The Affair of the Ellsworth Women

by Frank Knebel

Chapter 5

Saturday, 7 November, 8.45 AM

(From Major Bosworth’s narrative)

PEUGEOT'S FAITHFUL manservant George, cadaverous of build and wooden of demeanour, answered my ring and admitted me to the rooms that had been my home for several years. As he led me in, I noticed that Miss Lime had not yet appeared for work, and Peugeot was still seated at the dining room table enjoying his croissants and hot chocolate. I had caught him in mid-sip, and he had to pause to wipe his moustache with a napkin in his usual fastidious fashion before greeting me.

     “Bonjour, mon cher ami,” he cried. “You are the riser early this morning, is it not so? I trust that you and la belle madame passed a night most restful.”

     “After the trials of yesterday, we both slept like the…” Because of the threats to Julia and Daphne the day before I stopped myself from completing the cliché which would probably have seemed in bad taste. “We slept like a couple of logs.”

     He nodded thoughtfully.

     “It is a most unpleasant thought, is it not? Those two beautiful girls bound, gagged and weighted and thrown into the river. Well, have no fear; the grey matter of Peugeot has been well rested also, and presently we will solve this mystery and dispel the danger.”

     George brought in some tea for me, and Peugeot tactfully refrained from making any of his frequent remarks about the ‘English form of self-poisoning’ in which I was indulging. I was pouring a second cup and he had just finished sorting the letters from the morning post into three neat piles when we heard the sound of a key in the lock. The familiar sound of Miss Lime’s sensible shoes on the hallway floorboards came toward us. She appeared in the doorway, clad in a remarkably unflattering dress with a floral design and holding an envelope in her right hand.

     “Good morning, Miss Lime,” Peugeot announced cheerily.

     “Good morning, Mister Peugeot, Major Bosworth,” she replied. “There seems to be a message for you.”

     “I have already the morning post,” he said, rising from the table and crossing to her. “Someone received one of our letters and has returned it?”

     “I doubt it’s from the post,” she observed, handing it to him. “It’s neither stamped nor addressed.”

     “C’est curieux, ça,” he said.

     “I didn’t hear anyone knock or ring,” I said. “A messenger usually does.”

     With a puzzled frown, Peugeot tore open the flap and took out a single sheet of folded paper. He had barely unfolded it when he let out an explosive breath and handed the sheet to me. There was a typed message in the centre.

      Now that you’re involved, Monsieur, let’s see if you can do a better job of protecting the Ellsworth girls and their friends. We won’t be so clumsy this time.

Greenhampton Avenger

     I looked up from the message.

     “What does it mean, Peugeot?”

     “It means that they know that Peugeot is on the case, and that they think they are too clever to be caught or deterred,” he answered. “And that is their weakness. They, who are so clever, will make one little slip and we will have them.”

     The door buzzer sounded, and Miss Lime hastened to answer it. She had barely closed the door when there was another buzz, and presently Chief Inspector Sapp and Inspector McAuliffe, Mrs. Oliphant, and Richard Ellsworth were all crowded into Peugeot’s study with us. When George promptly appeared with more tea and a tray full of cups, I realized that this meeting had been planned by Peugeot. Miss Lime and George did the pouring and in no time we were ready to get down to business. Peugeot, looking more magisterial than usual at his desk, called the meeting to order.

     “Eh bien, mes amis,” he began. “I have called all of you together because I believe that by combining our efforts we may be able to discover the motive and thereby the identity of the person who calls himself the ‘Greenhampton Avenger.’ You should know that this morning a note with further threats to the Ellsworth women was found at my door, now widening the threats to include friends of the Ellsworths. Bosworth, if you would pass the note around for all to see.”

     As the note went from person to person, Peugeot urged everyone to search his memory to determine if any words or phrases seemed familiar or characteristic to anyone known to them. No one recognized anything. Peugeot then called on Sapp for results of the police inquiry in the Greenhampton area.

     “Inspector Carrington conducted a thorough investigation of local activities and could find no individuals or groups that had expressed any ill-feelings toward the Ellsworth family. However, he did find that in two recent land purchases the family had outbid an individual whose name also appears in the list of suspects. Some two years ago, Sir Garrick Ellsworth purchased a twenty-acre holding on the eastern edge of his estate, and six months ago Sir Richard acquired an additional thirty acres in the same area.”

