John shook David awake, none too gently. “Where’s Maggie?”
“John?” David said sleepily. “What are you …?” Then, as he grabbed for his eyeglasses and staggered to his feet, “Oh, good Lord!” He managed to arrange the wire frames on his face. “Beneficent Buddha! Tell me this is some kind of nightmare—and that Richard Snodgrass is not in my room!”
“This is supposed to be Maggie’s room,” John said. “Where is she?”
David looked around, blinking. “She was here—we were talking, and then I must have fallen asleep—”
Snodgrass looked heavenward. “God help us all.” He turned to David. “Get your coat and hat. We have to get Miss Hope.” Then, “Perhaps we should have tied a bell on her.”
David shrugged on his jacket. “She’s all right, though? Isn’t she? I mean, where would she go? And at this hour? It’s—what—just past midnight?” He looked at John and Snodgrass, suddenly realizing. “And why are you two here?”
“When we get back, remind me to fire both of you,” Snodgrass said. “But in the meantime—move!”
TWENTY-FOUR
IT WAS IMPENETRABLY dark. Only the dribble of yellow light from the shuttered headlights and the sliver of moon permitted Pierce to see into the gloom. They passed through bleak, deserted villages and over grassy hills. Edmund drove uncomfortably fast, the car shuddering and shaking around some of the tighter corners.
“Nearly there, nearly there,” Pierce said, consulting an old road map. “Now turn right. Yes, right here. Into the drive.”
An ornate sign proclaimed Westmore Place, but the rusty black gates and grass-tufted drive belied the elegance of the name. Edmund and Maggie exchanged a look in the rearview mirror as the car headed up a steep rise and pulled in front of a rambling timber-framed brick house. Some of the stonework was crumbling, and the shrubbery was overgrown. Ivy obscured the windows. An owl shrieked through the silence.
They went up a cobblestone walkway, Pierce with his gun to Maggie’s back. They reached the front door, once painted a glossy black, now dull and peeling. Pierce reached out to the bellpull, which made a low, mournful chime.
After a pause, the door was opened by a large-boned woman. Her coarse salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She was dressed in a brown twill skirt, cashmere cardigan, and sensible lace-up oxfords. A triple strand of gray pearls encircled her neck. The dim light from within spilled out in a corona around her.
Behind her was a red-cheeked, snowy-haired man with an enormous white handlebar mustache, wearing plaid trousers and a brown hunting jacket.
“Mrs. Leticia Barron? And Mr. Roger Barron?” Pierce asked.
“Yes, of course,” Leticia said, her eyes taking in the ropes on Maggie’s wrists and Pierce’s gun. “Please do come in.”
Roger made a few grunting sounds.
They had a few moments to get their bearings. Two enormous black dogs with coarse and dusty fur were lying in front of a stone fireplace. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling that had seen better days, while moth-eaten stags with glassy black eyes, trophies of the chase, kept watch from above. Worn Persian rugs with large holes covered the stone floor. The windows were shrouded by blackout fabric, making the walls seem gloomy and close. The room smelled of wood smoke, mothballs, and wet dog.
One dog opened one dark, watchful eye, then closed it and went back to sleep. The other didn’t stir. “Linus and Mortimer,” Leticia cordially said to the three.
“I’m Malcolm Pierce, as you know. Henry Hodgeson from the London Saturday Club was kind enough to set this meeting up.”
“How absolutely wonderful to have you here,” Leticia trilled, extending a soft, white hand. Her eyes were bright. “Of course, when Henry told me the circumstances I was delighted to offer our humble home. Let’s go into the kitchen, shall we? Oh, it’s been so long since we’ve had guests!”
Maggie realized Leticia saw no irony in this.
The kitchen was large, with high ceilings and a black-and-white tile floor. Dirty dishes filled the sink. The smell of fried offal and overflowing rubbish bins soured the air.
“Please sit down,” Leticia said, gesturing to the scarred wooden table. Even though her armpits were damp with fear, Maggie nearly let out a hysterical giggle when Leticia followed up with a genial, “Tea?”
Pierce gestured to the floor. “Sit down there, please.” It was awkward with her hands tied, but she and Edmund complied. Pierce sat down at one of the black Windsor chairs but kept the gun trained on them.