“I could make inquiries,” I said hesitantly. “But I am not anything like a Runner. I cannot guarantee I will find anyone.”
“Whatever help thou canst bestow us will be welcome,” Matilda said. “Their names are Katherine Purkis and Joshua Bickley.”
I raised my brows and shot a look at Mr. Bickley. He nodded, morose.
“My son.”
“Ah.” I cleared my throat. “Could it not be, sir, madam, that this young gentleman and lady left ... together? To marry, perhaps?”
Or to simply be together away from the watchful eye of the pious Quakers. I decided not to say this out loud.
Miss Farrow surprised me by laughing. “Indeed no, Gabriel. Katherine is over sixty, Joshua twenty. Theymighthave eloped, but I rather doubt it. And they did not disappear at the same time.” She regarded me with mirth, finding my conclusion hilarious. “Katherine has been gone for a week, Joshua only since Sunday after meeting. He might simply be visiting friends, as his father suspects, but we would rest easier knowing.”
“I see.” I bowed. “My apologies. I did not mean to make light of your concern.”
“An excellent question and a natural assumption.” Matilda lost her smile and folded her hands. “Wilt thou help us, Gabriel?”
They were kind, and they were worried. I could only agree.
* * *
Brewster was notas sanguine as we left the Meeting House and continued our journey to the Pavilion.
“Unnatural,” he muttered as he walked beside me. “Alltheesandthous. What a daft way to talk.”
“They call it Plain Speech.” I ducked around a low awning of a butcher’s shop, the stench of raw meat and blood strong.
“Nothing plain about it. Sounds like one of them plays by Mr. Shakespeare you like.”
“Or the Bible.” I moved down a lane, a narrow artery that contained a bookseller, a wagon office, and a coffee house. The coffee house was lively at this hour, with gentlemen conversing loudly over what Orator Hunt was going on about these days. On any other evening I’d have been tempted to join them.
“Did ye truly speak to the Quakers last night?” Brewster asked as we made our way past holiday-makers, along with pickpockets and ladies who hung on the fringes, waiting for opportunities. “Or did they say such to coax you to help them today? They knew all aboutyou.”
“I must have done. It is Quaker teaching never to lie.” I squeezed around a cluster of rather rotund gentlemen in frock coats who were pontificating with wild gestures.
One of the men, slimmer than the others, wore a cavalry uniform. Preston Barracks, housing light cavalry regiments, lay only a few miles from the center of town, and officers often ventured into Brighton, some residing there.
This officer threw me a sharp look was we passed. I thought he would speak to me, but at the last minute, he turned his head and resumed his part in the discussion.
“How do ye know Quakers don’t lie?” Brewster growled as he pressed through the crowd. “A man can say he tells only the truth, but how can ye know he ain’t lying when he says it? A man who claims he never lies can’t be trusted, guv.”
He had a point, but I hadn’t read duplicity in Mr. Bickley or Miss Farrow. Chagrin and distress, but no slyness or cunning. They truly had been worried about the two Quakers who’d gone missing.
We emerged into Great East Street, which held more coaching offices, a bank, and several boarding houses. A passageway meandered past a tavern to the Steine, which was a wide green space in the middle of the bustle. The road skirting the Steine led to the Pavilion, its domed rotundas an incongruity with the straight brick exteriors around it.
Plenty of people strolled through the Steine gardens, as it was a fine evening, a breeze from the sea sweeping away both mist and heat. The long twilight let the sunshine linger well into the late hours, which meant more time for walks under an azure sky.
I’d hoped my memories of the previous night would leak through as I approached the Pavilion, but nothing came to me. The blankness was unnerving.
“How far did you follow me?” I asked Brewster. “Before losing sight of me?”
Brewster pointed. “Ye went up to the north side of the Pavilion, around the stables, then snaked back down through the town. That’s when I couldn’t find ye. I passed the Quaker house but I didn’t notice you chatting in the garden with no Dissenters. Couldn’t see you at all. You must have been inside the house with them, but how was I to know? I cursed you something fierce.”
“I imagine you did. You didn’t happen to note what sort of spirits I imbibed to erase all knowledge of my actions, did you?”
“Chance would be a fine thing. You and Mr. Grenville strolled out from the Pavilion once your ladies were off, and you weren’t drinking anything then. Mr. Grenville could have given you a nip from his flask, but in that case, he’d be laid as low as you today. It must have been whatever you swallowed at supper or right after, unless you dropped into a tavern and drank bad gin.”
I slowed my steps, the beauty of the park doing nothing to soothe my senses. “I never drink gin—I don’t like the stuff. I’ve been hungover from port and brandy before, but never like this. Nor have I walked in my sleep, as far as I know. But perhaps a person can take it up.”