     Richard was nodding.

     “My father purchased the Oates farm and I added the Benson farm, both upon the deaths of their owners.”

     Chief Inspector Sapp then announced:

     “Inspector Carrington found that Miss Zoë Frobisher had also submitted bids on those properties.”

     A spirited discussion followed in which we discussed the possible motives of the individuals involved in the case thus far. Opinions were varied and at times vehement about what would be an adequate motive for the crimes committed and threatened. Peugeot sat thoughtfully taking in all the talk. Finally, he spoke.

     “Let us use method and order, my friends. If you permit, I will summarize your points. We must determine who the offending Ellsworth was, who was affronted and for what reason, what the end of the revenge is, and who the target will be.

     “First, let us say that Sir Garrick is the offender. Whom did he offend? It could be Mademoiselle Frobisher who wished to acquire the same property or it could be some foreign power because of his work with the Foreign Office. Who would be the target and to what vengeful end? I can see no reason that a foreign power would seek any revenge against the family of a man already dead, since there would be no one to witness the fate he has brought upon his loved ones. The same applies to Zoë Frobisher, who, one would think, could only revenge herself upon Sir Garrick if he were here to see it.”

     “Besides,” I interjected. “she was in love with Sir Garrick before he married Brenda and still quite cut up over his death at the reception Friday night.”

     I went on explain some of the things Brenda had told me that night. Peugeot listened attentively, his eyes glowing faintly green as they always did in these moments.

     “It is also possible,” said Peugeot, “that Madame Bosworth is the offender, either as Brenda Alexander the actress or as the former Lady Ellsworth. If she destroyed the marriage plans of Mademoiselle Frobisher, it is possible that making her witness the deaths or discomfort of her former stepdaughters would be a suitable revenge. But Brenda Alexander the actress also might be the target. She may have offended an older actress, such as Mademoiselle Drusilla Gordon, by supplanting her on the stage, and these threats could be designed to keep her from performing. Or she may have ruined the career of a director such as Monsieur Darrowby by refusing to have him work on her play, despite the assertion of Monsieur Aubrey that she did not. She might have threatened the career of her fellow actress and friend Mademoiselle Susan Noble if it was believed, however wrongly, that she used her influence to have Mademoiselle Daphne chosen for a role in a play over her. Or she may have threatened the success of her producers by considering an offer from America. The threat to her stepdaughters might be a clever means of keeping her in England.”

     Peugeot rose from his chair and walked to the window. He stood looking outside for a moment before continuing.

     “Sir Richard may be the offender of Mademoiselle Frobisher with his more recent land acquisition. Her bond of love with Sir Garrick, broken though it was, would not apply to Richard. She might enjoy the thought of his remorse at the sufferings of his sisters.” He paused and looked directly and meaningfully at the baronet. “Or his wife.”

     The young man looked stunned. He had apparently not considered the possibility.

     “Then again,” continued Peugeot, “it might be Mademoiselle Julia or Mademoiselle Daphne themselves who have made the enemies. In the case of Mademoiselle Julia, she is recently engaged. Is there a former suitor who bears a grudge? Perhaps one of the young men from the Greenhampton case? And Mademoiselle Daphne is now an actress, chosen for a role desired by Mademoiselle Noble. Might she seek revenge on her former friend?”

     Sapp shook his head wearily.

     “There are a lot of motives there, Peugeot,” he said. “And the worst thing is that most of those with motives could be the couple that abducted the girls.”

     “But, Drusilla Gordon’s not part of a couple, Chief Inspector,” observed Mrs. Oliphant. “Nor is Zoë Frobisher. Who would be the man helping one of them?”

     “There’s no reason that Benjamin Darrowby couldn’t be Miss Gordon’s partner,” said McAuliffe. “They know one another and might possibly combine forces to get even.”

     “Nor any reason that Philip Aubrey couldn’t be him,” added Sapp. “Even though Julia and Daphne didn’t see another woman doesn’t mean that Miss Jessup isn’t involved as well. The woman even mentioned having other accomplices. Or they could be in it with Miss Frobisher. We’ve learnt that she’s been an investor in a number of their productions.”

