“So, Sangster,” said Sir John, calmer than he had been but still agitated, as we navigated the green lanes of the Roseland Peninsula. “As I say, the academy may well be finished if we don’t clear this up pronto. The powers that be in London are looking for any excuse to close me down, and this girl going missing will be a godsend for them.” He looked at me and shouted. “You must sort it out. You must.”
“Of course, I want to find Angel, but for her own safety rather than the academy. You saw her mother.”
“Sorry, of course. But you know what I mean.”
“I’m not a detective you know.”
“Oh piffle,” he said. “You’ve solved more than a few tricky problems for me in the last year or so. Got a first-class mind for this sort of thing.”
Sir John then went quiet, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, and we drove on for about twenty minutes, mostly through country roads until we met the main Truro highway, at which point the lights of houses and streetlamps began to switch on in response to the waning daylight. A sharp left turn, just before the town, then took us along a waterside road that followed the course of the river.
After about two miles we came to the village, at the confluence of the Truro and Tresillian rivers, where I had been living on and off for the past four months, in the Watersmeet Hotel. Sir John, who had arrived by train from London that morning, would stay the night and then travel back up the following day. He took his overnight case from the car boot, along with what looked to me like a small picnic basket, walked into the hotel and announced himself loudly to Morwenna Poldhu, the landlady. She stepped back in surprise at this Dickensian looking giant with matching voice (who was, as my wife had observed, six foot four in all directions and ‘because he can afford it, darling’, habitually dressed like a character from some other age). Sir John then nodded to her, she signed him in and silently passed over a room key.
“I’m going to take supper in the bar, will you join me, Sir John?”
“No, Sangster, I’ll just go up to my room.”
“Nothing to eat, Sir John?”
“No, Sangster,” Granville repeated in what he imagined was a whisper, holding up the picnic basket. “Don’t trust the food down here. Doubt they wash the cutlery more than once a week either. Brought a hamper from Fortnum’s. Got me own plates, knives and forks as well.”
“Cheeky sod,” said the landlady semi-audibly, as Sir John stumped up the stairs.
“Ah, my dear patroness?” he then asked her, looking over his shoulder and, by his friendly expression, clearly oblivious to her comment. “Could you see your way to sending me up a bottle of your doubtlessly very excellent brandy? One glass and no ice thank you. VSOP or even XO if you’ve got it.”
“Certainly, sir, of course, sir, right away, sir,” she answered with an exaggerated curtsey, the irony lost on Sir John, who turned to fix his stare on me as she walked back into the taproom and out of earshot.
“Oh, and Sangster, I know you’re always saying you’re not a detective but…”
“Yes?”
“Got any ideas?”
“There’s a lot I’ll try and cover tomorrow at the academy.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I want to talk to that boy, Jonny.”
“Who?”
“Not sure I mentioned it, but I think I saw him canoeing with Angel at the weekend. I’ll see that other lad they’re friendly with as well, the one they call Spider. And I want to personally search their rooms.”
“But have you got any ideas, man?”
“Well… only instincts as yet, Sir John, only instincts.”