The Ghost at the Point (16 page)

“Can’t go any faster,” snapped Dorrie. It was as though they were in some kind of peculiar one-legged, four-footed race.

The strange procession reached the back of the shed a second before the motor came around the last bend. Its headlamps swept over the roadster, house and verandah. Meanwhile, Mr Crickle shone the torch on the thick bushes in front of them.

“There,” he hissed, “behind that bush – hurry!”

When the parcel had been shoved thither, it was unceremoniously pushed to the ground and sat upon.

“Oooff!” Mrs Crickle sat on Dorrie, Mr Crickle on Alonso.

Dorrie could barely breathe under the weight; she felt as though her ribs would crack. And from the gasps and curses coming from next to her, she guessed Alonso was feeling the same.

“
S-sssh
!” came the horrible hiss, as the torch was switched off. She flinched as the tip of the knife pricked under her chin. “Not a sound, or you
will
be fish food.” The knife was removed, and a similar movement from Alonso told her that he was getting the same treatment.

Dorrie lay there, heart pounding, ears trying to hear to the voices on the drive. The newcomers had immediately spotted the Crickle mobile.

“Who the devil does this belong to?”

Dorrie recognised the gruff tones of Sergeant Tonks.

“I dunno,” came the reply, more faintly, “but I don’t like the look of it … I’m going to check in her room.”

That voice brought tears to Dorrie’s eyes. It was Mr Jennings. His voice had none of its usual good cheer – he sounded worried.

“Dorrie!” he yelled. “
Dor-rie
.”

How she longed to yell back! They must have come at this hour to surprise her, she thought, to make sure they’d catch her.

Their search, of course, yielded nothing.

“Only the cat,” she heard Mr Jennings say, “shut up in her room. Dorrie must have got up in the night – when whoever owns this car arrived.”

Dorrie imagined Poppy’s fury at being trapped, with all the strange noises going on.

“Let’s head down the beach,” suggested the sergeant.

Their footsteps came closer towards the top of the path. She saw the glow of torches through the bush.

“I’ll check the shed,” said Mr Jennings. Dorrie heard the bolt being pulled out and the door squeak. She wriggled in frustration, wondering if she could risk crying out. But then a fat, sweaty hand clamped over her mouth, and she practically gagged. She was tempted to bite it, if only the tip of the knife wasn’t jabbing in her ribs. Her shoulder had gone numb from the weight of the mountainous Mrs Crickle, who was wheezing nervously.

“That’s odd,” came Mr Jennings’s voice. “There’s a hole in the wall – here at the side. Seems like the tin’s been removed.”

“Where?”

She heard the two men examining it. Desperately, Dorrie willed them to come around a bit further into the bushes behind the shed. They didn’t.

But somebody else did.

There was a low growling and then a hiss. Next thing, Mr Crickle’s boot shot out, just missing the dark shape of Poppy. Dorrie felt a familiar brush of fur on her cheek as her cat flashed past.

Mrs Crickle gave a muffled squeak of fright.

“What was that?” the sergeant asked.

“What?”

“Thought I heard a noise.”

There was silence, as the two men listened. The knife poked harder into Dorrie’s ribs. Surely they can hear my heart pounding, she thought.

“Must’ve been a possum,” said Sergeant Tonks, finally. “Come on, let’s search the beach.”

And off they went, still calling.

Tears of frustration and fury ran down Dorrie’s cheeks.

“Now, sit tight – not a word,” hissed Mr Crickle.

“But–” started Mrs Crickle, shifting slightly. Dorrie gasped again.

“That includes you, Mavis-ss!”

Five minutes later the two men were back again, discussing what to do next.

“Jasper’s Cove’s our best bet,” said the sergeant. “Rustle up a search party and scour the bush. We’ll doorknock. You take one side of town, I’ll take the other. Shouldn’t take us long to organise some men.”

“Righto – let’s get going.”

Footsteps receded, car doors slammed and the motor chugged off. And the fainter it got, the further Dorrie’s spirits sank.

The only good thing was that the Crickles stood up, and off their human seats.

