The Two Mrs. Abbotts (18 page)

Wilhelmina came home in good time, but she came empty-handed, and when Markie inquired into the matter she replied in a somewhat shamefaced way that she had not bought the skirt. “Never mind,” said Markie, kindly. “You can buy it next month. You are quite right to send the money to your mother, dear.”

Markie was sleeping badly. The pain in her side, which had abated for a while, had now returned nagging like toothache. She could not sleep and she did not want her meals. The pain was bad enough but the anxiety it occasioned her was a great deal worse and much harder to bear. Nobody knew better than she the devastating effects of a long agonizing illness. She had seen her father die by inches before her eyes—would Jerry have to go through the same Gethsemane with
her?
It must not happen, thought Markie. I cannot let it happen. I must keep going as long as I can stand on my feet. If only I could die, thought Markie. If only I could die now, before it gets worse, before Jerry finds out.

But Markie did not worry all the time, for sometimes the pain lessened and she was buoyed up by the hope that it was leaving her for good, and one afternoon when her spiritual barometer was pointing to “set fair,” she decided to go out for a walk. I must get out more, thought Markie. I am much better—I need fresh air. She looked out of the window and what she saw confirmed her in her intention: it was a lovely afternoon, the sun was shining and a few white clouds were scudding across the bright blue sky.

Markie never went for a walk without dressing for the part. It never occurred to her to throw on a wrap and rush out onto the moor. She changed her shoes, donned her black cloth coat with the gray fur collar and a small black toque with white flowers in it, which had been the height of fashion when George the Fifth came to the throne. She put on a pair of suede gloves with buttons, took her bag and her umbrella, and sallied forth. She had intended to walk up the hill as far as the wood, but it was such a lovely day and she felt so well and happy that she decided to go farther. It would not matter if she were late for tea. She walked on through the wood, past the fallen oak where Archie and Jane had had their long interesting conversation, and came out onto the moor. Here she paused. Should she return or should she go farther still. She could strike across the moor by a footpath and come home by the Gostown road. It would not be too far. No, not a bit. Markie walked on.

How lovely it was! The air was cool and crisp with the first hint of autumn. The trees had been touched with frost—one here and one there—and burned as if with fire. The moors rolled away to the horizon, clothed with brown bracken and patches of sunlit grass. Dozens of rabbits scuttled about the moor, or sat at the doors of their burrows and watched Markie as she passed.

Presently the path ran up a steep rise and Markie puffed and blew as she breasted the slope, for she was out of training. She paused when she reached the top and stood there while she recovered her breath. It was a splendid view, a wide undulating expanse of moorland with here and there a wood or a cottage. To her left, a couple of miles away, lay Ganthorne Lodge and the cluster of Nissen huts where the soldiers lived, to her right lay the grounds and policies of Wisden House, below her was the Gostown road…and there was the bus that ran between Gostown and Wandlebury, bucketing along over the somewhat uneven surface in its usual headlong way. If Markie had been a little quicker she might have stopped the bus and got a lift home…but it did not matter, she was not really tired.

She walked down toward the road; it was only a few hundred yards, but to reach it she must pass through a wood; and the wood was a neglected sort of place, full of dead trees and choked with nettles and brambles and rhododendron bushes that had gone wild and straggly. There was something very unpleasant about the wood and Markie was suddenly a little nervous. It was absolutely ridiculous, of course, but she was—nervous. She had a feeling that she was not alone. Somebody was near.

Markie looked around. There was nobody to be seen…but she still had that odd feeling. “Perfect nonsense,” said Markie firmly and she walked on a few steps, accelerating her pace a little…and then she stopped again. There
was
somebody else in the wood.

Markie could never explain why or how she knew. Whether she had heard something—which seemed unlikely—or whether she had seen something—which seemed unlikely, too. She just knew that she was not alone in the wood; something told her…and the same something, which told her she was not alone, told her to step over a ditch, scramble up a bank, and look through a tangled mass of brambles and rhododendron bushes.

