NOTE: This is the third in a series of Avengers stories that I've written. If you are a new Avengers fan and haven't read any of my other stories, I suggest you read them first, for this story will be a spoiler. So read The Avengers: Mother Knows Best, followed by Inferno Island. Then Waiting for a Killer will make more sense. Thank you, and enjoy!
The AVENGERS
Basil Creighton-Latimer gingerly smoothed his suit coat before gazing around his uncle's office. His uncle was the head of a secret agent ministry and was known as Mother. Basil was here to petition for several other spies, who thought the authoritative man was mistreating them by repeatedly brainwashing two of them. Being in love with one of the spies, Basil had offered to talk to his uncle.
Basil was sitting in an ostentatious room with ornate trimmings and crystal chandeliers. It appeared Mother's office this week was in a stately mansion somewhere in Derbyshire, a rural area of Great Britain. Where is Mother? he wondered to himself in apprehension.
Suddenly, he heard ominous footsteps on the marble floor outside the room where he was sitting. It couldn't belong to Mother, for the obese man always rode around in a wheelchair for convenience. Every muscle in Basil tightened as he strained to hear some noise other than the insistent clatter of footsteps coming closer and closer . . .
As abruptly as they had begun, the footsteps stopped. There was an uncomfortable silence that permeated the room then the sound of someone firing a gun. The footsteps resumed its unrelenting clamor, but this time they were quick, steady strides.
Basil leapt from his chair in horror and raced down the halls in pursuit of the owner of the footsteps. It was futile, though, for the intruder had long vanished. Basil searched in every room, looking for who or what the stranger was shooting. Finally, in one of the more modest quarters, he found what he was looking for. It was Mother, sprawled on the ground, unconscious or maybe even dead. His wheelchair was tipped over on top of him.
Mr. Creighton-Latimer approached his injured uncle to see if he was alive. As he placed his hand on the inert man's wrist, two spies entered the room.
"My God, Basil, why did you do it?" a man named Shuston cried.
"I never thought one of our own men would kill our boss!" added the agent named Pemberly.
Basil stared at one face and then the other, not believing what he heard. They thought he was responsible for Mother's current condition! "I didn't do it!" he bellowed as he rushed from the room. It was to no avail, for the two spies quickly outran the framed suspect and took him into custody to be questioned.
In the room where Mother lay, a shadowy figure entered to have a look at his or her victim. A maniacal chuckle escaped the murderer's lips.
Waiting For a Killer
Steed Wants to See His Mother
Emma is Expecting Someone
Cathy Waits in the Dark
Tara Sheds Some Light
First Day
Emma Steed, lovingly known as Mrs. Peel by her husband and associates, was redecorating Steed's bedroom in preparation for their baby, who was due in four months. She had just finished setting up a yellow and orange Japanese folding screen to separate their sleeping area from the baby's. Now Steed just needed to transport the heavy box with the crib up the winding staircase and assemble it. Which reminded her: where was her darling husband?
Emma descended the spiral staircase, which ended near the kitchen. She scrutinized the kitchen and dining area, but Steed was not there. Shrugging her shoulders, Mrs. Peel walked into the apartment's living room to have a look at the instructions for the crib's assembly. She snatched them from their position on the top of the box. After a quick survey, an amusing site met her brown, doe eyes.
Where it should have said Step One, the words Mrs. Peel were printed instead. Suddenly, Steed popped up from his hiding place behind the crib's box. "We're needed!" he informed her in his charming, British accent.
****************
"'Place mattress into the crib (mattresses sold separately and subject to availability,'" John Steed read from the real instructions, not the fake pamphlet he had created. He glanced at the crib that he and Emma had put together over the last hour. "They certainly know how to get you to spend your money.
'To use, put baby in the crib. (Do not exceed one hundred pounds.)' Really?" he remarked dryly.
"Well, there goes my idea of putting this baby in the crib," Emma teased, indicating Steed. "Baby is still too big!" She gazed at Steed's six-foot, two-inch frame. She then adjusted the long sleeves on her frost green blouse and smoothed her khaki pants. Usually she wore a belt with her dresses and pants, but her stomach was getting too round from the baby to have that accessory anymore. Fortunately having been incredibly slender before, her baby barely showed even though she was five months pregnant.
Mrs. Peel efficiently changed the conversation by bringing up their latest case. "So why are we so desperately needed?"
