The Disappearance of Katie Wren

by Cross,Amy

  “We're very proud of the view from our drawing room,” he explains, looking out at the passing traffic. “Knott's Court is located on one of the city's main thoroughfares. I've always felt that a building gains its character from its surroundings, and it befits our work here for us to be so close to London's lifeblood. We also back onto the river, which of course is another great benefit. In general, we try to help improve the neighborhood.”

  “That's very admirable,” I tell him.

  “For example,” he continues, “just last week we purchased the derelict building opposite, and we plan to knock it down very soon and fund the construction of something more pleasing. Something that fits with the tone of the street.”

  “I'm sure you'll think this is rather strange,” I reply, hoping to steer him onto a more relevant topic, “but I came here today because I was hoping you might be able to help me. You see, I'm trying to find my daughter, and a friend suggested that she might have found a job here at your establishment. It's a long-shot, I know, but I'm rather running out of options.”

  “A job?” He pauses. “Here? Well, I'm not sure that we've made any new hires recently, but -”

  “Her name is Katie Wren.”

  “Katie Wren?”

  I watch him carefully, in case there's a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but he seems to genuinely not know the name.

  “I must confess,” he says with an awkward smile, “that I'm not familiar with every staff-member. Awful of me, I know, but one simply doesn't have the time. I shall have to check with house-keeping, but that's absolutely not a problem.”

  He gets to his feet.

  “If you'll be so kind as to wait here for a moment, I'll see what I can find out.”

  I thank him as he leaves the room, and then I turn and look up at the grand oil paintings that line the walls. I still don't entirely understand the nature of Knott's Court, but so far the place seems entirely civilized. It's certainly not the den of iniquity that Annabelle described last night, and it's hard to believe that anything sinister could be lurking in the house's deeper reaches. In fact, this entire place seems so far like the most civilized establishment one could ever hope to visit. There are many things that I fear in London, but a well-run house is certainly not one of them.

  Getting to my feet, I wander past the grand piano and over to the far side of the room, where several ornaments rest on an antique dresser. There's a door in the corner, and although my natural curiosity prompts me to contemplate taking a closer look, I quickly remind myself that it wouldn't do to snoop. After all, so far these people have shown me absolute courtesy, and Annabelle's drunken ramblings seem more and more like the paranoid ravings of somebody whose mind isn't quite right. Perhaps Annabelle is simply one of those modern girls who dislike tradition. Rather than despising Knott's Court, she might learn a little from its ways, although I doubt she lacks the necessary temperament to change.

  Hearing footsteps, I turn just as another maid enters, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

  “Compliments of Mr. Stewart,” she says with a faint, meek smile as she takes the tray to the table by the window.

  As she sets the tray down, I can't help watching her and imagining my dear Katie performing the same role. I'd like to think that I raised my daughter to have certain manners, and to be possessed of common sense, so I certainly believe she'd be able to work here at Knott's Court. At the same time, she most certainly wouldn't do so while cutting off contact with the rest of the world.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something?” I say suddenly, surprising myself a little.

  The maid turns to me. She's young, and undeniably pretty.

  “Of course, M'am. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you like working here?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  That's good. She's very polite.

  “I simply wondered,” I continue, “whether you enjoy working here at Knott's Court.”

  “Very much,” she replies, although she immediately turns and heads to the door. “Mr. Stewart will -”

  “And what exactly is it that you do?”

  She hesitates in the doorway.

  “I greet visitors, mostly,” she tells me after a moment.

  “And do you receive many visitors here?”

  She seems frozen for a few seconds, as if she's not quite sure what to say.

  “I don't suppose you know my daughter, do you?” I ask. “Her name is -”

  Before I can finish, Mr. Stewart steps back into view.

  “That's fine, Mercy,” he tells the maid, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Please, return to the gathering room and await further duties. There is much work to be done this morning.”

  The young lady smiles politely at me as she leaves the room.

  “I see that tea was brought for you,” Mr. Stewart continues, stepping toward me. “I've made inquiries with the head of housekeeping, and I've determined that we employ nobody by the name Katie or Catherine Wren. Indeed, we have made no new hires since the beginning of last month. Since all employees are engaged by the household directly, rather than through agencies, we have files on everyone who works here. I'm very sorry, but it would appear that there's nothing we can do for you.”

  “Well,” I reply, feeling as if perhaps I've wasted this gentleman's time, “thank you for taking the trouble to check.”

  “You are of course welcome to stay a while and enjoy your tea.”

  “Thank you, but I should get going. I have to keep searching.”

  He turns and leads me back into the hallway, and toward the front door.

  “I hope you find your daughter soon,” he says calmly, as ahead of us the door is opened by an attendant. “It must be a great worry for her to be missing, but perhaps she has merely neglected to keep in touch. I know the modern world can be awfully distracting.”

  With the door now open, the sounds of the busy street are filling the hallway.