     Peugeot nodded.

     “We have advanced only a little in this discussion,” he said. “But our thoughts should now be more ordered. None of the people we have mentioned have alibis for Thursday night at the time the girls were abducted, though all were known to be in the vicinity of the hotel near the time.”

     “What about this Zoë Frobisher?” asked Mrs. Oliphant. “I gather that she was the only suspect not interviewed yesterday.”

     “We were unable to locate her for most yesterday,” said Sapp. “It wasn’t until we contacted her solicitor, Mr. James Landon, that we were finally able to get a message to her. I’ve asked her to be here at ten o’clock this morning.”

     Peugeot pulled out his turnip-shaped pocket watch.

     “Which means that she should arrive at any moment. I hope, mes amis, that I have not overly deranged your activities by having this little congrés, and I thank you all for your assistance this morning.”

     Since Richard and Mrs. Oliphant had no official standing for the upcoming interview, they prepared to leave. I chatted with Richard briefly before Miss Lime let them out. She had no sooner done so than she had to answer another buzz at the door, that of Zoë Frobisher. The slender, attractive brunette, wearing a brown tweed skirt and jacket, stepped into the sitting room followed by a tall, well-built man whose dark suit, trim moustache, and cool, efficient manner indicated he was of the legal profession. He stepped to one side of Miss Frobisher, as if placing himself protectively between her and the two police officers.

     “You must be Chief Inspector Sapp,” he said with a nod to that officer. “I’m James Landon, Miss Frobisher’s solicitor. I thought it best to be along at this meeting just so there should be no misunderstandings created by her answers to any questions you have.”

     “I see, sir,” Sapp replied blandly. “If Miss Frobisher believes she needs her solicitor along, we certainly have no objection.”

     For a moment, the lawyer’s face darkened slightly.

     “Not at all, Chief Inspector,” he replied coolly. “Miss Frobisher is anxious to assist you in any way she can, though she did not even know of any crime until yesterday afternoon and cannot imagine how she can be of any help.”

     The woman turned her intelligent brown eyes to Peugeot.

     “And you,” she said in a low, quite musical voice, “must be Henri Peugeot, that clever Belgian detective.”

     Peugeot rose and, taking her hand in one of his and bowing over it, produced and presented his card with the other hand with the ease and skill of a conjuror. His manner became suddenly very foreign.

     “Good morning, mademoiselle. You are too aimable to join us this morning. You would care for tea?”

     The corners of her mouth rose slightly, and the sensual eyes took on a glint of contemptuous amusement. Landon, watching her keenly, touched her just below the elbow, leaving his fingers there long enough for me to surmise that there was some kind of attachment between the two. She glanced at the lawyer and, when she turned back to Peugeot, her eyes were alert again.

     “Thank you, monsieur,” she replied. “Since I am unaccustomed to being interrogated by the police, perhaps some fortification would be helpful.”

     Peugeot rang for George.

     “Oh, but this is not une interrogatoire. We wish merely to know what was seen by those who attended the reception at the Frankland Hotel. Georges, if you be so kind as to bring some tea for Mademoiselle Frobisher and Monsieur Landon.”

     George, always the perfect servant, bowed and went back to the kitchen.

     “Pray be seated, mademoiselle. We shall not take much of your time.”

     She sat on the end of the sofa. Landon remained standing beside her.

     “As Mr. Landon stated, Chief Inspector,” Miss Frobisher said, “I know very little of what happened Thursday night, save that Julia and Daphne Ellsworth were in some way taken from the hotel and held against their will for a few hours. They were, I understand, released and are now back home.”

     Sapp sketched the events of Thursday, giving no great detail but indicating that police inquiries were continuing into what they believed was a serious crime.

     “It’s all very melodramatic, Chief Inspector,” Miss Frobisher commented disinterestedly, “and I’m glad the girls are unharmed, but it can have nothing to do with me. I left the reception shortly after ten-thirty, and I don’t see how I could have witnessed anything that can help you.”

     Sapp wrote a note in his book.

     “ ‘Shortly after ten-thirty’,” he repeated. He looked at her with his searching gaze. “That would have been only a few minutes after you’d had a rather unpleasant exchange with Miss Brenda Alexander, the former Lady Ellsworth, wouldn’t it?”

