“Captain Gabriel Lacey?” Miss Oswald waved me to a chair then watched me sharply, as though certain I’d turn into a wild beast and ravish her and her companion together. I’ve been told that men do that.
“My brother said you wanted to ask about Sarah, but I do not know what more I can tell you. That was eight months ago, and we’ve heard nothing.”
I understood. As far as Miss Oswald was concerned, Sarah was gone, and that was the end of it.
“Mr. Oswald told me that you were late to collect your niece at the coaching inn because of some altercation among your staff,” I said.
“Yes, I remember distinctly. The cook had bought oysters for dinner and Miss Rice . . .” Miss Oswald cast a disparaging glance at her companion . . . “thought they were off and should not be served. The cook believed Miss Rice to be wrong, and they began a merry argument.”
“And you went down to settle it?”
“I was forced to. It was very silly. When in doubt, throw it out, is my motto. No doubt miss Rice was correct. She is not given to fancies and hysteria.”
Miss Rice glanced up from her corner, rather like a dog hearing itself being discussed. When Miss Rice caught my eye, she turned fiery red and hastily bent over her needlework again.
“By the time I’d settled the argument, it was a half hour past when I should have left for the coaching inn. I made all haste, but I was too late. Sarah was gone. Foolish girl. Why she hadn’t waited for me, when she knew I was coming, I’ll never know.”
“And you made inquiries?” Oswald had told me, but I wanted to hear the story from her lips.
“To be certain I did. I asked the coachman if she’d been on the coach at all, and he assured me that she had. I did not like the look of him, but he seemed guilty of nothing more than drinking too much gin on the road. I asked the hostler and innkeeper and everyone who happened to be in the yard. No one noticed a thing. Useless of them.”
“Your brother said that the hostler’s boy saw her.”
“Yes. After a few shillings, he told me that Sarah—or a girl who looked like Sarah—had gone away with a woman in a white cap and black cloak. He had the effrontery to claim that the woman looked like me.”
“Perhaps she did,” I offered, “and Sarah mistook her for you at first, not having seen you since she was a very small child. Or perhaps the woman told Sarah she would take her to you. Perhaps she looked quite respectable. From what your brother says of Sarah, it’s doubtful she’d have gone off with a questionable stranger of her own volition.”
“Sarah was nearly eighteen,” Miss Oswald said impatiently. “No doubt the woman promised her a bit of jewelry or a fan or some frippery. Sarah was unhappy that she was to stay with me when she came to London. She wanted suitors and balls and operas, not sensible lessons.”
As most eighteen-year-old girls would. Many young women were already married by eighteen, and Sarah might have begun to worry about being left on the shelf. “Sarah did not travel alone, did she? She must have had a maid or other servant with her, at least.”
Miss Oswald sniffed. “Her maid became ill and could not accompany her. Sarah’s father hired another girl to go with her at the last minute. Shiftless thing. Ran away as soon as they disembarked, the hostler’s boy told me.”
“Where do you think Sarah is now, Miss Oswald?”
She gave me a look. “Come, Captain, you and I both know. I am a spinster, but I’m not naive. Even if Sarah is alive, she’ll be utterly ruined.”
I got to my feet. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Oswald. I will send word if I discover anything.”
“No need. My niece is dead, Captain Lacey. Let her remain so.”
***
“I offered five guineas for any information regarding my sister,” Robert Oswald said. “Nothing came of it.”
Robert Oswald was a year down from Oxford and full of himself. He wore rouge and too much scent, and his collar points were so high he could not turn his head.
I met Robert that evening at a sporting house where we watched two women in scanty clothing box each other. I impressed young Mr. Oswald by winning a few pounds on the fight, then we adjourned to a coffee house in St. James’s where I further impressed him by beating him at cards.
“And you have no idea where she might have gone?” I asked.
“Oh, I have an idea, as we all do. There’s nothing to be done about it, and Father knows it. I rather believe he hopes she’s dead.”
“Do you believe she’s dead?”
Robert shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, does it? If Sarah were all right, she’d have seen the handbills and found me, wouldn’t she? Or written.”
“Why did not you or your father go to Bow Street and hire a Runner?”
