‘I met your father,’ I said. Sabbatina gazed back at me very blankly. ‘I should like to be able to give him a good report of you. Tell him you are well and happy. I know you missed your visit home to see your parents yesterday.’ She was still gazing but her eyes were shining with unshed tears.
‘To see my father,’ she said. ‘Not to see my mother. Not yesterday.’
I had thought her father meant to hide the news from her but clearly he had changed his mind and although she was too polite to wail about her private woes to a perfect stranger her misery was palpable.
‘Are you all right?’ I said.
‘Just sad,’ said Sabbatina. ‘And a little confused. I don’t understand what is happening. I don’t understand how she could just go away.’
‘It’s a very odd world, the world of grown-ups,’ I said. ‘They often do inexplicable things and don’t usually stop to wonder how it looks to the innocent around them.’ I shut my mouth rather firmly at the end of this speech, having been mildly surprised to hear it coming out of me. Thankfully, she appeared to take it as yet another of the odd things that grown-ups do and not as the rebuke of her mother it most impertinently was. Besides, her loyalty was severely shaken. She looked fiercely angry as she looked at me and spoke again.
‘She was supposed always to be there. She said so.’
I nodded, dumb with pity for her, and could not think of a single platitude to serve up, for what woman in a thousand could leave her child? I am not the most maternal woman ever born, and often shut the numerous doors between drawing room and nursery, leaving Nanny to deal with the wailing. Frequently, too, I wilted with boredom listening to their stories and watching them at play (not to mention the fact that I faced the dreary prospect of Donald’s uncertain future with all the enthusiasm one usually takes to the dentist) but even I could not imagine just cutting loose and letting them tell their stories to the empty air, letting them listen to silence instead of adoring ‘good shows!’ when they scored a point or cleared a fence. And whatever hash Donald was going to make of his life without masters and prefects to keep him in line, I was determined to be there as a witness to it and, with luck, a hand on the tiller.
For the first time it occurred to me to wonder if her father’s early death – the Major had died without ever seeing his youngest child – could be at all to blame for the odd way that Fleur had turned out compared with the other two. Then I dismissed this as the tosh it had to be, for had not the two elder sisters lost their father to the grouse and the deer long before his death anyway, and had not little girls – and little boys, too – grown up without their soldier fathers throughout the whole of history? Mothers were quite a different thing.
‘I knew Miss Lipscott as a child, you know?’ I said to Sabbatina. This seemed to pique more interest in her than any of my previous offerings; or perhaps she was merely being polite to this odd newcomer who spoke of personal matters in such a way. ‘And it has been strange to me to meet her again as a grown woman, so much changed.’ Sabbatina nodded. ‘Of course, I only met her – this time around – on Friday, and I can’t tell for sure but I think perhaps she was not herself?’ Poor Sabbatina looked struck with terror at the thought of having to answer such an outlandish remark from a schoolmistress about another. ‘Did you see much of her?’
‘Of course,’ said Sabbatina. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just before she left, specifically?’ I added. Sabbatina was staring at me and I had to think very quickly. ‘When I told her sisters she had disappeared they wanted very much to know all that they could of her last days here. To hear all about her that could be told.’
‘Her last days?’ said Sabbatina, drawing back. ‘You make it sound as though she’s… dead.’ This was true and had not occurred to me until I ran over the words again in my mind. I changed the subject swiftly.
‘So, what can I tell your father if I see him, Sabbatina? Are you keeping busy and doing all your schoolwork? Are you finding time for your hobbies? One can’t work all the time.’
‘Tell him I am very well,’ Sabbatina said. ‘Working hard and keeping up with my sewing. I’m stitching a bedspread, Miss Gilver. For my bottom drawer. My mother chose the material and I chose the pattern. I’ve been stitching it since I was twelve. If I go to university I will have to put it in a chest, in mothballs, but I still work on it a little every day.’
‘I think,’ I said to Alec later on the telephone – I had to use the one in Miss Shanks’s study and was listening strenuously for her dreaded return – ‘I think she was offended at my insinuation that she wouldn’t mind sneaking. Or she was offended that I made the slightest, most heavily veiled hint about her family’s current misfortune. Anyway, she put me in my place.’
‘Did you insinuate?’ Alec said. ‘Did you hint? And why are you whispering?’
‘Just typical,’ I said. ‘The mistresses’ room has been deserted all day – forcing me to grill little girls for scraps of gossip – I probably did, you know: hint and insinuate – but now when I want to use the telephone they’re all in there playing cards and having a whale of a time, so I’ve had to sneak into the head’s study and if she catches me I’ll be for it.’
‘You seem to be making it all very complicated,’ Alec said.
‘I don’t know who to ask or what to ask them or where to turn,’ I moaned down the line to him. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Oh, it was all very straightforward and out in the open,’ said Alec. ‘I found out from Joe who all Rosa’s customers were and went round them, asking if they had any clue where she might have gone. Did they know of anyone else who was missing, had they seen anyone suspicious hanging around; in short, I’ve started a bit of a panic that there is a lunatic at large snatching women and making off with them.’
‘Marvellous,’ I said. ‘Good work.’
‘And I stopped in at all the farms – well, both the farms – and all the cottages on the way to Dunskey Castle, and asked if anyone had seen or heard anything in the first half of the week.’
‘And?’
‘And was obliged to eat tea four times, one after the other. Not bad in the first farm – Portree – thin bread and butter and warm scones, but cottagers’ teas are meant for men who’re herding sheep and building dykes. Solid, don’t you know.’
‘But did you learn anything?’ I asked. ‘I could be obliged to ring off any minute, Alec. Stop wittering on.’
‘At the first of the two farms and at all of the cottages – nothing,’ said Alec. ‘Except how little apple and how much pie can make an apple pie for working men.’
‘And at the second of the two farms?’ I asked, suppressing a sigh. ‘I take it all of that was by way of an introduction.’
‘At the second of the two farms – Low Merrick – I was set upon by dogs.’
I snorted.
‘Serve you right,’ I said. ‘Barging into a farmyard. Some of these sheep farmers are absolute hermits, you know. You’re lucky it was one lot of dogs and four teas, not the other way around.’
‘But it wasn’t a hermitage,’ Alec said. ‘There’s a painted sign at the gate proclaiming bed and breakfast. Sea views and home-cooking. But when I marched up the drive and hallooed, someone – I saw her arm and hand quite clearly – opened a door and shooed out a pack of dogs to see me off.’
‘A pack of dogs,’ I repeated.
‘Three collies,’ Alec admitted, ‘but those mean little skinny ones, with teeth like ice picks. I had to vault a gate. No joke after the pie. And moments later a bobby turned up to arrest me.’
‘For what?’ I cried. ‘There’s no law of trespass in Scotland.’
‘Well, with hindsight, I suppose, a strange man – me – going about the quiet country lanes asking if there’s a strange man going about does become a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Whoever she was with the dogs at Low Merrick had rung the police too.’