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Toby drove the Morris Oxford along the Brighton seafront. The day was cold but bright and clear, and the sun reflected from the tops of the waves as they curled lazily onto the shore. The tide was out, and the remains of anti-tank barriers and rusting coils of barbed wire were fully exposed. The war was over. It had been over for almost six years, but the damage remained, and rebuilding seemed to be an impossible dream.
The great hotels lining the seafront of the once fashionable resort looked abandoned. Those that still had windows or facades were closed and shuttered, but many of the elegant buildings were open to the elements and the cold wind from the Channel. Toby had never become accustomed to the sight of bomb-damaged buildings sliced open to reveal rain-soaked wallpaper, doors that led to nowhere, and shreds of fabric that had once been curtains or bedspreads. He thought they looked like the ruined dollhouses of giant children.
For the first time in years, Toby was able to assess his surroundings without a paralyzing sadness for the destruction of his homeland; for the historic buildings that had been reduced to dust, for the ruined beaches, and the shattered dreams of a generation. Let someone else rebuild it, Toby thought, and someday in the future, I’ll come back and visit and say what a good job they’ve done.
He slipped his hand into the pocket of his suit coat and felt the reassuring shape of the official brown envelope that had arrived yesterday in the post. He had opened the envelope with trembling fingers and whooped with joy in his solitary bedsitter when he saw the contents. He’d been accepted by the colonial government of Rhodesia. His paperwork was being processed, and he would be told of his departure date. In the meantime, he should set his affairs in order because he had a five-year contract to work as a Crown Court prosecutor in the faraway city of Bulawayo. He was going to the heart of Africa, where the sun was always shining and the bombs had never fallen.
He parked on the street outside the offices of Champion and Company. He was already making a list of what he would have to do, including selling the little car. His new position would come with a driver and a Land Rover or something equally rugged. He would have to resign his position at Champion and Company, but not yet. He would say nothing yet. It might be months before he could be booked on a ship to Africa because so many passenger liners had been converted into troop ships and they had to be refitted and put back into luxury service, with transatlantic trade as a priority.
He pushed his way through the heavy oak front door with his mind on the pleasures of a long ocean voyage down the west coast of Africa. He entered the outer office forgetting to offer his usual deferential morning greeting to Anthea Clark, the reigning queen of the office. He was surprised to see that she had not only failed to notice his arrival, she was even ignoring the buzzing of her telephone as she perused a brightly colored magazine.
“Miss Clark.”
The magazine was Woman’s Own, the cover promising knitting patterns, recipes, and romance stories.
Miss Clark looked up from her reading, scowled, and thrust the magazine into the drawer of her desk.
“Where have you been?” she hissed. “Mr. Champion’s been waiting for you.”
Toby consulted his watch; just past 9:00. “Why is he so early?”
“He can be early if he wants to be,” Miss Clark sniffed, “and you’re late. I phoned him and told him about the telegram, and, of course, he insisted on coming in.”
“What telegram?”
“From America.”
Toby’s mind lurched from the imagined beauties of Rhodesia to the reality of Lady Sylvia Blanchard and her missing baby. Three weeks of research had brought him no nearer to the truth of what could have happened to the Harrigan baby, or even if the baby had ever existed. Now a telegram had arrived from America, and whatever it said, Mr. Champion would want answers; answers he didn’t have.
“What did the telegram say?” he asked.
“Mr. Champion will have to tell you himself,” said Miss Clark primly. “I never discuss his affairs with the junior staff.”
She looked away from him, and her eyes strayed to her desk drawer where she had thrust the magazine. Apparently, she was anxious to continue reading. Toby smiled to himself at the thought of Miss Clark secretly reading romance stories. There was more to Miss Clark than met the eye.
He left her to her surreptitious reading and knocked on the senior partner’s door. A faint voice told him to enter.
Edwin Champion was a shriveled figure behind a huge mahogany desk. He wore the formal clothes of a prewar solicitor; a morning coat, a gray waistcoat, and a striped cravat. His thin white hair was parted in the center and rigidly controlled with brilliantine. Toby could see that Alderton’s death and the burden of extra work had aged him. His frustration at the lack of progress in finding the murderer was reflected in his general air of impatience.
“You’re late.”
“Yes, sir, I am most sorry for that.”
“And so you should be. Punctuality is the politeness of princes, and I don’t pay you to be late.”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Champion’s hand trembled slightly as he extended it across the desk, holding out a yellow telegram form.
“Sit down,” he said.
Toby sat and took the paper from Mr. Champion’s hand.
HAVE LOCATED MALLOY FAMILY STOP WILL TAKE CUSTODY PDQ AND BRING CHILD TO ENGLAND STOP WILL CABLE DETAILS STOP HARRIGAN STOP.
“Rash, impetuous, totally unacceptable,” said Mr. Champion.
Toby, with the news about Rhodesia still bubbling at the back of his mind, thought that his secret had been uncovered and that Mr. Champion knew of his plans to go to Africa.
“Americans,” Mr. Champion said, and then broke into a fit of coughing.
While his employer reached for a glass of water, Toby dragged his mind back from the contemplation of his escape plans and reassessed the situation. America; nothing to do with Africa.