"As you know, we have been petitioning with Mother to let us form our own ministry. We must gain consent from our supervisor, because the government and its many other secret agencies label anyone who separates from an existing organization without permission a traitor. We do not want to spend the rest of our days explaining that we are not the enemy." Steed began his descent down the spiral stairs, his wife following close behind him.
John Steed marched resolutely into the living room where he immediately poured himself a glass of brandy from his personal bar. "You, Tara King, and I have all failed in getting Mother's consent. Mr. Basil Creighton-Latimer went to Mother's office today in pursuit of gaining his permission with disastrous results. Either Mother refused to grant his own nephew's request, so Basil became irate, or Latimer never had his meeting with Mother."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because Mother was found lying on the floor with his wheelchair on top of him, shot three times in the back." Steed looked straight into Emma's eyes, frightening her with his portentous stare.
"Is Mother dead?" she asked, barely wanting to hear the answer.
"Fortunately, Mother has always been the pessimistic type and was covered in chain-mail. He merely was stunned from the blow, so he fell out of his wheelchair-"
"And his heavy weight tipped over the wheelchair as well," Emma Peel Steed finished. "Has Mr. Creighton-Latimer admitted to the crime?"
"No, but he is still in custody being cross-examined by our men." Steed finished his brandy with a satisfactory sigh. There was something so humorous in the way that Steed could still find enjoyment even in the middle of some pressing news. "Since Mother's back was turned to the door when he was shot, he can't prove if it really was his nephew or not."
"So now that Basil is out of the picture, whom can we get to talk to Mother? If we keep producing the same three people, I highly doubt he will become more agreeable. He'll probably become quite the opposite." Emma crossed her slender arms over her chest and waited for an answer.
"I was thinking of asking Mrs. Gale to help us." Steed averted his wife's questioning glance.
"We haven't seen Dr. Gale for over a month, and I get the impression that she is quite pleased with that arrangement. Unlike Tara and I, Mrs. Gale prefers to work in a museum than to assist you in your cases."
"I wouldn't just force the idea on her. I would casually bring it up, and gradually her mind would become accustomed to the idea." Steed rubbed his hands together briskly as he added, "Trust me, she'll be eager to help us when I'm through with her."
"Is that supposed to be encouraging?" Emma inquired wryly. She gazed at her large, white wristwatch and exclaimed, "It's time for tea!" She slipped into the kitchen to fix their routine cup of tea. "So who is suspected of sabotaging our requests?" Mrs. Peel called from the kitchen.
"It could be a number of people since I have so many enemies." Steed seated himself in a chair by the dining area's table.
"It must be dreadful knowing all those people hate you," Emma remarked nonchalantly. She hardly seemed fazed to find that her husband had myriad of adversaries. She merely gazed at Steed from over the orange counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room.
"After awhile, having so many enemies is just as routine as having a cup of tea."
"I can't help thinking that drinking tea is a lot more beneficial for your health," Mrs. Peel declared in a wry manner.
Steed chuckled, obviously amused at this comment. "It isn't nearly as worrisome, I'll say that much." Steed suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead in revelation. "I almost forgot to mention that I've invited two guests for tea!"
"Don't tell me Mrs. Gale is one of them?" After Emma Peel received a nod from her companion, she said, "I had better change my clothes! Watch the teakettle," she pointed at the shiny, silver pot, "because I will not be held responsible if the water over-boils." Then she exited the room and climbed the stairs.
She returned shortly, attired in a long sleeve, yellow dress with miniskirt. A collage of browns and off-white were mixed together in an almost paisley pattern. Mrs. Peel had left her flowing auburn hair alone, just parting it to the right as she nearly always did.
Steed smiled satisfactorily at his wife before taking the tray with the tea into the living area. Upon setting the tray down on a little side table, he flattened his blue tie and brushed undetectable dust off his gray suit coat. Emma tried to hide her little round stomach by pulling at the material of her dress.
As the two spies were finishing their grooming, a ceremonious knock was heard at the door. Emma Steed admitted Miss Tara King into the flat. Tara was bedecked in a fuzzy, red winter's coat with black fur around the collar and the wrists. When she removed her wool, she revealed a snug, black sweater and equally as tight black pants.
Emma welcomed Tara as civilly as she could muster, but it was difficult. Each of them knew how much the other adored John Steed. Tara had been Steed's partner for a while when Emma's "husband" had returned home, and Tara never could get over the fact that Emma had returned to take her place. Mrs. Steed was jealous of her because Steed had become quite intimate with Miss King in her absence. Though he claimed he had never become romantically involved with the young woman, Emma had heard tales that disproved his story.
