“I’ve done my part,” Ben said as frustration boiled over. “I have warned you. If you choose to disregard my warning, upon your head be it.”
“Look, I’ll advise the prime minister’s security detail to be armed and extra vigilant,” the voice said. “But if you think the PM would ever stay home like a frightened rabbit because of a threat against his life, then you don’t know Churchill.”
Ben put the receiver down and walked back to Pamela.
“Have they told the prime minister? Will they take steps?” she asked him.
“I’m not sure.” Ben sighed. “I don’t know what else to do.”
She touched his arm. “You’ve done your part. You were the one who worked out the plot against him.”
“But all of that is no use if he gets shot anyway, is it? Bloody fools. So damned complacent. What else can I do? Telephone Biggin Hill, I suppose, and go there ourselves as quickly as possible. With any luck we’ll get there before it’s too late.”
Phoebe awoke early, feeling excited and restless. It wasn’t just the garden party and her mother’s anxiety that all would go smoothly. Something else was going on. Why had Ben and Pamela left in a hurry on a motorbike right when Margot came home? She felt sorry for Pamela’s friend, brought here and then abandoned while they went off without her. And then there was the telephone call she had overheard the night before. Someone in Pah’s study making a phone call late at night. A woman’s voice, but Phoebe couldn’t hear what was being said through the thick wood of the door. Then Soames had come past, and she’d had to go up to bed. A morning ride, that’s what she needed.
She put on her jodhpurs and riding boots, grabbed her crash cap, and went down to the stables. Old Jackson was already up and about. Phoebe paused and stared up at Miss Gumble’s window. Was she already awake? Would she report that Phoebe had gone out riding without permission?
“Saddle up Snowball, please, Jackson,” Phoebe said.
“Is the master all right with you taking her out alone?” he asked.
“I’ll be good and not gallop and not jump over logs,” she said. “But she hasn’t been exercised enough lately, and she’s getting fat.”
“That’s true enough,” he agreed. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, you’ll make me walk too slowly,” she said.
He grinned. “Well, I don’t suppose any harm will come to you. You’re a grand little rider, I’ll say that for you. A credit to your family.”
Phoebe beamed and glanced up at Miss Gumble’s window again.
“You don’t need to worry about her,” Jackson said. “She went out hours ago. Off on one of them bird-watching expeditions with her binoculars round her neck.”
Phoebe mounted her pony, and they set off. Once out of sight of the house, she urged Snowball into a canter, enjoying the feel of the early-morning breeze in her face. She hoped she might meet Alfie in the fields, but there was no sign of him. She directed Snowball closer to the woods and the gamekeeper’s lodge, but again saw nothing. She was on a bridle path through a stand of trees when she heard the sound of a motor vehicle driving up the track beyond a thick stand of rhododendron bushes. It didn’t sound like a big army lorry, and she tried to get a glimpse of it, but the shrubbery was too thick. She heard the motor stop. Then she heard a voice.
“You got my message, then?”
It was low, hardly more than a whisper, but clearly a woman’s.
“What’s wrong?” This time a man’s voice.
“I can’t go through with it.”
“You have to. It’s all planned. You can’t back out now.”
“But I can’t do it.”
“You have to. Obviously, I can’t do it now, so it’s up to you. You agreed.”
“Please don’t ask me to do this.”
“You know the consequences if you don’t see it through.”
Phoebe thought she heard a sob. The voice dropped to a mutter. Phoebe wanted to urge the horse forward but was scared that the chinking of the bit would give her away.
Then she heard clearly. “Here’s the gun. Already loaded. Take it. Don’t let us down.”
Then a car door shut, and she heard the sound of an engine reversing. She looked for a way through the bushes, but the undergrowth was too thick to take a pony through. By the time she had found a way around, the track was deserted and only tyre marks indicated that the scene had just happened.
Phoebe’s heart was racing. She had enjoyed her sleuthing and spycatching with Alfie, but that had been more of a game than anything. Now a loaded gun had been passed from one person to another. And that person was frightened. Who were they, and what were they doing meeting at Farleigh? She needed to tell somebody. If she went to Pah, he probably wouldn’t believe her. Mah wouldn’t be interested. She could have told Pamma, but she was away. And Miss Gumble was out bird-watching for the day. What did it say on that poster with the seven rules on it? Report anything suspicious to the authorities. That, likely, meant the village constable. She didn’t think he was very bright, but he could at least pass the information along to the right people.
She had to find Alfie and tell him. He’d believe her. She rode back to the gamekeeper’s lodge, dismounted, and tied Snowball’s bridle to a tree branch. Mrs. Robbins looked uneasy and embarrassed as she opened the door.
“Oh, your ladyship, is something the matter? Mr. Robbins was having a bit of a lie-in this morning. He’s still in his nightclothes, and we’re not really ready to receive visitors.”
“I’m sorry, but is Alfie awake? I’d like a word with him,” Phoebe said.
“He’s in the kitchen, having his breakfast. I’ll go and get him for you,” she said.
Phoebe waited, and soon Alfie appeared, wiping his mouth. “Smashing porridge she makes. She’s a good cook all right.” He grinned. “What’s up? You look worried.”
“I am worried,” Phoebe said. “I don’t quite know what to do. I was out riding, and I heard a car driving up that old track behind the rhododendrons, and then I heard voices. One was a woman and she was frightened, and the man said she had to do something and gave her a loaded gun.”
“Blimey,” Alfie said. “Who was it?”
“That’s the problem. I was on Snowball, and the bushes are so thick there. By the time I found a way around, they’d both gone. So what do you think we should do?”
“Tell your dad, of course.”
“I suppose so. But he’d think I misheard or was making it up. I was wondering whether we should go to Constable Jarvis.”
“Him? He’s as thick as a plank.” Alfie looked scornful.
“But he is the authorities, isn’t he? My father probably wouldn’t believe me, and my mother wouldn’t listen, and Pamma’s away.”
Alfie nodded. “All right. We’ll go and see Constable Jarvis. But let me finish my breakfast first.”
“Alfie, this is urgent,” Phoebe said. “Get dressed. I’ll take Snowball back to the stables and meet you down here in half an hour.”
She urged Snowball into a reluctant canter all the way back, swung herself down, and handed over the pony to the groom.
“Is Miss Gumble back yet?” she asked.
“Ain’t seen hide nor hair of her, your ladyship,” the groom said.
“Oh.” The thought had just come to Phoebe that Miss Gumble would be the right person to tell. She would take Phoebe seriously and know the right thing to do. But as she walked up the steps into the house, another horrifying thought struck her. Ben Cresswell had been suspicious about Miss Gumble, hadn’t he? He’d asked about her telescope and her papers. And Ben was a level-headed sort of chap, and he and Pamela had gone off somewhere in a hurry. That meant something was going on. Phoebe revised her plan. Perhaps she should go down to the vicarage and see if he had come back. If not, she’d write a note for him. He and Pamma would have to be back before the garden party at the very least. If anyone knew what to do, it would be Ben.