The Stampedes

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!

The Stampedes

Steed Feels the Pressure Mounting

Emma Goes for a Ride

Chapter 7

Emma put Steed's Bentley in reverse and eased up on the clutch. The big, old car bucked backward out of the garage. She simultaneously depressed the clutch and slammed on the breaks, stopping the car halfway into the alley. Blowing a wisp of hair off her forehead, she repeated the process, releasing the clutch much more slowly and depressing the throttle much harder. The engine raced as the car eased backward. She cut the wheel to the right and the car swung out into the alley. Engaging the handbrake, she hopped out and went to close the garage door.

Much as she enjoyed riding in the Bentley with Steed, it handled like a truck compared to her Lotus, so driving it was not much fun. But it was the only vehicle available to her at the moment, short of taxis or the tube, and she wanted the flexibility of a private car. It also was remarkably comforting -- Steed's confidence seemed to emanate from the upholstery.

Emma had slept later than she'd intended, awakening to the ring of the telephone at a few minutes before nine a.m. The call was from the Ministry. Mother wanted her. She didn't even bother to wonder how they'd guessed where to find her.

A warm shower had revived her enough to realize that she simply could not face yesterday's underclothes. Wrapped in Steed's bathrobe, she plunged into the upper drawers of his antique dresser. Reaching under several pairs of snowy white briefs, she felt something silkier. She grasped the soft fabric and pulled it out from underneath the more utilitarian garments. A grin lit her face as she held up black silk boxers.

"You devil," she muttered to her absent lover, then stepped into the shorts, which barely clung to her slender hips. They were not the best fit, but once they were on, she would not consider removing them. On an impulse, she picked up a bottle of his cologne and applied a touch behind each ear. Still smiling, she finished dressing in her own clothes.

The temperature had dropped overnight. She looked through the downstairs closet, pulling out a thick, dark grey wool greatcoat. She wrapped herself in it, cinching the belt around her waist, and took an umbrella from the stand by the door. She'd been out of the flat by half-nine.

"Lady Emma," Mother rolled toward her behind the agents already seated at the long conference table. "So good to see you again -- I'm sorry about the circumstances."

"I am too, Mother," Emma replied.

"We're all here to put our heads together. Please have a seat and we'll begin," Mother said, pivoting around and rolling back toward his place at the head of the table. Emma followed, taking the only empty seat, on his right. "First, Lady Emma will present the background," he said.

Emma's brows shot up in surprise. Nobody had warned her that he'd be calling on her. She would have concentrated on a summary while driving. Someone slid a stack of folders toward her. She opened the top one and found herself staring at Charles De Courcelles. As good a place to start as any, she thought.

Once started, her summary flowed easily. She began to remember the types of details the other agents would want, and out of habit omitted things she knew they would find distracting like Shallot's name and her saddle purchase.

She concluded with her departure from Paris last night. The other agents were not shy with questions, and began pelting them at her the moment she stopped speaking. Mother watched and listened in silence, a small smile on his face. Emma fielded each question with a concise answer, sometimes leafing through the files to locate photographs or documents. She was impressed with the files -- Ministry researchers had been very busy over the last two days collecting information about feedlots, distribution of animal feeds and additives, and animal viruses. One of the most interesting items in the file was the profile of Pauline Duchamp. She was a geneticist employed by a French agricultural firm -- not Agricultural Technologies. She specialized in animal diseases. There was little doubt in Emma's mind that Miss Duchamp was behind what the Ministry had dubbed the "mad cow virus."

Emma set aside the profile and picked up the biochemists' report on the virus as Mother carried on with the meeting.

"Your top priority is locating the truck carrying the canisters and Steed," he said.

"Excuse me, Mother," a dark suited, anonymous looking agent stood in the open door, a telephone in his hand.

"Yes?" Mother peered up at him from across the room. The rest of the agents swiveled their heads toward him as well, putting Emma in mind of a tennis match.

"Miss King is on the line. She has an update."