“Presumably, Harrigan is the father of the deceased husband,” Toby said, reading the name from the telegram.
“Be careful about presuming,” Mr. Champion barked. “We are not certain about anything. I was not aware that anyone in America had been told of this matter. Perhaps Alderton made a note of it, but how are we to know, since his notes are still missing? However, you are probably correct in your assumption. This is no doubt a telegram from the child’s supposed grandfather. I’m sure that he’s anxious to find his granddaughter. She may be all that he has left to connect him to his son and his son’s wife.”
“It must have come as a shock to him to find that she existed,” Toby said. “I wonder how much he really knows about Lady Sylvia.”
“Very little, I should think,” said Mr. Champion in a rare burst of candor. “Lady Sylvia has been very secretive about this American husband of hers, if he was in fact her husband.”
“She has documents—”
“They are copies, are they not? They are not the originals.”
“Lady Sylvia says the originals no longer exist.”
Mr. Champion sniffed his disapproval. “And why should we take her word for that? I expect better from you, Mr. Whitby. What, if anything, have you done to find the truth for yourself?”
“I have done what I can, sir. I have confirmed that the church where Her Ladyship was married and the facility where the child was born have both been destroyed.”
“And what else have you done?”
“I’ve written letters to the mother of Vera Chapman, the young woman who stole the baby—”
“Allegedly stole the baby!”
“Yes, of course, allegedly. I have written to the mother of that young woman, but I have not received a reply.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Champion. “What else?”
“I have attempted to trace the vicar who married Lady Sylvia and Captain Harrigan.”
“Allegedly, allegedly,” said Mr. Champion. “None of these facts are proven, none of them. Have you found the said vicar?”
“Not yet, sir.” Toby paused. “It’s very difficult, Mr. Champion, the war—”
“The war was over six years ago, and it is no longer an acceptable excuse. People have been moved, buildings have been destroyed, records are missing, but you are an intelligent young man, and you should be able to do better.”
Toby nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Champion was not finished. “Before I agreed to bring you into the firm, I looked into your war record. It seems that your work at the Home Office required some investigative skills. Is that correct?”
“Well, yes, but this isn’t the same.”
Mr. Champion was not interested in excuses. “I am disappointed in you, Whitby, I really am.”
Toby stared down at the telegram in his hand. He was disappointed in himself. He should have made more progress. He should have had something definite to tell his employer. The truth was that he had been so concentrated on the possibility of leaving the gray, damaged country of his birth, that he had allowed the recovered Southwold file to sit on his desk and gather dust.
He shook his head. No point in saying any of this to Mr. Champion. He had to free himself from the grim memory of war and get on with the task in hand. He had to earn his paycheck.
Mr. Champion retrieved the telegram from Toby’s hand. “PDQ, what does that mean?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Mr. Champion continued to study the telegram. “Perhaps PDQ is some kind of American legal term giving him the right to claim her.”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Of course you don’t know. I don’t expect you to know, but I expect you to find out. I believe that even in America it is not possible just to take a child without some kind of legal process.”
“According to Lady Sylvia, Mr. Harrigan is a very wealthy man—”
Mr. Champion dismissed the importance of wealth. “Perhaps wealth takes the place of law in America, but not here,” he said. “We still have work to do, and you won’t find any answers by standing here looking sheepish. Pay another visit to Rose Hill and get to the bottom of things. Writing letters will get you nowhere; you need to speak to the people face to face. Find the girl’s mother, find her friends, put yourself about a bit, Mr. Whitby. You have an everyman kind of face, and you don’t yet look like a solicitor; you will find someone who is willing to speak to you. You may take money from petty cash for your expenses. I understand that petrol is no longer rationed, so you may take that automobile you so recently and rashly purchased.”
Does he know everything about me? Toby thought. Does he know about Africa?
“Before you go ...” said Mr. Champion.
“Yes, sir.”
“I fear that my years of service to the Southwold family may have clouded my judgement.”
“Sir?”
“Perhaps I don’t see things as they really are. Perhaps I see them as I wish them to be. I am unwell, Mr. Whitby.”
“I know, sir.”
“Mr. Alderton’s death came as a very great shock, and I don’t have the energy left to devote myself to this issue in the way that I should. Therefore, I am relying on your good judgement.”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“So, Mr. Whitby, is it your judgement that Lady Sylvia is telling the truth? Is she in fact the mother of this missing child?”
Toby turned the question over in his mind. “Well,” he said at length, “if Lady Sylvia needed to find a baby to claim, a baby who is not hers, why would she insist on this particular child when orphanages in London are full of unclaimed children? Why insist on a child from America?”
Mr. Champion nodded his head in agreement.
“But, on the other hand,” said Toby, wondering if he should risk upsetting his employer, “Lady Sylvia did tell me that she hoped I would be more flexible than Mr. Alderton.”
“Flexible?” snapped Mr. Champion.
“Flexible about the law. More accommodating.”
“And will you be ... flexible?”
“No, sir.”
“Good!” Mr. Champion waved a pale hand in dismissal. “You can go. Close the door behind you. I can hear that policeman outside, and I have no wish to see him.”