  “It can be distracting,” I mutter, stepping outside and then turning back to him. “Thank you again. Might I ask... I know this is probably inappropriate, but might I ask exactly what you do here at Knott's Court?”

  “What we do here?”

  “Yes.”

  I wait for an answer to what I had assumed was a simple question, but for a moment Mr. Stewart seems a little nonplussed, as if he isn't entirely sure what to say.

  “Knott's Court is a club for gentlemen of the city,” he says finally. “We have been established for more than two centuries as a haven for those who wish to meet away from the clamor of modernity, although the current owners took over a little more recently. And of course, we prefer to operate with discretion, which is perhaps why information is rather scarce. We have no website, and no social media presence. I suppose that in an age when everybody is expected to share everything, this approach can seem a little... old-fashioned.”

  “Of course not,” I reply, feeling a little reassured. “I entirely understand. In fact, I myself prefer to -”

  Before I can finish, I spot another maid coming along the corridor. She starts to make her way into the reception room, but after a moment we make eye contact and she hesitates. It takes a couple of seconds longer for me to realize where I've seen her before, and I'm shocked when I see that Agnes Bresson is employed here at Knott's Court. She clearly recognizes me, and she loiters for a moment before scurrying into the room.

  Mr. Stewart turns and looks over his shoulder, and when he glances at me it's clear that he knows something is wrong.

  “I'm afraid I have a great deal to get done,” he says with a faint, polite smile. “Again, I hope very much that you will find your daughter, and I would urge you not to give up hope, even if the police are less than helpful. People can disappear in London, but they can also reappear. The city breathes, Mrs. Wren, and sometimes it takes people when it inhales and then returns them when it exhales. The rest is simply a matter of waiting.”

  I stare at the door the drawing roo
m, and for a moment I'm minded to go charging back inside so I can confront that wretched girl.

  “Mrs. Wren? Is anything the matter?”

  I turn to him.

  “No,” I stammer, feeling as if perhaps I should be more cautious. “No, I just...”

  “If you'd like to leave a card or a phone number, or an address where you can be reached, I can let you know if I hear anything that might be of help.” He pauses. “One never knows.”

  “I'm sure that's not necessary,” I reply. “Thank you. Goodbye.”

  With that, I turn and hurry down the steps. My heart is beating fast and the mere sight of that awful French girl has filled me with concern. I've seen enough of her in the past week to know that she's a delinquent, so it's difficult to believe that she could be employed by the owners of Knott's Court. I'd have thought such a fine and cultured establishment would better screen its staff. When I reach the pavement and turn to look back, I see that the front door is already shut, but a moment later I spot a figure watching me from the window.

  For a few seconds, I stare at Agnes, and I swear I see a hint of fear in her eyes.

  And then she's gone, pulling back out of view and leaving me standing along on the street. Passersby are rushing past in either direction, talking on their phones and loudly discussing matters of the day. Not one of them so much as glances at Knott's Court, as if they haven't noticed the house or, rather, have been trained to look away. But I remain rooted to the spot, staring up at the windows, unable to shake the fear that behind the house's magnificent facade, there might yet lurk some secrets.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Plan

  “Oh, there's no doubt it was her,” I continue, as I take a seat at the breakfast table in Tim's apartment. “I saw her, and she most definitely saw me. She looked like a startled animal, caught in the headlights and -”

  “Stop shouting!” Annabelle groans, raising a coffee cup to her lips but not quite managing to take a sip. “I get it. You saw Agnes. That's great, but there's no need to yell.”

  “She was all made-up to look like a lady,” I add. “Hair tucked neatly into a bun. Discreet make-up. A maid's uniform. She was even walking properly, with good posture, but it was most definitely her. I wonder if those people know the kind of person they're employing. If they had any idea what she gets up to in her spare time, I'm certain they'd terminate her forthwith!”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Annabelle mutters. “Maybe...”

  “I found these,” Tim explains suddenly as he comes into the room. He sets some paracetamol on the table next to Annabelle. “I hope they help with the headache. They have codeine.”

  “You're a doll,” she replies, scooping the pills up and washing them down with coffee.

  “I was thinking,” he continues, “that perhaps a fried breakfast would make you feel better. I remember from my younger days, a good fry-up often settled the stomach after a night on the lash.”

  “On the lash?”

  “Well, you know... When one has had a few drinks too many.”

  “You don't have to cook for me,” she replies. “I can grab a burger when I'm out.”

  “Nonsense,” he continues, turning and heading to the kitchen. “I'll have a proper breakfast ready in absolutely no time. Eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes, the works. You can't possibly go out there on an empty stomach, especially not when you're already feeling so delicate. It's been so long since I last had guests, but I promise I haven't forgotten how to entertain!”

  He stops in the doorway and takes an apron from the hook, slipping it over his head and then hurrying out of view. A moment later, I hear a clicking sound as he gets the gas cooker started.

  “He's certainly keen to take care of you,” I tell Annabelle.

