He lay back in the lamplight, his feet to the whickering logs, and relaxed. It was warm and very quiet. There was no river song: the Rushmere was a silent stream. No sound at all except the small noises of the fire. On the couch opposite him lay a newspaper, and behind it stood a book-case, but he was too tired to fetch either paper or book. At his elbow was a shelf of reference books. Idly he read the titles till he came to the London telephone book. The sight of those familiar volumes sent his mind flying down a new channel. They had said this evening, when he talked to the Yard, that so far Searle's cousin had not bothered to get in touch with them. They were not surprised by that, of course; the news had broken only that morning, and the artist cousin might live anywhere from the Scilly Isles to a farm in Cumberland; she might never read newspapers anyway; she might, if it came to that, be entirely indifferent to any fate that might overtake her cousin. After all, Searle had said quite frankly that they did not care for each other.
But Grant still wanted to talk to someone who knew Searle's background; or at least a little of that background. Now, relaxed and at leisure for the first time in two days, he put out his hand for the S volume, and, on the chance that she lived in London and that she and Searle were the children of two brothers, turned up the Searles. There was a Miss Searle who lived in Holly Pavement, he noticed. Holly Pavement was in Hampstead and was a well-known artist's colony. On an impulse he picked up the telephone and asked for the London number.
'One hour's delay. Call you back, said the triumphant voice at the other end.
'Priority, Grant said. And gave his credentials.
'Oh, said the voice, disappointed but game. 'Oh, well, I'll see what I can do.
'On the contrary, Grant said, I'll see what you can do, and hung up.
He put the telephone book back in its place, and pulled out Who's Who in the Theatre to amuse himself with while he waited. Some of it made him feel very old. Actors and actresses he had never heard of already had long lists of successes to their credit. The ones he knew had pages of achievement stretching back into the already-quaint past. He began to look up the people he knew, as one does in the index of an autobiography. Toby Tullis, son of Sydney Tullis and his wife Martha (Speke). It was surprising to think that a national institution like Toby Tullis had ever been subjected to the processes of conception and brought into this world by the normal method. He observed that Toby's early days as an actor were decently shrouded under: 'Was at one time an actor. His one-time colleagues, Grant knew, would deny with heat that he had ever been even approximately an actor. On the other hand, Grant thought, remembering this morning, his whole life was an 'act'. He had created a part for himself and had played it ever since.
It was surprising, too, to find that Marguerite Merriam (daughter of Geoffrey Merriam and his wife Brenda (Mattson)) had been considerably older than her adolescent fragility had led one to believe. Perhaps if she had lived that adolescent quality would have worn thin, and her power to break the public heart would have declined. That was, no doubt, what Marta had meant when she said that if she had lived another ten years her obituaries would have been back-page stuff.
Marta (daughter of Gervase Wing-Strutt, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P. and his wife Anne (Hallard)) was, of course, entirely orthodox. She had been educated at the best schools and had sneaked her way on to the stage by the back-door of elocution like so many of her well-bred predecessors. Grant hoped that when in the next edition-or at most the next after-the letters D.B.E. followed Marta's name, it would comfort Gervase Wing-Strutt and his wife Anne for being fooled by their daughter a quarter of a century ago.
He had not even taken the cream off the possible entertainment provided by this enchanting volume when the telephone rang.
'Your call to London is through. Will you go ahead, please, the voice said.
'Hullo, Grant said. 'Could I speak to Miss Searle?
'Miss Searle speaking, said a pleasant voice, a shade on the efficient side.
'Miss Searle, I'm truly sorry to bother you, but have you, by any chance, a cousin called Leslie Searle?
'I have, and if he has borrowed money from you you are wasting your time if you think that I will pay it back.
'Oh, no. It is nothing like that. Your cousin has disappeared while staying with friends in the country and we hoped that you might help us to trace him. My name is Grant. I'm a Detective-Inspector at Scotland Yard.
'Oh, said the voice, considering but not apparently dismayed. 'Well, I don't see what help I can be to you. Leslie and I never had much to do with each other. He wasn't my cup of tea, and I certainly am not his.
'It would be some help if I could come and talk to you about him. Would you, perhaps, be at home tomorrow afternoon if I called?
'Well, tomorrow afternoon I was going to a concert at the Albert Hall.
'Oh. Then I might manage it just before lunch if that is any better for you.
'You are very accommodating for a policeman, she remarked.
'Criminals don't find us that way, he said.
'I thought providing accommodation for criminals was the end and object of Scotland Yard. It's all right, Inspector. I won't go to the concert. It is not a very good one anyhow.
'You'll be in if I call?
'Yes, I'll be here.
'That is very kind of you.
'That over-rated photographer didn't take the family jewels with him when he left, did he?
'No. Oh, no. He has just disappeared.
She gave a small snort. It was apparent that whatever Miss Searle had to tell him about her cousin there would be no suppression of facts or false modesty in her story.
As Grant hung up, Marta came back preceded by a small boy carrying wood for the fire. The boy put the logs neatly in the hearth, and then eyed Grant with respectful awe.
'Tommy has something he wants to ask you, Marta said. 'He knows that you are a detective.
'What is it, Tommy?
'Will you show me your revolver, sir?
'I would if I had it with me. But it's in a drawer in Scotland Yard, I'm afraid.
Tommy looked cut to the heart. 'I thought you always carried one. The American cops do. You can shoot, can't you, sir?
'Oh, yes, Grant said relieving the awful fear that was clearly dawning. 'I'll tell you what, next time you come to London, you can come to Scotland Yard and I'll show you the revolver.
'I can come to the Yard? Oh, thank you. Thank you very much, sir. That would be just bonza.
He went, with a polite goodnight, in an aura of radiance a foot thick.
'And parents think they can cure boys of liking lethal weapons by not giving them toy soldiers, Marta said, as she set the omelet out on the table. 'Come and eat.
'I owe you for a trunk call to London.
'I thought that you were going to relax.
'I was but I got an idea, and it has taken me the first step forward in this case since I took it over.
'Good! she said. 'Now you can feel happy and let your digestive juices do their work.
A small round table had been set near the fire, with candles for pleasure and decoration, and they ate together in a friendly quiet. Mrs Thrupp came up with the chicken, and was introduced, and was volubly grateful for Grant's invitation to Tommy. After that peace was uninterrupted. Over coffee the talk went to Silas Weekley and the oddness of the menage in the lane.
'Silas prides himself on living «working-class», whatever that may mean. None of his children is going to begin any better off than he did. He's a frightful bore about his elementary school origins. You would think he was the first elementary schoolboy to go to Oxford since the place was founded. He's the classic case of inverted snobbery.