This story copyright © 2002, 2003, 2004 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and Scarecrow and Mrs. King and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
[an error occurred while processing this directive] people have read this story since April 2004
Many thanks to Pat for correcting my French and offering some other useful advice!
Steed Feels the Pressure Mounting
Emma Goes for a Ride
Chapter 4
Although
the château was only a half-hour away, Steed and Emma departed the hotel at
dawn in order to meet Steed's friend and prepare the horse. For privacy, the
friend had identified a pasture on the outskirts of a tiny village a mile or
two from the château. They found it easily and parked on a dirt farm road to
wait. The sun was just beginning to burn off a pre-dawn mist. And the air
smelled fresh and moist. Emma got out and leaned against the car, watching four
cows chew on the grass in the pasture. Steed joined her, standing comfortably
close. He was alternately thrilled and terrified by the level of intimacy they
shared. Although she had protested the idea, he knew that in order to be with
her he would have to change his lifestyle. The most disturbing part of it was
that he wanted to. When he imagined himself managing field agents and coming
home to evenings with Emma, he didn't recoil from the image. He craved it.
"I don't
suppose these cows are fed Agricultural Technologies products," she said,
interrupting his train of thought. He looked at the French cows, which looked a
great deal like every English cow he'd ever seen.
The sound
of a truck motor rumbled through the morning calm and they turned to see a
truck towing a horse trailer. The vehicle stopped beside the pasture and a man
got out of the truck. Steed and Emma walked toward him, meeting him at the back
of the trailer.
"Good
morning, Gérard. Thank you again for this," Steed said, shaking the man's hand.
Gérard was a wiry fellow, wearing twill trousers and a threadbare cardigan, his
head topped by an equally worn beret. Steed introduced him to Emma, who found
his handshake remarkably strong.
"It is my
pleasure, Steed," Gérard said, sliding the bolt on the door of the trailer. "It
was a pleasant change to be up and out before madam arose." He chuckled to
himself, and Steed and Emma exchanged a startled glance. Then Gérard slid a
ramp out of the floor of the trailer and climbed inside. The rump of a big bay,
nearly black tail done up in a tight queue, soon backed toward Steed and Emma.
Steed stepped aside, but Emma put her hand on the animal's rump, then his back
as he stepped trustingly down the ramp.
Gérard
emerged at the horse's head and Emma saw him slip a bit of carrot into its
mouth as he spoke softly near its ear. Then the Frenchman turned to Emma.
"This is
Shallot," he said. "He's four years old and loves the chase. Steed says you're
a good rider," he paused, waiting, so she nodded.
"I've
ridden all my life, Monsieur Gérard," she stepped closer to Shallot's head and
reached up to rub behind the horse's ear, "I'm sure Shallot and I will get
along fine."
Gérard
handed her the lead rope and stepped aside, allowing her to step in front of
the horse and look him in the eye. Shallot raised his head and snorted at her.
Unflinching at the misty horse breath, she cupped her hand under Shallot's chin
and blew gently into his nostrils. He snorted again.
"Well,
Mrs. Peel?" Steed asked, "is he acceptable?"
Emma
flashed a bright smile at Gérard, the Frenchman nodding at her. "He's lovely,
Monsieur Gérard," she said, noting Steed's approving nod.
Gérard
patted Shallot's withers and turned to Steed, "Your Mrs. Peel is indeed a
horsewoman. And Shallot appreciates good manners, Mrs. Peel. Here," he extended
his closed hand and she reached out and took another chunk of carrot, palming
it to conceal it from Shallot. Then she stepped away from him, tugging on his
lead rope.
"Come on,
Shallot let's see you move," she said, tugging again. The horse followed her as
she led him along the dirt road a few yards, then came back. She stroked him,
spoke encouragingly, and then gave him the carrot. He chewed, bobbing his head
up and down, then rubbed the top of his head against her chest. She laughed.
"Lucky
horse," Steed said as the horse nuzzled at her.
"Steed!"
Gérard
and Emma put saddle and bridle on Shallot, with Gérard making admiring noises
as he helped cinch up the saddle girth. Then they left Steed holding Shallot
while Gérard showed Emma the riding clothes he'd brought, which belonged, he
said, to his three daughters. Although Steed had been fairly specific about
sizes, he'd brought an assortment. Emma took a few moments inside the horse
trailer to change into a suitable outfit. The boots, which she'd been most
concerned about, were almost as comfortable as her own. Satisfied that his
horse was in good hands, and with an arrangement to meet them in the same spot
late that afternoon, Gérard drove off.