Alonso and Dorrie gasped with relief. The numb parts of Dorrie ached as the blood rushed back into them.

“Let’s get out of here, Edmund,” said Mrs Crickle, clutching her husband. “Forget about all this treasure nonsense.”

Mr Crickle scowled at her, once again shaking her off. “Not on your nelly! We haven’t come this far only to scurry off like a couple of timid mice.”

“But–”

“You’re going to get caught, y’know,” cried Dorrie. She glared up at them. “How d’you think you’re going to get your motor car off the island?”

“My dear child.” Mr Crickle smiled his oiliest non-smile at her. “We won’t need it. With what
we’re
about to dig up, we’ll be able to buy ten vehicles-ss!”

“Some of them Rolls Royces,” added his wife, momentarily brightening. She clasped her fat hands to her bosom. “We’ll be spending summers in Monte Carlo and winters in gay Paree, won’t we, Edmund?”

“Hmmm,” said her husband. “We’ll see.”

Once again, Dorrie almost laughed. The image of Mr and Mrs Crickle mixing with the royalty and millionaires of Europe was, to say the least, hilarious.

“Edmund, you
promised
!” Mrs Crinkle said.

Mr Crickle frowned and swung around to the bundled prisoners, poking them with the knife. “Now, come along.”

But Mrs Crickle was not to be distracted. “Edmund Crickle,” she cried. “If you think I spent months of my life buttering up that old bag and going to stupid meetings and being seasick on that horrid boat and tramping about this godforsaken hole in the middle of the night while these little brats tried to scare the living daylights out of us,
without
the promise of the Riviera at the end of it …” She stopped with a gasp – the combination of her fury and her weight having got the better of her. “… Or at least
something
better,” she continued, “than sitting at home all day with you and your horrid stamp collection.”

What an awful thought! Dorrie suddenly felt almost sorry for her.

Mr Crickle glared at Mrs Crickle as though he’d like to jab
her
with the knife, but instead he took a deep breath. Appeasement was the best policy at this point.

“Yes dear, yes dear.” He patted her, not so gently, on the back. “It’ll all be grand, I’m sure. Now,” he said, “let’s get cracking! They won’t be back for at least an hour, and by that time we’ll be gone. It’s getting light – we’ll be able to get our bearings better.” Faint streaks of sunlight were appearing in the eastern sky.

Mrs Crickle turned to Dorrie and Alonso. “What are we going to do with them?”

Mr Crickle’s lip curled. “We’ll decide when we go. Can’t have them blabbing to the authorities-ss, can we now?”

Dorrie glared back at Crickle, but fear moved in her stomach like a snake. Alonso’s eyes were flashing daggers, as though he was about to spit.

“Come on, get up!” Knife in one hand, Mr Crickle hauled at the net with the other. Dorrie and Alonso staggered up awkwardly and stood there swaying and wobbling on their still-numb feet. “Can’t leave them here to wriggle free. We’ll tie them to something up at the house.”

And so the net parcel once again started its slow, painful shuffle, prodded and poked and hurried along by its captors.

“Come on, come
on
,” cried Mr Crickle, jabbing Alonso in the backside. “We haven’t got all night.”

There was an enormous wobble – Mrs Crickle had tripped, nearly pulling them all down again.

“Ow!” she shrieked. “What the devil?”

“Dratted cat,” roared Mr Crickle. He kicked out at Poppy again, who had shot between his wife’s legs. “Go on – git!”

Dorrie snorted, and Alonso called out something that was obviously words of encouragement to the valiant little cat. They stood there, unsteady, as Mr Crickle glared around in the darkness for his furry adversary.

The bundle shuffled on.

“Why don’t we tie ’em to the bumper bar?” wheezed Mrs Crickle as the dark shape of the roadster loomed up.

All at once there was an almighty roar – human crossed with lion – and a huge dark shape rushed out at them from behind the car. Mrs Crickle shrieked, but the shape had already grabbed her and her open-mouthed husband by the scruffs of their necks. It held them there, helpless, almost dangling.

