The Two Mrs. Abbotts (19 page)

“Fear nothing,” said Markie, in correct if somewhat stilted German. She could read German with the greatest of ease, but speaking it was a different matter. “Fear nothing. You are trapped. All is discovered; but they will do you no harm if you come quietly. Any attempt at escape is useless.” She waved her umbrella as she spoke and, as if it were a signal, half a dozen more khaki figures rose from the bracken at the edge of the clearing.

“Gott in Himmel!” exclaimed the man in dismayed accents.

“Be tranquil,” continued Markie soothingly. “Fear nothing. I shall not allow them to harm you. This officer has your weapon but he will not use it unless you attempt to escape.”

“What are you saying to the fellow?” inquired Jimmy, looking at Miss Marks in awe…he knew enough German to be aware that the conversation was being conducted in that language, and he had realized (with relief) that his prisoner was a prisoner and not a harmless individual after all. Miss Marks explained what she had said.

“Of course,” agreed Jimmy. “He won't get hurt unless he makes a bolt for it—or at least
we
shan't hurt him—but if he tries any funny tricks I can't answer for the consequences.”

“You have his gun,” Miss Marks pointed out.

“Yes,” agreed Jimmy. “It was pretty smart of you to disarm him…just run your hands over him, Fraser, and make sure he hasn't got another…No? All right, then, take him back to the road and we'll form up and march him into camp. Sergeant Frayle, you had better remain here with a few men and make a thorough search of the wood.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Frayle.

“The police will have to be informed,” added Jimmy. “You will remain here until you are relieved.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Frayle, delighted to observe that young Mr. Howe was reassuming command in such a competent manner.

The remainder of the company was recalled by a few blasts on a whistle. They fell in quickly and marched into camp. Miss Marks marched with them, toddling along beside Jimmy in silence (for the pace was a little too rapid and she had no breath for speech). She was torn between the conflicting emotions of pride and regret. Pride in the fact that she really had accomplished something definite for her country, and regret for her prisoner, walking disconsolate and sullen between his captors. He might have been quite a nice boy (thought Markie) if only he had not been born a German, with that regrettably square head.

Markie was in bed. She had fainted in the middle of supper—had rolled right off her chair and collapsed in a heap on the ground—and she knew nothing more until she found herself lying on her bed and heard the terrific fuss going on all around her. “Not brandy,” Jane was saying. “Not until the doctor comes. Don't cry, Wilhelmina—go and fill two hot water bottles.”

“She's dead!” wailed Wilhelmina.

“Nonsense, go and do what you're told,” said Jane sharply.

“But Markie is
never
ill!” exclaimed Jerry's voice. “Oh dear, she must have been doing too much—and look how thin she has got—two safety pins in her waistband!”

“It was the excitement,” said Jane's voice soothingly. “And we've all got thinner. Don't worry, Jerry…smelling salts—
there
, on the dressing-table—I think she's coming around.”

“I am perfectly well,” declared Markie in a shaky voice, and she endeavored to rise.

“Lie still, darling!” cried Jerry.

“Just until the doctor comes,” added Jane.

“There is no need for the doctor.”

“We've sent for him.”

“I won't see him.”

“Darling Markie, you must. He's coming. He'll be here in half an hour.”

“I won't see him,” said Markie, but she said it feebly, for she felt so ill that nothing seemed to matter very much.

Dr. Wrench was small and thin and agile. He had a brown face, somewhat wrinkled, and a pair of very brown eyes; it was therefore a foregone conclusion that his intimates should call him Monkey. He arrived at Ganthorne in his car before Jerry had expected—though not before she had hoped to see him—and instead of ringing the bell he let himself in and came bounding up the narrow stairs, two steps at a time. He was in Markie's bedroom, standing at the end of the bed and looking at her before she knew he was in the house.

Having heard of Markie's exploit—the news of which was already spreading rapidly throughout the district with the usual additions and variations common to news of this nature—Dr. Wrench had expected to find his patient suffering from nervous reaction, and he had come prepared to administer a little gentle badinage and a sedative, but one glance at his patient's face disabused him of these ideas. Miss Marks was really ill. She was in pain. The first thing to do was to clear the room; Jerry and Jane and Wilhelmina were banished and the door was shut.

“Now, what's all this?” demanded Dr. Wrench. “What have you been doing to yourself?”

“I walked too far,” replied Miss Marks feebly.

“Where is the pain?”

“It is not bad.”

“Let's see where it is.”

“There is no need,” began Miss Marks, clinging to the bedclothes with both hands.

But the doctor was more than a match for her and despite her denials and prevarications she was examined thoroughly, prodded and poked and questioned until no shred of privacy remained to her, until every smallest detail had been revealed. Dr. Wrench sat down on a chair beside her bed and looked at her. “I thought you were a sensible woman,” he said.

