R Raichev - The hunt for Sonya Dufrette

‘No, not tonight.’ Antonia pulled out her hand. ‘I am baby-sitting tonight. My son and daughter-in-law are going to the theatre and leaving my granddaughter with me.’

‘Granddaughter? You are joking, aren’t you? You haven’t got a granddaughter?’

‘I have. Her name is Emma and she is three.’

‘I would never have believed it.’ He had opened his eyes wide. Antonia knew he was overdoing it, yet she couldn’t help feeling flattered, foolish woman that she was. ‘Never mind. Tomorrow then. Let’s get busy today, get down to brass tacks, and we’ll compare notes tomorrow at eleven at headquarters. I mean the library. Is that all right?’

Antonia agreed and, as she did, experienced a sense of unreality. Partners in crime? A detective duo? An investigating tandem? Sleuths on the scent? Great fun in detective fiction, but did it work in real life? Well, they were going to find out.

Another thought occurred to her. Was Major Payne really as enthusiastic about it as he looked, or was he doing it because he was intent on spending as much time with her as was decently possible?

A Change of Ownership

That afternoon, at half past two exactly, Mrs Cathcart arrived. Antonia had expected someone tall, imperious and galleon-like, that was what her voice had suggested. But Mrs Cathcart turned out to be just the opposite – short, inclined to plumpness and rather untidy in a long cardigan. Her first words to Antonia were about the cab. It was waiting outside the club, she said a little breathlessly, and she didn’t want to be long for she would be charged extra. Did Miss Darcy have the Gresham papers ready? Answering in the affirmative, Antonia called Martin and asked him to carry the two wooden boxes out to the cab.

It was at that point that Colonel Haslett appeared, a racing paper sticking out of his pocket, and shook hands with Mrs Cathcart, whom he addressed as ‘Penny dear’. He told her she seemed in good form. Was everything under control? Shipshape and Bristol fashion? Capital! She was coming on Friday night for a spot of bridge as per usual, wasn’t she, with her lord and master? Splendid!

‘You wouldn’t believe it, Miss D.,’ he said when Mrs Cathcart and the Gresham papers had departed, ‘but the woman’s a lethal bridge player, positively lethal. We lost a fortune the other night, m’wife and I. We always partner each other. No point otherwise, is there, winning each other’s money!‘ He chuckled. ’Stayed up till four ack emma, would you believe? Poor Derek Cathcart had to be revived with black coffee at around three. We have to do that every time, but Penny wouldn’t hear of calling it a day. Derek finds it jolly hard keeping up with her, I must say. When she starts playing bridge, she’s unstoppable. Saw you chewing the fat with young Payne earlier on. In the dining room.‘ He nodded approvingly. ’Good lunch?‘

‘Yes. I enjoyed it very much.’ Antonia took a surreptitious look at her watch.

‘So did I. Top-notch nosh, but then that’s how it should be. Poached the chappie from the Savoy Grill. I mean the chef… Good company too. My niece and her young man. Dentist. Made me laugh, the things he said. Can’t remember what they were, but damned funny. As a matter of fact I knew young Payne’s father jolly well at one time. Alex Payne. What was young Payne’s name now?’ Colonel Haslett tugged at his moustache and looked at her.

‘Hugh, I think.’ Antonia tried to sound as casual as possible. She felt loath to give grounds for tittle-tattle by showing that anything remotely approaching intimacy might have developed between the club librarian and one of the club members.

‘Alex was a crack polo player. In his first season in 1939, I think it was, before the war anyhow, he won the junior regimental tournament in Poona. Marvellous chap. Then we got stationed in the Sudan together. I don’t suppose you’ve been to the Sudan?’

‘I am afraid not. Sorry, Colonel Haslett, but I am afraid I’ll have to -’

‘What upset me most about the Sudan, Miss D., was seeing a model colony turn into a complete and utter shambles through the inefficiency, sloth and the sheer inertia of the inhabitants who took over. I know people are jolly careful these days, saying things like that, but there it is. Decent chap, young Payne. His father worried that he always had his nose in a book and didn’t care enough about horses. You wouldn’t believe this, but apparently, when young Payne was a boy, he called his dachshund puppy Apollo and his kitten Daphne. When he was asked why, said because dog always chased cat. Got the idea from some poem or other, that’s what he said. His father was worried about him.’

Antonia suddenly laughed. ‘Marvell.’

Colonel Haslett cupped his ear. ‘What’s that?’

‘Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow,’ she quoted.

‘So there was a poem about it? Ah, that’s why I suppose he wants to talk to you!’ Colonel Haslett’s face lit up. ‘I mean young Payne. Have bookish conversations and all that? You seem to fit like hand in glove. Perfect match. Hear you’ve written a novel?’

As usual, she was overcome with shyness. ‘Yes.’

‘A mystery, that correct? Well done. Hate mysteries. All that business of fair play. It’s never fair, if you ask me. Conjurors’ tricks, that’s what detective stories are. The moment a clue is dangled before you, hey presto, your attention is distracted by something that’s made to look like clue, but isn’t. Call that fair? Who wants to read stuff like that? Shall I tell you what my favourite book of all time is? The Wind… um…’

‘The Wind in the Willows?’

‘Gone with the Wind. That’s it. Skipped an awful lot of course. Only read the bits where Scarlett puts in an appearance. That Civil War was a bore, don’t you think? But Scarlett – what a girl! Oh well. You shouldn’t keep me talking, Miss D.!’ Colonel Haslett chided her. ‘Pleasure of course but must go now. Awful lot to do. You too. The Gresham papers are off your hands now and I’m sure you can concentrate on your filing system without any more distractions.’ He gave her arm the usual bracing pat and walked out of the library.

But Antonia wasn’t going to work on her filing system today. In fact she didn’t feel like working at all. The bug of the hunt had got into her. She sat down at her desk and reached out for the telephone.

Her call was answered almost at once. ‘Twiston House. Mrs Ralston-Scott’s secretary speaking,’ a woman’s voice said.

Ralston-Scott. Must be the new owners.

‘My name is Antonia Darcy. I do apologize for bothering you, but, you see, I used to know the people who lived at Twiston before you -’

‘You knew Mr and Mrs Sandys?’

‘No, no. Sir Michael and Lady Mortlock. That was back in 1981.’

‘Oh yes?’ the friendly voice continued after a pause. Had a note of caution crept into it or was Antonia imagining it?

‘I was wondering whether you had any contact number for Lady Mortlock or for her stepson? It’s Lady Mortlock with whom I’d like to get in touch. It is a bit urgent, so I’d be extremely grateful if -’

‘I believe I have a number for Mr Mortlock – Mr George Mortlock. He pays us occasional visits. I have never met Lady Mortlock, but let me see – yes, I have a number for her too. It is – have you got a pen?’ The secretary read out the number.

‘Thank you very much… That’s central London.’

‘Belgravia, I think.’

Not far from the club, Antonia reflected. She could walk. ‘Thank you very much indeed,’ she said. ‘I used to know the Mortlocks very well at one time. I had no idea Twiston had changed hands twice since,’ she prattled on. Sometimes, she reflected, important information springs from the most unlikely sources. ‘How long have your employers – Mr and Mrs Ralston-Scott, did you say? – been at Twiston?’