"Very well. Put her on a speaker," Mother grumbled, watching as the agent brought in the telephone and plugged it into a socket mounted in the table. He pressed a button on the phone.

"Go ahead, Miss King," he said, then stepped away from the table and left the room. Tara's voice crackled from several speakers mounted on the walls.

"Mother? Who else is in the meeting?" she asked.

"Good morning Tara," Mother replied, "Lady Emma has just finished her report. The rest of the team is here -- too numerous to list. Go ahead with your report."

"Please forgive the poor connection, I'm on a pay telephone at a gas station. The Agricultural Technologies truck has been found in Brittany."

A murmur in the room drowned out the next thing she said. Emma craned her head toward the telephone, forgetting that the sound was coming from the walls. Mother shushed the other agents.

". . . didn't trust the French authorities to handle it properly, so I'm bringing a team to it." Emma's fists clutched the arms of her chair. She glanced at Mother, silently appealing to him to ask Tara to repeat herself. What doesn't she trust them to handle? Please don't let there be a body.

"Can you repeat that last, Tara?" Mother asked, nodding at Emma. She forced herself to sit back in her chair.

"The truck has been unloaded, it's empty. I don't trust the French authorities to analyze the scene -- we need to look for tyre tracks and witnesses. Someone must have seen them offloading all those canisters into another vehicle," Tara said. Emma drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Or multiple other vehicles," she said suddenly, glancing at Mother, then back at the phone, which helped her picture Tara standing at a phone in some dingy French gas station.

"Yes, you're right, Emma," Tara replied. "They could have split the shipment. It may have multiple destinations." Emma caught Mother's surprised look at Tara's familiar use of her first name, and smiled inwardly. You don't know everything, you old crow.

"That doesn't fit with what I overheard at the château," Emma replied and noticed a couple of the agents nodding -- they'd been paying attention, then. "The man with De Courcelles said the shipment would get to the feedlot -- singular -- in time for the banquet -- also singular."

"Yes, the banquet . . ." Mother said thoughtfully.

"I need to get moving," Tara said. I'll report again when we reach the scene."

"Thank you, Tara," Emma said, seeing that Mother was lost in thought. He jerked to attention as a loud click indicated that Tara had rung off. He turned his piercing gaze on Emma, clearly annoyed at her usurpation of his role. She cocked one eyebrow at him and shrugged ever so slightly. She was certain that he was committed to stopping the virus from being delivered, and coincidentally rescuing Steed. But her priorities were the reverse, and she would not hesitate to drive the investigation if necessary in order to recover Steed -- alive. She doubted Mother was threatened by her -- he could shut her out with the flick of a wrist -- but she hoped he was challenged.

Mother made quick work of doling out assignments to the agents. A team would concentrate on high-level social events within the next week -- the amount of time it would take for the virus to develop in the animals before they were slaughtered. Several teams were dispatched to make the rounds of feedlots, starting in the south and working north. Analysts had already developed a search pattern based upon major transportation hubs and the location and business partners of Twill and Merchant, the distributor Steed and Emma had visited. They theorized that the ultimate target would be related to that business. Other agents were assigned to work with customs, which had been alerted last night to look for the canisters, not to mention Steed.

Each group of agents took their assignments and left the room until only Emma was left with Mother. He rolled back from the table and swiveled to face her more directly.

"I know you want to be out there searching," he said gently. "I am not oblivious to the -- attachment -- you and Steed share. But you are the thoroughbred in this hunt. It will do none of us any good to send you thrashing about in the brush with the rest of that lot. Let them scent the trail first."

Emma straightened in her chair, swallowing hard to stifle a groan at his extended hunt metaphor. When he paused, she leapt in.

"I wanted to talk with you about something, actually," she said. He nodded, so she proceded, "The rental car -- ."

"Don't give it another thought. Miss King's staff has already taken care of it," he replied soothingly.