Markie did these things and found herself gazing at a man, dressed in a tweed suit, who was sitting propped up against a fallen tree, fast asleep.

“Most extraordinary!” said Markie under her breath.

She looked at him for some moments and all sorts of ideas sped through her mind. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why was he here? He might be an officer from the camp who had come here for a little peace—but Markie knew all the officers and she had never seen this man before. Could he be somebody from Gostown? Could he be a guest from Wisden House? He might be, of course, but somehow or other Markie felt doubtful, and the more she looked at the man the more doubtful she became. There was something very odd about him.

At first Markie could not decide why the man looked odd. She tried to crystallize her impressions. Was it his clothes? His suit was made of quite ordinary gray tweed, but it did not look comfortable and slightly shabby like most country tweeds. It was a new suit—and yet it was dirty, soiled with mud. That was odd, thought Markie, for what man in his senses would put on a brand-new suit to go for a ramble in the woods? His hair was queer, too. It was cut in a curious way. It was very short and bristly…his head was square.

“Most
extraordinary
!” said Markie again, but this time with quite a different inflexion, for she had reached the somewhat alarming conclusion that the man was not an English citizen; that his origin was Teutonic. Of course he might be a foreigner and yet have a perfect right to be here, for Britain was full of foreigners—it had become the most cosmopolitan spot on the face of the earth—but somehow or other Markie was sure that this man was not a friendly alien. She was sure of it even before she saw the gleam of the small revolver that lay beside him within easy reach of his hand…

Markie was breathing a little faster than usual as she withdrew from the hedge and climbed down the bank on to the path, but it was with excitement, not fear…she had found the spy. The man was a spy—they had been talking about a spy, and this was he.

Goodness! thought Markie, standing upon the path and literally gasping with excitation of feeling. Goodness, what had I better do? I cannot do anything myself, for the man is armed. I had better run back to the camp and tell Colonel Melton.

Yes, Colonel Melton was the person to deal with the situation. He would know exactly what to do…but Markie had scarcely taken two steps in the direction of the camp when she was assailed by a flock of doubts and misgivings: supposing her diagnosis was wrong and the man was not a spy! Supposing she got hold of Colonel Melton and brought him to the wood and the man proved to be quite a harmless person!
What
a
fool
she
would
look!

Markie stopped and thought about it. She had been sure of her premises, of course, but now she was not so sure. Now that her eyes were not fixed upon the man she could scarcely credit their evidence. And the whole thing was so extraordinary (thought Markie). It was not the sort of thing that happened to an ordinary person like herself. There was the revolver, of course. A harmless person would not walk about the woods carrying a revolver, nor go to sleep with a revolver placed close to his hand—only a man who went in fear of his life would take that precaution—but had she
really
seen the revolver? Could it have been something that
looked
like a revolver? His pipe, for instance!

I must make quite sure, thought Markie. I should look such a fool…I must have a closer view of the man.

With this aim in view Markie made a circuit of the bushes and finding a path that led in the right direction she came around behind her quarry through the trees. He was still asleep, but he seemed restless, breathing noisily and muttering…as Markie approached he flung out one arm and turned over on his other side. She waited till he was quiet again, and now she was perfectly certain of her man: his cephalic characteristics were unmistakable. She went nearer, stepping softly and carefully, and she saw his revolver lying by his side…

Moved by a sudden brilliant idea Markie stooped and picked up the revolver. It was cold in her hand, cold and heavy, and it had a grim ugly look—but the fact that she had disarmed her enemy gave her a good deal of satisfaction. He was not so dangerous now. Still dangerous, of course, thought Markie (backing away from him through the trees, and carrying the little gun very carefully as if it might go off at any moment and blow her up), still dangerous, but not
so
dangerous. Colonel Melton would be able to capture him quite easily without the risk of getting shot…

Lieutenant Howe had arrived at Ganthorne Camp the night before. He was rather shy and he felt exactly like a new boy at school. He was so anxious to make a good impression and showed so much zeal that Major Cray deputed him to take “B” Company for a route march.

