Gary Alexander: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 6, May 27, 1981

He knew he was dreaming when he found himself at a wedding. It was taking place in an ancient church with no roof. There was water running down the walls and the mossy look of a graveyard. The place was full of teenagers, filling the pews, lounging on the floor. Their foul language echoed from the walls, filling Darius with impotent fury.

Felicity came down the aisle. She was naked, smiling — she knew everybody. Darius wanted to cover her with his coat but he wasn’t wearing one. He wasn’t wearing anything. He sneaked outside and was met by a blast of cold air. The chill woke him up and he found himself shivering outside the sheet. He got up and closed the window.

Then he left the bedroom quietly, went to his workroom, and selected the five-inch knife he used for shaping heads. He carried it to the bedroom and slipped it into the inside pocket of the jacket he intended to wear tomorrow.

Sonia sounded half asleep. “You all right?”

“I just closed the window.”

He crept back to bed.

In the morning, as Darius was leaving to meet Joey Singleton, the headmaster telephoned. There was no Marti Roch at Felicity’s school. He had gone further and checked enrollments for every school in the borough. No Marti Roch.

Darius walked to the corner and bought a Times. The ad was in print. There was something about those few lines in the noble newspaper that dispelled worry. He brought it home and showed it to Sonia along with his courageous smile.

“I’ll be O.K. now,” he said. “Stay by the phone; I’ll keep in touch.” Then he went to meet Joey.

They drove to the West End on a balmy August day. Darius was carrying a couple of snapshots of Felicity. They were not very good. She hated being photographed and always ended up looking away or closing her eyes. He gave one to Singleton, who said, “Trouble is, the people who may know where she is — the kids — won’t want to talk to an adult flashing a photo. Too much like a police investigation.”

Darius waited while his friend parked the car and slipped a police permit onto the sun visor. “I don’t know what else to do,” he said.

“It’s O.K. I still know a few newsies I can talk to.” Singleton set off across Trafalgar Square in the direction of Charing Cross Road. “The thing is to start looking — we may get lucky.”

They did. On the pavement below the statue of Henry Irving, several artists perched on canvas stools were doing charcoal or pastel portraits for the tourists. Darius recognized a freelance artist who had done jobs for him when he was in the ad business. “Mark,” he teased, “where are the photoprints you promised me for ten o’clock?”

“Hello, Darius. Someday your prints will come,” the artist said, using one of their familiar routines. “How goes it?”

“Not so good. I’m looking for a missing daughter.”

“Teenager? That’s nasty. They know how to hurt us.”

While Darius talked about it, another artist arrived, opened his portfolio, and began propping samples of his work against the stone wall. The head-and-shoulders sketch of Felicity was there for some time before it registered.

“That’s her!” Darius said. “That’s my daughter!”

Singleton checked the snapshot. “The hair is different.”

“She’s had it cut. That’s what she’d do, obviously. And dyed red — it used to be blonde.” He said to the artist, “When did you do this one?”

“A couple of days ago. She came by when I wasn’t busy and we got talking. I drew her because I liked her spark.” He positioned himself on his camp stool. “A great kid.”

“She’s my daughter. I’m trying to find her.” The artist seemed unimpressed. “She’s only fifteen.”

“I’d have said she was in her twenties.”

Darius bought the sketch. As Singleton rolled it carefully, he asked the artist for any other information he could give them. It seemed she was collected on that day by a dark, husky fellow who sounded not exactly English. They appeared to be very friendly.

The former policeman was looking thoughtful as they walked towards Leicester Square.

Feeling encouraged, Darius asked, “Does it sound like somebody you know?”

“It sounds like a few people.”

“Have we found Marti Roch?”

“I can’t say.”

The day seemed to drag on forever. They made several tours of likely areas. Sometimes they worked together, other times they split up. Darius phoned home every couple of hours. Nobody had telephoned but Sonia was encouraged by their portrait discovery. It meant Felicity had not been spirited away or buried in the woods by some demented rapist murderer. She was roaming around the bright lights with new hair, enjoying herself. Sonia would have something to say to that girl.

It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon when the two men drifted back along Charing Cross Road. Sick of drinking coffee on the run, they were heading for a pub on Whitehall. The artist, Mark, was sketching an Indonesian girl.

“Nice work if you can get it,” Darius said.

“Any luck with your daughter?”

“I was going to ask if she’d come by here.”

“No sign. I was watching for her.”

“Thanks, Mark. Keep your eyes open.” Darius scribbled his telephone number on the back of Mark’s pad.

As they reached the top of Trafalgar Square, the bell in the tower of St. Martin-in-the-fields struck five. Then the carillon began to play one of Darius’s favorite hymns.

“Hang on, Joey,” Darius said. “I want to hear this.”

They sat on the low parapet outside the National Gallery surrounded by the rush of pedestrians and the din of homeward-bound traffic. In his choir days years ago, Darius had sung the splendid words written by John Bunyan.

The old church looked magnificent against the evening sky. Its broad steps and porch were crowded with young people, tourists mostly, flaked out and enjoying the fading sun. It was a precious moment and Darius wished he could be happier. He knew his difficulties were of little weight in the presence of this historic building that had stood through centuries of time. Those great pillars supporting the massive portico with its Latin legend suggested continuity and security.

Darius had been observing the carved block letters for some time when they seemed to leap from the portico. Their message stunned him. “Joey, look up there.”

“The church? Bloody pigeons are all over the place.”

“No, the inscription.”

“It’s Latin. It means St. Martin in the fields, or words to that effect.”

“Keep looking at it.”

They stared up at the weathered letters, S. MARTINI PAROCHIANI. Then it hit Singleton too. “I see it. If you get rid of some of the letters, it becomes MARTI ROCH!”

“Am I crazy or could this be it?”

“But why did your daughter write it down?”

“When we find her we can ask her.”

The church was gloomy, cool, and quiet in contrast to the heat and the roar of traffic. “What are we looking for?” Darius whispered.

“We’ll know when we see it.”

There was nothing happening inside the church. They went back through the entrance doors and stood on the porch. The stones underfoot had been worn concave in places. A bulletin board was plastered with notices of activities, sacred and secular.

“How about this one?” Singleton pointed to a colorful sign advertising folk music in the Crypt. It was due to begin at seven.