  “I feel like shit,” she groans, taking another sip of coffee before sitting back and staring at the wall. She certainly looks rather green around the gills, and for a moment it appears as if she might suddenly throw up again. Then, with a furrowed brow, she turns to me. “Hang on. Did I imagine it, or did you say you went inside Knott's Court? As in, through the front door?”

  “Only as far as the reception room, but -”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” she continues, her eyes widening with shock. “Pardon my French again, but did you actually set foot in the place?”

  I nod.

  “How the hell did you do that?”

  “The way most people enter a stranger's house,” I reply. “I knocked on the door.”

  Her eyes widen even further.

  “The gentleman I spoke to was very polite and understanding,” I continue, feeling a little amused by her lack of understanding. “I explained the situation, and he made inquiries with the head of the household staff, and -”

  “Who?” she stammers. “Who'd you talk to?”

  “A gentleman by the name of Mr. Stewart. I believe his first name was Dominic.”

  “Fuck.” She seems genuinely stunned by this news. “I've been on this goddamn case for more than a decade, and I've never so much as gone up the steps at the front of the place.”

  She pulls a notepad from her pocket, along with a pen, and starts scribbling.

  “Dominic Stewart, yeah?”

  “Yes, and -”

  “Tell me everything you saw. Every detail, every little thing. Don't worry if it seems mundane or unimportant, just spill it all out. You're the first person I've ever spoken to who's actually been inside that effin' house!”

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “For real. Not tell me what you saw!”

  “It was a perfectly ordinary place,” I reply. “Honestly, Annabelle, I can't help thinking that you've rather demonized Knott's Court. From what I saw, there's absolutely nothing untoward going on at all. The reception room was pale pastel blue, with a rather beautiful grand piano and a wonderful view of the street. There was a chandelier, nothing too extravagant, and some antique furniture. There were paintings on the wall.”

  I pause, watching as she furiously scribbles down every detail.

  “The place was immaculately clean,” I continue. “I don't think I saw so much as a speck of dust the whole time I was there. And it was quiet, too. I didn't see further into the house, but I certainly heard nothing to indicate any great or mysterious activity taking place. Then again, I suppose it was rather early. I'm surprised they were even answering the door before nine in the morning.”

  “Uh-huh,” she mutters, making more notes. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What else?”

  “I've told you everything I -”

  “This Dominic Stewart guy,” she continues. “Black, slicked-back hair?”

  I nod.

  “A mustache?”

  “A thin one, yes.”

  “I think I've seen him before. I was never sure of his name, though. I had suspicions, but I couldn't prove it.”

  “Really? After all the research you've done on the place, you don't even know the names of the people who work there?”

  “I've had to be careful!” she hisses. “I couldn't just go barging in there, asking questions and trying to figure stuff out! If I'd done that, I'd have been suicided by now.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “That's what happens to people who go poking about anywhere near Knott's Court. They die in accidents, or they get sick, or they're found hanging in their hallways. Seriously, that place doesn't hold back. If there's even the slightest chance that someone is asking questions, they deal with the problem. I saw that first-hand when Harry died.”

  I watch as she furiously writes some more notes, and I can't help thinking that perhaps she's being a little unreasonable.

  “Well, I'm still here,” I point out finally.

  “Let's see how long that lasts,” she mutters.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She glances at me.

  “They let me inside,” I continue, “they spoke to me, they answered my questions, and then they let me
leave. They even offered me the chance to stay a little longer and enjoy some tea and biscuits. That's hardly the behavior of people who are terrified of being visited.”

  “Sure, but -”

  “By your account,” I add, interrupting her, “shouldn't they have placed a bag over my head and dragged me off to be horribly murdered?”

  “They were probably just surprised. I doubt anyone's ever been dumb enough to go knocking on their door before!”

  “Maybe people have simply let the stories about Knott's Court get blown up out of all proportion?”

  “They'll be watching you now!”

  “How so? Will there be a man sitting outside in a dark car?”

  Getting to my feet, I head to the window and look out at the street. There are several cars parked near the apartment building, but not one of them seems to be occupied. After a moment, I turn back to Annabelle.

  “Don't you think it's possible,” I continue, “that you've got the wrong end of the stick here?”

  “You don't understand.”

  “I was there,” I remind her. “I was inside Knott's Court and they didn't seem bothered by that fact at all.”

  “Of course they weren't,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I mean, look at you. Who the hell would be worried about someone like you showing up? You look like someone's friendly, dithering old granny. You look like the least dangerous, least devious, least threatening person in the world. No-one would ever be scared of you. They probably thought it was a joke.”

  “I'll try not to take offense,” I mutter.

  “You know what I mean!” she continues. “I guarantee, if I'd shown up, things would've gone very differently. They just didn't take you seriously, that's all.”

  She makes some more notes.

  “Well then maybe that gives me an advantage,” I point out.

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Maybe I should go back.”