"Yes, of course, I assumed so," she said. "But I was more referring to Steed and my luggage that was in the car. We're both left with just the shirts on our backs, so to speak. It was a bit of a loss . . ."

"Don't tell me you had valuables?"

"No, I learned long ago not to bring my favorite tiara on a trip with Steed," she said with a smirk, "but I don't have a thing to wear here in London, and I don't want to take the time to go home and re-pack."

"So that's it!" Mother snorted. "Fine. Pick up what you need and bring in receipts. No fur coats and feather boas, mind you -- unless you lost …?"

"Only one evening dress, Mother. Thank you. Now, what can I do to further this investigation?" She could think of a number of things, and if she didn't like what Mother suggested she fully intended to do them.

"Francois De Courcelles," he said simply. "You left him at his château yesterday afternoon. Where is he now? What's he up to. And why the hell does he want to drive our livestock, not to mention as yet unidentified humans, mad? Find him, get his story."

Emma nodded thoughtfully. De Courcelles had been on her personal list, along with Pauline. So, for the moment, she would take direction from Mother.

Steed gradually became conscious of constant vibration and motion, and a strange irregular clanking. Opening his eyes made no difference -- wherever he was, it was pitch black. The bumping, rocking sensation made him feel slightly queasy. He was not prone to motion sickness, so he attributed it to the blow that had knocked him out. He could be concussed. He tried to feel the back of his neck where the soreness was the most painful, but realized after a moment of trying to raise his arm that his hands were bound behind his back. He tried moving his feet and found, not surprisingly, that his ankles were bound together too.

The motion stopped abruptly, but the sound and vibration went on. As if a few more synapses in his brain came on, he realized that he was in a vehicle that had just stopped. He was lying down on a hard surface, but he sensed space about himself, so it was probably not the boot of an automobile. And that clanking sound -- what is that?

The vehicle started forward again and a concerted series of clanks rang out all around him. It's the canisters. You're in a truck with them.

Over the next few minutes Steed concentrated on remembering what had happened that morning, and on flexing his stiff muscles despite the restraints. Eventually the truck stopped again, and this time the vibration stopped too. The engine had been turned off. Can we be in England already? How long was I out?

A knife of light -- doubtlessly dim, but blinding to his unaccustomed eyes -- sliced across the ceiling of the truck as the double doors at the back were opened. Squinting, he could see the towering shapes of the canisters all around him. He was on the floor in a pocket of space among them.

French voices echoed in the truck, and canisters clanked. He could also hear a fainter sound of cars and trucks moving fast. We're near a highway, then, he thought. He caught a few words and surmised that at least two men were unloading the canisters. It was only a matter of time before they found him. Do they know I'm here? Or am I somebody's idea of a surprise?

By the time the men were ready to move the last row of canisters between him and the door, Steed had managed to get his feet under himself. He crouched uncomfortably, his bound ankles keeping his feet close together. Even if he managed to take out the men he would still be awkwardly bound. But it was a step -- so to speak -- in the right direction.

The two men were silhouetted by the light -- not daylight, but bright electric lights, he could tell from the color -- coming in the door. Steed could easily see them approach the next row of canisters. He waited, barely breathing, until they were reaching for the cylinders. He launched himself at the canisters, turning sideways in order to hit as many as possible. The drove the heavy metal cylinders into the men, bowling them over. Steed landed on his side amid a pile of canisters and bodies, his face against a cool, oozing substance on the floor of the truck. One of the canisters had come open.

He rocked up into a sitting position and rubbed his cheek on his shoulder then spat the substance off his lips. One of the two men moaned and stirred, climbing to his knees, dislodging one of the canisters from the back of his legs in the process. Steed rolled onto his back and positioned his feet, then sent them slamming into the top of the man's head. The man collapsed, his face in the spreading ooze.

"Arrête!" the other man growled. Steed groaned, then looked over his shoulder at his other opponent. The man had gotten to his knees and held a revolver pointed at Steed. "Henri?" he said, glancing at his fallen companion. Henri didn't move.