Toby had been unaware of the conversation taking place in the outer office, but now he heard Miss Clark stoutly refusing to allow Mr. Champion to be disturbed. He closed the door behind him and faced Detective Sergeant Slater, a stocky, red-faced man with a London accent and an empty sleeve held out of the way with a safety pin.
“Miss Clark says I’ve no need to look for your missing file,” Slater declared. “She says you’ve found it.”
“Yes, we have.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me? Do you think I’ve all the time in the world to go looking for missing files that are no longer missing?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“Nobody thinks, that’s the trouble these days. We’re short staffed, a lot of our men didn’t make it back, and you think we have time for a wild goose chase.”
Toby repeated his apology.
“So where is it?” Slater barked. “Hand it over.”
Toby took a step backward. “I can’t do that. It’s a client file. It’s highly confidential.”
Slater shook his head. “It’s evidence.”
He fumbled in his pocket with his left hand and then withdrew the hand. An expression of embarrassment crossed his face.
He’s used to writing in a notebook, Toby thought, but he can’t do it one-handed; he has to rely on his memory. Where had he been when he sacrificed that arm to the war effort? Germany? Italy? North Africa?
“So,” said Slater, “according to what your boss told me, the victim had the file in his possession on the day he was murdered, but when we came to search his office, it wasn’t there. Now you say you’ve found it, and I want to know where you found it.”
“The client had it,” Toby replied.
“The client had it, I see. So who is this client?”
“The Earl of Southwold.”
He heard Miss Clark’s sharp intake of breath. Perhaps he should not have named the client, but what harm could it possibly do?
“Is it normal for the client to retain his own file?”
Toby looked over Slater’s head and saw Miss Clark’s pursed lips. “Perfectly normal,” he said.
Miss Clark nodded her approval, but he knew his answer had been a lie. There was nothing normal about a client keeping his or her own file. All files were kept in the office. What would be the point of a file being kept elsewhere?
Toby took his hat and overcoat from the coat rack and tried to push past Slater. The policeman planted himself firmly in Toby’s path.
“I get the impression you don’t want to talk about this, Mr. Whitby.”
Toby shrugged his shoulders. “There’s nothing to talk about. The file isn’t missing; never was.”
“And what about Alderton’s other files?”
Miss Clark provided the answer. “All present and correct.”
“All present and correct,” Slater repeated. “So no one else keeps their own file, only the Earl.”
“We make allowances for the aristocracy,” Miss Clark replied.
Slater sniffed. “Well, I don’t. Things aren’t what they used to be. Those days will never come again.”
“More’s the pity,” Miss Clark muttered.
Slater shook his head and turned toward the door. “Not so far as I’m concerned,” he said. He took his hat from the coatrack and jammed it on his head. “We’ll talk again, Mr. Whitby.”
Toby waited until the door had closed behind the detective before he spoke.
“Miss Clark, I have some questions about the Southwold file.”
She raised her thin gray eyebrows. “So do I!”
“Well—”
Miss Clark interrupted impatiently. “I saw the file on your desk. There’s nothing in it, Mr. Whitby, nothing at all.”
“Copies of the legal documents,” Toby said.
Miss Clark sniffed. “Copies! What good are copies? But that’s not the end of it. Mr. Alderton had pages of notes in that file. I filed them for him myself. Where are they now?”
Toby perched himself on the edge of Miss Clark’s desk, and for once she made no objection.
“Do you know what was in the notes?”
She nodded. “Names and phone numbers; dozens of them.”
“Perhaps he was planning to investigate American military records.”
“No, nothing like that.” Miss Clark leaned forward and spoke in a confidential whisper. “I’m sure you know that Mr. Alderton enjoyed a busy social life, and he had many friends in London society.”
Toby thought of Robert Alderton with his Old Etonian ties and his frequent attendance at house parties and opening nights in London. Yes, he was quite sure that Alderton had friends in high places.
“So,” said Miss Clark, “Mr. Alderton was quite sure that some of the people he knew would also move in the same circles as Lady Sylvia. He began to collect names, people who knew people. He was trying to find someone who had seen Lady Sylvia with the man she claims to be her husband. He was hoping, for our sake, that he could find someone who had attended the wedding.”
She paused and looked sideways at the closed door of Mr. Champion’s office. “Mr. Alderton didn’t like to work too hard. He liked to find the easiest way of accomplishing tasks, and finding someone who witnessed the wedding would certainly be a step in the right direction.”
Toby felt a sense of relief. If Alderton had found a witness to the wedding and if Miss Clark knew the name of the witness ...
Miss Clark shook her head. “I don’t know if he found anyone; I only know that he was making phone calls to acquaintances. If he had obtained any information, he certainly did not share it with me.”
Toby obeyed her impatient gesture that he should remove himself from his perch on the corner of her desk. He waited as she unlocked her desk drawer and took out the black metal petty-cash box.
He signed for his petrol money and smiled to himself as he saw her gaze drift to the center drawer, where she kept her magazines. He knew what she would be doing while Mr. Champion dozed and he drove to Rose Hill.