“What d’you think you’re doing with my friends, eh?” cried Jacky, giving them a little shake.

“Jacky!” cried Dorrie. Tears filled her eyes again. “Oh, Jacky – thank you.”

“Jack-ee!” shouted Alonso at the same time.

“Unhand us, ruffian,” gasped Mr Crickle, to no avail.

“We seen your lights, Dorrie,” said Jacky, proudly. “Dad ’n me. When we was out gar fishin’, after the moon went in. We rowed round, lickety-split.”

Caleb came puffing up behind Jacky from the back beach. He squinted at the children in their net parcel and the Crickles in their Jacky-hold. “Didn’t like the look of yer the first time – there on the road,” he growled. “Knew yer were up to no good.”

In the gathering light, they could see that Mrs Crickle’s face had gone a shade of tomato. “I told you, Edmund,” she yelled, “we should’ve left when the going was good. But,
oh no
, as usual you wouldn’t listen.”

Mr Crickle’s face was even redder as it swung around to her. “Shut up, you fat cow!”

Dorrie and Alonso burst out laughing.

Mrs Crickle was speechless; her mouth flapped open and shut like a landed fish. “Well,” she got out finally. “Well!”

Caleb turned to Dorrie and Alonso. “Let’s get you untied,” he said, his gnarled fingers struggling with a knot. “So you were right about Dorrie’s friend, after all,” he grunted to Jacky.

“Yep,” said his son, beaming. “His name’s Alonso.”

Caleb managed to untie the big knot in front, which freed Dorrie’s and Alonso’s arms. He glared at the Crickles. “Righto, let’s give these two a taste of their own medicine.”

And so the rope and netting were unwound, then retied around the protesting couple, while Dorrie explained what had been going on. But not before Alonso had spied the crinkled, yellowed piece of paper sticking out of Mr Crickle’s pocket. He plucked it out, and waved it in the air.

Dorrie clapped her hands with glee. “Just what we need.”

“I beg your pardon,” cried Mr Crickle, his face twisting behind the netting, “that’s our property.”

“It’s stolen property, actually,” said Dorrie, coldly. “Taken from my great-aunt.”

“She wasn’t needing it,” said Mrs Crickle, lunging towards Dorrie. Her husband cursed and staggered, almost overbalancing. “What would she do with all the money?” Mrs Crickle went on. “That old woman wouldn’t know the first thing about sophistication and glamour.”

“Mavis,” spluttered Mr Crickle. It seened as though the top of his head was about to blow off. “Shut – your – trap!”

Dorrie laughed. “Oh, yes, and I suppose you know
all
about it?” She wasn’t cruel enough to add, “Being so sophisticated and glamorous yourself!” Instead, she sighed exaggeratedly. “I guess Paris and Monte Carlo are going to have to wait.”

“For quite a while, I’d say,” said Caleb.

“What a surprise for Sergeant Tonks when he gets back,” Dorrie added cheerfully.

There were more snarls and rumbles from the Crickle bundle, which was promptly shuffled into the end bedroom. There, it was tied securely to the bedstead, as Dorrie had been earlier.

Caleb fetched a chair and sat outside the door.

“Think I’ll keep a watch here, till the seargent gets back.”

“Well,” said Dorrie to Alonso and Jacky, “what’ll we do to fill in the time?”

Alonso and Dorrie glanced at the map, still clutched in Alonso’s hand.

“I think,” she said, “a little scouting for
treasure
might be in order.”

Alonso didn’t need her to mime any digging. “
¡Sí!
” He grinned, holding the map aloft. “
Tre-sor
.”

It was amazing, she thought, how quickly he was starting to pick up words.

“Treasure!” cried Jacky, delightedly. “Is there treasure?”

“Maybe,” said Dorrie. “Come on, let’s go.”

On the way past the bedroom window, she couldn’t resist leaning in. “Hey, Crickles,” she called. “Thanks
so
much for bringing the map – awfully kind of you.”

The noises that came back sounded as though they came from a pigsty. Even though she wouldn’t want to insult pigs.