"Vous payerez pour ça. Maintenant je dois effectuer tout le travail," he spat as he climbed to his feet. He grabbed Steed by the upper arm and hauled him to his feet. Steed saw the blow coming an instant before it landed on the side of his head bringing back the blackness.

"British Embassy, how may I direct your call?" Emma recognized Agent Nelson's voice on the line and identified herself. "Lady Emma!" Nelson's bureaucratic drone brightened. "You got home safely then?"

"Yes, quite. Thank you again for your help. But I'm calling to ask you another favor."

"Of course. I'll do all I can."

"Our file on Francois De Courcelles says he has two residences -- one's a house somewhere near the château and the other is a flat in Paris -- but no telephone numbers. Can you get them? I need to reach him."

"We have complete directories, so it will just take a bit of hunting, if he has telephones."

"Very good. I will be here, at the ministry, or at one of these numbers," she dictated the phone number of Steed's flat and of the Peel estate.

"I'll telephone you as soon as I find something, Lady Emma," Nelson assured her.

I must do something productive until I can reach De Courcelles, Emma reasoned as the Bentley accelerated. And I can only borrow so much of Steed's wardrobe. She also needed to check in with Sally, who would certainly need her guidance, if not her signature. If it were anyone but Steed, she reflected ruefully, I'd never have abandoned everything at the estate.

"Steed? Come out, come out wherever you are. . ." Steed tried to sit up at the sound of Mrs. Peel's voice. But his equilibrium was off and he fell on his side. "Steed darling," her voice was fading, "It's really not fair of you to disappear like this, not now, after we've only just . . ." She was gone.

"Mrs. Peel?" he called out. Where has she gone. She must hear me!

But it was no good, she was gone and he was, he realized, fully awake again. I was dreaming. She wasn't really here. He realized sadly. And where is here?

His head was pounding, his whole body sore. He was once again in darkness on a hard floor. There was movement, and the clanking of the canisters, but no droning engine. As he contemplated this the floor seemed to fall out from under him, then swoop back up. His stomach lurched. He sucked in a deep breath and waited for it to settle. Just as it did, the floor fell away again and his stomach fought back. Fortunately, there was little in it to give up, and after a few dry heaves he felt slightly better.

So I'm back in the truck -- no, it's not the same. The floor has a different texture. But the canisters are still here. And we're not driving, but we're moving. The floor pressed upward this time, then fell away. A boat. We're on a ferry crossing the channel. But who's we?

Steed tugged at the bonds holding his wrists. They seemed looser than before. Sweat from his wrists and hands had made the nylon cords slippery. If he could just wiggle his wrists about like so . . . His right wrist came free and he brought both hands around to the front. The pounding in his head grew faster as he leaned forward to untie his ankles.

Sorry Steed! Emma sent a silent message to the Bentley's owner as she took the turn into the estate grounds too fast and the car's tyres squealed in protest. She quickly navigated the curves on the drive through the grounds. A little blue Renault sat in the drive in front of the house, it's driver side door slightly open. The Bentley threw up a hail of gravel as she slammed on the breaks behind it. She climbed out of the Bentley and glanced at the Renault's French license plates before sprinting through the drizzle that promised to develop into rain soon. She threw open the front door.

Sally was sitting in a chair placed in the doorway of the front parlor. She was holding a book and peering at a page. At the sound of the front door she jumped up and turned to face Emma.

"Oh madam," she cried, "thank goodness you're here!" Then she burst into tears, dropping the book as she brought her hands up to cover her face.

Emma strode toward her, pulling off her gloves as she walked and stuffing them in the pockets of Steed's coat. Whatever is the matter with the girl?

Evie appeared from the side hall and rushed over to wrap her arms around Sally. Reaching the doorway, Emma glanced into the parlor and saw a woman -- Pauline Duchamp -- lying on a sofa. When she saw Emma, the other woman sat up and put her feet on the floor, but did not rise. Emma looked back at Sally and Evie.

