Charles Todd - A Bitter Truth

“But Lydia didn’t come in with me,” she said. “She’s sulking in her room.”

“Are you certain?” I asked, looking up at the long window above our heads.

“Did you think I was tricking you with my offer? Of course I wasn’t. Go on, then, see for yourself.”

I opened the door to the hall and hurried up the stairs that led to the room above. I tapped lightly at the door, then opened it without waiting for an invitation.

“Lydia?” I said, looking for her. But the room was empty, and I turned to run back the way I’d come. She wasn’t in the sitting room, nor in the little room that Mrs. Ellis used, nor in the library. I opened the door to the drawing room, and there she was, staring up at the portrait of Juliana, her face swollen from crying.

“Where is Sophie?” I demanded. “Did you come and take her?”

“What do you mean, take her? Don’t be stupid, Bess, Roger would never let me keep her.”

I told her what had happened. Sitting up, she said, “Are you quite certain she didn’t simply wander down the hall? Bess! Oh, my God-Roger!”

She was already out the door, shouting her husband’s name. I went after her.

We reached the hall to find Simon standing there, Gran beside him, her face anxious, her hands hanging at her side. “Anything?” he asked.

“She’s not here.”

“What is it?” Roger demanded, striding into the room. “I heard motorcars in the drive-is it my mother?”

“It’s Sophie-she’s missing.”

Roger wasted no time on words. He caught Lydia by the arm, took her out to the motorcar. Gran followed. Simon was already turning the crank.

We drove back to Hartfield and searched the hotel, the environs, all the way up to the small church and down to encompass Bluebell Cottage.

She was small, and distances would tire her. So where had she gone?

Simon, meeting me again in front of Bluebell Cottage, said, “Someone took her. Why?”

“The police? No, they wouldn’t do such a thing. Simon-”

“Don’t panic, Bess. She’ll be all right, wherever she is.”

“No, she won’t, Simon. I’ve got to find her.”

But half an hour later even I admitted defeat. Sophie hadn’t wandered off. She’d been taken. Just as Simon had said.

W e collected, the five of us, in my room, and we searched that again. Simon brought his torch, and we looked under the bed again. But I knew it was useless. Gran said, “How long were you in Mr. Brandon’s room?”

“Half an hour? At most.”

“I don’t understand,” Lydia said.

“Where do we look next?” Simon was asking Roger Ellis.

“God knows. All right, let’s find the police and report this. The sooner we cast a wider net, the sooner we’ll have her.”

And so we looked for Constable Bates and reported the child as missing. He took down the details and suggested we drive to Wych Gate to tell Inspector Rother ourselves.

Three hours later we’d made no progress. Simon and Roger Ellis had taken it upon themselves to search the Forest, while Lydia and Gran took the Major’s borrowed motorcar and went to search Wych Gate Church. Margaret and Henry were waiting at the house to coordinate the search.

By the time I had come back to the village of Wych Gate with the rector, Mr. Smyth, driving, Mrs. Ellis was just leaving the police station there. She appeared to be dazed as Inspector Rother put her into his motorcar. But she looked up as we pulled in front of the Inspector’s vehicle.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Sophie is missing,” I told her. Turning to Inspector Rother, I asked, “Any news?”

Mrs. Ellis, collecting herself, asked, “Are you sure you looked everywhere? The kitchen, the attics, the public rooms? Was it Lydia? Surely-”

“She says she didn’t. I believe her. But who could have done this?” Desperate, I asked the Inspector, “Is there any family in the Forest by the name of Halloran?”

“It’s not a local name,” he replied. “Why?”

“There isn’t time to explain,” I told him. “But if I’m right, if we find Sophie, we’ll have your murderer as well.”

“That’s what Ellis told me. Grasping at straws, that’s all it is. But I promised to help, and I’ll keep my word.”

Mrs. Ellis asked to come with us, and I decided that even as tired as she was, she would worry less if she were with us.

Rother drove away in the direction of Hartfield. Mrs. Ellis said, “Quickly. Where have you looked?”

I told her, and she nodded. At the rector’s suggestion we decided to stop at the churchyard, and we searched that again, torches flashing in every direction, then the church itself, and Mr. Smyth even went up into the tower. I walked partway down the path to the little stream, and then turned back.

If Sophie lay at the bottom of the path, I didn’t want to know.

And then we went back to Hartfield. It had occurred to me that we’d seen Willy in the street there, Simon and I, before the search had begun in earnest. If he’d taken Sophie, she had to be somewhere in the village.

It took me a quarter of an hour to find the man who called himself Willy.

He was squatting by a horse trough, washing a pair of gloves, his hands red from the cold water, a frown between his eyes as he concentrated on what he was doing.

When I approached, he stood up and faced me. For an instant I had the urge to back away. There was something about him that was repellent. But I stood my ground and said, “I’ve come to ask you if you saw anyone with a little girl-about two years of age, very fair. She was in the hotel until earlier in the evening. We don’t know if she wandered away or if she was taken away.”

He stared at me, and at first I wondered if he’d even understood my questions.

Then he said, “I don’t want any trouble with the police.”

“They won’t trouble you. Just tell me what you saw.”

“I didn’t see anything. I’ve already had trouble with the police over the watch. I’m afraid of them.”

“But you must tell me-if the little girl will be harmed, I need to know. I need to find her.”

“The police are already looking.” He gestured toward the inn. I could see that Simon had just returned and was getting out of his motorcar, crossing to speak to the rector and Mrs. Ellis. “But it won’t do any good, will it?”

“Please, Albert. Try to remember. Were you near the inn earlier in the evening?”

But he shook his head and turned to wring out the tattered gloves and hang them over a nearby bush. A cold wind was starting up, and he shivered. “My name isn’t Albert,” he said with an odd dignity. He started to walk on, his bare hands buried in the armpits of his coat.

“I’m sorry. Willy. I’ll buy you a new pair of gloves,” I said. “If you will try to remember.”

That got his attention and he turned around. “Will the police take the gloves away as they did the watch?” he asked. “He said it was mine to keep. Always.”

“Who said?” I asked. “And why won’t it do any good for the police to look?”

He ignored my questions. “Will they take the gloves?” he pressed.

“No. The gloves will be yours.”

“For always?” That sly look was there again. This time I recognized it for what it was, the craftiness of a man who had lived by his wits for so long he was forever looking to find an advantage. Someone who would give him coins, as Davis Merrit had done, who would promise him a watch in return for a lie, or offer him a pair of gloves in return for the truth. His only loyalty was to opportunity.

“For always,” I promised.

He considered the bribe and finally said, “My hands are cold. Bring me the gloves, and I’ll tell you what I saw.”