Page 34 of A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets (The Lord Julian Mysteries #10)
The binding was whole. No slits in the edges, nothing slipped down between the leather and the spine. I opened the book spine up and shook gently. Nothing fell out save Jem’s pamphlet bookmark.
“Sir, you oughtn’t to treat a book thus. Mrs. Ellington won’t have it.”
I picked up the pamphlet. “Where did you get this?”
“Was between the pages. People forget where they stash things. I found a pressed daisy in a library book once. Mrs. Ellington would have rung a peal over somebody’s head for that.”
I kept the pamphlet, more screed from Eve’s Advocate, this time aimed at the perfidy of the Corn Laws. “Where might I find Mrs. Ellington?”
“She’s usually home on Saturdays. It’s not a library day. Take the lane past the church, go a quarter mile. Her door is green, and the house is fieldstone with white shutters.”
I departed at quick-march time and reached Mrs. Ellington’s doorstep half out of breath—but only half. I pounded her knocker as if the hounds of perdition were in pursuit of me. After an eternity and a half, a housekeeper finally deigned to admit me.
“My lord, do come in. That you would call upon my humble cottage is an astonishing pleasure.” Mrs. Ellington gestured me into a parlor awash in chintz.
Cabbage roses abounded on the upholstery, violets and forget-me-nots were sprinkled over the wallpaper.
The pillows on the sofa were embroidered with more flowers, and every table in the room was covered in more matching chintz cabbage roses.
Atop the spinet, a glass bowl held cut pink specimens of what must have been Mrs. Ellington’s favorite flower.
“You might better characterize my imposition as an astonishing presumption, Mrs. Ellington. I regret that we have not been introduced.”
She was built on substantial, matronly lines, with golden hair going flaxen, blue eyes, and a lady’s smooth complexion.
Her dress was a modest, pale blue walking ensemble, devoid of flounces and fussiness.
The gleam in her eye suggested a courtesy lord in her parlor would give her much to discuss when next she held court in the churchyard.
“Nonsense,” she said, gesturing me into a wing chair.
“We find ourselves quite in the shires and need not stand on ceremony. I have met your dear friend Lady Ophelia, and I suspect that the charming Miss West has caught your eye. The Misses Fortnam have intimated as much, and they are shrewd observers.”
A sturdy maid rolled in a tea trolley heaped with enough comestibles to feed Wellington’s infantry.
Mrs. Ellington beamed at the offerings. “Thank you, Peters. You are excused.”
Peters gave me a curious glance that might have seen her sacked in Lady Standish’s household, then bustled out.
I rose and closed the door. “Forgive my presumption, and no tea for me, thank you, but can you explain to me how the library’s copy of The Wanderer came to be returned?”
She poured two cups. “You look like a sugar-and-cream man to me. The tea is my personal blend, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
I resumed my seat reluctantly, feeling as if I were being offered pomegranate seeds as I struggled to escape the underworld. I preferred honey to sugar and cream only occasionally.
“Truly, ma’am, I come on an urgent errand. I am sorry to put you to the trouble of a tea tray, but I do need to know how The Wanderer was returned to your collection.”
“Not my collection.” She piled ginger biscuits and shortbread on a plate and passed it over.
“Miss Hannah’s collection. The shortbread was made fresh today, almost as if Cook had a premonition that august company might come calling.
Before we discuss books, do please assure that you will remember me to your dear mother.
Our paths do not cross frequently, but Her Grace always makes a most gracious impression. ”
As far as I knew, my mother hadn’t had the pleasure, ever.
“I will convey your greeting to Her Grace when next I see her, I promise. About The Wanderer , Mrs. Ellington. Miss Stadler borrowed it, and you were concerned that she’d not returned it before going on her travels. Do I have the right?”
My hostess sipped her tea, not a care in the world. “You must try the shortbread. You will hurt Cook’s feelings otherwise, and when Cook is in the boughs, we have burned toast and runny eggs. A penance, you will agree.”
I took a piece of shortbread, bit off a corner, and set the remaining portion on my saucer, feeling all the while as if I’d just made a very great mistake.
Mrs. Ellington would next have me escorting her on a tour of the library, volume by volume, and all the while, Hannah Stadler was awaiting rescue probably not five miles away.
“And the tea,” she said. “My own blend. I order from Twinings and measure the proportions myself.”
I sipped. “At the risk of giving offense, I must know how The Wanderer was returned to the library.”
