Harold hurled me sideways and with a horrible clashing sound the chain hit the barred doorway. Yelling like a madman, the figure lunged at us again. This time the chain got Harold’s raised forearm. He fell, clutching his arm.
“Run, Verity!”
Perhaps I should have done, but instead I grabbed the nearest weapon – which turned out to be the saucepan – and threw it. I hit the man behind the knees. He half-turned, but by then Harold had scrambled to his feet again. He grabbed the chain, and the man just crumpled. He staggered backwards and collapsed, lying flat on his back with all the fight gone out of him.
Old, gnome-like, grimy, wearing filthy patched and tattered clothes, with boots all splitting and open at the toes, he looked worse than the most pitiful old beggar you’d see on the streets of London. Where did he get the strength to attack us?
As he lay mumbling and groaning, I became aware of a voice calling from inside the building.
It was Drucilla. “Help me! Help!”
“Where’s the key?” I asked.
The old man just stared at me blankly. “I kept ’er safe.”
“Yes,” said Harold in a slow, patient voice. “But now we have to let her out.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The man began to cry. “She’d be flown away by now if I’d let ’er out.” The tears made streaks down the dirt on his face. “I kept ’er in, I kept ’er safe.”
“But is there a key?”
“I kept ’er safe …” He was quivering like a beaten dog.
“I give up,” said Harold. “Should I bash the door in?”
“No,” I said. “Just look under the mat.”
When the door swung open, Drucilla stood there for a second or two as if stunned.
Then she did the strangest thing. She began to laugh. Laughing and crying at the same time, she half-walked and half-fell into my arms. We clung together.
She was safe. My heart felt as if it were going to burst with joy, but I too had tears streaming down my face.
“Oh, my dear girl, my dear girl …” Drucilla stroked my wet cheek. “I didn’t know what had happened to you. I thought … oh, I thought terrible things.” She turned her tear-stained face to Harold and I realised that for him, this must be bittersweet. We’d found Drucilla, but not Helen. As if she understood what he was thinking, she said, “I’m sorry, Harold. I don’t know where they took her. When I came to, she was gone. I was by myself in a dark room – I think it was a cellar – for hours. And then the red-headed man came. He tied my hands, put a sack over my head and put me on a horse. He brought me here, and Ben–”
“I brought you apples and rabbit stew.”
“You did, Ben. And a pack of cards.”
“I looked after you.”
“Yes, you did.”
Ben didn’t seem to realise that he had done something wrong. Anyone could see that he wasn’t quite right in the head.
“The man who brought her here – do you know him?” Harold asked Ben.
“No.” Ben scratched his head. “But he knew me. That’s a queer thing, isn’t it?”
“It is. Is he coming back?”
Ben nodded. “He’s going to bring me ten shillings. For the rabbits and the apples. For my trouble. Only, she weren’t no trouble. She’s a little red bird.”
“I know. I’ll get your ten shillings and bring it to you. Will you stay here, Ben, and not go anywhere else?”
“I’ll stay.” He got to his feet, poor old bag of bones that he was, and shuffled into the building. He plumped himself down on the chair. “I’ll stay right ’ere.”
“Goodbye, Ben.” Drucilla’s voice was gentle and sad.
“Let’s get you home, Miss Deane,” said Harold. “Can you walk?”
She said yes, but we took an arm each anyway. I wished I’d brought a shawl with me, for the air was turning cold and Drucilla was shivering. I looked anxiously at the sky. It was the colour of an old bruise and forked tongues of lightning flickered in the distance. The rumbles of thunder came more often as we made our way down the hill. Minute by minute, they were louder, closer. By the time we reached the phaeton, the first drops of rain were beginning to fall. Harold lifted Drucilla up into the seat, I hopped in next to her and Harold took the reins.
Before we set off on our journey home, he turned to me and clasped my hand in his.
“We did it, Verity.”
“Yes.”
Together, Harold and I had rescued Drucilla.
The rain was light but steady. We’d just turned onto the main road outside the hotel when a horseman appeared coming in our direction. He was riding fast, and shouting. A couple of men who’d been enjoying a drink under the verandah stood up to see what was going on. Was there a fire or a flood? Had Queen Victoria died? Then I heard my own name.
It was SP. With a clatter of hooves and a few swear words, he pulled up his horse and flung himself out of the saddle. His face was red, his hair slicked with sweat and rain – and he was furious.
“Verity! How dare you go off like that without telling me? And Harold, what do you mean by allowing her to–” He finally registered the third figure in the buggy. “Drucilla? Is it really you?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else?”
He came closer to the buggy. “You’re wet.”
“Well, yes, you goose. It’s raining.”
“I know that. Oh, Drucilla!”
Whether he reached up or she jumped down, it was hard to say, but she was in his arms and he was holding her like he never wanted to let her go. At that very moment, the skies opened. Lightning cracked and flashed with a terrifying yellow glare. Thunder boomed so close it was like cannon fire. Rain bucketed down and in thirty seconds flat we were all drowned rats. Did SP and Drucilla care? Did they even notice? Harold and I looked tactfully ahead into the curtain of rain.
When he finally let her go, Drucilla looked up at SP. “Yes, Saddington,” she said. “I will, Saddington. Oh …”
And she couldn’t say anything more after that. You can’t talk when you’re being kissed.