"She's quite ill, madam," Evie said, "She arrived about a half an hour ago. She keeps asking for you, but we don't know what else she wants -- none of us speaks French, madam. We couldn't see sending her away. Sally's tried to reach you, madam. We gave the lady some tea," Emma followed the cook's gaze into the parlor where a tray with tea things sat on a table.

"That's fine, Evie," Emma said. "Sally?"

Her secretary disengaged herself from Evie's protective embrace and wiped at her eyes. Evie pressed a dishcloth into the girl's hands and looked at Emma, "It's the strain, madam," she said. "She's been sitting here trying to talk to the woman -- with the dictionary there," she nodded at the fallen book. Emma crouched to pick it up. It was indeed an English -- French language dictionary. She imagined poor Sally trying to construct sentences using it. What is wrong with our schools? Why don't they teach French any more? She wondered, then brought her attention back to her secretary.

"Sally," she repeated, setting the book on the chair. The girl finished drying her eyes with the towel and managed to look directly at Emma, her whole body tense. "You did well. Thank you."

Sally visibly relaxed and for a brief instant Emma feared that the girl would try to hug her. But Sally quickly regained her composure. She made the tiniest of curtseys and said "Thank you, madam. I did my best."

Emma turned back toward the parlor. "I don't understand, though," she said to nobody in particular, "she speaks English."

"You know her then, madam?" Sally asked.

"Yes. She's a suspect in an investigation -- ," she stopped mid-sentence, realizing that her staff would have no idea what she was talking about. "I should explain," she said. "Is Anna here? Good, go and fetch her too."

Evie scurried away and Emma entered the parlor.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Duchamp," she said, stopping a few feet away from the sofa. Pauline rose unsteadily and held up her hands, palm outward.

"Non, ne venez pas plus près," don't come any closer. She sat back down and cradled her head in her hands, moaning softly.

"Can you understand me?" she asked. Pauline nodded, slowly raising her head.

"Oui, but I am -- confused. My English is difficult."

"D'accord. Alors je vais parler en français. Pourquoi êtes-vous venue ici?" Why are you here? Do you know where they've taken Steed?

"Il a tué mon cheval, et il m'a empoisonné aussi." He killed my horse and poisoned me as well. She went on, seeming to ramble, then forcing herself to focus. Now I am going mad. Somehow you know about this, so I've come to you. It was hard to find this house, these confusing English addresses, I could feel myself slipping.

"My lady," Evie's interrupted Pauline's ramblings. Emma turned to her. Anna the maid was now standing just outside the parlor with Evie and Sally. Emma turned back to Pauline.

"Please lie down. I must speak to the staff for a moment," she said, then stepped out of the parlor and closed the door.

Her three employees looked at her expectantly.

"Sally, you'll remember my friend John Steed, from the other day?" she began.

"Yes ma'am."

"Evie, Anna, you may remember him too. He was here when Hughes was arrested."

"One of them policemen?" Anna asked. "The Americans?"

"No, not the Americans. One of the British agents who rescued me."

"Agents, ma'am?" Sally asked. Anna and Evie exchanged a glance that Emma couldn't read.

"Yes, government agents. I have known Steed for a long time. I used to work with him, before Sir Peter returned. He asked me for some help in an investigation the other day. Miss Duchamp is a suspect in the case. Her illness is what we're investigating -- what we must stop from spreading."

"Is it -- serious?" Evie asked, obviously substituting a less dire word at the last moment.

"Yes. Miss Duchamp will probably die -- ."

"Oh madam!" Anna interrupted. Emma wondered if she seemed terribly unfeeling to these women.

"--and she knows it. She may have come here to tell me whatever she knows, and if she hasn't I must make her tell me anyway, in order to save Mr. Steed, as well as many other lives. I must speak with her before she becomes any sicker. But first I'm going to call London for help. They'll send someone who can take care of her."