     “Well, yes. I did have a few words with Miss Alexander now that you mention it. What of it?”

     “In cases like this, we’ve found that sometimes the victims of the crime were not actually the targets of the revenge. That is to say, it’s possible that someone could have been attempting to get back at Miss Alexander by doing harm to her former step-daughters.”

     Both Zoë and Landon were leaning forward, alert and apparently outraged. Landon began to splutter.

     “Are you suggesting that Miss Frobisher had some… was responsible for…”

     Sapp held up a hand.

     “It’s only a theory as yet sir,” the chief inspector said calmly. “We’ve no reason to suggest anything definite yet. You certainly seem to be sensitive about it, though.”

     The policeman kept his basilisk stare on the two.

     “Damned right I’m sensitive!” thundered Landon. When he saw that all eyes, including Zoë’s were upon him he attempted to calm himself. “For Miss Frobisher’s sake, I mean. You can’t possibly be serious in intimating that she would have anything to do with something like this.”

     “I’m not some character out of an Italian opera, you know, Chief Inspector,” Zoë remarked coolly. “Brenda Alexander married a man I loved, then neglected him. I don’t like her for that, but kidnapping and threatening to kill someone else over it is hardly a measured response.”

     “Mademoiselle,” Peugeot put in soothingly, “if everyone had a sense of proportion in these matters, there would be much less crime. Unfortunately, someone in the Chief Inspector Sapp’s place sees things like this quite frequently. These are routine questions only.”

     “What you say is true, monsieur,” Zoë replied. “But my quarrel is with Brenda, not the girls. Daphne and Julia aren’t even her own daughters, though she seems quite fond of them. If I were bent on violent revenge, Brenda would be the one I’d tie and gag and throw into the river. That would be more fitting.”

     “C’est vrai, c’est vrai,” Peugeot murmured with a nod.

     “Besides,” she continued, “I wasn’t the only one there who had words with Brenda. I recall some man who’d had too much to drink making some kind of disturbance with her as I was on my way to get my coat.”

     “Yes, we know about that,” said Sapp. “Did you go home immediately after the reception?”

     Both of them looked uncomfortable. Landon looked at her, but Zoë met the eyes of the policemen then Peugeot.

     “No,” she said resolutely. “I’ve spent the last two nights as Mr. Landon’s guest.”

     “Zoë! —“ Landon began.

     “We’ve got to tell them, James,” she said calmly. “It’s no good trying to fool the police. And besides, I’m sure that the Chief Inspector will be discreet.”

     “I don’t judge anyone’s behaviour,” replied Sapp. “I need to know where your home is, sir, and if there’s anyone who can verify that you and Miss Frobisher were there yesterday.”

     “I’m afraid not,” said Landon. “You know how servants can be about such things, Chief Inspector, so I felt it would be better to give them a few days’ holiday during Zoë’s stay. My house is on Burden Gardens in Mayfair.”

     “A most unfortunate time to be so discreet, I must say, sir,” Sapp remarked dryly, as he wrote in his notebook. “We’ll do what we can to verify your story, Miss Frobisher.”

     She rose and Landon took her arm.

     “If you need us for further assistance, Chief Inspector, we’re driving down to my estate near Greenhampton immediately after luncheon. I’ll leave the telephone number with this gentleman.”

     She nodded at Inspector McAuliffe. She the turned to Peugeot.

     “It was a pleasure to meet you, M. Peugeot,” she said.

     Peugeot again took her hand and bowed.

     “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

     “A very cool one, she is,” noted Sapp after the door had closed behind them. “I don’t doubt that she’d have the nerve to do a kidnapping if she put her mind to it. Landon could fit the part of an accomplice very well too. He’s not the cold fish you’d expect a lawyer to be.”

     “No,” added McAuliffe, “though he’d be clever enough never to open his mouth during the job. But I’m inclined to believe what she said about revenge. She’d take it directly on Miss Alexander if she wanted it.”

     “I suppose that there wasn’t much point in asking about any grievances about the land purchases in Greenhampton,” I put in.

     Peugeot shook his head.