"It's
nearly eight," Emma said, "I'd better get to the château ."
Steed
stood beside her stirrup, one hand on her thigh, the other on Shallot's neck.
"Please ride carefully," he said. She covered his hand with her own and gave it
a squeeze.
"I always
do, Steed. I'll see you at the party."
Emma had
been concerned that her arrival on horseback would draw attention, but as she
approached the long drive she saw other riders converging on the château . At the end of the drive a car park
was crowded with horse vans. She wondered absently whether they belonged to the
hunt elite or just early arrivers.
She could
hear the baying of the famous hound pack from across the car park, and as she
got closer she realized that a vast outbuilding complex housed the kennels. She
followed other riders across a wooden bridge over a moat and past the kennels
into the hunting crowd. More than a dozen horses and riders milled around on a
gravely area outside of a stable building. Formal gardens lay between them and
the house itself.
She
walked Shallot around the outskirts of the crowd assessing the participants.
She identified all of the usual types -- old sportsmen, wild young men,
horsewomen, and non-horsewomen here for the wild young men. She spotted three
women who fit the description Steed had given her of Pauline. Nobody seemed to
be the center of attention, so she surmised that Francois De Courcelles was not
yet present. The other element missing from the crowd was protestors. Not a
single "Ban Blood Sport" banner was in evidence.
"Pardon,
madam," a high pitched voice called out, drawing her attention to the ground to
her left. A small man dressed as a hunt official, curls of bright red hair
peeking out from beneath his hat, stood there with a clipboard and pen.
"Oui?"
"Have you
checked in?" he asked, switching to English, based, she supposed, on her accent
-- since her horse, costume, and tack were all French.
"Not
yet," she replied. I'm Lady Emma Peel. Guest of -- ."
"Oh yes,
Lady Emma. Welcome to Champchevrier," he waved toward a boy standing nearby
with a bag slung across his shoulders. The boy came over, reaching into the
bag. He pulled out an envelope and handed it up to Emma. "These are the rules
and area map, and the social schedule. You will start with the main group. Have
a good hunt."
Emma
walked Shallot away from the milling crowd, keeping him on the gravel to avoid
grass nibbling, and opened the envelope. She was delighted to find a list of
organizers that included Monsieur De Courcelles and Mademoiselle Pauline
Duchamp -- doubtlessly Steed's new friend. She examined the map, noting that it
was entirely contained on De Courcelles lands -- no need to get permission from
the neighboring farms.
As she
tucked the envelope inside her coat the master of the hunt sounded his horn.
Shallot's ears pricked up, swiveling toward the sound, then back at his rider.
Emma touched her heels to his sides and guided him toward the main group.
A dozen
riders milled about, twice that many dogs mixing perilously with the horses'
hooves. At the far edge of the group, the master sounded his horn again and
started off at a trot. The hounds immediately sorted themselves out from among
the horses and moved ahead of the master. The riders followed, their pace
picking up to follow the pack.
They
crossed the moat by another wooden bridge behind the stables and set off at an
easy canter across a grassy meadow. Emma worked her way to the front of the
group until she was riding near Francois De Courcelles. He had a good seat, but
kept a tighter hold on the reins than his horse liked. He glanced her way and
smiled a greeting. The hounds had not yet scented a fox when they came to the
first gate. They all slowed to a walk while an official rode forward to open it.
"Good
morning. I am Francois De Courcelles," her host said as their horses walked
side-by-side.
"Lady
Emma Peel. And a fine morning it is."
"Welcome
to Champchevrier, my lady. I hope you find our hunt exciting."
"I'm
confident that I shall."
"Do you
ride often?"
"As often
as I can, which is not enough I'm afraid. I am delighted to be included today."
"It is my
pleasure, madam. I hope you will do me the honor of a drink after the hunt?"
"That
will be my pleasure, Monsieur De Courcelles."
"After you,
then, madam," he waved her through the open gate ahead of him. She pressed
Shallot through and let him lengthen his stride to a canter behind the
wide-ranging dogs.
Steed was
surprised to find a public telephone in the tiny village, mounted on a wall outside
the post office. He rang through to the ministry's office in Paris and asked
for Miss King.
"Steed,
where are you?" her voice came on the line without greeting. "You've left your
hotel."