If Steed noticed the painfully cordial behaviour of his two women companions, he made no comment on it. Instead, he bade Tara to join them for a cup of tea. "I suppose you heard of Basil's unfortunate incident?" he queried Miss King.
"Yes, and I'm puzzled and disturbed at what it all means." Tara sat down on the leather sofa before continuing, "It seems odd that anyone would want to sabotage our plans. After all, if we're such nuisances, wouldn't they like to see us go?"
"You bring up an interesting point, but I have heard, in all due modesty, that I am the best agent in the country." Steed tried to suppress a pompous smirk. "Since I'm such a valuable asset, they will want to keep me. Remember: the reason Mrs. Peel and I were brainwashed was to prevent me from leaving the ministry to spend time with my wife."
Tara spooned in a lump of sugar, stirred, and took a sip. "You don't think Mother is behind all this?"
"Since he was just severely injured in today's fiasco, I highly doubt," Steed replied. "A smart man like Mother doesn't put his life in danger just to carry out some whim of his own."
"But, we didn't think he was behind the brainwashing coup either," Emma reminded him. She seated herself next to Tara and poured Steed and herself a cup of tea.
Standing by the fireplace, Steed rested his left arm on the mantel. He had just gotten comfortable when the doorbell rang furiously. He eagerly advanced to the door and opened it. Mrs. Catherine Gale, doctor in anthropology, entered the flat with her usual short smile spread across her lovely face.
"I can't stay long, for I have a dinner engagement with Martin King," was the first remark out of the serious Cathy Gale's mouth.
"That's all right; we're just enjoying a warm, cup of tea. It's wonderful way to sooth our chilled bones." Steed ushered Cathy into the living area and pulled up a chair for her. "Awfully cold weather we're having for late autumn? It reminds me of the weather we got at my Aunty Jill's winter cabin in the Alps."
"Doesn't that make your fifteenth aunt, Steed?" Tara asked in amusement.
"I'm glad you could join us, Dr. Gale." Emma smiled at the buxom blond before her. "If you want to join the conversation, we were just discussing the terrible incident with Basil Creighton-Latimer."
Before Emma could explain what she meant, Steed interrupted her. "Yes, it appears the young chap has come down with a terrible case of laryngitis. He can't utter three syllables."
"So, you still haven't been able to meet with Mother?" Cathy observed.
"Yes, and we don't know who to send, now that poor Basil is ill." Mrs. Peel stared significantly at Steed, as if to say, "Why are we lying to her?" She stirred his tea anticlockwise then handed it to him.
"I would ask Dr. King, but he never was too eager to help me out of a sticky situation." Steed paused for emphasis before adding, "And you, Mrs. Gale, are totally out of the question. I could ask Dr. Keel, but I don't know his new address-"
"Why am I out of the question?" Cathy Gale demanded.
Steed feigned a look of surprise and replied, "Well, I assumed that you didn't want any part in spying anymore."
"We respect your decision, mind you," added Mrs. Steed.
"Do you also think that I don't want to help my friends?" Mrs. Gale asked irately. "Of course I'll talk to Mother!"
"Splendid; the ministry hospital is allowing visitors for Mother tomorrow!" cried Tara quickly before Steed could make some unruly remark about Cathy's change of heart. "One of us will go over there to set up a meeting between you and him."
"Why is Mother in a hospital?" Cathy inquired suspiciously.
"Well, it seems he had a little too much scotch yesterday and consequentially, he fell out of his wheelchair," Emma responded.
This answer seemed to suffice, for Mrs. Gale proclaimed, "Now that it's all settled, I'll just have a cup of tea and be on my way."
After twenty minutes of chitchat, she was out the door. It had been a brief but very productive get-together.
"I'll go visit Mother tomorrow, if no one objects." Steed surveyed the two remaining women, who stayed completely silent.
"Why didn't you tell her the truth about Basil?" Tara questioned Mr. Steed.
"If she knew that she was walking right into danger, do you think she would do it?" was the reply.
"I don't exactly approve of using sneaky measures with friends, but under the circumstances, I must agree with Steed," Emma interjected. "She is our last hope, to put it dramatically."
Tara gave her consent, even though she didn't have much say in it. Before she left, she entreated, "Please keep me inform of the latest progress." The Steeds promised the young woman that they would. Then, with one last longing gaze at John Steed, the brunette beauty exited the vicinity.
"We should be done with this case in no time," Steed casually remarked.
