Frozen in Crime

Chapter 30 Alive and Kicking

Amaryllis hated not knowing what was going on, and she hated even more that Mal had overpowered her and left her lying around the wine cellar like a substandard bottle of claret. But as soon as she came round, she became determined not to stay there long enough to get covered in cobwebs.

'Lord Murray? Are you still there?'

'Yes, but he's tied me up, I'm afraid.'

Amaryllis, trying to move, realised for the first time since regaining consciousness that she was also tied up, and groaned. Although being tied up was only a nuisance and not a disaster, it would hold her up in any attempt to get out of here.

'Just a minute,' she said, resigned. 'I'll just get myself free and then we can see about forcing that door.'

'That door's six inches thick,' said Lord Murray. 'How are you going to get through that? It's one of the original doors. And there's one of these slit windows somewhere but no-one could possibly wriggle through it..'

Just don't start on original features and mullioned windows and planning permission, thought Amaryllis, using a technique she had learned during her professional career to loosen and finally break free of the rope that was tied round her wrists. She undid her ankles too and, after wiggling her hands and feet about to restore full movement, she went over to Lord Murray. She tried not to puzzle over what was really happening here; instead she concentrated for a few minutes on getting him on his feet. He had been tied to an old empty wine rack, and she realised as he lumbered to his feet that he must have been in that position for some time.

'Better do a few stretches now,' she advised, and headed for the door to make a preliminary assault on it.

Yes, it was old and thick, but she was confident she could find a way through.

After a while she was conscious that he was so close behind her that he was almost breathing down her neck. She couldn't exactly complain he was standing in her light, since the available light was so dim it was almost negligible, but she definitely felt crowded. She turned towards him and said, 'Would you mind taking a step back, please? I need a bit of space to do this.'

'What are you doing? You do know that's an original door, don't you? I don't want it damaged.'

'We've got to get out of here,' she said, calling up her not very extensive reserves of patience. 'If he comes back -'

'Who, Mal?' He laughed. 'Mal's just playing games with us. He wouldn't really hurt me. He's got bigger fish to fry, anyway.' He seemed to think about it for a moment, then he added, 'Maybe literally.'

What was the idiot talking about? She gave up on the lock. She would have to kick the door in. Never mind not damaging it. Amaryllis was more concerned about whether Mal would be back to damage her again before she could get out of here. If Lord Murray didn't believe his brother would hurt him, he was welcome to stick around and find out.

'Can you please stand back? I'm going to kick the door, and I need more space.'

'Kick the door?' his voice squeaked to a crescendo.

'Go and stand over there. By the wine-racks. Don't move until I get the door open,' she ordered him firmly. To her surprise, he stumbled off again, his feet catching on aged flagstones as he went.

She tried a tentative kick. But tentative wasn't going to work, she knew that already. She took a deep breath, tensed her muscles appropriately, and went for it with all guns blazing - figuratively. If she had really had all guns blazing she could definitely have blasted her way out of here a lot more quickly.

She jarred her leg almost unbearably against the solid oak of the door. Paused for breath. Had anyone called for reinforcements yet? She would be very happy if the cavalry - or its modern equivalent - were to come galloping over the hill at this point.

She kicked the door again with her other foot in annoyance, not putting much effort into it. The door swung open. The lock must have been fatally weakened by that first, stronger kick.

As she peered out into the dim light that filtered down the corridor from the back door, she heard voices, not far away. She was sure she heard the word 'fireworks', but it wasn't quite clear, and she couldn't think what its significance was. There was laughter immediately after this and some more words to do with setting charges. But she didn't really listen to the words: the voice alone transfixed her. One of the men out there was her old friend Jimbo, or at least someone who sounded very like him. The other one, she thought, must be Mal.

They were approaching from outside, breathing heavily as if they had been running. As she cowered back into the doorway of the wine-cellar, they flung something down in the corridor. She had imagined they might check on their captives in the wine-cellar, but they didn't seem to be lingering here.

Suddenly, while Amaryllis still lurked in the shadows, there was a smallish explosion and smoke billowed along the corridor. They must have thrown something in as they left: either a relatively harmless smoke bomb - if you didn't count the effects of smoke inhalation - or some sort of small grenade, which could do worse damage.

She hissed in the general direction of Lord Murray, who was still obediently loitering in the deep shadows, 'Come on - we've got to get out now.'

She didn't wait for him, but headed for the door to the outside world. Even if Mal and - possibly - Jimbo waited out there, there was a chance that she could get past them. She didn't want to wait for another, more powerful explosion, which was what she would have arranged if she had been setting something off, or to be overcome by smoke.

She thought she was close to the door when she fell over something on the floor. It was soft, and groaned faintly when she fell on top of it. It was Charlie Smith.

Almost as soon as she started to drag him towards the open air, someone else ran in from that direction.

'Help me with Charlie,' she said brusquely. 'I've got to go back for Lord Murray.'

To her surprise, he pushed her out of the way, muttered something like 'I'll be back' and disappeared, coughing, into the smoke. She had never seen Christopher put himself in danger with quite so much determination.

She thought there was no point in all of them blundering around in the semi-darkness and breathing in smoke, so she completed her task of dragging Charlie Smith outside, put him in the recovery position behind an overgrown Christmas tree at the edge of the scrubland, and was about to return to the fray when two things happened.

One was that a helicopter came into view round at the front of the house, and landed on what would have been the front lawn if it hadn't been covered with snow. The other was that Christopher emerged from the back of the house, coughing like mad but managing to support a portly middle-aged man in jeans and a holey jumper, who looked like a tramp but who, she now knew, was a minor member of the aristocracy.

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