, he got out of the car and went to lean against the gate, staring up at the crest of the hill. An odd shape, as if a handleless frying pan had been set down upside-down on top, it was vaguely familiar.
He turned back to Lucy. “I have to go and look. Crawford's got to have Gloria hidden up there, somehow. Why else should he go up?”
“There's something fishy up there all right, but you can't
drive up and you can't leave the car here for him to find. You're not planning anything asinine, are you, Phillip? Trying to rescue Gloria single-handed will just mean two people for the rest of us to rescue.”
Flushing at the accuracy of her guess, he returned to the driver's seat. “What shall we do, then?” he asked a bit sulkily.
“Drive on until we find somewhere to hide the car, behind a wall or something. Then you can go off and reconnoitre. At least
you
had the sense to wear walking boots.” She glanced down ruefully at her muddy footwear. “I can't go slogging cross-country in these, though they're already ruined.”
“I'm sure Mr. Arbuckle will pay for a new pair,” Phillip consoled her, driving on.
The lane continued to rise for a few hundred yards, curving to the left between a shoulder of the odd-shaped hill and a lower ridge to their left. Then it abruptly swung right and began to descend. Still nowhere to conceal the Alvis. Phillip was starting to fret when Lucy cried, “Oh, perfect!”
“By Jove, a quarry!”
The flat floor of the abandoned slate-pit was level with the road and thickly overgrown. Phillip pulled over among the trees and bushes.
Lucy took out her vanity-case and powdered her nose.
Between the trees, the ground was stony. Getting out, Phillip saw that the Alvis had left no tracks. He strode back to the lane and turned. The car was invisible.
Returning a few paces, he called to Lucy, “I'm off. Give me a couple of hours, and if I'm not back you'd better go and tell the others.”
“For pity's sake, don't do anything idiotic,” she responded. “Don't let them see you.”
Phillip did not deign to retort. For one thing, he knew Lucy could easily squash him in a contest of words. For another, he
was in far too much of a hurry. Somewhere on that hill his girl was being held against her will.
His long legs took him at a fast lope up the lane until he had a clear view of the hilltop. Then he clambered over the wall and set off across the short grass.
In spite of his resentment, he was mindful of Lucy's parting injunction. The men probably had a look-out, but he was pretty sure there weren't enough of them to watch in all directions and the chances were they kept an eye on the track Crawford had used. As Londoners, they might well discount the likelihood of anyone approaching cross-country. So Phillip, despite his impatience, headed around the hill.
From every angle, the summit had the same peculiar, truncated appearance. Now Phillip knew where he was. That was Brockberrow Hill, once a favourite place to bicycle for a day's outing.
The excrescence on top was the remains of an Iron Age fort, unless it was Stone Age or Bronze Age or something. The Picts, or Early Britons, or whatever, had chosen a good viewpoint for their fortifications. From the top of the circular mound one could see forever. Inside, one was sheltered from the wind. There was even a ruined shepherd's hut for refuge from showers.
That, of course, was where they had Gloria. How Crawford had ever found the place was a mystery, but Phillip would bet his bottom dollar on it.
He cast his mind back to the old days. The bicyclersâhe and Gervaise and various friends and siblingsâhad always left their cycles at Brock Farm, on the far side of the hill from the track. Buying picnic supplies from the farmer's wife, they used to walk up a footpath to the top.
It had not been much of a footpath, more of a sheep trail. The kidnappers could easily overlook it, or discount its signif
icance, especially as trees hid the farm buildings from the top.
Quite a few stunted hawthorns grew on the upper slopes on that side, Phillip recalled. There were criss-crossing drystone walls, too, dividing pastures and sheep-pens, all good cover for a clandestine approach. And, come to think of it, a clump of thorn treesâmore bushes, reallyâhad taken root on the shallower inner side of the fortification mound. If they had survived the years, he could wriggle in amongst them to watch and listen in perfect safety.
Perfect safety, he assured himself, dismissing the faint echo in his mind of Lucy's warning.
Climbing a wall, he saw down to his left the tall beeches around Brock Farm. Ahead was the slopeâsheepless at presentâscattered with hawthorns, just as he had pictured it. From the shelter of the nearest he scanned the hilltop, wishing he had brought binoculars.
No head protruded above the level brow of the mound; no sign of movement; no sound but the cawing of rooks in the valley behind him, the trill of a lark above, and an occasional far-off
baa.
All the same, Phillip avoided the path itself when he found it, and took full advantage of the cover of trees and walls as he made his way up the gentle slope.
Before tackling the last, bare stretch up to the track encircling the base of the ancient fortification, he paused for another survey. Nothing had changed.
