the sort. It’s only good manners to thank people when they do you a good turn, and he might have got into real trouble helping me run away.” I paused, horrified. “You don’t think that’s why he’s disappeared, do you?”
Masterman gave a short bark of a laugh, the first I’d ever heard from her. “I hardly think so. What do you expect, miss, that the Archbishop of Canterbury keeps a special prison just for wayward priests? Locks them up with only bread and water, never to see the light of day?”
She laughed again and I gave her a sour look. “You needn’t be so foul, Masterman. It was an idea. I never said it was a good one.”
She sobered and her expression was a little kinder. “Miss, don’t take it like that. I was only having a bit of fun.”
“At my expense.”
“Well, you were the one being silly,” she pointed out reasonably. “Now, why don’t you work backwards? That’s what I do whenever I’ve misplaced something. Where was the last place I know it was, and where before that?”
“He isn’t a misplaced hat or bit of knitting, you know.” It felt pointless, but I hadn’t a better idea, so I obliged her. “The last place we saw him was in the cottage. He said he was returning to London.”
“And where before that?”
“In the motorcar,” I began, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew. “Oh, Masterman, you utter genius!” I clasped her hand in excitement. “I saw a garage ticket in the glovebox when I was looking for a packet of cigarettes. A garage ticket fell out, a ticket with a—oh, drat. I can’t remember the name now.”
“Of course you can,” Masterman said confidently. “It only requires a bit of concentration. Close your eyes.”
I obeyed, burrowing in my memory for the name. Something Irish, of that I was certain. And an address in Hampstead.
“O’Loughlin’s,” I said, my eyes popping open. I regarded Masterman with real admiration. “You are quite useful.”
She gave me a thin smile. “You are not the first to make that observation, miss. Shall we go?”
In a very short while we found ourselves in Hampstead, standing on a main road. It seemed logical that a shop or post office would best know the garages in the area, and a quick visit to the latter provided the exact address. The garage was in the next street, and we hurried there, growing more excited with each step.
The garage man was wiping his hands on an oily rag when we appeared, looking a little out of place amongst the spanners and grease. I flicked Masterman a look indicating she should stay behind me. She obeyed, keeping a little distance as the garage man came forward.
“Can I help, miss?”
I put out my hand, then thought better of it when he apologetically showed a soiled palm.
“I hope so. Are you the proprietor, Mr. O’Loughlin?”
He grinned. “Naw, miss. I’m Wilson. Never has been an O’Loughlin here. I gave the place that name because the quality do like their Irish chauffeurs, don’t they?”
I returned the smile. “Clever of you, Mr. Wilson. I’ve come because I’m trying to find an acquaintance of mine, a gentleman who assisted me under some very trying circumstances. He gave me a ride when I rather desperately needed transportation. I’m afraid I didn’t have a chance to thank him properly and it’s rather got under my skin. It would have been about a week ago. He drives a pretty little Talbot tourer. Painted blue? Quite fast?”
The garage man’s face brightened. “Ah, yes, a right little beauty, isn’t she? And Mr. Fox is a good customer, he is. Always ready with a pleasant word and what matter if he forgets a bill now and then? He always pays it and a little more when he realises. A real gentleman.”
“Mr. Fox, you say? I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name when he gave me a ride.”
“Sebastian Fox,” the garage man said promptly. “He lodges in the next street with Mrs. Webb what keeps the big house on the corner.”
I thanked him and followed his directions to the corner house with Masterman trotting alongside.
“Honestly, I don’t see what all the fuss with being a detective is,” I told her. “It’s quite easy, really. But did you hear the garage man? The curate was right. Sebastian’s name isn’t Cantrip at all. It’s Fox. Why on earth would he lie?”
“Perhaps he’s a criminal,” Masterman said blandly.
“He’s nothing of the sort. I think he was hiding from someone,” I told her. “Perhaps he is in some sort of trouble.”
She snorted. “What sort of trouble would a man be in that he changes his name and lies about his identity rather than going to the police? He’s a criminal,” she repeated slyly as we reached the corner house.
I noted that the front steps were freshly scrubbed and the brass knocker had been polished to a blinding shine. I used it to rap briskly, and the door was opened almost immediately by a tall, imposing woman with a wealth of iron-grey hair bundled into an old-fashioned snood. She wore a black dress with a crisp white collar, and everything about her spoke of respectability.
“Have you come to inquire about the room?” she asked pleasantly.
I was caught off guard. “Oh, no, I—” I broke off, thinking wildly. I couldn’t very well explain who Masterman was. Ladies who could afford maids didn’t live in boarding houses. I felt a sudden jolt of inspiration and smiled winsomely at Mrs. Webb. “That is to say, not just a room. My, er, friend and I would need a pair of rooms.” I flicked a glance at Masterman, who must have been surprised but kept her expression perfectly impassive.
Mrs. Webb nodded. “Well, I’ve only the one, I’m afraid, but it is large enough for two. I could put in a second bed, no trouble at all. It’s only just come available, but I assure you it’s in very good condition. The gentleman who occupied it was not always tidy, but he was clean, if you take my meaning.”
“Show us,” I said, amending it hastily with a fervent, “please.”
Mrs. Webb escorted us up the stairs and unlocked a door from the ring of heavy keys at her belt. “There you are, miss?” She let the word dangle hopefully.
“Cantrip,” I said promptly. “And this is my friend, Miss Smith.”
Mrs. Webb nodded. “I’ll leave you both to look around. I have a sponge in the oven. If you will make your way down when you are finished, you’d be most welcome to a cup of tea.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Webb.”
The landlady withdrew and Masterman gave me a grudging nod, her expression speculative. “You’ve a talent for lying, miss.”
“I always have had,” I admitted. “Learnt in more boarding schools than I can count. Now, let’s have a good sniff around and see if we can discover anything about our mysterious Mr. Fox.”
Masterman busied herself with the wardrobe while I circled slowly, taking in the room. It was large with a bow window that gave onto the street.