"I had a
breakthrough, so we've decamped to the Loire. How long can you hold on to our
man in black?"
"French
Immigration is interested in his visa situation," Tara replied, her tone
suggesting that the real French officials had never heard of the prisoner.
"Fine. We
may be back this evening. I'll contact you. Do you have anything for me from
London?"
"Yes,
analysis of a compound you left with them," Steed could hear paper shuffling as
Tara paused. "Here it is. Vitamins, glycerin, oh, now that's nasty -- ."
"What is
it?" Steed interrupted impatiently.
"A genetically
altered virus."
"Pardon?"
"It says
someone tinkered with a rather uncommon virus, made it more virulent and
resilient -- it's nearly indestructible and it affects both animals and humans."
"Drives
them to madness and violence," Steed said.
"Yes. And
in a very short time it kills them."
Steed
took a moment to digest this information.
"Steed,
is there more of this stuff on its way to Britain?" Tara asked.
"I don't
know, but I aim to find out presently. I'll get in touch this evening," he
started to hang up the receiver, but her voice carried thinly to him.
"Steed,
tell me where you are, just in case. That is procedure, you know."
"We're at
De Courcelles's château ,
Champchevrier."
Steed
located a farm road near the château were he parked the car, then he walked
back to the main road and onto the château grounds through the car park. He
disregarded the ticket office, where a sign informed him that the château was
closed for tours today, and headed toward the kennel. The hunt had just moved out,
the hunting pack's distant call answered by those left behind baying excitedly.
The
château grounds had very little cover, so Steed fell into his most determined
stride and set out across it toward what appeared to be the stables, which were
attached to a long wing of the château
. A few other people were moving around the grounds, but none of them
were nearby, and none took notice of him. He paused to listen at the stable
door, then, hearing nothing that sounded human, slipped inside.
The dozen
stalls were occupied by just two horses, looking somewhat forlorn at being left
behind. One of them, Steed supposed, was Pauline's second horse. Steed made his
way to a door at the end of the stable that was connected to the château . It was not locked, and he slipped
through into another stable. Here the stalls were occupied by automobiles.
Steed did not allow himself to stop and admire the little Austin Martin or the
lovely Bentley, let alone the Jaguar and Mercedes Benz. He did stop short at
the last car stored here: a Mini, it's paint so oxidized he couldn't tell what
color it once had been.
"Hang in
there, old girl," he said, glancing back along the row of sophisticated
machines, then back at the Mini.
Another
door lead from the garage to the next chamber. Steed slipped through it
expecting still more storage. It was, but of a new sort. The large room housed
an eclectic collection of vehicles, each with a small sign describing it. He
moved gracefully between a carriage and a rigged daysailor on a trailer and
past a big old Rolls Royce touring car toward a pair of curved staircases at
the end of the room. The staircases framed a door at ground level and led up to
a landing with a door at a higher level. Steed was about to head up one of the
staircases when something thunked, followed by a creak. He ducked behind the
Rolls.
Two men
wearing coveralls had come in through an outside door. They closed and locked
it, then made their way through the vehicles to the lower door.
Steed
counted to ten then followed them through the door.
He found
himself in the kitchen. Not a modern, industrial kitchen, but a facility used
in the château for perhaps the last fifty years, in a space that could well
have been the kitchen for a hundred years or more. A door in the far wall was
open revealing stairs leading down. Mechanical sounds drifted from it.
Steed
crept down the stairs and into a large chamber filled with stainless steel
casks connected by hoses to spigots on mechanical devices. There was no sign of
the two men he'd followed. A conveyor belt system carried large canisters like
the ones Steed and Emma had seen at Twill and Merchant. Each canister received
a portion from each cask then moved through an opening to another room.
Steed
followed using a human size door.
The
canisters received one last ingredient, this one delivered by a device that
sealed around the top of the container. The final step was, to Steed's
surprise, handled by people, who took the canister from the last device and
screwed on a lid. Steed stepped back into the other room before he was seen, or
so he thought.
Something
large and heavy slammed into the back of his neck, dropping him to the floor.
Dazed, he still managed to role onto his back, dodging the canister that was
about to slam into him again.
"Didier!"
the shout came from a great distance. The canister paused mid-air. Steed
started to inch away, his consciousness slipping as well.
Hands
grabbed him under the arms and began to drag him, and he blacked out.