"I don't know why, but I have such a premonition that the killer is going to strike again," Emma Peel began slowly, deliberating over each word. "And this time, I don't think the victim is going to survive."
To Be Continued . . .
The AVENGERS
Basil Creighton-Latimer gingerly smoothed his suit coat before gazing around his uncle's office. His uncle was the head of a secret agent ministry and was known as Mother. Basil was here to petition for several other spies, who thought the authoritative man was mistreating them by repeatedly brainwashing two of them. Being in love with one of the spies, Basil had offered to talk to his uncle.
Basil was sitting in an ostentatious room with ornate trimmings and crystal chandeliers. It appeared Mother's office this week was in a stately mansion somewhere in Derbyshire, a rural area of Great Britain. Where is Mother? he wondered to himself in apprehension.
Suddenly, he heard ominous footsteps on the marble floor outside the room where he was sitting. It couldn't belong to Mother, for the obese man always rode around in a wheelchair for convenience. Every muscle in Basil tightened as he strained to hear some noise other than the insistent clatter of footsteps coming closer and closer . . .
As abruptly as they had begun, the footsteps stopped. There was an uncomfortable silence that permeated the room then the sound of someone firing a gun. The footsteps resumed its unrelenting clamor, but this time they were quick, steady strides.
Basil leapt from his chair in horror and raced down the halls in pursuit of the owner of the footsteps. It was futile, though, for the intruder had long vanished. Basil searched in every room, looking for who or what the stranger was shooting. Finally, in one of the more modest quarters, he found what he was looking for. It was Mother, sprawled on the ground, unconscious or maybe even dead. His wheelchair was tipped over on top of him.
Mr. Creighton-Latimer approached his injured uncle to see if he was alive. As he placed his hand on the inert man's wrist, two spies entered the room.
"My God, Basil, why did you do it?" a man named Shuston cried.
"I never thought one of our own men would kill our boss!" added the agent named Pemberly.
Basil stared at one face and then the other, not believing what he heard. They thought he was responsible for Mother's current condition! "I didn't do it!" he bellowed as he rushed from the room. It was to no avail, for the two spies quickly outran the framed suspect and took him into custody to be questioned.
In the room where Mother lay, a shadowy figure entered to have a look at his or her victim. A maniacal chuckle escaped the murderer's lips.
Waiting For a Killer
Steed Wants to See His Mother
Emma is Expecting Someone
Cathy Waits in the Dark
Tara Sheds Some Light
First Day
Emma Steed, lovingly known as Mrs. Peel by her husband and associates, was redecorating Steed's bedroom in preparation for their baby, who was due in four months. She had just finished setting up a yellow and orange Japanese folding screen to separate their sleeping area from the baby's. Now Steed just needed to transport the heavy box with the crib up the winding staircase and assemble it. Which reminded her: where was her darling husband?
Emma descended the spiral staircase, which ended near the kitchen. She scrutinized the kitchen and dining area, but Steed was not there. Shrugging her shoulders, Mrs. Peel walked into the apartment's living room to have a look at the instructions for the crib's assembly. She snatched them from their position on the top of the box. After a quick survey, an amusing site met her brown, doe eyes.
Where it should have said Step One, the words Mrs. Peel were printed instead. Suddenly, Steed popped up from his hiding place behind the crib's box. "We're needed!" he informed her in his charming, British accent.
****************
"'Place mattress into the crib (mattresses sold separately and subject to availability,'" John Steed read from the real instructions, not the fake pamphlet he had created. He glanced at the crib that he and Emma had put together over the last hour. "They certainly know how to get you to spend your money.
'To use, put baby in the crib. (Do not exceed one hundred pounds.)' Really?" he remarked dryly.
"Well, there goes my idea of putting this baby in the crib," Emma teased, indicating Steed. "Baby is still too big!" She gazed at Steed's six-foot, two-inch frame. She then adjusted the long sleeves on her frost green blouse and smoothed her khaki pants. Usually she wore a belt with her dresses and pants, but her stomach was getting too round from the baby to have that accessory anymore. Fortunately having been incredibly slender before, her baby barely showed even though she was five months pregnant.
Mrs. Peel efficiently changed the conversation by bringing up their latest case. "So why are we so desperately needed?"
"As you know, we have been petitioning with Mother to let us form our own ministry. We must gain consent from our supervisor, because the government and its many other secret agencies label anyone who separates from an existing organization without permission a traitor. We do not want to spend the rest of our days explaining that we are not the enemy." Steed began his descent down the spiral stairs, his wife following close behind him.