     “She would only say that the kidnapping of the women was even more out of proportion over a few acres of land. And the psychology does not seem quite right. Would she harm the children of the man she loved for land? C’est insensé!”

     “Perhaps the girls were opposed to the idea of Miss Frobisher marrying their father,” suggested Inspector McAuliffe.

     “Not as far as I know,” I said. I went on to describe what I knew of the family history as told to me by my wife. Everyone seemed to think that it was Sir Garrick’s decision never to marry again until he met Brenda.

     “Another blank,” sighed Sapp. He looked at McAuliffe. “Come on, lad. We’ve some alibis and statements to check before you have to go back to escorting Miss Daphne to the theatre tonight.”

     “A very pleasant duty, if I may say so, sir,” he replied with a smile.

     “And what of you, mon ami?” Peugeot asked me.

     “Brenda had an appointment of her own this morning, and I’m due to meet her at the Ellsworths’ home soon. Richard said that Melinda and Maggie have been visiting the girls this morning. My man Dickson’s keeping a close eye on things at home.”

     Peugeot nodded.

     “Be vigilant and diligent. I fear that the note we found this morning means that this Avenger will try to strike again very soon.”

     “It was very sweet of you to drive us home, Valerie,” said Melinda Riddle with a smile, as they climbed the stairs to the flat that she and Margaret Shaw shared.

     “Yes,” added Margaret. Looking slightly puzzled, she added, “I can’t imagine why my car wouldn’t start. It’s been running like a top lately.”

     “It’s my pleasure, girls” replied Lady Valerie Ellsworth. “And don’t worry about getting to the theatre tonight. We can pop by and pick you up when we take Daphne tonight. Everyone will think that you’re frightfully important when they see the police escort.”

     The two actresses laughed. Melinda took out her latchkey and opened the door.

     “I hope that the extra script that Daphne wanted is close to hand,” she said as she stepped inside.

     The first hint that something was wrong was when Maggie, the last one in, lost her hold on the door as she tried to swing the door shut behind her. The door closed loudly anyway. She was about to turn to see what had happened when something hard was pushed into her lower back. She gasped. Valerie heard the sound and half-turned only to have the same thing happen to her, the gun being placed higher on her back. She caught a glance of a tall figure in a camel-coloured overcoat. Melinda heard, but before she could react they heard a voice.

     “Don’t turn round, luvs,” came a woman’s voice, an old voice with strong Cockney inflections. “These guns’re real enough, yer don’t ‘ave to check, and we’d rather not use ‘em if we don’t ‘ave to. Just put yer ‘ands up, if yer please.”

     “Who are you?” demanded Melinda, raising her hands.

     The gun that had been pressing Maggie’s back moved to Melinda’s. The woman’s voice came from behind Melinda now.

     “Now don’t yer worry about that, m’ sweet. Let’s just go ter kitchen fer a friendly chat.”

     “Wh-Why are you taking us to the kitchen?” stammered Margaret as their captors herded them in that direction. The blond girl started to half-turn toward them only to have the man reach out with his free, gloved left hand and give her shoulder a shove, spinning her to face forward again.

     “Don’t try ter turn ‘round, luv,” said the woman. “Though there’s no gun in yer back, don’t fink that we couldn’t plug yer if yer tries anyfing smart.”

     Though the woman’s thick Cockney dialect was difficult to understand her tone made the meaning all too clear.

     Lady Valerie, her hands raised just above her shoulders, remained cool.

     “Let’s cooperate with them, girls,” she said to the two actresses. “After they’ve robbed us, they’ll leave quietly enough. I just hope they didn’t expect us to have too much with us.”

     “Very kind o’ yer, I’m sure, Lady Valerie,” the woman said with mock courtesy.

     Upon hearing her name, Valerie started in surprise and was just able to stop herself from turning back to the woman.

     “Surprised, luv?” the woman continued. “We knows ‘oo y’are an’ we got jus’ wot we expected ‘ere.”

     “You’re the same two who kidnapped Julia and Daphne, aren’t you?” asked Valerie.

     The woman did not reply.

     They entered the kitchen to find the table curiously laid. On one side sat a china teapot and three cups and saucers. The rest of the table’s surface was covered with coils and bundles of rope, some scarves, and several rolls of sticking-plaster.