“You don't know the way, of course,” said Major Cray. “But Sergeant Frayle can show you—and it will give you an idea of the lie of the land.”

“Yes sir,” said Jimmy Howe smartly.

The company was thirty strong—thirty-one including the colonel's batman, who, for some unexplained reason, had obtained permission to take part in the exercise. Jimmy Howe was young, and it seemed to him a good sight when “B” Company marched out of camp, smart, orderly, and fully attired for battle. It made Jimmy feel quite queer inside to see them and to know that for the next two hours this magnificent body of men would be under his command. Sergeant Frayle was most helpful. He suggested that they should take the track across the moor to Gostown and come back by the road. It was just the right length and there was plenty to see. The men liked it. Jimmy Howe agreed at once and away they went.

The moors were gorgeous, the bracken was a rich deep brown—there was almost a purple tinge in it. The air was sparkling clear. Tiny white clouds raced across the sky. Jimmy Howe striding along with his men felt as though the world belonged to him. Presently the men started to whistle and Jimmy was glad, for it showed that they were enjoying themselves too. On they went, up hill and down dale, and at first Jimmy was so enchanted with everything he saw that he thought of nothing else, but after a bit he began to think of his mother and to wish that she could see him now—how wonderful it would be if she suddenly appeared and watched the company march past! (Wonderful, but quite impossible, for his mother lived in York.) And Aunt Deborah, thought Jimmy. Pity
she
couldn't see him. She was a managing old lady, was Aunt Deborah; she managed the whole family—including Jimmy, of course. Yes, it
was
a
pity she couldn't see him now.

The company marched to Gostown, swung left, and returned by the road. It was a pleasant road and there was very little traffic on it—not that there was much traffic anywhere these days—a bus passed them at the top of the hill, and Sergeant Frayle informed Jimmy that it was going to Wandlebury. They were coming down the hill now, toward a wood, and beyond the wood Jimmy could see Ganthorne.

They were nearly home, and Jimmy, who was still full of zeal and ardor, was just beginning to wish that he had taken the men a bit farther afield when a most extraordinary thing occurred. Out of the wood rushed an old lady, and for a moment Jimmy thought it was Aunt Deborah herself (for she was dressed in the same démodé fashion, namely in a black coat down to her ankles and a small round hat covered with white flowers) but Jimmy's first thought gave place, almost at once, to a second that was only slightly less alarming; the old lady was mad.

She rushed out of the wood and stood in the middle of the road waving frantically and shouting, “Help! Help! Help!”

“What on earth,” began Jimmy, turning to Sergeant Frayle, but he got no further. He was stricken dumb.

“B” Company was wavering and disintegrating before his eyes.

The leading ranks went first and the others followed—in a moment the whole company of seasoned men was rushing pell-mell down the road. The whole company with the exception of Sergeant Frayle, and even he seemed somewhat demoralized. He ran a few steps and stopped and looked back at Jimmy, registering expressions of anxiety, mortification, and indecision that would have done credit to a film star.

Jimmy had been too amazed to give any orders—which perhaps was just as well—but now he recovered and said briefly—“We'd better follow them, I suppose,” and took to his heels without more ado.

The old lady was surrounded by a solid wall of khaki when Jimmy arrived on the scene. It parted to let him through and closed up again behind him. He was now in the middle of the circle, face to face with Miss Marks.

“…the spy,” she was saying in breathless tones, “a German…perfectly certain…in the wood…asleep…and here is his gun,” she added producing a small revolver and holding it in an unpleasantly amateurish fashion so that it wavered around the little circle on a level with their belts. Fraser (who was standing quite near her, of course) disarmed her deftly; he opened the breach and half a dozen little bullets popped out into his hand.

“Oh, it was loaded!” exclaimed the old lady in alarm.

“Madam,” began Jimmy politely.

“There is not a moment to lose!” declared the old lady, looking around at the men with shining eyes. “You must scatter and surround the wood. You must creep upon him silently and take him unawares.”