“I am,” declared Miss Marks defiantly.

“A sensible woman would have taken advice months ago.”

Miss Marks remained silent.

“Why didn't you take advice?” demanded Dr. Wrench.

“It was not necessary.”

“Nonsense. That isn't the reason.”

Miss Marks hesitated. “I suppose I was a coward,” she said at last.

“A coward!”

“Yes, I was afraid you might say it was serious.”

“So you just carried on,” said Dr. Wrench with exasperation. “You just went on as usual—don't you realize that it's a very dangerous thing to do?”

“I hate being a bother,” explained Miss Marks.

There was a short silence.

“What is it?” asked Miss Marks at last. “Is it serious?”

“Of course it's serious,” replied Dr. Wrench. “You don't have pain without a cause. Pain is simply nature's way of warning us that something has gone wrong.”

“Very serious?” asked Miss Marks anxiously.

Dr. Wrench looked at her. “What did you think it was?” he inquired.

“I thought perhaps,” she began. “I wondered…”

“Oh, so that's what you thought!” he exclaimed. “You've been worrying yourself sick—and all for nothing. Appendicitis is the name of your complaint.”

“Appendicitis!” exclaimed Miss Marks in amazement. “But surely…are you certain…is that all it is?”

“That's all,” he replied, smiling for the first time.

“I can have it removed, then?”

“Most certainly,” he replied. “You must have it removed as soon as possible. You'll be as right as a trivet in a fortnight or three weeks.”

“I can't believe it,” declared Miss Marks. “It is too good to be true…are you perfectly certain, Dr. Wrench? I thought appendicitis was a sudden acute pain accompanied by a high temperature.”

“Yours is a chronic condition.”

“I have lost weight,” Miss Marks reminded him.

“What do you expect? People who worry themselves silly over nothing usually lose weight…What put the idea into your head?” he inquired as he rose to go.

“My father died of it…carcinomata of epithelial origin.”

“You'll probably die of old age,” said Dr. Wrench comfortingly—and he departed. Markie turned over and shut her eyes. She began to say her prayers but she was asleep before she had reached the end of them.

***

Jane and Wilhelmina stood on the doorstep of Ganthorne Lodge and watched the ambulance drive away. It was taking Markie to Wandlebury Hospital, and Jerry had gone with her to see her safely into bed. Markie had been in excellent spirits, talking and joking and giving all sorts of instructions and warnings to her deputies—in fact one might have thought that Markie was looking forward to her operation with delight. When the ambulance had disappeared from view Jane and Wilhelmina went back into the house and looked around.

“It feels funny without either of them,” Wilhelmina said.

“Yes, but Mrs. Abbott will be back tonight,” replied Jane. “As a matter of fact I thought of turning out the sitting room. It seems a good opportunity.”

“I thought I would wash the curtains in Miss Marks's room,” declared Wilhelmina, “and I was thinking we might make macaroni and cheese for supper.”

“But Wilhelmina—”

“I've seen Miss Marks make it ever so often,” said Wilhelmina, interrupting hastily. “You make the macaroni first, with potatoes and flour and fat and a dried egg, and you roll it out and cut it into strips and drop them into boiling salted water. You make the cheese sauce while the macaroni is cooking—and then you put the macaroni in a pie dish and pour on the sauce and brown it under the grill.”

“It
sounds
easy,” admitted Jane.

“Easy as anything,” said Wilhelmina earnestly. “If you'd give me a hand we could do it beautiful. I know we could…and it's Mrs. Abbott's favorite.”

This clinched the matter. “We'll make it,” said Jane. “We'll start directly after tea. I'll turn out the sitting room in the afternoon.”

Jane had profited considerably from Markie's tuition and she made a very good job of the sitting room. She cleaned it thoroughly and polished all the furniture—and as she worked she thought of all sorts of things. She thought of Markie. What a splendid person Markie was! Jane felt glad to have known Markie, for Markie's example had shown her that you could do humble things splendidly and be happy doing them—and make others happy. Jane thought of her own problem, she thought of Helen. She had behaved badly to Helen and she must make amends. She began to think of Archie—and then decided not to think of Archie…

Jane was just putting the finishing touches to the room when the door opened and Archie walked in.

“Oh!” exclaimed Jane, looking at him in dismay. She was conscious of untidy hair, dirty hands, and a crumpled overall. She wondered whether her face was clean—probably not.

“What's happened?” inquired Archie with anxiety. “I heard the most extraordinary tale. What are you doing?”

“Cleaning,” replied Jane. “Markie has got appendicitis. They have taken her to hospital and Jerry has gone with her.”

“Poor old Markie!” exclaimed Archie, sitting down and looking at Jane with rather a curious expression.

