‘I am an American relative, from Boston,’ I said with a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘A second cousin or something. And my ancestors went to America under something of a cloud, which no-one talks about. And me being American will cover for just about everything that is strange about me – my accent, my lack of knowledge of London society and manners, my informality.’ I looked up at him hopefully, delighted with my idea, and got a rueful smile in response.
‘I suppose, unless we run into the American Ambassador, that it will answer.’ He turned, not uphill towards Piccadilly, but towards St James’s Street. ‘How you expect to get permission to speak with the maid, I do not know though.’
‘Wait and see. If he has nothing to hide and he really cares for his sister he will snatch at any hope and if he does have something on his conscience, then he will not want to expose it by being difficult.’
Chapter Six
The house Lucian took me to was in one of the short side roads running from St James’s Street to Green Park. It was narrow and tall and exuded class. I tried to work out what it would cost to buy in my time and ran out of zeros.
Lord Cottingham was At Home and managed to cope with the intrusion of Lord Radcliffe’s American cousin with aplomb, considering that this was the morning – and therefore not the time for morning calls, which, with magnificent English logic were made in the afternoon – and he had a missing sister to worry about.
I gushed, I will admit. I sympathised at length and that was not too difficult to do because the man looked desperate. He wouldn’t be the most handsome man, even after a good night’s sleep and with nothing to worry about, but he had a pleasant oval face and the dark-shadowed hazel eyes with their long lashes were attractive. So was his voice, normally, I guessed, but it had a rasp now, as though he had been talking endlessly.
‘There is no news?’ Lucian asked when he could get a word in edgeways with me sympathising and exclaiming and Cottingham telling me at repetitious length how good and pure and innocent his sister was.
‘Nothing. No-one has seen anything, heard anything,’ he said bitterly.
‘Tell Lord Cottingham about last night, Cousin Lucian,’ I urged.
‘I was attacked,’ Lucian admitted. ‘It could have simply been footpads, but
I doubt it, and the only thing I have been doing recently that might have made someone want to do away with me is to be asking about Miss Trenton.’
‘Then Selbourne is our man.’ Cottingham sprang to his feet and began to pace. ‘He knows you are interesting yourself in the matter.’
‘No, he is not our man,’ Lucian snapped. ‘I believe him to be innocent and he knows that I do. He has no reason to try and put me out of action.’
‘Has the maid been thoroughly questioned?’ I asked before they started snarling at each other. ‘By a woman, I mean?’
‘Toms? I questioned her myself,’ Cottingham said. ‘May I enquire why you ask?’
‘Because a woman might notice something in her story that a man perhaps would not. I would be happy to do it, and to have a look at Miss Trenton’s room at the same time. The slightest clue may be of value in discovering what happened to her and a woman’s eye might detect it.’
He obviously thought me deluded but was too polite to say so, instead tugging the bell pull. When the butler came he told the man to take me to interview Toms and I was escorted out.
As I mounted the stairs I caught sight of a portrait hanging at the far end of the hall. ‘What a charming painting. And so unusual.’ It was a double portrait of a man and woman, well into middle age, yet gazing lovingly at each other. They clasped hands, left to left, and their golden wedding bands seemed to glitter. She was holding a large bouquet of flowers, exquisitely rendered by the artist. ‘So romantic.’
‘The late Lord Cottingham and his second wife, Miss Lawrence.’
‘Charming,’ I repeated and followed the butler upstairs and into a bedchamber where he left me, saying he would fetch ‘the girl.’
I didn’t have much chance to look round before the ‘girl’ appeared. I’d expected some forlorn waif, but the butler was obviously just a patronising misogynist. Martha Toms was about twenty, pert, pretty, bright as a button and distinctly wary underneath the façade of willing attentiveness. Was that suspicious, or was she understandably worried that she would be blamed in some way for her mistress’s disappearance?
‘I am Miss Lawrence from America and I am assisting in the search for Miss Trenton,’ I told her. ‘How long have you worked for her?’ I wandered about the room as I spoke, just looking.
‘A year, almost, Miss. I was a housemaid, but when Miss Trenton was going to come out I asked if I could be her personal maid. I’m good with hair and I know how to look after nice clothes and I want to better myself.’
Was she looking for another position already? ‘This is a very nice room.’ It was prettily decorated if you like Wedgwood blue and ruffles and toile de jouy print fabrics. The bed was large and draped in lace, the chairs looked comfortable and there were expensive-looking ornaments elegantly displayed. I picked up the topmost book of the little stack of reading by the bedside. It was a novel by someone I had never heard of entitled The Impenetrable Secret, or Find It Out! Very appropriate.
‘Yes, Miss. His lordship always says, nothing but the best for Miss Trenton.’
I wandered over to the window, the book still in my hand. The view was over the small garden at the back and I leaned out and looked down two storeys of the main house and another ten feet into the service basement yard below. It would need a very long ladder indeed to reach this window. Still, it would be worth investigating to see if there were any marks on the ground. Getting a struggling or unconscious woman down this way would be impossible, so if a ladder was used, then she must have co-operated. It didn’t mean that she hadn’t been in fear and reluctantly though.
‘Where do you sleep, Martha?’
‘In the dressing room, Miss. His lordship doesn’t like Miss Trenton to sleep alone.’ She turned and opened a door in the panelling and I followed her in.
‘Why not? Has she been unwell?’