A week of travel on the canal through Burgundy, France. So quiet, so peaceful. Beautiful scenery. Friendly villagers, delicious food, lovely wines. Getting to know three complete strangers who had also chosen to spend their holiday this way.
And now she was at the small village of Montbard. The end of the line. Not for the canal, of course, but for her.
Unlike her fellow crewmembers, she wasn't on holiday, but rather on a sort of pilgrimage. This was the trip she and her husband had planned for their honeymoon…five brief years ago. But Air Force duty had called him away. They'd kept intending to take the trip - it was this trip that they wanted - and always something intervened to stop them. First the Air Force…then his job as a civilian test pilot. Finally, it had been death -- a month ago -- his death in a plane crash in the Amazon jungle.
So she was taking their trip now…seeing all the sites she would have pointed out to him - or he to her… laughing at the jokes he would have made…and when the trip was over she would lay his memory to rest and start a new direction in her life.
Her name was Emma Peel. Mrs. Emma Peel, as she continued to introduce herself. She still wore his wedding ring. She still felt him standing beside her.
A tall woman, about five-foot-seven, lithe and lovely with the grace of an athlete. Her auburn hair shone as it swirled about her shoulders. Her eyes…ah, her eyes were her crowning feature…so expressive…so alive with intelligence and humor…expressive these days only of memories and mourning.
Not that she'd played dog in the manger on the barge. She'd been pleasant company, joined in the social hour, helped with the sailing, shared her pleasure at every experience …only she knew that she was sharing these experiences with her husband Peter as well.
Emma bade farewell to the other trippers and carried her bag - she traveled light - up into the village of Montbard. As her travel agent had promised her, so it turned out to be - a small car hire place on the corner with several white Peugots on offer. She exercised her French to wrangle a good deal on one of them, which she would drop off in Dijon, the big city to the south.
First she was going to visit the Abbey of Fontenay.
Both Peter and she had been fascinated with history, although Peter had been more interested in the religious aspects of it - funny, that. He'd been in the war but it was she who was devoted to military history…seeing in those soldiers and sailors and statesmen the true heroes of the world.
When she arrived a tour of the grounds was just starting out. She pondered for a bit, then decided to join it. Why not?
"Apart from the demolished refectory," pointed out their guide, "it retains almost all of its original buildings: church, dormitory, cloister, chapter house, heating room, dovecote and forge, all built in Romanesque style.
The church of the abbey was built from 1139 to 1147, and was dedicated by Pope Eugene III in 1147. It has a cruciform plan, with a nave 66 metres long and 8 metres wide, with two aisles, and a transept measuring 19 metres. The cloister measures 36×38 metres. The chapterhouse is vaulted, with heavy ribs. The large dormitory is roofed with 15th century chestnut timbers."
Emma smiled. Exact measurements…dates and numbers. That's what their guide was giving them…not the spirit of the place.. The people who had lived and died and suffered within its walls.
After a lunch of bread and cheese, Emma set out for Dijon, which was about 60 kilometers away.
The road was a long and winding one, with several switchbacks and hairpin turns. Emma was in no hurry, however, and held the Peugot to a moderate pace.
The sudden ahoooooga of a horn jolted her from her reveries, and a car flashed past her, much closer than was comfortable. She glared at the driver -- all she could see was that he was middle aged with black hair, wearing a black turtleneck sweater. He was really eating up the ground.
For the briefest of seconds Emma contemplated going after him and showing him how much he didn't know about driving. But she quelled the competitive urge. Let him kill himself on the road, if he was so crazy about speed.
Emma paused and looked at a deer bounding by the side of the road, but fortunately it veered off to the right instead of the left. She brought her attention back to the road and saw that the car that had passed her with such speed a few seconds ago was now poking along right in front of her.
Without a second's delay she stamped on the brakes. She still hit the car, but fortunately he was trying to get to the verge and she only clipped the bumper.
It had been the lightest of taps…she hadn't hurt her own car. Emma quelled a fit of anger as she jumped out …obviously he'd been having car trouble. The driver had exited his car as well…he was a few inches taller than she, with that molded turtleneck sweater revealing a solid, muscular build. His face was round and handsome, his eyes deeply set.
"Êtes-vous tout droit ?" she asked.
"Je suis si désolé." he replied.
