“Pardon me, miss.” There was a gentle hand on my shoulder and I awoke with a horrified start to find a clergyman with a kindly face standing over me
“Oh, I am sorry! I don’t know what came over me.”
The kindly face smiled. “Don’t tell the vicar, but it happens to me more than you’d think.”
“That’s very gracious of you,” I said, smothering a yawn. “I say, I don’t suppose you could help me find someone? I actually came to speak with the curate.”
The smile deepened. “Then you’re in luck. You have found him. I’m the curate, Mr. Hobbs.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, I mean the other curate, Mr. Cantrip.”
“There is no other curate, miss. I am the only curate for this parish.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry, but there was a Mr. Cantrip here. He said he was—” I broke off, thinking furiously. Had Sebastian said he was the curate? Or had I simply inferred it from the dog collar?
Mr. Hobbs’ gentle expression turned thoughtful. “I say, aren’t you Miss Hammond? The young lady—”
“Who ran out on her wedding to the heir to Viscount Madderley? Yes,” I said automatically.
“I was going to phrase it a little more delicately than that,” he told me with only the mildest hint of reproach.
“Oh, it’s all right, I understand it’s what everyone is saying.” I was still thinking hard. Perhaps I had misunderstood. Sebastian might not be curate of this parish, but he must be associated with another.
“Mr. Hobbs, do vicars ever lend their curates?”
The smile was back, this time a shade rueful. “Well, we are men of the cloth, you know, not books in a lending library, but I regret to say some vicars do indeed treat us as such.”
“You mean a vicar who had an important service to perform might request help from another parish?”
“Yes, these things do happen.”
I brightened. “That must be it. Sebastian Cantrip is another parish’s curate and he was simply borrowed for the wedding.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Hammond, but if you are referring to your—er, wedding,” he said with a cough, “there was no borrowed curate. It was my job to assist the vicar at your nuptials.”
I resisted the urge to light a cigarette. “Do you mean no one from outside your parish was expected?”
“No indeed,” he said proudly. “We took great pride in our ability to execute everything to the viscountess’s specifications.”
His last remark proved his involvement, I thought grimly. Mother had planned everything to the smallest detail, but Gerald’s mother had come from a family populated with bishops and her pet hobby was all matters ecclesiastical. The viscountess had expressed no interest in the wedding whatsoever except when it came to texts and hymns and vestments.
“And you don’t know a Mr. Cantrip?” I persisted.
“Indeed not, although if I did, I should think it a very great joke,” he said, the smile once more in evidence.
“Oh, why?”
“Well, as it happens, I am a fancier of unusual names. I collect them, as it were, and Cantrip is most singular.”
“In what way?”
He shrugged. “I should presume it was a pseudonym. Have you never heard the word before? A cantrip is an old Scots word. It means a witch’s trick, a spell. The very word means deception.”
I rose slowly from the pew and fished in my bag for a note. “For the collection plate, Mr. Hobbs. Thank you for your time.”
I went out into the street, blinking at the weak sunlight. The church had been a haven of cool security, but now I felt oddly off balance, as if someone had just proven the sky was green. I walked slowly across to the park and sat on a bench, thinking hard.
“Private reflection my eye,” said Masterman as she slid onto the bench next to me.
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you wanted a nap, there’s many a place better than that,” she told me.
I shrugged. “I nodded off. It’s been a very trying time,” I replied to her, but my mind was elsewhere.
I had been overwrought that day, but it wasn’t as if I had imagined him. In the first place, too many other people had seen him. And in the second, how had I got myself down to Devonshire without him driving me?
“Of course he drove you,” Masterman was saying.
I blinked. “Was I talking aloud?”
“Muttering more like. Something about that Mr. Cantrip and imagining. What’s this all about?” she demanded.
I took a deep breath and plunged in. “I came to London today to thank Mr. Cantrip for the spot of rescuing he did when he drove me down to Devon. But I cannot find him. In fact, the curate in the church seems to think no such person exists.”
