He drove into the Boltons, parked on the far side of the road a few yards from his father-in-law’s house, and settled down to wait.
A few minutes later a large anonymous pantechnicon van came round the corner and stopped outside No. 24. Mr. Cruddick jumped out from the driver’s seat. He was dressed in long brown overalls and a flat cap. He was joined by a young assistant who unlocked the back of the van. Mr. Cruddick nodded to Charles before proceeding up the steps to the front door.
The Portuguese maid answered when he pressed the bell.
“We have come to collect the goods for Lady Seymour.”
“No understand,” said the maid.
Mr. Cruddick removed from an inside pocket a long typewritten letter on Lady Seymour’s personal stationery. The Portuguese maid was unable to read the words of a letter her mistress had addressed to Hurlingham Croquet Club agreeing to be their Ladies’ President, but she immediately recognized the letterhead and the signature. She nodded and opened the door wider. All Mr. Cruddick’s carefully laid plans were falling into place.
Mr. Cruddick tipped his hat, the sign for Mr. Seymour to join them. Charles got out of the car cautiously, checking both ways before he crossed the road. He felt uncomfortable in brown overalls and hated the cap with which Mr. Cruddick had supplied him. It was. a little small and Charles was acutely conscious how strange he must look but the Portuguese maid apparently didn’t notice the incongruity between his aristocratic mien and the working overalls. It did not take long to discover the whereabouts of most of the pictures. Many were just stacked up in the hall, and only one or two had already been hung.
Forty minutes later the three men had located and loaded into the van all but one of them. The Holbein of the first Earl of Bridgwater was nowhere to be found.
“We ought to be on our way,” suggested Mr. Cruddick a little nervously, but Charles refused to give up the search. For another thirty-five minutes Mr. Cruddick sat tapping the wheel of the van before Charles finally conceded that the painting must have been taken elsewhere. Mr. Cruddick tipped his hat to the maid while his partner locked up the back of the van.
“A valuable picture, Mr. Seymours?” he inquired.
“A family heirloom that would fetch two million at auction,” said Charles matter-of-factly before returning to his car.
“Silly question, Albert Cruddick,” said Mr. Cruddick to himself as he pulled out from the curb and drove toward Eaton Square. When they arrived the locksmith had replaced all three locks on the front door and was waiting on the top step impatiently.
“Strictly cash, guv’nor. No receipt. Makes it possible for the missus and me to go to Ibiza each year, tax free.”
By the time Fiona had returned to the Boltons from her trip to Sussex every picture was back in its place at Eaton Square with the exception of Holbein’s first Earl of Bridgwater. Mr. Cruddick was left clutching a large check and uttering the unpalatable view that Mr. Seymour would probably have to grin and bear it.
“I’m delighted,” said Simon, when he heard the news. “And at Pucklebridge General Hospital?”
“Yes, I answered an advertisement in The Lancet for the post of general consultant in the maternity section.”
“But your name must have helped there?”
“Certainly not,” said Elizabeth vehemently.
“How come?”
“I didn’t apply as Dr. Kerslake. I filled out the application form in my maiden name of Drummond.”
Simon was momentarily silenced. “But they would have recognized you,” he protested.
“I had the full frontal treatment from Estée Lauder to ensure they didn’t. The final effect fooled even you.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Simon.
“I walked straight past you in Pucklebridge High Street, and said ‘Good morning,’ and you returned the greeting.”
Simon stared at her in disbelief. “But what will happen when they find out?”
“They already have,” replied Elizabeth sheepishly. “As soon as they offered me the post I went down to see the senior consultant and told him the truth. He hasn’t stopped telling everyone since.”
“He wasn’t cross?”
“Far from it. In fact he said I nearly failed to be offered the post because he felt I wouldn’t be safe let loose on the unmarried doctors.”
Andrew held Louise’s hand as they approached the door of Grunechan Children’s Home on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The matron was waiting on the freshly scrubbed doorstep to greet them.
“Good morning, Minister,” she said. “We are honored that you have chosen our little home.”
Andrew and Louise smiled.
“Will you be kind enough to follow me?” She led them down a dimly lit corridor to her room, her starched blue uniform crackling as she walked.
“All the children are in the playground at the moment but you will be able to see them from my window.” Andrew had already gone over all the orphans’ histories and photographs; he couldn’t help noticing how one of them bore a striking resemblance to Robert.
They both looked out of the window for several minutes but Louise showed no interest in any of the children. When the boy who resembled Robert ran toward the window, she turned away and took a seat in the corner.
Andrew shook his head. The matron’s lips turned down at the corners.
Coffee and biscuits arrived and while they were eating them Andrew tried once more. “Did you want Matron to bring anyone in to meet you, darling?” Louise shook her head. Andrew cursed himself as he feared the experience might only have done her more harm.
“Have we seen everyone?” he asked, looking for an excuse to leave quickly.
“Yes, sir,” said the matron, putting down her cup of coffee. “Well,” she hesitated, “there was one girl we didn’t bother you with.”
“Why not?” asked Andrew out of curiosity.
“Well, you see, she’s black.”
Andrew stiffened.
“And what’s more,” continued the matron, “we have absolutely no idea who her parents were. She was left on the doorstep. Not at all the sort of girl to be brought up in a minister’s home.”
Andrew was so incensed that he quite forgot about consulting Louise who was still resting silently in the corner.
“I should like to see her,” he said.
“If you insist,” said the matron, a little taken aback. “I’m afraid she hasn’t got her best clothes on,” she added before she left the room.
Andrew paced up and down, conscious that if Louise hadn’t been there he might well have lost his temper with the woman. The matron returned a few moments later with a little girl aged four, perhaps five, and so thin that her dress hung on her like a coathanger. Andrew couldn’t see her face because she kept her head bowed.
“Look up, child,” commanded the matron. The girl raised her head slowly. She had the most perfect oval face and olive skin, piercing black eyes, and a smile that immediately captivated Andrew.
“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.
“Clarissa,” she said, and dropped her head again. He wanted to help her so much, and it made him feel guilty that he had put the poor child through such a pointless ordeal.
The matron still looked affronted and with a sniff she said, “You can leave us now, child.” Clarissa turned and walked toward the door. Looking at Louise the matron added, “I am sure you agree with me, Mrs. Fraser, the girl’s not at all suitable.”
They both turned to Louise. Her face was alight, her eyes shining in a way Andrew had not seen since Robert’s death. She stood up, walked quickly toward the child before she could reach the door, and stared into her black eyes.