“Shut your face!” Onslow advised.
Angry, near to panic and non-plussed by the sudden reversal in their fortunes, the two agents stood panting and glowering at their opponents. The un-dead American was grinning at them, the second man—the butler—still wearing his cleaning smock, now appeared to be answering to the name of Sandilands. What the hell? This figure collected up the discarded pistols carefully by the barrel using his duster and slid them into his capacious front pocket.
“You know, Kingstone,” he said amiably, “I really must get myself one of these garments. They cover a multitude of sinful protuberances. Speaking of which, I’ll have your bunch of keys, Mister Onslow. I’m looking forward to passing a fine-tooth comb over your upholstery. And may we also relieve you of your wallets, gentlemen?” He patted down both men with practised hand, removing their possessions. “Not much to go on. Two warrant cards of some interest, racing glasses, small change and two fivers each. A meagre haul.” The objects went into his pocket. “I’d call it a professional pre-hit strip-down. Nothing incriminating. What’s this?” He extracted a folded piece of paper from Onslow’s inside pocket and passed it to Marcus. “Take a look, will you?”
Marcus unfolded it. “It’s the racing page from the back of the Daily Mirror. Tips for today’s races. He’s drawn a circle round the four twenty-five at Manchester.” Marcus laughed. “His selection’s called “Gun Law,” apparently! Inside information or sense of humour, I wonder?” He glanced at Onslow’s stony face.
“Probably going to blow his ill-gotten gains on a horse. Huh! I’m not going to ask what my skin was worth,” was Kingstone’s cheerful comment.
“Well now. I think we should all be making tracks for home,” Marcus said. “I’ve laid on an armed escort. And we don’t want to keep the local constabulary waiting. They should be arriving at the house with the paddy-wagon any minute for the journey to Guildford nick where we have two cells reserved. Ready lads?” he called.
A dozen men and boys, from grey-beards to not-yet-shaving, all carrying shot guns and rifles, appeared soundlessly from the bushes. They stood and stared round-eyed at the scene.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Kingstone burst out laughing at the sight of them. “Is this the shooting party or is it the Merry Men?”
Marcus smiled and went to stand with the group. “Foresters all—excellent shots … birdcalls and tracking a speciality! I think, if you want a label, you can just call us the Yeomanry. Good old English word for good old English Men at Arms.”
Understanding and sharing his elation, Joe wasn’t going to quibble with the pride and the sentimentality. Half of these blokes—the older ones—had already done their bit in the last lot so that the rest—the young lads—would never have to. He stood to attention and snapped off a salute in their direction. Six of the men grinned back and their saluting arms shot up in a spontaneous and well-remembered response.
CHAPTER 20
“They shot Mister Tattie Bogal, is that what you’re telling me?” Lydia asked in disbelief.
“Lydia, I’ve explained—they thought they were shooting Cornelius. Vanessa and Juliet can always make another when they get back from school.”
“Yes, yes, Marcus! I understand that. What I can’t accept is that this pair of killers—experienced, sophisticated, the worst that London has to offer—would fail to recognise a scarecrow when they saw one. I mean, he was lovingly made and all that—a prince among scarecrows—but not even the girls would say he looked remotely human at close quarters. Certainly not to a lynx-eyed killer.”
“The point,” Joe explained kindly, “is not that we were passing off a scarecrow as the senator—too obvious for words, I agree—but that the senator was impersonating a scarecrow. We managed in the short time we had to kit them both out in more or less the same outfits down to the feet—only slippers available in two matching pairs, I’m afraid. Uncle Oswald it is who always leaves a pair behind. You have four—did you know? All in Stuart tartan. And then Cornelius stretched himself out under the tree looking like the contents of a laundry basket on a Monday morning. Finally, on a signal, he revealed himself to be who they hoped he was. Clearly and identifiably their target. Just somewhat eccentrically dressed. But this is the weekend and this is the English countryside …”
“It’s an old conjuring technique,” Marcus said. “Misdirection. Trick someone into believing he’s seeing something he isn’t. They thought they had Cornelius in their sights—and why wouldn’t they because they had—they would have absolutely no reason to think he might have been replaced by his sawdust double in the seconds they were out of sight behind the rhododendrons.”
“Weren’t you taking a risk? They could easily have shot him from a distance. From the path above,” Lydia objected.
“Yes, they certainly could. In fact, that’s what we expected—feared—they would do. They didn’t know Marcus’s three best men had rifles trained on them throughout. And I’d kept ahead of them nipping down the lakeside path. I’d taken the low road and sent them on the high. The moment they took a bead on the senator, they would have been dropped in their tracks. Not what we wanted. Court cases and suchlike best avoided. But they would have died right there in the wood. Nasty shooting accident?” Joe shuddered. “Glad we avoided that scenario! This isn’t France! Questions would have been asked.”
“Well, Marcus would have been asking them and you’d have been answering. Not such a problem, Joe.”
Joe sighed and hoped she was teasing. You never knew with Lydia.
“That was fun! Let’s do it again!” Kingstone grinned. “But—any idea where they sprang from, Sandilands? I’d really like to know who sent them. On account of—he’s still out there. Auditioning for some more effective help, maybe?”
“I’ll go over to the jail and question them,” Joe said. “It’s my guess that the one in charge—Onslow—won’t talk to us and the other will have too much to say. Most of it rubbish. I doubt if he’ll have much idea of the organisation several levels above his head.”
“What will you charge them with?” Lydia asked. “Scarecrow-slaughter? ‘I swear they shot Mister Tattie Bogal, Your Honour.’ You’ll look very silly!”
“We’ll start with trespass and impersonation of a police officer and go on with possession and use of an unauthorised firearm … intent to commit homicide … Enough to keep them on ice as long as we need. Perhaps we can get them for car theft? That big black beast must belong to someone. Did they pick it up on the street? That’ll be their story. May well be the story,” he finished dully. “Here we were, suspecting some shadowy German underground of being mixed up in this skulduggery and it could be quite simply that someone left it out in the street with the keys in. Come to think of it …” He jangled a bunch of keys. “I have the entry to the Maybach. Now I’ve got my breath back, I’ll slip out and see if I can find something incriminating in there. At the very least, the ownership documents.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Kingstone.
“Lunch in half an hour, drinks in ten minutes!” Lydia shouted after them.
AS THE TWO men passed through the front door and onto the gravel sweep, Joe paused and turned to Kingstone. “Anything you’d like me to be aware of before we delve any deeper, Senator?”
Kingstone, whose face had lost the flush of triumph and taken on a tense expression, managed to look him in the eye and reply, “Wish there were, Joe. I have imaginings. Thoughts I try to suppress. You’d despise me for wrapping them in words. I despise myself for thinking them. Let’s do this together, huh?”