The accent gave him away. "You're English, aren't you?"
He smiled at her. A charming smile. "That's right. My name's John Steed. And you are?"
"Mrs. Emma Peel." Emphasis on the "Mrs."
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Peel," he said again. "One minute the car was going great guns, the next it just choked and died on me. I expect a spark plug's gone bad or something. I don't have time to mess about with it, though. I'm in rather a hurry to get to Dijon. Could I possibly impose upon you?"
Emma hesitated only briefly. She wasn't afraid to give rides to strangers - she knew how to protect herself. But this would put paid to her nice relaxing drive. Still, in all decency she couldn't say no.
"Certainly. Get in."
He smiled again, revealing even white teeth. "Let me just get my valise out of the car."
She couldn't help but watch his actions, as his car was right in front of hers, albeit on the verge. He went around to the driver's side and lifted out a small black valise that seemed rather heavy. Then he crossed behind the car, reached down, and ripped off the dangling number plate, which he carried with him as he got in beside Emma.
"Why did you do that?" she asked curiously.
"Why did I do what?"
She nodded at the number plate.
"Oh, this? Well, it was about to come off anyway, wasn't it? And I don't want someone to steal it, do I? Put it on their own car and then go around committing terrible crimes. Someone spots the number plate of their car and all of a sudden the blame's on me."
Emma nodded. "I see your point."
He relaxed in his seat. Out of the corner of her eye Emma saw him adjust the mirror on his side, so that he could see what was coming up behind.
He saw that she had noticed this and reacted swiftly. He leaned closer to her, confidingly, a flirtatious smile on his face. "So, Mrs. Peel. Husband not with you, eh? That's a bit of luck on my account."
"On the contrary, he's here with us now." That would wipe that smirk off his face, Emma thought grimly.
However, all he did was blink his heavily lidded eyes curiously. "I beg your pardon?"
"He's in the back."
The man who called himself Steed turned and looked into the empty back seat. He then turned and faced front again. Emma watched him out of the corner of her eye but his expression was impassive.
"He's not in the boot, is he?"
"No! He's in the back seat."
"Oh. Of course." The man took a deep breath. "I do hope my presence isn't disturbing him."
"He doesn't mind. I hope his presence doesn't disturb you."
"Not a bit of it."
"Good. But you'll understand why I will just drop you off when we get to Dijon. Peter and I want to be alone."
"Certainly, Mrs. Peel. I quite understand."
"Good."
Emma smiled to herself. Either he thought she was crazy, or he thought she'd made up the story just to put him off. Either way he was handling it well. Perhaps he was used to rejection.
"It's lovely driving through the French countryside, isn't it?" Steed said. "Lots of long winding roads where you can really put on the speed. You wouldn't mind going a bit faster, would you?"
Emma glanced into the rear view mirror. Far in the distance she could see a car.
"I'm going as fast as I think is safe," she said. "These hairpin turns are rather unnerving, I find."
"Oh, what a pity. This is a marvelous car. I bet she'd do 120 easily."
"I'm sure she would. I'm sorry, Mr. Steed. I appreciate you're in a hurry but it won't do you any good if I run off the road into a ditch."
Emma was being deliberately obstreperous, and she knew it. She sighed and looked back into the mirror. The car was gaining.
"I really, really wish you would drive faster," Steed said. There was urgency in his voice. "For me. Please."
What had he done? Stolen the car perhaps? Should she come to a halt, let them catch up. She hated to do it to a fellow Briton on foreign soil…but she mustn't be naïve about this. Plenty of handsome men picked up vulnerable woman and took advantage of them…Emma got this far in her thoughts and no further.
"I'm terribly sorry, my dear, but you force my hand."
Emma glanced at him, and raised an eyebrow. He was pointing a rather large gun at her.
"I'll speed up," she said, and did so, pressing the accelerator hard down.
"Who are they?" she asked presently.
"Who are who?"
"Those people back there."
He smiled again, over the ugly eye of his gun. "I cannot tell a lie, Mrs. Peel. I'm afraid I borrowed that car …and I fancy that those people back there want it back."
"Well…they'll stop then, won't they? When they find the car on the side of the road?"
"They may well do. Stop and take a look at it. Then I fancy they'll be after me faster than ever." He tapped the valise. "This is theirs as well."