Masterman pursed her lips. “Of course he does. We all saw him.”
“Exactly. But who was he, if not Sebastian Cantrip, curate of this parish? And more to the point, what was he doing at my wedding?”
Masterman was thoughtful. “My money is on reporter. They’re a nasty lot, those journalists. Probably infiltrated the wedding party to get some exclusive information to publish in his newspaper.”
“He is not one of those filthy reporters,” I countered with some warmth.
“How would you know?”
“Because he just isn’t,” I retorted stubbornly. “He’s kind.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re smitten with him.”
“Don’t be vulgar. I’m nothing of the sort. It’s only good manners to thank people when they do you a good turn, and he might have got into real trouble helping me run away.” I paused, horrified. “You don’t think that’s why he’s disappeared, do you?”
Masterman gave a short bark of a laugh, the first I’d ever heard from her. “I hardly think so. What do you expect, miss, that the Archbishop of Canterbury keeps a special prison just for wayward priests? Locks them up with only bread and water, never to see the light of day?”
She laughed again and I gave her a sour look. “You needn’t be so foul, Masterman. It was an idea. I never said it was a good one.”
She sobered and her expression was a little kinder. “Miss, don’t take it like that. I was only having a bit of fun.”
“At my expense.”
“Well, you were the one being silly,” she pointed out reasonably. “Now, why don’t you work backwards? That’s what I do whenever I’ve misplaced something. Where was the last place I know it was, and where before that?”
“He isn’t a misplaced hat or bit of knitting, you know.” It felt pointless, but I hadn’t a better idea, so I obliged her. “The last place we saw him was in the cottage. He said he was returning to London.”
“And where before that?”
“In the motorcar,” I began, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew. “Oh, Masterman, you utter genius!” I clasped her hand in excitement. “I saw a garage ticket in the glovebox when I was looking for a packet of cigarettes. A garage ticket fell out, a ticket with a—oh, drat. I can’t remember the name now.”
“Of course you can,” Masterman said confidently. “It only requires a bit of concentration. Close your eyes.”
I obeyed, burrowing in my memory for the name. Something Irish, of that I was certain. And an address in Hampstead.
“O’Loughlin’s,” I said, my eyes popping open. I regarded Masterman with real admiration. “You are quite useful.”
She gave me a thin smile. “You are not the first to make that observation, miss. Shall we go?”
In a very short while we found ourselves in Hampstead, standing on a main road. It seemed logical that a shop or post office would best know the garages in the area, and a quick visit to the latter provided the exact address. The garage was in the next street, and we hu
rried there, growing more excited with each step.
The garage man was wiping his hands on an oily rag when we appeared, looking a little out of place amongst the spanners and grease. I flicked Masterman a look indicating she should stay behind me. She obeyed, keeping a little distance as the garage man came forward.
“Can I help, miss?”
I put out my hand, then thought better of it when he apologetically showed a soiled palm.
“I hope so. Are you the proprietor, Mr. O’Loughlin?”
He grinned. “Naw, miss. I’m Wilson. Never has been an O’Loughlin here. I gave the place that name because the quality do like their Irish chauffeurs, don’t they?”
I returned the smile. “Clever of you, Mr. Wilson. I’ve come because I’m trying to find an acquaintance of mine, a gentleman who assisted me under some very trying circumstances. He gave me a ride when I rather desperately needed transportation. I’m afraid I didn’t have a chance to thank him properly and it’s rather got under my skin. It would have been about a week ago. He drives a pretty little Talbot tourer. Painted blue? Quite fast?”
The garage man’s face brightened. “Ah, yes, a right little beauty, isn’t she? And Mr. Fox is a good customer, he is. Always ready with a pleasant word and what matter if he forgets a bill now and then? He always pays it and a little more when he realises. A real gentleman.”
“Mr. Fox, you say? I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name when he gave me a ride.”