He set off again at a jog-trot.
Pity it had stopped raining. Not only did rain obscure the vision, the discomfort distracted sentries' attention from their businessâone of the lessons learnt in Flanders which Phillip had never expected to think of again. He wouldn't be surprised if it was raining again before nightfall, though. Here on the exposed upper slopes, a gusty wind was blowing, warm and damp, from the south-west.
Dashing across the track, he tried to remember the lay-out
inside the fort. The one-time gateway, now just a narrow gap, was round to his left, he thought, a quarter circle from the head of the track, perhaps for some obscure, prehistoric defensive purpose. The thorn bushes, fortunately, were slightly to his right. He hoped.
He scrambled diagonally up the steep bank. Lying prone on the damp grass, his elbow in a patch of scarlet and yellow ladies' slipper, he took off his hat and raised his bare head inch by inch.
No outcry greeted the appearance of his hair on the horizon. He moved up a little farther and found he had perfectly judged his position. The hawthorn thicket hid him from those below. They hid the men from him, too, but he heard their voices.
Listening, he slithered over the top and under the spiky branches.
“ ⦠don't fink we're gonna let yer pick up the bunce on yer own and scarper back to the States wiv it, do yer? Not bloody likely!”
“Come off it, would I vamoose and leave you guys holding the baby?” Crawford's voice was not so much oily as slimy, Phillip decided with loathing. His chuckle was still more repulsive. “Still and all, by golly, she's a baby worth holding, which is one reason I won't skedaddle with the dough. I'll be back to ⦔
Phillip missed his next words. Seeing red, he forgot his good resolutions and rose to his knees, prepared to rush down and strangle the bounder whatever the consequences.
A thorn raking down his cheek brought him to his senses. Joining Gloria would not help her. With a silent groan he moved a little further down the slope to where he could see the men and glare his hatred at their oblivious heads.
Crawford and three others stood in a group to the left of the one-room, tumbledown stone shepherd's hut, between it and the gateway.
“Blimey, guv, we don't none of us hold wiv none of that!” one of the men was protesting. Phillip recognized his anxious tone. “You swore ⦔
Crawford cut him off with an unconvincing laugh. “That's so. I guess I must have gotten a bit carried away Oh, well, that's all right. Now, how can I convince you I don't plan to make a get-away without you?”
“Two of us goes wiv yer, or yer can 'and over yer passport, mate, that's what,” the biggest man said menacingly.
In the momentary silence Phillip noticed, beyond them, an Army tent pitched against the bank. At least Gloria did not have to suffer their company all the time, he thought with gladness.
Of course, though it seemed an age since Daisy staggered into the drawing-room at Fairacres, Gloria had only been here since the middle of last night. Phillip vowed that she should never spend an entire night in the hut. He must get back to Lucy and organize the rescue party.
But he didn't dare leave until Crawford had driven off. Besides, he might hear something useful, might even catch a glimpse of Gloria. He checked his wrist-watch: still time enough before Lucy started worrying.
“My passport?” Crawford said uneasily, his hand moving to cover his breast pocket.
“'Sright, mate. Long as you're stuck in England, we've gotcha by the short'airs.”
“Reckon we oughta 'ave one or two of us watching the pickup, too,” said another. “'Case anyfing goes wrong, they can get back 'ere and warn the others.”
“Rats, nothing's going to go wrong.” Crawford sounded distinctly irritable now. “These plutocrats have nerves of steel when it comes to playing the market, but hit 'em with something like this, and by golly, they crumble faster than a stale cookie. I've jollied Arbuckle along and he's fallen for it, no if,
and, or but about it. You should see him. He's in a dandy funk! The old coot hasn't gone within a mile of a cop.”
The men continued to wrangle over collecting the ransom, then, without a decision, moved on to complaints about their quarters. Crawford told them it was their own fault they had to leave the gamekeeper's cottage. They were lucky he had found them a fall-back, pure curiosity having led him to investigate the significance of the word CAMP on a map.
“It won't be for long, anyhow,” he added. “Tonight's the night.”
“Then 'and over that there passport!”
Tonight! Phillip glanced at his watch again. If he didn't hurry, Lucy would assume he'd been caught and leave without him. He couldn't wait for Crawford to clear out. He'd have to rely on hearing the A.C. Six start up to give him time to take cover.
Voices raised in a row over the passport allowed him to make a hasty withdrawal from the hawthorns without worrying about rustling leaves. Hat in hand, he crawled back over the crest of the mound and slid down the bank. Bounding down the hillside, he headed directly for the quarry.