"I see."
Emma drove on for a few minutes…with only the sound of the humming of the tires. She checked the rear view. The car was not gaining…but it was not falling back, either.
"So what are you then," Emma said coldly. "A petty thief?"
"Hardly petty!" he protested. "There's a million francs in this valise."
"Which they stole, presumably, and which you have now stolen from them?"
"Well, more or less."
"I see."
Steed rubbed his upper lip. "I am sorry to have gotten you involved in this, of course. But don't worry. Once we reach Dijon I'll jump out at a convenient corner…you'll never know I was here."
Emma pressed the accelerator hard down and took a hairpin curve on two wheels. Far ahead she could see signs…various exits on the way to Dijon and points south. If she could get far enough ahead so they couldn't see where she turned off…
"We're losing them," Steed called presently.
"Right, hang on."
Emma pressed down on the accelerator once again, and this time didn't let up for some time. The car behind them was lost in the distance.
"All right, we've lost them." Steed said. "You can slow down now."
Emma did not let up on the petrol.
"You can slow down now," he repeated.
She took a corner on two screeching wheels.
Steed hunched back in his seat and put his had over his eyes.
"Feel free to stop at any time."
"You're in a hurry to get to Dijon. So am I."
"Look, look, I'm sorry I pulled a gun on you, all right? But they were catching up and you were being so stubborn. If they'd caught us they would have gotten rid of you as well as me, don't you see? I no longer had time to argue with you so I just ….."
"Threatened me with a gun!"
"I am sorry. You must see I had no choice."
Emma shrugged. "Yes, yes, I suppose I see your point."
Tires screeched again.
"You see my point, but you're not slowing down."
"You want me to stop, throw the gun over the side of the car." She took another corner on two wheels.
The man massaged his temples with one hand. "You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Peel."
"I do indeed."
"Well, all right." he snapped. "Have it your own way." He showed her the gun, and then he heaved it, as far as he could, out of the car. "There. Perfectly good gun gone to waste. Satisfied?"
Emma nodded. "Yes." She took her foot off the accelerator.
Steed breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet."
"Oh, but I must. You very likely saved my life. Those are very bad men back there."
"And you're not?"
"Well…" he smiled. Emma was beginning to think that he had an infuriating smile. "It all depends on who you talk to."
"I see." she said coldly.
"Well, now that I don't have a gun anymore, what are you going to do with me?"
It was Emma's turn to be surprised. "What do you mean?"
"I'm a self-confessed thief, Mrs. Peel. Are you going to just let me go?"
Emma frowned. "I'm not sure."
He looked at her with sharpened interest. "What do you mean?"
"There are two crimes that I wouldn't allow you to get away with, Mr. Steed. That I wouldn't allow anyone to get away with. But I have a feeling you haven't committed either of those."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"As for the rest…" she waved a hand. Why was she reluctant to turn him over to the police. He was a self-confessed thief. But he didn't seem…like a bad man.
"This is stupid, Emma," she thought to herself. "This is exactly how little old ladies get murdered in their beds by trusted young men…they trust their instincts, they believe they can bring out the good in bad men, change them…and it never works. I find this Mr. Steed rather attractive - sorry, Peter - is that why I don't want to turn him in? But if he were a murderer, or a rapist…yes, in that case she'd have no compunction. But…just a thief…of other thieves' money? But could she be sure that that was all he was?"
"I don't want this confusion now, Peter. This trip is just for you and me."
She felt something then…as if he were trying to tell her something. A feeling of…acceptance.
"Left! Left here, Mrs. Peel!"
Steed's voice brought her out of her brown study and she was once more consciously aware of her surroundings. "You missed it!" he said.
"Never mind…look, there's a turning to the right." and she twisted the wheel. "I'm starving…if my travel brochure is right there should be a chateau up ahead…does a very fine cuisine."
"We're only a mile or so from Dijon."
"I'm hungry, Mr. Steed. Won't you join us for dinner?"
He blinked. "Us? Oh, yes, us. Certainly, I'd be delighted."
Steed walked beside her into the chateau, carrying his black valise. The chateau had rooms for hire but they also had a vast dining room. He let her request a table, and followed slightly behind her as they were escorted to it. He held out her chair for her, and then paused with his hands on the chair back beside her. "Is this all right?"