“Sebastian Fox,” the garage man said promptly. “He lodges in the next street with Mrs. Webb what keeps the big house on the corner.”
I thanked him and followed his directions to the corner house with Masterman trotting alongside.
“Honestly, I don’t see what all the fuss with being a detective is,” I told her. “It’s quite easy, really. But did you hear the garage man? The curate was right. Sebastian’s name isn’t Cantrip at all. It’s Fox. Why on earth would he lie?”
“Perhaps he’s a criminal,” Masterman said blandly.
“He’s nothing of the sort. I think he was hiding from someone,” I told her. “Perhaps he is in some sort of trouble.”
She snorted. “What sort of trouble would a man be in that he changes his name and lies about his identity rather than going to the police? He’s a criminal,” she repeated slyly as we reached the corner house.
I noted that the front steps were freshly scrubbed and the brass knocker had been polished to a blinding shine. I used it to rap briskly, and the door was opened almost immediately by a tall, imposing woman with a wealth of iron-grey hair bundled into an old-fashioned snood. She wore a black dress with a crisp white collar, and everything about her spoke of respectability.
“Have you come to inquire about the room?” she asked pleasantly.
I was caught off guard. “Oh, no, I—” I broke off, thinking wildly. I couldn’t very well explain who Masterman was. Ladies who could afford maids didn’t live in boarding houses. I felt a sudden jolt of inspiration and smiled winsomely at Mrs. Webb. “That is to say, not just a room. My, er, friend and I would need a pair of rooms.” I flicked a glance at Masterman, who must have been surprised but kept her expression perfectly impassive.
Mrs. Webb nodded. “Well, I’ve only the one, I’m afraid, but it is large enough for two. I could put in a second bed, no trouble at all. It’s only just come available, but I assure you it’s in very good condition. The gentleman who occupied it was not always tidy, but he was clean, if you take my meaning.”
“Show us,” I said, amending it hastily with a fervent, “please.”
Mrs. Webb escorted us up the stairs and unlocked a door from the ring of heavy keys at her belt. “There you are, miss?” She let the word dangle hopefully.
“Cantrip,” I said promptly. “And this is my friend, Miss Smith.”
Mrs. Webb nodded. “I’ll leave you both to look around. I have a sponge in the oven. If you will make your way down when you are finished, you’d be most welcome to a cup of tea.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Webb.”
The landlady withdrew and Masterman gave me a grudging nod, her expression speculative. “You’ve a talent for lying, miss.”
“I always have had,” I admitted. “Learnt in more boarding schools than I can count. Now, let’s have a good sniff around and see if we can discover anything about our mysterious Mr. Fox.”
Masterman busied herself with the wardrobe while I circled slowly, taking in the room. It was large with a bow window that gave onto the street. I flicked aside the crisp white curtains with a gloved finger. There was a perfect view of the comings and goings of the neighbourhood from this room, although something at the back overlooking the garden would certainly be quieter. Interesting.
I turned and inspected the rest of the room. There was a small sitting area by the fireplace, a deep armchair, and a little table just large enough to hold a cup of tea and a book. The fender was well-polished and the leather cushion on top showed a bit of wear. I could just imagine Sebastian there, slouched comfortably in his chair, stockinged feet propped on the fender as a fire crackled merrily away.
Masterman finished with the wardrobe and wandered to the bookshelf, touching the books idly. “Not so much as a pin in the wardrobe, miss. It’s been thoroughly cleaned.”
There was nothing else to search save the bed and bookshelf. The bed was stripped to the mattress, narrow and freshly turned, and the bookshelf was nearly empty. Only half a dozen volumes stood upon it, and I motioned for Masterman to move as I took each one down, riffling through hastily.
Most were classic novels of the sort anyone might have, Dickens and the ubiquitous Austen, but I was intrigued to find the last book was Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. I held it up to Masterman. “See? Not a criminal. No criminal would have a copy of this. It’s a child’s adventure book.” I thumbed through to find my favourite picture, the Rackham illustration of Queen Mab, the queen of the fairies in Kensington Gardens.