She studied each of their faces. Anna looked confused, Evie frightened. Sally looked thoughtful, and Emma instantly reassessed her opinion of her secretary. The girl had been caught off guard, but she had recovered and was absorbing this rather surprising news. Emma realized that she held others to her own high standards -- she expected them to be as level headed and calm in the face of danger as she was. It wasn't exactly fair -- domestic staff could hardly be expected to have nerves of steel. But it was something she needed in a secretary.

"Anna, we're moving Miss Duchamp to a guest room. Evie, some sort of broth -- something mild and warm for her, please. Sally, come help me."

Training and tradition asserted itself in the older women and they immediately set out to follow her commands. Sally followed Emma into the parlor.

"Mlle Duchamp, nous allons vous porter à une chambre à coucher," she explained as she and Sally approached the couch where Miss Duchamp lay. The ill woman did not resist their efforts to help her sit up, then stand.

Together Emma and Sally helped Pauline into the foyer and up the stairs. They put her in the bed in a guest room, then Emma went to her office to telephone the ministry.

Emma returned to the guest room where Sally was hovering near the doorway. Anna and Evie were not visible, but Emma suspected they weren't far away. Emma dragged a chair next to the bed and sat down. Pauline's face was pale and moist. Emma had been astonished at how warm her skin was when she and Sally had helped her upstairs. She was burning up with fever, and twenty-four hours ago she had seemed fine.

"Vous avez créé le virus, n'est-ce pas?" You created the virus, didn't you? She asked, and then, without waiting for an answer, "Where has Francois De Courcelles sent it?"

Pauline's hazy eyes locked on Emma's as she spoke. She said that she had inadvertently developed the virus while working in the research division of an animal feed manufacturer. She showed it to her managers, suggesting their competitive marketing department might have a use for it. She was fired. Pauline paused in her story, drawing in several ragged breaths. Despite the illness, Pauline's bitterness was tangible. De Courcelles had approached her. He said he'd heard of her work and was interested in it. He wanted to increase his exports to England, and her virus could be the key. What did she care about some English cows? She agreed to refine the virus for him. But then, when the work was done and the virus being tested, she'd learned that he intended to do the opposite -- have infected meat fed to a group of English officials.

"What officials?" Emma asked.

An ear-splitting bang shattered the quiet room and Pauline slumped in the bed. Emma swung around to see a man holding Sally with his hand over her mouth and a gun to the side of her head. Sally's eyes strained sideways to look at the gun barrel, then focused on Emma, then strained to the left, looking out into the hall.

"Let her go," Emma said, "Libérez-la."

As the man backed toward the door Sally looked directly at Emma, then strained her eyes back toward the door. Something -- or someone -- is in the hall, Emma thought, But is it friend or foe? She stood frozen, unable to approach the killer as he dragged Sally through the door. The pair disappeared and there was a loud crash. Emma dashed to the doorway.

Evie bent over Sally, who was sitting on the rug amid shards of pottery and crushed paperwhites. The cloying scent of the flowers permeated the air. Emma looked to the right to see the man nearly at the top of the stairs. She sprinted after him, reaching the landing as he was half way down to the foyer. Without allowing herself to think, she hurled herself over the railing, flying the twelve feet to the thick oriental rug below and curling into a roll as she landed. She somersaulted, crashing into the back of the man's legs as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He was knocked flat, the gun sliding across the floor ahead of him. Emma scrambled over him, elbows and knees digging into his back as he tried to rise. She lunged for the gun as he tried to throw her off. Her hand closed around it and she rolled sideways and into a sitting position, aiming it at him.

"Hold it," she said, taking one hand off the gun to sweep a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "On the floor," she added, getting her feet under herself and rising. She was aware of Sally and Evie watching her from the top of the stairs. "Sally, Get two of Sir Peter's belts," she said, not looking up.

She waited, noting that the man turned his face to see that she was holding the gun on him. Shortly Sally came down the stairs with two belts and held them out. Emma shook her head. "Wrap one around his ankles and buckle it tight. That's right," Sally quickly secured the man's ankles. "Now his wrists -- behind him."