John Steed marched resolutely into the living room where he immediately poured himself a glass of brandy from his personal bar. "You, Tara King, and I have all failed in getting Mother's consent. Mr. Basil Creighton-Latimer went to Mother's office today in pursuit of gaining his permission with disastrous results. Either Mother refused to grant his own nephew's request, so Basil became irate, or Latimer never had his meeting with Mother."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because Mother was found lying on the floor with his wheelchair on top of him, shot three times in the back." Steed looked straight into Emma's eyes, frightening her with his portentous stare.
"Is Mother dead?" she asked, barely wanting to hear the answer.
"Fortunately, Mother has always been the pessimistic type and was covered in chain-mail. He merely was stunned from the blow, so he fell out of his wheelchair-"
"And his heavy weight tipped over the wheelchair as well," Emma Peel Steed finished. "Has Mr. Creighton-Latimer admitted to the crime?"
"No, but he is still in custody being cross-examined by our men." Steed finished his brandy with a satisfactory sigh. There was something so humorous in the way that Steed could still find enjoyment even in the middle of some pressing news. "Since Mother's back was turned to the door when he was shot, he can't prove if it really was his nephew or not."
"So now that Basil is out of the picture, whom can we get to talk to Mother? If we keep producing the same three people, I highly doubt he will become more agreeable. He'll probably become quite the opposite." Emma crossed her slender arms over her chest and waited for an answer.
"I was thinking of asking Mrs. Gale to help us." Steed averted his wife's questioning glance.
"We haven't seen Dr. Gale for over a month, and I get the impression that she is quite pleased with that arrangement. Unlike Tara and I, Mrs. Gale prefers to work in a museum than to assist you in your cases."
"I wouldn't just force the idea on her. I would casually bring it up, and gradually her mind would become accustomed to the idea." Steed rubbed his hands together briskly as he added, "Trust me, she'll be eager to help us when I'm through with her."
"Is that supposed to be encouraging?" Emma inquired wryly. She gazed at her large, white wristwatch and exclaimed, "It's time for tea!" She slipped into the kitchen to fix their routine cup of tea. "So who is suspected of sabotaging our requests?" Mrs. Peel called from the kitchen.
"It could be a number of people since I have so many enemies." Steed seated himself in a chair by the dining area's table.
"It must be dreadful knowing all those people hate you," Emma remarked nonchalantly. She hardly seemed fazed to find that her husband had myriad of adversaries. She merely gazed at Steed from over the orange counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room.
"After awhile, having so many enemies is just as routine as having a cup of tea."
"I can't help thinking that drinking tea is a lot more beneficial for your health," Mrs. Peel declared in a wry manner.
Steed chuckled, obviously amused at this comment. "It isn't nearly as worrisome, I'll say that much." Steed suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead in revelation. "I almost forgot to mention that I've invited two guests for tea!"
"Don't tell me Mrs. Gale is one of them?" After Emma Peel received a nod from her companion, she said, "I had better change my clothes! Watch the teakettle," she pointed at the shiny, silver pot, "because I will not be held responsible if the water over-boils." Then she exited the room and climbed the stairs.
She returned shortly, attired in a long sleeve, yellow dress with miniskirt. A collage of browns and off-white were mixed together in an almost paisley pattern. Mrs. Peel had left her flowing auburn hair alone, just parting it to the right as she nearly always did.
Steed smiled satisfactorily at his wife before taking the tray with the tea into the living area. Upon setting the tray down on a little side table, he flattened his blue tie and brushed undetectable dust off his gray suit coat. Emma tried to hide her little round stomach by pulling at the material of her dress.
As the two spies were finishing their grooming, a ceremonious knock was heard at the door. Emma Steed admitted Miss Tara King into the flat. Tara was bedecked in a fuzzy, red winter's coat with black fur around the collar and the wrists. When she removed her wool, she revealed a snug, black sweater and equally as tight black pants.
Emma welcomed Tara as civilly as she could muster, but it was difficult. Each of them knew how much the other adored John Steed. Tara had been Steed's partner for a while when Emma's "husband" had returned home, and Tara never could get over the fact that Emma had returned to take her place. Mrs. Steed was jealous of her because Steed had become quite intimate with Miss King in her absence. Though he claimed he had never become romantically involved with the young woman, Emma had heard tales that disproved his story.
If Steed noticed the painfully cordial behaviour of his two women companions, he made no comment on it. Instead, he bade Tara to join them for a cup of tea. "I suppose you heard of Basil's unfortunate incident?" he queried Miss King.
