Rupert Shawcross knew nothing at all about the Ormingatriga who lived in York. And the Ormingatriga knew even less about Rupert. For two hundred and fifty years no one had penetrated their secrets till now. So far as they knew, Stella was their one and only risk, admirable in her ability to believe, frightening in her casual giveaway remark.
Rupert did have other work to do besides trying to solve the mystery of ‘Starlight, perhaps’. As usual, sightings of dubious authenticity had been reported in all sorts of places, from Land’s End to John o’Groats. Most of them were incredibly stupid: television masts swaying in mist; lights on aeroplanes; reflections of the full moon in calm water. Some were vaguely mysterious but soon became clear after investigation. This year, at least, Stella’s story was the only one that carried any conviction, so Rupert frequently found himself going back to it, and wondering if he could get anywhere near a solution.
‘It’s half term next week,’ said Mrs Ames on Friday morning as Rupert came into the office. ‘My grandchildren will be on holiday. I think I’ll take Thursday and Friday off, if it’s all right with you.’
Half term, thought Rupert. Oh, yes – schools on holiday. That’s it.
‘Yes,’ he said affably, ‘why not? You might as well. There’s not much happening here this week.’
‘So you’re getting no further with “Starlight, perhaps”?’ said Mrs Ames. ‘Is that file closed?’
‘Not yet,’ said Rupert. ‘In one way, I’ve just about given up on it. In another, I can’t. It’s easily the most promising bit of information we’ve had. And that woman is definitely hiding something.’
‘What about the boy?’ said Mrs Ames. ‘Mickey somebody?’
‘Mickey Trent,’ said Rupert. ‘Let’s see. It’s half term. I’ve a mind to go north and try to have another word with him. Next Monday and Tuesday, before you have your break. I think I’ll take the car. My cousin will put me up. So no need for any booking – might be difficult at the holiday.’
‘Mickey might not be at home,’ Mrs Ames pointed out. ‘He might be away for the week.’
‘I’ll take a chance,’ said Rupert. ‘These village kids are probably lucky if they get one holiday a year. His mother’s a widow, I think.’
‘This is very pleasant,’ said Audrey. ‘I don’t see you for years on end, and then there you are on my doorstep, twice in next to no time!’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ said Rupert.
‘No,’ said Audrey, ‘of course not. Though you’d have been stuck if I’d decided to go away for the week.’
Audrey had been a teacher at a comprehensive school in Casselton for the past twenty years. It was not the easiest of jobs. Being on holiday and at home was a treat in itself.
‘Come into the box,’ she said with a laconic smile. ‘I’ve made up a bed for you in my “study” – a posh name for the second bedroom.’
The bungalow was indeed small, but Audrey managed, despite her gibes, to make it look reasonably spacious.
‘Thanks,’ said Rupert. ‘That’s good of you. I do appreciate it – and at such short notice.’
They were soon seated in the living room with the usual northern tea: plates of sandwiches, biscuits and cakes that could add up to a fair-sized meal.
‘Well, now,’ said Audrey, ‘can I guess why you are here?’
‘Do,’ said Rupert, biting into a ham and pease pudding sandwich.
‘You have some new clue about that missing boy and you are hot in pursuit.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Rupert with his usual honesty. ‘I am just trying to get a bit further with what I already know.’
‘Tell you something,’ said Audrey seriously, ‘I don’t think you’ll ever find him.’
‘Why not?’ said Rupert sharply. ‘Do you think he’s disappeared off the face of the earth?’
Audrey put her cup down neatly on its saucer, ‘Listen, Rupert. He doesn’t need to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Let me tell you a story, a true one. Last time I was in London I saw this child sitting on the pavement beside Victoria Station. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen. I’m a teacher – I should have some clue about how old kids are. She caught my eye and said, “Gis sumthin forra packit o’ crisps, missis.” The voice was unmistakably northern. I stopped and spoke to her. She was from Tyneside. I said, stupidly perhaps, “Why don’t you go home to your mam, love? I’m sure she’ll be missing you.” Then she said sorrowfully, “Yi knaa nowt. A cannit do that.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. I gave her some change out of my purse – not a lot, less than I wanted to. But my friend was standing by looking cynical. “She’ll only spend it on ciggies,” he said, “or something worse.” We walked away, but it brought home to me more clearly than any statistic the fact that there are children who disappear and are never found again.’
