The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

But the world was a vast place when someone was missing.

The clerk’s persistent cough and constant shuffling dragged Oliver from his reverie.

“What is it, Andrews?” Mr Wild said, his gritted teeth masked by a forced smile.

“It’s just that the late earl also did business with Mr Jameson.” The clerk shrank back as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Jameson? But that’s ridiculous. I was the earl’s solicitor.” Wild scowled. “What need had he to visit with Mr Jameson?”

The clerk’s mouth curled downwards. “Perhaps it was a personal matter, sir.”

“But I dealt with all matters. You must be mistaken, Andrews.”

Oliver exhaled. “Can we not simply call Mr Jameson in and ask him?”

Mr Andrews took a hesitant step forward. “Mr Jameson is away at Park Hall, drawing up papers for Viscount Trench.”

“In that case, he can offer no objection. Find my father’s file and bring it here.”

Both men looked at him as though he’d suggested sacrificing all first-born males.

Mr Wild shook his head. “We cannot enter a colleague’s office without his permission. We must wait for him to return.”

“If your colleague drew up papers for my father, then they belong to me. The fact Jameson has failed to pass them over to you is suspicious, is it not?”

There was a prolonged silence.

“Very well.” Oliver shot to his feet. “I shall search for the file myself.”

“No, no.” Mr Wild waved his hands in the air as he scanned the breadth of Oliver’s chest. “It is best that I go. The drawers are full of private documents. Should our clients learn of a security breach they may take their business elsewhere.”

Oliver gestured to the door. “Then let’s get to it.” There wasn’t a minute to waste.

Accompanied by the clerk, they entered the office across the hall from Mr Wild’s. The room was just as dark and dingy. Breathing the musty air was akin to sucking in sawdust.

Wild scurried over to a tall cabinet, glanced back over his shoulder numerous times as if expecting Jameson to jump out from behind the coat stand.

“This is highly irregular,” Wild muttered as he flicked through the contents of a drawer. “I can see nothing listed under Stanton or Darby.”

“Then I suggest you look again.” An odd feeling in the pit of Oliver’s stomach convinced him they were looking in the right place. “See if there's a file under the name of Benting.”

Mr Benting was an alias used by his father when he wished to travel incognito. When he stalked his wife, and booked into coaching inns to check she wasn’t meeting a lover.

Wild opened another drawer and scanned the row of files. “Yes, there is a Benting,” he said with some surprise. He pl

aced the thin file on Mr Jameson’s cluttered desk, read a missive, and then examined a document embossed with a wax seal.

“Well?” Oliver’s fingers tingled as he contemplated ripping the document out from under the solicitor’s nose. “What have you found?”

“There is no proof that the Mr Benting mentioned here is your father. There is nothing to suggest a connection or why he purchased the property.” Wild glanced down at the piece of paper and shook his head. “Without Mr Jameson to corroborate Andrews’ story, I’m afraid there is nothing more I can tell you.”

Even if Mr Jameson were available, he would have received a substantial reward to keep his tongue.

“Indeed,” Wild continued, “I fear there has been a terrible misunderstanding.”

A misunderstanding? The comment caused an irritating prickle at Oliver’s nape.

“You mentioned a property,” Oliver said, his curiosity piqued. There had to be a reason why his father was secretive about the purchase. “Can you not tell me where it is? Is anyone living there?”