Down the Garden Path (37 page)

I reached the nursery, having spurned the offer of Chantal’s arm upstairs. I thought,
Won’t lie down yet, must tidy up a bit first.
Spotting a duster draped over the wastepaper basket I lunged for it, nearly losing my balance, and began sliding it conscientiously across the furniture, including my bed-tumbled blankets. But my arms began swerving away from me, going off on travels of their own. Wassat? Wassat I heard? Footsteps creeping up the stairs.

In order to hear better I moved to the door, or tried to move to the door; somehow I got entangled in the swing, the ropes spinning around faster and faster, crushing me. It was evil, that swing—it was trying to murder me. I stood still, the swing relaxed its hold, and I made a break for the door but found myself at the window. The open window. I was lucky not to have gone flying through it. The apple tree was staring at me. Was it my friend? Did it want to help me against the forces of evil?

My head swam, but this time with a memory—an idea. Orange. I only had to hang something orange in the apple tree and I would be rescued from the swing and those footsteps on the stairs. My knees buckled as I turned from the window, but at once I saw what I wanted. Bertie’s pyjamas. Like a tortoise with ingrown toenails I headed for those pyjamas. At last I had them; now the painful return to the window. Could I make it? Yes. My arm jerked outward and the orange pyjamas fluttered onto the branches of the apple tree.

I was slithering down in a heap. I couldn’t move a limb. What if I had been wrong about Mr. Deasley? My eyes slowly closed onto nothingness.

I had been buried for eternity in a deep dark tomb. Rather cosy and peaceful, but now someone was persistently rattling my coffin lid. “Tessa, wake up. You have to wake up.” The voice was Chantal’s, and I resented her ordering me about. The vibrations got stronger. The noise louder. I was awake and I knew the sound of the chisel was real.

“Tessa, do you hear me? They took the key and I can’t get the door off. Get out of that bed. The Tramwells are still down with Deasley. It’s been more than half an hour, and I haven’t heard a sound. I can’t leave to fetch help unless—”

“Stop! I’m coming.” Throwing my legs over the edge of the bed I struggled up. A creaking started inside my head when I opened my eyes, but surprisingly I felt fairly peppy. I had not—thank you, Dad’s Boss—drunk all of my tea. And I did not suspect the sisters of polluting my system with some poison off a chemist’s shelf. The tea must have been a natural opiate, nothing artificial added. How healthful!

“Forget the door, Chantal.” I pressed my face up against its cool surface, feeling stronger by the minute. “I can climb out the window.”

“No you can’t. When the Tramwells came up to check that you were out cold, they didn’t only lock the door and remove the key—they stuck the window down with Eterna-Hold.”

“You mean the glue that sticks airplane wings back on? Blast! But Chantal, you can’t worry about me now. The Tramwells could be rapping on the wall this minute. But even if they haven’t signalled you can’t wait any longer. You have to ring the police.”

“The phone’s out because of the storm. They should have checked the line this morning—but these are two elderly women, not professional sleuths. We have to help them, but if I go down into the priest hole and Deasley gets me while you are holed up here, we are worse off than ever.”

True to the distraught heroine syndrome, I rattled the doorknob in absolute futility. What did I expect? The door shimmied but did not give. Scarred, scratched, and slightly warped, it must be immensely old. Old enough to be eaten up with woodworm?

“Nothing else for it, we will have to knock it down.” Despite my concern for the Tramwells, I spoke those words with a spurt of elation. Chantal and I would manage. What was needed was a heavy object with which to ... My eyes travelled around the room, past my bedside table to the beds themselves. Wouldn’t work. Those beds weren’t on casters—they were from the days when good quality meant unbudgeability. I couldn’t ram one with sufficient force to break down that door. What I needed was momentum—speed, and one sharp thrust after another. The swing! I would swing up high, arch myself back until I was prone, and kick out at the door.

Ignoring Chantal’s instructions that I search for an old cricket bat, I sat down on the wooden seat and clutched the ropes. Back and forth, one swooping arc following another until my head grazed the ceiling. Toes up. Heels out. Explosion. A horrific crash and splintering of wood. Only as I came spinning off into full solo flight did I think to squawk out a warning to Chantal to scram.

How that door failed to knock her unconscious I do not know. Even more miraculous was that my only injury was a grazed knee. As I scrambled to my feet and gazed down over the balcony rail to the debris of wood a mile and a half down, I shuddered.