“I'm frightfully untidy,” said Jane.

“Untidy but by no means frightful—go on, tell me the whole thing. What's all this about a spy?”

Jane told him about the spy, she told him everything, and Archie listened and nodded and made the right sort of response, and presently Wilhelmina brought in a small tray with tea and bread and butter and they had it together, sitting by the fire.

“So you aren't going away!” said Archie, suddenly.

“Not until Markie is better. I promised her I would stay and help Jerry—but it's a little worrying,” said Jane with an anxious expression. “I feel I ought to write to Helen. I could write, of course—only, if she knew where I was, she might come over and make a scene.”

“That's easily settled,” replied Archie. “I'm going to London tomorrow for a few days. I'll post your letter in town.” This was an excellent idea; it was clever of Archie to think of it.

“Write now,” said Archie. “You needn't say much, need you?”

Jane got out her writing pad and sat down at the desk. She could have composed her letter more easily if she had not been so conscious of Archie's presence in the room. He sat by the fire, smoking, and looking at the flames…

“You seem to be saying a lot,” said Archie at last.

“I'm not, really,” replied Jane. “It's difficult. Where's the wastepaper basket?”

“I should put it in the fire if I were you.”

“Perhaps I'd better.”

The letter, when it was finished, was very short. It contained the news that the writer was well and happy and would return to Foxstead in about three weeks. Jane had tried to explain what her feelings were, her feelings about Janetta, but had given up the experiment in despair.

“That will have to do,” said Jane, handing the missive to Archie. “I shall explain everything when I see her.”

“Everything?” inquired Archie significantly.

“About Janetta,” replied Jane firmly.

More might have been said but at this moment Wilhelmina appeared at the door. “What about the macaroni?” she inquired.

“You can't get macaroni, now,” said Archie, who shared his sister's passion for this form of food. “Macaroni is not to be bought for love or money. I've tried everywhere.”

“We make it,” said Wilhelmina simply.

“I didn't know you could!” exclaimed Archie in surprise.

“It hasn't got holes in it, of course,” Wilhelmina told him. “It's just long thin strips.”

Archie rose. He said, “I'll come and help and I'll stay to supper—that will be all right, won't it?”

Jane and Wilhelmina assured him that it would.

Wilhelmina had laid out everything very neatly on the pantry table and weighed the ingredients with care. The potatoes had been boiled; they were divested of their jackets and mashed into a bowl with fat and flour and dried egg. Archie seized the bowl and a wooden spoon and proceeded to beat up the mixture. He was anxious to show Jane that he was a capable person, versatile and resourceful, and glancing at her he was glad to see that he was creating the right impression.

Jane was not to be outdone, and when the mixture had been thoroughly beaten and turned out onto a floured board she took up the rolling pin.

“Yes, you roll it out,” said Wilhelmina, who was enjoying herself. “You roll it out and then you roll it up into a sort of swiss roll and then you take a knife and cut the roll into slices and that makes long thin strips of macaroni.”

“I see the idea,” said Archie. “It's very clever, isn't it? Roll it out, Jane.”

Jane started to roll it out, but the dough was cloggy and, instead of forming a nice neat mat on the baking board, it stuck to the rolling pin.

“It's all right,” said Archie. “We've forgotten to knead it, that's all. You must do it with your hands—I've just washed mine.” He turned up his sleeves and plunged into the struggle.

The dough clung to his fingers, enveloping them in a white sticky mess. He tried to squeeze it off but it clung to him more lovingly than before.

“Good lord!” he exclaimed. “The stuff is like glue. Can't you do something about it, Jane?”

Thus appealed to, Jane tried to do something about it, but without success, for the dough wound itself around her fingers too. Their hands were covered with it. They were helpless.

“You should—have floured—them,” gasped Wilhelmina, leaning on the table and shaking all over with laughter. “Oh dear—it's as good as the pictures—oh dear!”

“We should have floured them, Jane,” said Archie gravely. “You realize that, don't you? If we had floured our hands the dough wouldn't have stuck.”

“But what are we to do!” cried Jane.

After some difficulty they managed to scrape off the dough and return it to the board—there was less of it now, and it was still very cloggy.

“We can't roll it up,” said Archie, eyeing it warily.

“We must cut it,” declared Jane. “We must cut it up into neat pieces. We can't
waste
it.”

They cut it into pieces—not neat pieces, for that was impossible—and dropped them into the pan of water boiling on the stove.

“It will taste the same,” said Wilhelmina without conviction.

“Oh, of course,” agreed Archie with enthusiasm.

Jane said nothing. She was looking at the pan, watching the queer bloated lumps that had begun to rise to the surface. After that the cooking operations went quite smoothly and according to plan, and when the dish was ready and nicely browned on the top it looked exactly like macaroni and cheese.