She could see that the man was resisting Sally's attempts to pull his arms behind him. She crouched down and pressed the muzzle of the gun against his temple. "Your choice. Belt or gun," she said quietly. Sally looked alarmed, but Emma smiled with satisfaction as the man relaxed his arms and allowed the girl to secure them with the other belt. She's probably telling herself I wouldn't have shot him, Emma thought. Just as well.

She rose and stepped over the man, pocketing the gun, and bounded back up the stairs and past an unmoving Evie. Sally trotted after her. She touched Pauline's throat and felt an inconsistent flutter in her vein.

"Pauline!" she said, gently squeezing the other woman's shoulders. The wound in her chest was marked by a bloodstain spreading into the bedclothes. Pauline's eyes slitted open.

"Get -- François," she whispered.

Emma leaned closer, "Tell me where," she hissed. "Pauline, please."

"Willows -- ," she whispered, her eyes closing as she spoke. Emma checked again for a pulse and found none. She straightened, looking at the dead woman as she searched her memory of the case file for the word Willow.

"Madam?" Sally's soft voice reached her from across the room. Emma glanced over her shoulder at the girl, then reached down and pulled the sheet up over Pauline Duchamp's still form.

She pulled the gun from her pocket and beckoned to Sally.

"I'm sorry I don't have time to help you practice with this. But this is the safety," she showed her how is worked, "Leave it on, but if you think you may need to use it, be sure to take it off before too late," she said, pressing the gun into her secretary's hands. "I think he was alone, but check all the windows and doors -- be sure they're locked."

"What about her?" Sally asked, glancing at the bed, then quickly looking back at Emma. She held the gun awkwardly, but didn't try to refuse it. Emma shook her head. "The team from the ministry will be here in about an hour. They'll take care of her, and her friend downstairs."

Emma threw a few days worth of clothes into a bag, dragging the telephone around her dressing room as she worked. She reported what Pauline had told her and asked the agent coordinating the case to search for references to "Willow."

"There are three," he said almost immediately. "We've fed all the case information into the new computerized data system to sort and analyze it. I have an alphabetical listing here."

"What are they?"

"Three Willows Meats is a feedlot in the lowlands. Willow Lane Inn and Conference Center is hosting a holiday party for a group of agricultural industry leaders next week. Wind in the Willows is a caterer for a large party tomorrow night where the Minister of Agriculture is speaking."

Emma paced back and forth between the racks of clothes, thinking out loud, "She told me to get De Courcelles. I asked her where, and she said ‘Willows.' I don't know whether he'd go to the feedlot where his virus is being fed to the animals. And Pauline could have been telling me where the event is, or even the caterer."

"I can redirect our teams to these targets immediately," the agent told her.

"Fine. I'll meet the team at Three Willows Meats. Tell me their address."

She took the address and hung up the telephone. Finally she stripped off the jumpsuit she'd been wearing for two days and changed into snug black slacks, a wool turtleneck, and a short, tailored black leather jacket. She slipped on black boots and put her small pistol in her jacket pocket. She carried her small bag back downstairs and found all three of her staff in the foyer. Evie was locked in a staring contest with the assassin, who had wiggled into a sitting position at the base of the stairs.

"I must go," she said. "The ministry people will be here shortly. They'll take care of Miss Duchamp, and him." She nudged the man with her pointed toe. "I'll call later," she noted Anna's fear and Evie and Sally's concern. "I know this is upsetting, but please don't worry. Everything will be fine here." But not for me, not if I don't find Steed.

Evie, Anna, and Sally stood on the front porch watching Emma speed away in her Lotus.

"Lady Emma is a spy," Sally said thoughtfully, then glanced at Evie.

"It seems so," the cook said, frowning.

"Do you think she married Sir Peter just to catch him?" Anna asked. Sally and Evie glanced at her, then at one another and smiled.

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