I slid through the door, turned right and dashed across the front of the house, reaching the territory of the dark out-buildings. Some of their doors were open, disclosing a deeper darkness. The dung on the stone walkways combined with the stagnant black air and the smell of engine oil to make a drugged and drowsy atmosphere. I leant against the wall of a workshop, getting my breath and looking towards the gardener’s cottage, which stood fifty yards off.
A voice was at my ear.
‘Have they brought you in, sir?’
It was the footman or manservant, the one who’d been forcing the claret on me. He wore no tie; his clothes looked hastily put on.
‘Into what?’ I said, shocked.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘the search.’
‘I know that a … difficulty has arisen,’ I said, with fast-beating heart.
‘I mean to pray for him, sir,’ said the manservant. ‘I believe his soul’s in danger.’
I eyed the man. It was strange to hear somebody say they meant to pray when they were not in a church.
‘He’s not well in himself,’ the man ran on, ‘and Captain Usher wanted to keep an eye on him. But he burst out of his room about half after one in the morning and he hasn’t been seen since.’
‘Was he not under lock and key?’ I asked.
‘He is the owner of the house, sir,’ said the manservant.
‘It was Usher who gave chase?’
‘Captain Usher and Chief Inspector Weatherill.’
‘Were any shots heard?’ I asked, and I saw by the lantern light that the man had closed his eyes. Was this the prayer in the process of being delivered up? He opened his eyes after a few seconds, and carried on briskly, as though he had just sent a telegram.
‘How do you know that, sir?’ said the manservant. ‘I heard two shots at two o’clock, but I’d gone back to bed by then, and was half-asleep. I just looked at the clock, and I suppose I thought: Well, it’s two for two, like church bells striking. A few minutes later, I went over to the window again and light was coming across the lawn. It was Captain Usher and Chief Inspector Weatherill. I dashed down to see them, and they said they were looking for Mr Lambert, and I believe they’ve been about it ever since.’
‘Did they carry guns?’ I asked.
‘They both held shotguns.’
‘Why, do you suppose?’
‘Well,’ said the manservant, ‘suicide is feared.’
I supposed he meant that Lambert, bent on suicide, might have been assumed to be armed and generally inclined to shoot.
I shook my head.
‘That won’t answer,’ I said.
‘I must go to the housemaid, sir,’ said the servant. ‘She’s very upset.’
And this man – a very dutiful fellow indeed – headed off in the direction of the house.
The Chief and Usher were giving out that John Lambert was missing. But I believed they’d done for him.
I held up my lantern and contemplated the gardener’s cottage.
As before, the door was on the jar. I pushed it, and entered, setting the lantern in the middle of the floor. Aside from a jumble of what looked like belts and webbing bags on one of the two desks, the room had been cleared and tidied: all the timetables and papers had been piled against the left-hand wall. A blanket was partly draped over the stack of documents. I moved towards it, and saw a last year’s Bradshaw. There were thin folded papers inside, acting as bookmarks. One marked a page for ‘London, Barking, Tilbury’ and certain railway stations and times on the ‘down’ line had been circled in ink pen. Here was the easterly drift again. I imagined that John Lambert read timetables in the same way that an art expert looks at a painting, forever spotting curious little details here and there.
I unfolded the paper that had marked the page. It was pale blue, and headed ‘Sartori’s Park View Hotel, Hyde Park Corner, London, S.W.’ The date was 9 October, 1908, and I recognised Hugh Lambert’s writing:
My dear John
Well, the Squire’s chucked me out again, so I’m lodged just around the corner in the above mentioned pensione – very modern with all hygienic desideratas. You entrained for York last week, I think. How do you find the place? I have spent more time there than you, and feel I ought to be able to supply a few pointers.
I strongly recommend the peacocks of the Museum Gardens who look very proud but are not above taking rolled pellets of bread from your fingers. They can ‘fly’ to the top of the tree, but it looks to me suspiciously like a jump accompanied by flapping of wings. I dragged the Squire to the Museum Gardens once, and could only persuade him to show interest in the peacocks by telling him they were a species of pheasant, which gave him the opportunity to imagine killing them. Peacocks’ tails are beautiful: blue and green and iridescent, but the poor peahens come in drab browns. The case is the opposite with the peacocks and peahens here at Sartori’s …