She liked him for that. He may or may not have believed in Peter's existence - or that she believed in it - but he was going along with it. "Yes. Go ahead."
They ordered their wine - debating between claret and chablis, and while waiting for it to be served Emma said, "So, Mr. Steed, tell me about yourself."
"I'd much rather hear about you, Mrs. Peel."
"I'm sure you would."
Steed stared at her impassively for a few seconds. She wondered what he was thinking. But then his grin broke out again. "You're a fascinating woman, Mrs. Peel."
He leaned back as the wine waiter arrived, and poured him a sample. He tasted it and nodded his approval, and their glasses were filled.
"Well, Mrs. Peel. You want to know about me? There's not much to tell. I fought in the war. When the war ended I was at a loose end. I've worked at many jobs….didn't like any of them. Then…I fell in with bad people. He jerked his head as if to indicate the outside world. "They stole some money. I decided to take it from them."
"A million francs, you said. You could do quite a lot with that much money."
"Indeed I could."
"So, what are you going to do?"
"Well…" he laughed. "I don't know. Blow it on a horse race or two."
"That much money - enough to set yourself up in your own business…and you're going to blow it on a horse race or two?"
She didn't bother to keep the disgust out of her voice. What a waste!
The man leaned towards her. Very close. "Have I disappointed you, Mrs. Peel? Do you think you can reform me?"
Emma placed a hand on his chest and shoved him back into his chair. "I am tempted to talk to you as you deserve, yes." she said coldly. "But women always want to do that, don't they? Change the men in their lives? And the men never change."
He blinked at her. Leaned forward again. Said softly, "Am I a man in your life?"
"Only very briefly, Mr. Steed. Very briefly. I will deliver you to downtown Dijon and say goodbye."
"You mean you're not going to turn me in to the police?:
"No."
"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Peel."
He seemed rather moved.
"Don't mention it. But if I may give you some advice, which I'm sure you won't take…." she paused. Obviously he wouldn't take her advice. Why bother? "Well…just make sure next time you steal a car that it actually runs."
"You know, that's very kind of you, Mrs. Peel," Steed said soberly. "Extraordinarily kind."
Emma waved a hand dismissingly. And then, with pleasure, "Ah, here's our dinner."
They spent an hour dining, and making desultory conversation about nothing in particular. Steed avoided the subject of horseracing for which Emma was duly grateful, and Emma asked about France during the war.
L'addition was presented, and Steed insisted on paying the bill. "I've got a million francs, remember. May as well use some of it in a constructive manner."
"Yes. Well, thank you."
Steed was quite the gentleman. He rose to his feet, and held her own chair for her as she rose also.
A sense of foreboding seized hold of her. She put a restraining hand on his arm. "Wait."
He stopped. "What's the matter," he said quietly.
"Peter?" she said. She hadn't mean to say it aloud, but she had.
The sense overwhelmed her.
"Something's wrong," she whispered to Steed. "They're waiting for us. Outside."
"They're waiting for me, my dear. You have no part in this. Stay here. You'll be safe."
"There's no need to go outside, Mr. Steed. We can call the police from here. The police will come…."
"And arrest me. Take me to jail. No guarantee I'd be safe there. Those toughs outside could get themselves arrested as well, you see. They'd be thrown into the same cell."
Emma took a deep breath. "Well. We're in a pickle."
Steed looked at her again.
"Any suggestions from….you know?"
"Wait…wait."
She closed her eyes, but there was nothing. Nothing.
"No," she said finally. "But then, Peter was always a very law-abiding man. If you won't turn yourself in he washes his hands of you."
"Right, then. Nothing else for it."
He started out of the restaurant. Emma went with him, but he stopped again. Stepped closer to her.
"Look," he said earnestly, "there really is no reason why you should get involved with this. They are very bad men out there. With guns. I'd be so worried about you that I wouldn't be able to handle them, do you see? So please, stay here."
"You don't have to worry about me. I can take care of myself. I have a black belt in a couple of different martial arts."
He blinked at her, his face aflame with sudden interest. "I say, what an extraordinary coincidence."
"What is?"
"Oh…well…I have a black belt too. I just wish I had a gun."
"Yes," Emma grimaced. "Sorry about that."
"Not to worry, my dear. No use crying over spilt milk."