The story made Rupert feel uncomfortable. ‘I’m not a fraud, Audrey,’ he said, ‘so I have to say that there’s more to this disappearance than a simple case of a runaway child. Besides, you know the story. You have to admit it is very mysterious.’
‘So who are you questioning this time?’ said Audrey.
‘The boy,’ said Rupert. ‘Remember, that’s what you advised me to do. Seek out Thomas’s best friend.’
‘But you must have questioned him already,’ said Audrey.
‘There’s one more fact that’s niggling me,’ said Rupert. ‘I want to know about the girl who visited Mrs Dalrymple. That boy took her to Stella’s house.’
The next day, Rupert went off to Belthorp to see Mickey Trent. He tried the newsagent’s first, hoping to waylay him there. It was, after all, a village shop – not inconceivable that Mickey might be hanging around there with his friends again. The frosty reception Mickey had given him on that last occasion was no deterrent to someone as thick-skinned as Rupert Shawcross. But Mickey and his friends were nowhere in sight.
‘Did she like the chocolates?’ said Sam Swanson with a smile.
Rupert looked at him vacantly, bought the nearest newspaper to hand and left the shop.
He made his way to Mickey’s house and was standing outside, wondering how to approach Mrs Trent, when the door opened and out she came with Mickey behind her. She stopped to lock up. Mickey saw the prowler and glowered at him.
‘Ah, Mrs Trent,’ said Rupert, ‘I was just thinking about you, remembering that little talk we had about Thomas Derwent and his father. They still haven’t turned up anywhere, you know. I suppose you’re as mystified as the rest of us.’
Mrs Trent looked at him with disapproval. She was too shy and too good mannered to make her feelings known, but this man was becoming a pest.
‘I don’t think you’ll ever find them now. They mustn’t want to be found,’ she said. ‘There are people like that.’
‘Mickey might be able to help,’ said Rupert, ploughing on in very heavy soil. ‘I believe he was talking to a girl who visited Mrs Dalrymple. She may have told him something.’
Mickey came and stood between his mother and the inquisitor. ‘Look, mister,’ he said. ‘It’s no use. I’m not going to say anything to you about Thomas or Mrs Dalrymple or anybody at all. You talk rubbish and your questions are daft.’
Jenny Trent blushed at her son’s words, though she privately agreed with them. So she made no apology but simply said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Shawcross, but we’ll have to go now. I really don’t want to miss the bus.’
They hurried away and left Rupert crossly thinking, They are hiding something. They are all hiding something. He walked over to the shop again, determined to make one last effort at breaking the silence.
‘And you two boys saw Mickey showing this girl the way to Mrs Dalrymple’s house?’ he said with an ingratiating smile. Philip and Anthony were busy sorting papers at the side counter.
‘What is it you’re looking for?’ said Sam, coming over to check on this peculiar stranger.
‘He wants to know about-’ began Anthony in all innocence.
‘He’s not going to know about anything,’ said Philip giving his brother a shove. ‘We don’t know nuffin and we ain’t saying nuffin!’
Sam grinned at his son’s pseudo accent. ‘That’s the ticket,’ he said. ‘Now, sir, this is a shop. Were you wanting to buy something? Another newspaper perhaps? We do them in all shapes and sizes!’
Rupert left the shop with not another word. He stood at the bus stop seething with irritation.
If only his visit had been made a couple of days later, he might well have had other strangers in his sights. Poor Rupert, with all his earnestness and thoroughness, was destined never to be in the right place at the right time.