“Foolhardy and noisy, but brilliant,” came Chantal’s throaty, stunned voice from behind me. When I turned she was leaning against the wall.

“We postpone our nervous breakdowns for a time when we can enjoy them, right?” she said. I nodded and we went down the stairs, shoulder to shoulder. “You go for the police,” she said. “Flag down the first car you see, and ...”

“No—better for you to go, I’m a rotten runner and you know the way to the village. I will go down into the priest hole and see what is happening.”

“All right.” She ran out the front door, leaving it hanging open. I was glad she did. The outside world seemed a little closer. The unearthly silence of an empty house in midafternoon surged around me as I fumbled with the secret catch on the fireplace wall. The brick door inched open. I would have to go down without a candle, surprise being my only ally. I began the grim descent. A murmur of voices came up to meet me. I could hear Hyacinth, not frightened—more outraged. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard a laugh. A man’s laugh. Dreadful in its joviality. Speak, Primrose! I had to hear her voice, to know she was unharmed. The chill damp seeped through my clothes. I was almost at the bottom; I could see the glow of candles and pressed myself against the wall. Hyacinth was tying up Primrose while Mr. Deasley directed the jagged end of a broken bottle at them.

“How fortunate that I never leave home without my manicure scissors,” he purred as I tiptoed down the last step and slithered towards the fireplace wall. “And how fortunate that you ladies wear such serviceable petticoats. Are you sure you have left sufficient strips for your own bondage, Hyacinth, my dear?”

No response.

“Have Primrose lie down before you tie her ankles. I’m a gentle person by preference and don’t wish to have to knock her to the ground. Perfect! I am now ready for you, old friend.”

The bottle fell from Mr. Deasley’s hand—the sound of its shattering hard-edged and spiteful. Binding Hyacinth’s arms behind her back he ordered her to join her sister on the floor.

“Really, Clyde, this is too tedious for words.” How brave, how clever she was! Not a hint of being anything more than slightly miffed. I was the one having difficulty exercising restraint. Only by focussing on the imminent arrival of the police was I able to keep from bursting across the room and leaping on Mr. Deasley’s back. If he only knew that in trussing up the Tramwells like Christmas geese he was knotting the rope around his own neck....

“Down. That’s right—face down. Dear, dear! I regret the nasty chill of that stone floor, but I will have you warm in a tick.” Mr. Deasley moved away from the sisters, but he did not head towards the stairs as I expected. He was now standing in front of the kegs in the opposite corner. He was heaving one up, wheezing in the attempt. Nothing that I had heard him say was as evil, as menacing as that laboured breathing. He was staggering forward, he was going to drop that keg. Deliberately drop it! Not on the Tramwells’ heads, please! Now when I wanted to move I could not.

He dropped it a few feet away from them. A violent thud and the sickly sweet odour of rum soaked into the air.

“Yes, I will have you warmed up in no time.” He was walking towards the candles.

“Thank you so much, but I would prefer you take no extraordinary measures to ensure our comfort,” trilled Primrose.

“Think nothing of it, my dear. What are friends for?” Mr. Deasley went over to the candles, plucked them from their bottles, walked back to where the broken keg lay, kicked it aside, and set them in a circle around the Tramwells. Five small orange flames licked the dark. “Please accept my apologies for having lied to you when I said I would not harm you if you cooperated in permitting yourselves to be tied up.”

“You will achieve nothing by killing us.” Hyacinth’s voice did not quaver.

“True, dear lady. The life of a fugitive lies before me whatever course I take now, but this time I am not killing from necessity but for pleasure. If you had been the gullible old fools you feigned to be, I could have achieved my heart’s ease and lived the life of king instead of a vagabond. An eye for an eye! Ah, I see your eyes are on the candles. Little more than stubs all of them. Soon they will burn down, the rum will ignite, and you two will blaze away like a pair of Christmas puddings.”

Silence.

“Dear ladies, you may feel I am an irreligious man, but I do count my blessings this day. What a blessing that your forebear Sinclair brought back those kegs of rum from his travels and that he did not live long enough to consume the contents. What a blessing that his descendants, including your light-weight father, considered rum the drink of able-seamen and peasants. What a blessing this floor is full of shallows so the rum can puddle!”