Jimmy was about to protest when he felt a gentle touch on his arm. It was Sergeant Frayle. He had taken the revolver from Fraser and was holding it out for Jimmy to see. “Look, sir,” he said in an undertone. “It's a Jerry revolver, and the bullets are those soft-nosed things…”

Jimmy looked. He had not seen a revolver like it before—it was quite different from his own. “D'you mean it's true?” he asked incredulously.

The sergeant was sure it was true—he knew Miss Marks—but it was difficult to explain the matter to his officer. It was all the more difficult because by this time Miss Marks had recovered her breath and was giving her orders in a loud clear voice.

“Scatter!” cried Miss Marks, waving her umbrella. “Come upon him simultaneously from all sides. You, Shadwell, and you, Hollingford, to the south of the wood—Gheales, Barrington, and Willis to the north. Hide yourselves carefully and bar his escape, he cannot harm you, for we have taken his weapon. Quickly!” cried Miss Marks, brandishing her umbrella like a sword. “Quickly and quietly—he may wake at any moment and slip through our fingers…and you, Fraser,” she continued, turning to her faithful friend. “And you, Benson,” she added, picking out the champion boxer of the battalion. “Follow me, and I will lead you to him.”

“Look here,” began Jimmy, who had managed to find his tongue.

“And you,” she added, turning to him. “Follow me, all of you; we will take him like a rat in a trap.”

“Sir!” said Sergeant Frayle in agonized tones. “Sir, what would you—could we—shall I—”

Jimmy Howe swallowed something that seemed to have stuck in his throat. He said a little stiffly, “All right, Sergeant Frayle. Carry on.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Frayle. “I think we should do as Miss Marks suggests—unless you can think of a better plan, sir.”

“Carry on, Sergeant Frayle,” repeated Jimmy and this time he smiled.

“Thank you, sir,” said Frayle with a sigh of relief. He really was unutterably thankful that young Mr. Howe had taken it so well. It wasn't many that would have—thought Frayle. It showed he was a bit of all right. He wouldn't lose by it, either. Frayle would see to that…

The men were scattering now, some to one side of the wood and some to the other. They were running along quickly with bent backs, creeping through hedges and vaulting over walls. Miss Marks herself, with the few faithful followers she had chosen, was waiting until her troops had taken up their position before advancing upon the enemy.

“Madame,” said Jimmy—and this time “Madame” heard him for he had been warned by Sergeant Frayle that the lady was deaf. “Madame, I think it will be best if you leave this to me. Your dispositions are excellent,” said Jimmy with the ghost of a smile. “I couldn't improve upon your plan of battle but I should prefer you to remain here with two of the men.”

“Remain here!” exclaimed Miss Marks in surprise. “Dear me, no. I am not in the least tired.”

“It isn't that exactly,” said Jimmy, abandoning his high-flown language and coming down to brass tacks. “It isn't a question of whether you're tired or not. It's just that you would be better out of it. If he really is a spy—and I suppose he must be or he wouldn't have had that revolver—”

“He is a spy,” interrupted Miss Marks. “Quite apart from the revolver his appearance is sufficient indication of his nationality—the cephalic structure is definitely Teutonic,” added Miss Marks, clinching the matter once and for all.

“Oh!” said Jimmy vaguely. “Oh—well then—that's all the more reason why you should be out of it, because he'll be a pretty tough customer and there may be a bit of a scrap.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Marks. “We must take him by surprise. You have no idea where the man is. If you start looking for him he will wake and hear you and have time to conceal himself—possibly to make his escape.” She looked around and added, “Are you all ready?”

“Give them another two minutes,” suggested Jimmy. “You want them all around the wood before we start.”

