* * *
By the time Sergeant O’Malley arrived at the Yard, the inspector had come and gone. Tennant had dumped and spread all the printed envelopes they’d removed from Margot Miller’s desk. Next to them, he’d placed the letter written to draw Mrs. Allingham to the maze and the scrap of paper found near Charles Allingham’s fireplace.
The inspector had left a note for the sergeant.Checking ontwo things. Will be back this afternoon. Keep abreast of the search for Allen.
“He’s onto something,” O’Malley muttered. “But what?”
The duty sergeant sent up messages that arrived from Southampton, Portsmouth, Liverpool, and Bristol. There was no sign of Sidney Allen at any of the ports. Then a message came in from Dover.
A sharp-eyed copper had spotted a gentleman boarding the midnight ferry to Calais. A gent with one suitcase in the dead of night? Making a flit, the officer guessed. They exchanged pleasantries, but the constable let him travel on. He had no reason to stop him: the message to arrest Sidney Allen arrived two hours later. But he’d noted the time, the man’s appearance, and his destination.
O’Malley read through the report. The officer described him as square-built but running to fat, middle-aged, and with a pronounced north-of-England accent.
Skipping off to the Continent, the creature.And speaking of skipping off . . .
O’Malley looked up at the clock. Where was the inspector?
* * *
Around noon, Mary stood atop a hill on Hampstead Heath, looking down at a spot where rock, knoll, and stream met. She was happy to steal away for an afternoon of painting with Will, leaving newspapers, half-formed questions, and Louisa’s fears behind. Cyril Eastlake was coming to lunch, so her sister-in-law had manly shoulders to lean on. Mary could take hers away without a twinge of guilt.
“Cyril will soothe her,” Mary said to Will’s question about Louisa. “He’ll explain the state of things at Allingham and Allen and advise her. It’s not good, I’m guessing.”
“Let’s forget about Louisa, the business, and everything else and focus on painting. Are you ready?”
“Oh, yes. Lead on.”
Will navigated the slope with easels and camp chairs strapped to his back, lugging a basket that held their picnic lunch. Mary carried their paint boxes. At the bottom, Will deposited his loads and stretched his back. “Shall we eat first? Paint later?”
“Luncheon sounds lovely.”
Will unfurled a plaid blanket and moved the wicker basket to its center. Then he extracted a camp brazier from a canvas sack, set it up on a flat rock, and struck a match to light the paraffin.
He bowed. “Tea in ten minutes, madam. The sandwiches are cheese-and-pickle, but I’m sorry that the rock cakes deserve their name.”
“No matter,” Mary said, spreading her skirts on the blanket. “How domestic you are.”
He grinned. “I was hoping you’d notice.”
Will picked up the teapot and headed toward the stream. He inched sideways down the bank’s slope, lost his footing, and plunged his left boot into the water.
He sloshed across the grass to the blanket. After setting the pot on the brazier, Will pulled off his boot, turned it upside down, and shook. Then he flopped on the blanket and wiggled his wet toes in the sun. Mary noticed a repair to his sock. Someone had mended it with red yarn instead of matching black. She wondered who had darned it for him.
Will passed Mary a sandwich, and they munched for a while in companionable silence. Then he tossed the rock cakes like a juggler and cocked a questioning eyebrow. Mary shook her head, leaned back on her elbow, and looked at the sky.
“Do you know Shelley’s poem, ‘The Cloud’?”
“No.” Will rolled on his side and looked at her. “Tell me.”
“I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die.”Mary smiled. “I think a painting is like that.”
“In what way?”
“It’s made up of the elements of one’s experience. Eternal once it’s fixed on canvas, but changeable, too, because each viewer sees something different.”
Will moved to sit beside her. He put his arm around her shoulder and lay back on the blanket, taking Mary with him. With his free hand, he brushed her cheek. They watched the drifting clouds for several minutes, listening to the humming meadow.
She murmured, “Tell me . . . who darned your sock?”