     “What’s all this for?” demanded Melinda.

     “Jus’ thought yer might like a hot cup o’ tea,” the woman replied with amusement. “I fink yer can guess what the rest is for.”

     She turned to the man.

     “Which one should we take wiv us, luv?”

     The masked man looked from Melinda to Margaret and back. He said nothing, but reached down with his free hand and gave Melinda a gloved whack on the backside.

     “Well chosen, luv,” crowed the woman. “She’s got a nicer shape, she ‘as.”

     She jabbed her pistol two or three times into Maggie’s ribs.

     “Go ahead an’ pour, luv. We’ll see that it’s noted in the society pages ‘at yer poured fer all.”

     With a helpless glance at the others, Maggie lowered her hands and took up the teapot. When the three cups were poured, the woman spoke again.

     “All right, all. Drink up! Sorry we ‘aven’t no time fer sugar nor milk.”

     “Are you poisoning us?” asked Valerie as she picked up the cup and looked apprehensively at its contents.

     The woman slapped the man on the arm, as if in response to hearing a particularly good joke.

     “’Ear that, m’ luv? Poison! Ha! Nofin’ so dramatic, ducks. Jus’ a little somefin’ ter help yer sleep. And yer’ve got a big night ahead.”

     Melinda looked at the teacup she held. She was just about to turn in an attempt to throw it in the face of the woman when the pistol was pushed harder into her back.

     “Don’t be daft, girl,” the woman said softly. “Yer’d never make it.”

     Valerie and Maggie looked at Melinda. The shapely auburn-haired actress raised the cup to her lips and sipped.

     “ ‘At’s good, luv,” crooned the woman. “Drink it all down, girls. Won’t hurt yer a bit. Then yer can ‘ave yer coats off an’ take a seat.”

     After drinking their tea, they all removed their coats and sat in chairs at the table.

     The woman wagged her pistol at Maggie.

     “We’ll start wiv yer, luv. Let’s have yer ‘ands behind yer.” She picked up some of the rope from the table. “Cross ‘em, an’ ‘old real still now.”

     Maggie did as instructed. Seated as they were, they could see the two clearly. The man was tall and huskily built, a black balaclava helmet covered his face and his dark hat was pulled low. The woman wore the same mismatched gipsy-style outfit described by Julia and Daphne, one scarf covering her face and a headscarf over most of her long grey ringlets. The woman wore close fitting fabric gloves that allowed her fingers enough freedom to work swiftly and surely with the rope.

     The woman bound Maggie’s wrists behind her back with one cord, then used two more to secure her legs at the ankles and just above the knees. She wrapped the girl’s arms and torso several times with a longer rope, then used an even longer one to bind her to the chair. Not only were Maggie’s hands bound, they were trapped between her body and the back of the chair. As the woman knelt to secure the girl’s tied ankles to one of the chair legs; Maggie’s eyelids began to droop. Her head rolled slightly, and her chin fell upon her chest once or twice. The woman looked up to see that the other girls were beginning to feel the effects of the drug as well.

     “ ‘At’s nice, ain’t it?” she said softly. “Jus’ ‘ave a li’le nap, and yer won’t ‘ardly recognize yerselves when yer wakes up.”

     “You won’t get away with this,” Valerie mumbled.

     The woman picked up a short rope, pulled Valerie’s arms behind her and began tying her wrists.

     “Oh, yes, we will, luv,” hissed the woman. “We ‘ave yer now, an Ellsworf by marriage, it’s true, but we ‘ave yer all the same.”

     She did not take the time to bind the semiconscious Valerie completely, but picked up another cord and tied Melinda’s hands behind her back as well. She had just about finished with Melinda when Valerie began to weave in her chair. The man stepped forward and held her to prevent her from falling.

     “But I’m not an Ellsworth,” Melinda protested sleepily as the woman began binding her ankles together.

     “No, but yer a good friend o’ the family, ain’tcher? An’ ‘at’s good enough fer us. Besides,” she added with leering familiarity, “we hears that some o’ yer actress types kinda like the feel o’ the ropes.”

