Eva Ibbotson - A Company of Swans

Edward had suffered since he had agreed to go in search of Harriet. It had been rotten luck finding that there was no British boat for a fortnight, so that he’d had to cross the Channel and trust himself to foreigners. Then on the voyage there had been the unscrupulous behaviour of Isobel Brandon to contend with; Edward had not seen Mrs Brandon on the recent visit to Stavely, but he had no difficulty in identifying the beautiful red-haired widow listed among the passengers — though why she should seek solace in her bereavement by travelling to the Amazon was hard to understand.

But his friendly gesture in introducing himself and reminding her of his mother’s acquaintance with the General had caused Mrs Brandon to unloose on him — in a totally unbridled manner — her small son. ‘Go and ask Dr Finch-Dutton,’ Edward heard her say a dozen times a day — and presently Henry would appear to ask the kind of questions with which children and philosophers trouble their betters. Why do spiders have eight legs and insects six, Henry wanted to know. Do flying fish have souls? Why is there a green streak in the sky just before the sun goes down… on and on and on.

Which did not mean that Edward was pleased to see him carried off the boat at Belem. There was no real harm in the child and the relief of travelling on alone had been vitiated by the appalling heat as soon as they left the fresh Atlantic breezes. And now in Manaus, where he had hoped for a cool bath and a chance to muster his forces, his troubles seemed only to have begun.

‘Good afternoon.’ Rom had reached Edward’s side and stood looking up at the cab with amused friendliness. ‘Can I help at all? Are you in trouble?’

‘Oh, I say! Yes! That’s jolly decent of you. Didn’t expect to see a fellow countryman here,’ said Edward. ‘My name’s Finch-Dutton — Dr Edward Finch-Dutton, from Cambridge. The truth is, I’m in a bit of a fix. I’ve just come off the Vasco da Gama and spent the whole afternoon driving round trying to find somewhere to stay. I tried the Hotel Metropole, but it’s booked to the roof — so is the Europa, not that I’d put a dog there. And then that scoundrel’ — he glared at the driver, busy spitting melon seeds into the road — ‘drove me to a place he said was a hotel—’ But there Edward broke off, unable to speak of what had happened after he had asked for a room at Madame Anita’s. ‘And now he proposes to dump me and my luggage and charge me a perfectly ludicrous sum which I have not the slightest intention of paying.’

Rom turned and fired off half-a-dozen rapid sentences at the cabby, who became servile and explanatory. The Englishman had not understood: he had tried to tell him that the hotels were always full when a company was performing at the theatre but the man would not listen. He himself had done his best, but he now wished to receive his fare and attend the festivities for his niece’s confirmation at which he was already overdue.

‘Your niece’s festivities — which interest me little — will, however, have to wait,’ said Rom pleasantly. ‘And if you don’t want to lose your licence, you will stop spitting into the road.’ He turned back to Edward. ‘Perhaps I can help. My name’s Verney, by the way. I’m on my way to the Sports Club to pick up a message; it’s quite a decent place, run by an Englishman — Harry Parker. They sometimes accommodate travellers for a few days — members of expeditions and so on. I can’t promise anything, but I daresay he might fit you in.’

‘I used to know a Harry Parker at my prep school,’ said Edward. ‘He kept a weasel in his tuck-box. Don’t suppose it’s the same chap.’ But he brightened visibly at the thought of someone in this steam-bath of a city who might conceivably have been at Fallowfield Preparatory School on the bracing and healthy Sussex Downs.

‘You’re a zoologist, I see,’ said Rom, giving the driver his orders and climbing over Edward’s collecting gear and large tin trunk — for Edward was not a person who travelled light or thought that field work excused one from appearing decently dressed for dinner.

‘Well, yes. Entomology’s my field, actually. The Aphaniptera in particular. Fleas,’ explained Edward. ‘I’m a Fellow of St Philip’s.’

‘So you’ll be staying a while?’

‘Yes… Well, not too long, I hope. I mean…’ He looked at the man who had come to his rescue. Handsome; a bit foreign-looking but obviously a thoroughgoing gentleman by his voice and his clothes, and the cab-driver had become positively servile in his presence. So Edward, who had manfully kept his secret on the long journey, now said, ‘I don’t mind telling you that I’m also here for another reason — not just collecting. I’m looking for a girl who has run away from home. A dreadful business. Her father’s the Merlin Professor of Classics, and I… well, before this happened I was interested in the girl myself. Not now of course,’ he added hastily. ‘We think she’s with the ballet company which is playing here at the Opera House. As soon as I’m settled and have got rid of my stuff, I intend to start making enquiries.’

‘What is her name?’

Edward hesitated, but his rescuer’s face as he looked out at the street showed only the most polite and casual interest.

‘Harriet Morton. This is strictly between you and me, of course.’

‘Well, she may be here,’ said Rom lazily. ‘But as I understand it, all the girls are Russian. However, perhaps I may be able to help you. I happen to be the chairman of the Opera House trustees and the director might let me have information he would not disclose to a casual enquirer. The girls are very strictly guarded, you see.’

‘I say, that’s terribly decent of you! It’s for her own good, but she must be brought back and the whole thing hushed up if possible.’

Rom turned his head. ‘Hushed up?’ he said, surprised. ‘One would rather imagine it to be a cause for boasting, to have a daughter accepted by such a distinguished company.’

Before Edward could digest this unexpected remark, they had reached the Club. The Harry Parker who welcomed them was not the one who had kept a weasel in his tuck-box and Edward had not really expected such a stroke of fortune, but all was not lost for it turned out that the Featherstonehaugh for whom Parker had fagged at Stowe had mentioned being related to a Finch-Dutton of Goring-on-Thames who had stroked for Cambridge in the year in which they sank.

‘My father,’ said Edward with quiet pride.

Rom’s patronage would have secured for Edward one of the rooms in the annexe in any case, but these revelations made it certain that in Harry Parker he had found a lifelong friend.

‘Well, I shall leave you to settle in,’ said Rom, ‘and see what I can find out for you. The great thing is not to hang round the stage-door or go to the theatre by yourself. Monsieur Dubrov is apt to set the police on stage-door johnnies!’

And waving away Edward’s thanks, he climbed back into the cab — whose driver had disclaimed all interest in his niece’s confirmation — and was driven back to the theatre.

‘Well,’ said Dubrov, ‘what’s the position?’ News of Harriet’s pursuer had spread through the cast like wildfire.

‘He’s certainly after Harriet and has been instructed to bring her home. As you may have gathered, he once intended to become her fiancé. However, he himself has no legal power and he is also an oaf. If we can keep him quiet, I see no reason why Harriet shouldn’t finish her tour in peace… and then we shall see.’

Dubrov looked at him curiously. ‘Might I ask why you are taking so much trouble over Harriet’s career as a dancer when…’

He left the sentence unfinished, but Rom did not pretend to misunderstand him.