"Yes, and I'm puzzled and disturbed at what it all means." Tara sat down on the leather sofa before continuing, "It seems odd that anyone would want to sabotage our plans. After all, if we're such nuisances, wouldn't they like to see us go?"
"You bring up an interesting point, but I have heard, in all due modesty, that I am the best agent in the country." Steed tried to suppress a pompous smirk. "Since I'm such a valuable asset, they will want to keep me. Remember: the reason Mrs. Peel and I were brainwashed was to prevent me from leaving the ministry to spend time with my wife."
Tara spooned in a lump of sugar, stirred, and took a sip. "You don't think Mother is behind all this?"
"Since he was just severely injured in today's fiasco, I highly doubt," Steed replied. "A smart man like Mother doesn't put his life in danger just to carry out some whim of his own."
"But, we didn't think he was behind the brainwashing coup either," Emma reminded him. She seated herself next to Tara and poured Steed and herself a cup of tea.
Standing by the fireplace, Steed rested his left arm on the mantel. He had just gotten comfortable when the doorbell rang furiously. He eagerly advanced to the door and opened it. Mrs. Catherine Gale, doctor in anthropology, entered the flat with her usual short smile spread across her lovely face.
"I can't stay long, for I have a dinner engagement with Martin King," was the first remark out of the serious Cathy Gale's mouth.
"That's all right; we're just enjoying a warm, cup of tea. It's wonderful way to sooth our chilled bones." Steed ushered Cathy into the living area and pulled up a chair for her. "Awfully cold weather we're having for late autumn? It reminds me of the weather we got at my Aunty Jill's winter cabin in the Alps."
"Doesn't that make your fifteenth aunt, Steed?" Tara asked in amusement.
"I'm glad you could join us, Dr. Gale." Emma smiled at the buxom blond before her. "If you want to join the conversation, we were just discussing the terrible incident with Basil Creighton-Latimer."
Before Emma could explain what she meant, Steed interrupted her. "Yes, it appears the young chap has come down with a terrible case of laryngitis. He can't utter three syllables."
"So, you still haven't been able to meet with Mother?" Cathy observed.
"Yes, and we don't know who to send, now that poor Basil is ill." Mrs. Peel stared significantly at Steed, as if to say, "Why are we lying to her?" She stirred his tea anticlockwise then handed it to him.
"I would ask Dr. King, but he never was too eager to help me out of a sticky situation." Steed paused for emphasis before adding, "And you, Mrs. Gale, are totally out of the question. I could ask Dr. Keel, but I don't know his new address-"
"Why am I out of the question?" Cathy Gale demanded.
Steed feigned a look of surprise and replied, "Well, I assumed that you didn't want any part in spying anymore."
"We respect your decision, mind you," added Mrs. Steed.
"Do you also think that I don't want to help my friends?" Mrs. Gale asked irately. "Of course I'll talk to Mother!"
"Splendid; the ministry hospital is allowing visitors for Mother tomorrow!" cried Tara quickly before Steed could make some unruly remark about Cathy's change of heart. "One of us will go over there to set up a meeting between you and him."
"Why is Mother in a hospital?" Cathy inquired suspiciously.
"Well, it seems he had a little too much scotch yesterday and consequentially, he fell out of his wheelchair," Emma responded.
This answer seemed to suffice, for Mrs. Gale proclaimed, "Now that it's all settled, I'll just have a cup of tea and be on my way."
After twenty minutes of chitchat, she was out the door. It had been a brief but very productive get-together.
"I'll go visit Mother tomorrow, if no one objects." Steed surveyed the two remaining women, who stayed completely silent.
"Why didn't you tell her the truth about Basil?" Tara questioned Mr. Steed.
"If she knew that she was walking right into danger, do you think she would do it?" was the reply.
"I don't exactly approve of using sneaky measures with friends, but under the circumstances, I must agree with Steed," Emma interjected. "She is our last hope, to put it dramatically."
Tara gave her consent, even though she didn't have much say in it. Before she left, she entreated, "Please keep me inform of the latest progress." The Steeds promised the young woman that they would. Then, with one last longing gaze at John Steed, the brunette beauty exited the vicinity.
"We should be done with this case in no time," Steed casually remarked.
"I don't know why, but I have such a premonition that the killer is going to strike again," Emma Peel began slowly, deliberating over each word. "And this time, I don't think the victim is going to survive."
To Be Continued . . .