“Why is a mundane little tale of such great interest, my lord? The critics have not been kind to Mrs. Burney’s latest effort.”
If I stood and began shouting, the tale of my behavior would live in infamy for all the rest of my days. Mrs. Ellington would see to it that posterity was given a picture of me, barking mad, walking proof that the Quality were dangerously inbred.
“Miss Hannah Stadler checked the volume out,” I said, “then decamped to take the waters. The volume was returned to you some two weeks later, and the family is concerned that somebody might have borrowed the book from Hannah, perhaps without Hannah’s permission.”
Mrs. Ellington’s blue eyes narrowed. “Lady Standish is at it again, is she? Looking for an excuse to sack an undermaid or turn off the newest footman? That woman could pinch a penny until it confessed to murder most foul. Miss Hannah despairs of her dear mama, and that is putting it kindly.”
“Peters was a casualty of the viscountess’s economies?”
“Precisely. She was the under-housekeeper at Pleasant View for eight years. Her ladyship took a notion to economize, wrote the most grudging character, handed the poor woman a few coins, and offered to pay outside coach fare to Town. Outside fare, for a woman of mature years who had given loyal service and knew not a soul in London.”
None of this was earning me any relevant information. “About the book, Mrs. Ellington?”
“Her ladyship will be very disappointed to learn that Miss Hannah kindly dropped the book off at our sister establishment in Hamden Parva. I assume Miss Hannah sought to finish reading the story as her journey began and took the expedient measure of returning the book indirectly. People do sometimes, but we librarians sort it all out at our monthly meetings.”
“The book was returned to the library in Hamden Parva. You’re certain?”
She took another dilatory sip of her tea.
“I know my sister branches, my lord. Lady Standish will not claim that a servant pinched that book if I have anything to say to it. Her staff must toil and moil the livelong day for precious little coin, and they honestly would not have time to read for pleasure. Young Jemmie Bussard has the honor of reading The Wanderer now, and he will return it promptly by noon Monday.”
Hamden Parva. A direction, a hint of a possibility. The faintest of hopes, but more than I’d had ten minutes past. I finished my shortbread and gulped my tea.
“Thank you. The tea is lovely, quite unique, and the shortbread delicious. My compliments to the kitchen, and now I must fly. You have been incredibly helpful, and I will be very sure to remember you to Her Grace.”
I made for the door, Mrs. Ellington on my heels. “But you cannot leave so soon, my lord! I won’t hear of it. You must tell me your favorite authors and what books you are reading now and tell me of your last visit to Hatchards. We have ever so much more…”
I collected my hat from the peg the housekeeper had hung it on.
“Mrs. Ellington, you have been graciousness itself, and your forthright support of truth is to be vociferously commended, but my time is not my own.” I bowed over her hand, a presumption that I hoped promoted her to queen of the monthly librarians’ meeting for the next five years. “Good day.”
I slapped my spectacles on and left her standing on her front porch, her hand to her throat, her smile perplexed.
When I was far enough down the lane to be out of her sight, I withdrew a peashooter from the tail pocket of my riding jacket and fired two shots into the air.
All hands report to headquarters. We had the siege of Hamden Parva to plan.
“I know the terrain in the vicinity of Hamden Parva only in passing,” MacNamara said, easing his foot onto a hassock. “Hamden Parva is to the west, and my travels usually take me north to London or south to the coast.”
“But,” Strother said, “if the kidnappers wanted to create the fiction that Hannah was traveling to Bath to take the waters, they would lay a trail to the east.” He’d enthroned himself in the second wing chair, leaving the rest of us to lounge about the captain’s study.
I propped a hip on the desk. Dutch remained near the door.
Carstairs was our lookout by the windows, and Dorset roamed along the bookshelves.
I had summoned Strother to the captain’s home rather than affront the viscountess by suggesting that MacNamara and his minions meet with the Standish heir under Pleasant View’s roof. Then too, I was simply tired of dealing with the woman.
“Hamden Parva’s right along the bridle path,” Dutch observed. “Less than three miles, most of it through woods and along the river.”
Strother tapped a manicured nail on the arm of his chair. “What is the significance of that?”
The others looked to Carstairs to explain the obvious. “The greenery provides cover. If your villains are also looking for the gold, as Lord Julian has suggested, that bridle path lets them travel unseen between Hamden Parva and Pleasant View.”