"Still..we can always use this one."
Emma greatly enjoyed the look on Steed's face as she produced a gold-plated revolver.
"It was a present from my husband," she explained. "I carry it with me everywhere."
"And I'm so glad you do, Mrs. Peel."
"So, let's go."
"What? Rush out of here with our guns blazing, Mrs. Peel? You've bee watching too many Westerns. The subtle approach is always best."
"So? Let's be subtle."
"We go straight to the car. I leave the valise here. They won't do any shooting as long as they don't know where that is. So, there will be some fisticuffs. We handle it, we get in the car and drive off, and bob's your uncle."
"I like the plan."
"Then let's go carry it out."
They walked to the white Peugot, their feet echoing on the pavement. Emma's heart was pounding in her chest. She had black belts, it was true, and had even won trophies in competitions… but this was real life. But the blood was pounding…her whole body was tingling…she was feeling very alive.
As Steed had predicted, there was no gunplay. They merely rose up on the opposite side of the Peugot. They didn't even have guns. Obviously they thought that two huge thugs were enough to take care of one man and one woman.
Steed looked at her, and she saw a flash in his eyes. Then…all hell broke loose. Emma paired off with her own chosen assailant, and drove a punch into his belly. She saw his own punch coming at her and swayed to one side, grabbing his arm and pulling him around and down. Then she kicked him in the face and he lay still. She turned to see that Steed had already dispatched his own assailant.
"Very impressive, Mrs. Peel. Mrs. Ga…I mean…no one could have done better than that."
"Thank you. What now? They'll only be unconscious for about ten minutes."
"We get in the car, and you drive like the wind toward Dijon."
"All right."
"Will you wait for me? I want to get that valise."
Emma took a deep breath. "Yes, I'll wait."
"Keep an eye on our friends here, won't you. Give 'em a tap with your gun if they show signs of waking up."
Emma was suffering from reaction now. Her entire body was shaking. Her karate skills had paid off…she'd actually felt pleasure as she'd faced her opponent and defeated him. If only…if only those skills had been put to a better use than helping a thief escape the consequences of his crime.
Steed returned, carrying the valise jauntily. "Shall we go, my dear?"
Emma drove the few minutes into Dijon quietly. "Peter… Peter?" She couldn't feel him any more. If he wasn't with her…there was no point in staying in Dijon.
They entered the heart of the city. Emma had looked at a map of it before she'd started out on her trip…and she had a photographic memory. She drove to the center of the city where the hire company where she was to drop off her car. Not coincidentally, it was situated right next to the Gare du Nord - the train station. She would entrain tonight…she wouldn't go on to Germany as she had planned…no, it was back to London for her.
"Well, goodbye, Mr. Steed." Emma said, as she locked the car. "I'll just go in and drop off the keys and pay the bill."
"Surely you'll let me wait for you," Steed protested. "You're not going to brush me aside, after all we've been through?"
"Yes, I am. Just because I'm not turning you in doesn't mean I approve of your activities, and in fact I'm wrestling with my conscience even as we speak so if you have any sense you'll get away while you can."
"Well…just as you say." He reached out, took her hand, touched it to his lips. "I'll never forget you."
"Good bye, Mr. Steed."
Emma paid her bill, and lingered in the office for a few extra minutes. In looking out the various windows she saw no sign of Steed. Good. She didn't want to see him again.
She exited the car hire office and carried her suitcase into the Gare du Nord. She looked up at the board for arrivals and departures. A train for Paris was leaving in just ten minutes. She purchased a ticket.
As she waited for the train, she took deep breaths. "Peter…Peter?" But he was no longer there, by her side, Yet her last feeling from him had been a feeling of peace. He was happy…wherever he was…
"Tous à bord!" called the conductor.
Emma handed over her ticket, and prepared to board the train.. She looked back, and saw the figure of John Steed run into the vast hall that was the train station, looking around desperately. Emma knew that he wasn't running away from anyone. He was running towards someone. Their eyes met. He waved at her.
"Mrs. Peel! Wait! Please."
The train started to move.
Emma waved at him, feeling vaguely flattered. But she was not a fool…and she would not get involved with a criminal, no matter how charming he might be.
Her last sight was of him standing forlornly on the platform. Then he raised a hand in farewell.
Emma turned and went in search of her compartment.