They waited. Jimmy kept looking at his watch—two minutes seemed an endless stretch of time. He thought of all sorts of things as the hand of his watch crawled along. He had time to wonder, somewhat anxiously, whether the story would reach the mess—and in what form; to wonder whether he had been right to condone the breach of discipline—but what could he have done? He thought of Nelson's blind eye—and then decided that Nelson's blind eye was quite a different matter; it had been used not to condone but to disobey. He could think of no parallel at all. Whoever heard of an old lady appearing suddenly from the shelter of a wood and assuming command of a company? This brought him back to Miss Marks. He looked at her. She was standing in the middle of the road with her feet slightly apart and her umbrella grasped firmly in her hand. Her lips were set in a firm line and the light of battle shone in her eye. Jimmy had intended to make a further suggestion—a suggestion that Miss Marks should walk on toward Ganthorne and give the alarm—but he saw that such a feeble subterfuge would be useless.

“Time's up,” said Jimmy at last.

“Good,” said Miss Marks, who had been feeling the strain of waiting. “I shall go first and lead the way. You must follow, single file, for the path is narrow and—”

“I shall go first,” said Jimmy.

“But I know the way.”

“You can direct me.”

“It would be much better—”

“Then you must take the revolver,” said Jimmy, holding it out to her as he spoke.

Miss Marks looked at it. “Is it loaded?” she inquired.

Jimmy nodded.

“I have my umbrella,” said Miss Marks a trifle uncertainly.

“No,” said Jimmy, shaking his head. “The leader of the expedition must be properly armed.”

“But you must not shoot him,” said Miss Marks anxiously.

“I shan't shoot him unless I have to,” said Jimmy and with that he stepped in front of her and led the way into the wood.

Miss Marks followed, directing him, and behind her came Fraser and Benson. They trod softly, avoiding dry twigs and trying to use the woodcraft they had learnt, but the crackle of leaves beneath their feet sounded very loud.

“This way,” whispered Miss Marks. “Through here…along this wall…wait a moment. Yes, we turn to the right here. Yes, I remember now, this is the path. He is behind that hedge of rhododendrons.”

Jimmy jumped the ditch, climbed the bank, and peered through the hedge. Then he turned his head and nodded… (“Thank goodness!” said Markie to herself.) He signed to the two men to divide and go around, one on each side. They melted away and left Markie standing alone on the path.

Just for a moment Markie wished she had not come. The woods were still and gloomy, and a few large raindrops began to fall. Markie could feel them pattering on the top of her hat. She began to unfurl her umbrella and then stopped…it seemed unsuitable.

The rain will waken him, thought Markie. He will spring up and find himself surrounded. Perhaps he will fight, or try to get away! Oh, I do hope they will not shoot him! All the glory and excitement seeped out of Markie as she stood there on the path, and she saw her adventure as a poor affair…one miserable unsuspecting fox and thirty hounds creeping up to him through the bracken. She could bear the suspense no longer. She did not want to see, but she
had
to see what was happening on the other side of the hedge. She stepped over the ditch, mounted the bank, and took up her position beside Jimmy.

“Go back,” he whispered. “Go back—you'll be in the way.”

She did not hear him—it might not have made much difference if she had—and instead of beating a retreat she dropped on her hands and knees and peered between the black snaky stems of the rhododendrons.

The man was still there. He was wakening now…sitting up and looking around…groping for his revolver. He was still searching for it feverishly amongst the leaves when Fraser and Benson appeared from different directions and advanced upon him. Jimmy, seeing them there, pushed through the bushes, shouting, “Hands up! You're surrounded!” The man sprang to his feet and immediately Fraser and Benson closed with him, seizing his arms.

“Don't hurt him whatever you do—don't hurt him!” cried Markie and she, too, forced her way through the bushes and arrived upon the scene.

“What on earth are you fellows
doing
?” asked the man in perfectly good English. “I suppose I'm trespassing. If so, I'm sorry. I sat down for a few minutes and I must have gone to sleep…you gave me a damned good fright. I suppose it's your idea of a joke!”

He spoke like a gentleman—an English gentleman. Jimmy fell back and the hand that held the revolver dropped to his side. How frightful! he thought. Good Lord, this is the last straw! The whole company has spent an hour stalking the fellow—I shall never live this down—never.

But Markie had been watching the man's eyes—his tongue was glib enough but his eyes were darting hither and thither like the eyes of an animal in a trap.