And there it was, on the flyleaf in neat copperplate script. “Sebastian Fox,” I said, tracing the handwriting with a fingertip.
“Do you suppose it’s his real name?” she asked.
“I suspect so. It’s dated 1911, the year the book was published, and the handwriting is a boy’s. So, confirmation he lied to me but told the garage man the truth.”
I looked up at Masterman with fearful eyes. “This book is very nearly falling apart. It’s been read to pieces. Look where he’s mended it, here and here. And he’s underlined passages. This was no ordinary book to him, Masterman. It was a treasure. He would have had to have been in a very big hurry indeed to leave without it.”
She nodded. “I’m beginning to think you’re right, miss.”
I shoved the book back onto the bookshelf with reluctant fingers. “I think his leaving this behind is a sign that we are onto something here.”
Masterman said nothing as I prodded her downstairs to find the landlady. Mrs. Webb was in the kitchen finishing laying the tea things, and she gave us an apologetic look.
“I’ve nearly done here if you would go through to the sitting room, my dears.”
I hesitated. We had passed the sitting room on our way up the stairs. It was precisely the sort of room a proper landlady would keep—chilly and formal with an ancient Victorian horsehair suite of furniture and too many china ornaments. It was not a place for confidences. No, one wanted a kitchen for that. Many secrets could be exchanged in a warm and cosy room over a fat brown teapot and good bread and butter.
“That is so kind of you, Mrs. Webb, but I wonder if you would mind very much if we had our tea in here? It’s just that I seem to have twisted my ankle a little in these wretched shoes and I shouldn’t like to take my shoe off in your lovely sitting room.”
With that little confession, Mrs. Webb dropped her formal manner and began
to fuss like a mother hen. She insisted on making up a basin of hot water liberally dosed with salts for soaking my ankle and settling me in front of the welcoming fire. She had cut generous slices of bread and butter and we ate these companionably as Mrs. Webb poured out from a fat brown teapot precisely as I had expected. There were slices of feather-light sponge to follow with homemade raspberry jam, and I had to resist the urge to lick my fingers.
“I promise you, Mrs. Webb, I haven’t had such a lovely tea since our last English nanny left,” I said. As soon as the words were out, I could have bitten my tongue. I hadn’t intended to reveal anything true about myself, much less that I came from a family of means.
Masterman darted me a quick glance, but I dropped my eyes and affected a little break in my voice. “I oughtn’t talk of better days,” I said softly. I gave Mrs. Webb a look from under my lashes. “The family has come down in the world,” I murmured. “Financial reversals.”
Mrs. Webb gave me a kindly smile. “I do understand, dear. And little wonder you enjoyed it then. I was a nanny for twenty years before I married. I missed all the little ones terribly when I left service. Mr. Webb did always say I fussed too much, but I do so like to look after my guests properly.”
I seized my chance. “And did you fuss over the gentleman whose room you showed us?”
“Well, bless you, my dear, I did. Such a thoughtful young man was Mr. Fox. Mind you, I didn’t much care for him coming in all hours as he used to do. Far too much coming and going, and that’s a fact. But he was never once late with his rent and never disturbed the others with noise or bad language. I shall miss him, and there’s no doubt about that.”
I waited until Mrs. Webb had poured out another cup of tea before picking up the thread of her inquiry. “Why did your nice Mr. Fox leave? I shouldn’t think any tenant would want to leave this house unless he had to.”
Mrs. Webb beamed at me. “Bless you, dear, but it’s a fact my tenants stay far longer than those next door at Mrs. Campbell’s.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tinned sauce on her puddings,” she murmured, shaking her head. “But you are quite right about Mr. Fox. He had to leave us, and it was a sad day for me when he did.”
Night of a Thousand Stars Page 6