“Surely you have matters to attend, more important than gloating over our demise,” spluttered Primrose. “Pray don’t let us detain you.”

“Yes, it is time to be away. I have a business acquaintance who will be delighted to conceal me under or in her bed until the coast is clear. By the bye—should I chance to see the luscious Tessa as I pause to pick up my last souvenirs from Cloisters, I will bring her down to join you. A pity if, as you say, she has left the premises in the company of the servants. I would like to thank her for her charming note.” Mr. Deasley retreated some distance from the candles, and now made a courtly bow. “And so adieu, My Lady Chickenthroats, squirm—and you may shorten your lives by—minutes.”

He was heading for the stairs, footsteps growing softer.

“Don’t wriggle, dear. You might catch your dress alight and”—Primrose paused—”it is so pretty.”

“I wonder how he will react when he finds the priest hole door closed?” Hyacinth wondered with hollow amusement.

“He will certainly not risk being trapped here as we go up in smoke,” replied Primrose. “Even should he escape death himself, he ...”

The priest hole door was not closed. I had left it ajar ... there, the sound of the door being pushed open! Exclamations of consternation, bewilderment from the sisters. I flung myself away from the wall. My left foot came down on something cylindrical, something that rolled under me, causing me to fall forward with a yelp.

“Who is it? What is it?” came the sisters’ voices.

“Don’t move,” I cried. Bending, I picked up the object so it would not trip me again and stuffed it into the pocket of my skirt. One of the candles was almost down to the wick. Would I be in time? I was afraid to run in case I caused its flame to waver, fanning out across that sea of alcohol. Dropping to my knees, I crawled forward and scooped up the small glowing blob, crushed it in my hand and tossed it away over my shoulder. Then, skirt trailing in the wet, almost drowning in fumes, I inched around the rest of the circle snuffing and tossing as I went. I knew that, for the moment, we were all safe. Untying Hyacinth in the dark took five minutes; Deasley must have been a Boy Scout.

“I dare say it would not have worked.” Hyacinth rubbed her wrists. “A man could not be expected to know that one must always heat rum or brandy before flambéing.”

“Not”—Primrose lay perfectly still as I worked to release her—”not that we aren’t extremely grateful to you, Tessa.”

I apologized for not closing the priest hole door behind me and offered the small consolation that Chantal would be returning any moment with the police.

But would they come in time to catch Mr. Deasley?

“How foolish of us not to have made sure the telephone was working,” Hyacinth said. “But no time for recriminations. We have all meant everything for the best. You in coming down here, we in attempting to keep you out of harm’s way by giving you that tea. It is what we give Minnie before taking her to the vet’s, and what Primrose gave her the other night.”

As I stood up, my hand brushed my skirt pocket and I pulled out the cylindrical object. I had imagined it to be a bottle, but now I realized it was too short and squat, with a rough little nub about halfway down. A jab with my thumb and it turned into torch, beaming a frail but beautiful light.

“Tessa, sweet girl,” exclaimed Primrose. “How splendid of you to have displayed such foresight.” I opened my mouth to say I had dropped the torch when I was last down here but she rattled on. “Foresight and ingenuity. You must tell us later how you escaped from the nursery, but now, if you will give me the torch, we will follow Mr. Kneesley Deasley.”

Purely to humour her, I handed over the torch. She was suffering from shock, or paralysis of the brain, as Fergy would say.

“Dear Primrose, nothing is to be done right now but wait patiently until Chantal arrives with the police.”

“Wait placidly here, like geese ready for carving! Indeed we will not,” stormed Primrose

“I know it is frustrating, but we have no choice,” I said pacifyingly.

“Rubbish, my dear,” sniffed Primrose. With the torch held out at arm’s length she headed for the chimney wall, Hyacinth and I following in her wake. “We were unable to reach this area to rap for Chantal because of Deasley menacing us with that broken bottle. The villain! Wantonly smashing one of my best parsnip wines. The wasted rum doesn’t bother me—we never use the stuff except for a dribble at Christmas in the egg flip—but if he had dared touch one of dear Father’s last bottles of French brandy, that would have been a different story! Only a couple left.... Poor Father, he always was a hearty drinker. A blessing really he never knew he had brought his family to the brink of ruin by his gambling on the stock exchange. He never noticed all the things we had to do without, like having our portraits painted as adults.”