“I see,” Winston said, swallowing his regret. He had almost convinced himself that Northcote had persuaded Gladys to go off with him-a preferable outcome, of course. Sunny would then have realized that the relationship promised nothing but trouble and would have given it up. Unfortunately, this did not appear to be the case. Still, the circumstances of Northcote’s abrupt departure suggested that the man had something to do with Gladys’s disappearance. Winston frowned. One did not like to dwell on the possibility of violence, of course, but Botsy was known for his difficult temper. What if With a shudder, Winston turned back to the stationmaster. “I should like to send a telegram,” he said, hoping that George Cornwallis-West was at the London house and would be willing to tell him what he knew about Lord Henry Northcote’s background.
Some twenty minutes later, the telegram to George having been composed and dispatched, Winston tied up the pony beside the Black Prince at the other end of Woodstock, a seedy-looking pub on the main road from Oxford to points north. It was not the sort of pub that catered to gentlemen, and he had never been inside. But Sheridan had asked him to find out what he could about the housemaid who had gone missing, and Winston frowned. That wretched housemaid. Damn it all, what was the girl’s name? He furrowed his brow, trying to remember, but all he could recall was that she had been seen at some point chatting up a man with a red beard. Well, it wasn’t likely he’d turn up anything important at the pub, but he wanted to report to Sheridan that he had done all he was asked, so he would inquire and see what could be found out.
As Winston went inside, the fragrance of hot eel pie reminded him that, in his haste to carry out his investigative duties, he had missed his luncheon. He stepped up to the bar and bought a pie, a chunk of bread, and a mug of ale, which he carried to an empty table.
It was bright daylight out-of-doors, but the pub was windowless and lit only by gas lights that hung from the low ceiling. A dozen or so men were in the dusky room, several lounging at the bar, the rest seated around tables. The air was flavored by beer and unwashed clothes. Winston put his hat on the chair beside him, settled down to his lunch, and finished it in good order, finding the eel pie all he might have wished. As he was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand (a napkin not being part of the service), he happened to notice a pair of fellows in a far corner. One of them had copper-colored hair and a reddish beard.
Recalling his errand, Winston pushed back his chair, put on his hat, and sauntered over to the table. The men looked up at him, not cordially. The one with the red beard was nattily dressed in a black jacket, blue waistcoat, and red-striped cravat, with a blue silk handkerchief in one pocket-a commercial traveler, no doubt. The other, of a more common appearance, was stout and thick-chested, with broad shoulders, beefy hands, and thick black hair. He was dressed in a dark corduroy jacket, rather out of repair, and fustian trousers. A red kerchief was tied around his neck.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Winston said, adopting the amiable manner with which he usually addressed his Oldham constituents when he went electioneering. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and put out his hand. “My name is Winston Churchill. I’m-”
“Wot’s yer bus’ness, Churchill?” growled the dark-haired man, ignoring the outstretched hand.
“Forgive my companion, sir,” the red-bearded man said with a genial deference. He jumped up and pumped Winston’s hand vigorously. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Churchill, and I do mean pleased, sir. I’ve heard you speak about your experiences in South Africa. Thrillin’ escape that was, sir! Bloody good show all ’round! Flummoxed them stinkin’ Boers right proper, you did, sir!”
Winston felt himself warmed by the man’s admiration. “Thank you,” he said modestly, retrieving his hand. “Very kind of you to say so.” He paused and added, apologetically, “I’ve taken the liberty to introduce myself because I’m looking for someone, and wondered if you might be that person, sir. One of the young women at Blenheim-the household of my cousin, the Duke of Marlborough-seems to have gone off without letting anyone know. It’s thought that she might have spoken to a red-bearded man here at the Prince. That wouldn’t by any chance have been yourself, sir?”
The red-bearded man laughed easily. “A young lady from Blenheim? Not jolly likely, I’d say, Mr. Churchill. I just arrived here not two hours ago, on business.” He looked inquiringly at his companion. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a young woman, would you, Bulls-eye?”
Bulls-eye drained his mug of ale in one large gulp. “’Fraid not,” he muttered. “Not ’xactly in my line.”
“I fear we can’t be of much help to you, sir,” the red-bearded man said.
“Well, then, I’ll wish you good day,” Winston said, and tipped his hat. “Forgive me for intruding, gentlemen. I’ll be on my way.”
“Oh, no intrusion at all, sir!” cried the red-bearded man with enthusiasm. “It’s a great pleasure to have shaken the hand of a man who escaped from them bloody Boers and lived to tell the tale. I wish you luck in the House, sir. We need men like you there, sir, ’deed we do!”
It wasn’t until Winston was nearly back to Blenheim that he recalled with some chagrin that he had not asked the man’s name.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It’s just as easy to steal a hundred thousand dollars as a tenth of that sum… the risk is just as great. We’ll, therefore, go out for the big money always.
“Bloody hell,” growled Bulls-eye.
“Too bloody right,” said Dawkins, sinking into his chair. “Rotten damned luck, his showing up here. But it would’ve been worse, if I hadn’t kept my head.”
“You don’t think ’e knows, d’ye?” Bulls-eye heard the nervous tinniness of his voice and hoped that Dawkins hadn’t noticed. He shouldn’t like Dawkins to know that he was afraid.
“Knows? Knows what?” Dawkins was careless. “The way he asked about her, he didn’t strike me as a man who knows much about anything.”
Bulls-eye lowered his glance. “Well, ye didn’t ’ave to jump up and jaw away like you wuz some jolly old barracks mate,” he said defensively. “You could’ve sent him out the door, flat.”
“And have him suspect we’d something to hide?” Dawkins retorted. “Soon as he said he was a Churchill, I knew we could be in for it. But now when he thinks of me, it’ll be as one of his admirers.” He grew thoughtful. “He did tell us something useful-that she’s been missed upstairs, and they’re looking for her.”
“Don’t see ’ow that’s of any use,” Bulls-eye said darkly. He stroked his chin and added, after a moment, “Don’t suppose she told ’em anything, do you?”
“How could she? She didn’t know anything. Well, not much.”
“She said she knew the name of-”
“That’s enough,” Dawkins said, his voice flat and hard, all geniality vanished. “We won’t talk about that.” He narrowed his eyes. “You did say it’s taken care of, right?”
“Oh, right,” Bulls-eye said nervously. “I told you. All taken care of.” He felt a tic at the corner of his left eye. He did not like to think how it had been taken care of. That sort of thing wasn’t in his line, either. “But there’s the other one, y’know. Alfred’s ’is name.”
Dawkins’s glance sharpened. “You don’t think she told him, do you?”
Bulls-eye didn’t like to think so, for he did not want to hear the instruction that he knew would follow on the admission. But he had to reply. “I think it’s likely,” he said glumly. “ ’E’s a cool one, ’e is. Acts simple, but ’e’s dang’rous as ’er.”
Dawkins gave him an evil grin. “We’ll deal with him later.”
Bulls-eye sighed. The whole affair had got entirely out of hand. Violence was not his way, nor Mr. N’s way, either, come to that. He leaned forward on his elbows and lowered his voice. “Listen, Dawkins, I’m thinkin’ that mebee we should make our play an’ get out. Wouldn’t take more’n a day or two to get the others ’ere, and-”