     For an instant Melinda’s eyes widened as her captor stood up and regarded her with hands on hips as though savouring her triumph. The actress’s dark eyes began to roll and her eyelids blinked shut several times.

     The woman bound Melinda’s legs just above the knees and picked up a long rope. Her groggy victim watched her, vainly trying to stay awake. Her mouth opened as if to protest further, only to have the woman reach down and cover it with her hand.

     “Jus’ go t’ sleep, luv,” said the woman in a lower, richer, more youthful voice.

     Melinda struggled briefly against the mouth-covering hand, then relaxed and fell back against the chair. Maggie sat slumped in her chair as well, her head leaning on her shoulder.

     “There. ‘At’s good now, ain’t it?”

     The man, still holding the unconscious Valerie between them, reached over with one hand and unfastened the top button of Melinda’s blouse.

     “Ooh, aren’t yer the naughty one!” the woman said.

     The gloved hand undid a second button then traced the lacy edge of Melinda’s brassiere and into her generous cleavage. The unconscious girl stirred slightly.

     “Oh, yer did pick well, didn’t yer, duckie? Want to ‘ave a bit o’ fun, do yer? Well, no fun ‘til they’re safely tucked away. We’ll ‘ave their clothes off soon enough.”

     She took a long rope and wrapped Melinda’s arms and body just below her bust. Another line went round her waist and forearms, pinning her arms to her back and sides. They let her slump against the back of the chair, and repeated the process with Valerie.

     “Now fer m’ favourite part,” the woman cackled. “The gags. And we’d better do blindfolds too, jus’ ter be sure.”

     They both took a scarf, wadded it, then put it in the centre of another scarf that had been folded in a long band. The wads were forced into the unresisting mouths of Valerie and Melinda, the ends knotted behind their heads, and the gags sealed with strips of sticking-plaster. The woman prepared and secured a gag for Maggie while her tall companion blindfolded the others with a scarf over the eyes followed by more sticking-plaster. While he finished with Valerie’s blindfold, the woman bound Maggie’s eyes.

     Once all three women were secured, the pair took Melinda from her chair and rolled her in a blanket large enough to cover her from head to foot. Using more rope from their dwindling supply, they bound the blanket in four places along the length of their captive’s body: at the feet, just below the waist, just above the waist, and below the shoulders. Valerie then received the same wrapping with another blanket. The woman surveyed their work with satisfaction.

     “All right. Let’s get the bigger one into the lift, then you go to the basement.”

     She opened the door to the service lift^[1] and the pair lifted the bundle containing the helpless form of Melinda Riddle into it. The woman waited as her companion cautiously left by the front door, removing the mask just before going into the hallway. Within a few minutes the lift was lowered slowly to the basement. After it had been emptied, it returned. The woman struggled to get Lady Valerie in, then lowered her also.

     The woman gathered the few remaining pieces of cord and the rolls of sticking-plaster and stuffed them into a large cloth bag. She put on Melinda Riddle’s coat, folding Valerie’s coat and her own into the bag as well. With a quick look around, she went to the door and peered out. Sure that no one was about, she removed her mask and strolled out, closing the door behind her.

     Somehow, I had to rescue them! I could just see from our position in the trench the naked forms of Julia, Daphne, and Jane Savage bound to posts in the ground. Hordes of dervishes, or perhaps Red Indians, were dancing around them. The women were straining at the ropes that held them, trying to call for help through the gags that covered their mouths. Something had to be done!

     I turned. Bobby Jones handed me a mashie-niblick.

     “This ought to do the trick, old boy,” he said in his soft Southern American drawl.

     Lord Kitchener, on the other side of me, patted my shoulder.

     “Think of England,” he said solemnly.

     “Right, sir,” I replied.

     I prepared to go to the rescue, only to have someone call my name from behind. I turned to see Sir Douglas Haig marching purposefully toward me. He was calling to me, but it seemed odd that he should address me by my Christian name and in such a high, feminine voice. Something took hold of my sleeve.

     “Allen… Allen!”

     I opened my eyes. Brenda was shaking me. I sat up with a start, trying to determine where I was. My wife smiled at me.

     “You fell asleep, darling,” she said gently.

     I looked round. I was sitting in a comfortable armchair in the library of the Ellsworth home in Knightsbridge. There was a book in my lap. I had been reading some of Richard’s new books, one on the Sudan campaign and another about the War.

     “Sorry, darling,” I replied, rubbing my eyes. “Is anything wrong?”

     Brenda looked at her wristwatch.

     “I can’t imagine where Valerie is,” she said with a slight frown. “She went to take Melinda and Maggie home over two hours ago, and we haven’t heard a word from her.”

     “Was she going to do anything else while she was out?”

     “Daphne left her script at the theatre last night, and wanted one to study this afternoon. Melinda said that she had an extra one at home, so Valerie was going bring it when she returned.”

     “Maybe they made a long search, couldn’t find it and had to go to the theatre after all,” I suggested.

     Brenda shook her head.

     “I called. They haven’t been there. I just called Melinda’s flat and there’s no answer. Richard and I are beginning to worry.”

     I rose and put the book on the table beside my chair.

     “Maybe we ought to have a look,” I said. “That business about Maggie’s car not starting and now this… Well, I’m a bit concerned myself.”

     I found Richard and Detective Sergeant Wilson, and the three of us set out at once. We were just going down the steps of the Ellsworth home when we met Mr. Purdy, who had been sent by the local garage to repair Maggie’s car.

     “All set you are, squire,” said Purdy. “Some sort o’ joke, I s’pose.”

     “Joke? What do you mean, Mr. Purdy?” asked Richard.

     “No other way t’ explain distributor wires gone.”

     “Gone? You mean, separated? Frayed?”

     The man shook his head.

     “No, sir. Gone, as in missin’.” He searched his pocket and drew out a short piece of insulated wire cut cleanly on both ends. “I found this end still on. Cut as clean as you please.”

     Sergeant Wilson took possession of the wire, and we climbed into my car with all speed. I drove to Melinda’s flat on Montague Gardens as fast as the law and traffic would allow. After taking the steps two at a time, we knocked at their door and waited anxiously, simultaneously trying to catch our breath and look for any suspicious signs. We could not see or hear anything out of the ordinary.

     I took the knob and turned it. The door swung open.

     “Melinda!” I called. “Maggie! Are you home?”

     Sergeant Wilson and Richard followed me, Richard calling for Valerie as he entered. Slowly we made our way through the sitting room to where doors led to other rooms. Sergeant Wilson gestured to Richard to take the door on the right. He and I went through the one on the left. He moved down a hallway to another room in the rear, motioning to me to head for the kitchen. There were no lights on and it was beginning to get dark. I turned to the wall where I expected to find the light switch when I heard a low moan, more a hum of some kind. Then I saw Maggie Shaw, or more properly, what appeared to be Maggie Shaw’s hair above two patches of sticking-plaster that covered most of her face. Though she appeared to be only semiconscious, she heard my footfalls and hummed weakly into the gag.

     I called for the others.

     The woman at the wheel of the car kept carefully checking to both sides and the rear as she waited in front of the corrugated metal door of the abandoned motor garage. She did not relax her vigilance, even when she the creaking of the mechanism announced that someone had begun to crank the door up. As soon as there was sufficient clearance to permit the vehicle to enter, the driver put the car in gear and crept forward past the tall male figure in the camel-coloured overcoat labouring at the crank. Once the vehicle was safely inside, the figure immediately took a long wooden pole with a metal hook at one end, fitted the hook into a wire loop on the bottom edge of the door, and pulled it back down.

     The garage was spacious concrete building, large enough for a dozen cars to be worked on at a time, though now the only other vehicle inside was an elderly, forlorn looking green Morris. There were a number of large windows that, had they been clean, might have made it a pleasant and well-lit place. But a year or more of dirt and neglect, the partial overcast, and the early darkness of November combined to cast an air of gloom and menace over the place. The only light in the place came from a small room that had been the office, not far from where the Morris was parked.

     The driver opened her door and went to the rear of the car where she was joined by her companion. They opened the boot. Two figures swathed in blankets bound with four multiple wrappings of sashcord lay within.

     “Now, ducks,” said the woman gleefully, “We gets down ter business!”

     [1] This would be similar to a dumb-waiter in the U.S.; a small pulley operated platform to lower waste cans to the basement or other heavy items between floors. – F.K.