“I’d hoped she might have only gone to London, perhaps to beg your assistance in whatever misadventure has befallen her—but you’ve not seen her?” Tolhurst concluded, his desperate gaze flicking between Wren and Mr Grigsby.
Mr Grigsby shook his head in mute horror and turned to Wren.
“We have not, sir,” Wren replied.
“Have you any notion where she may have gone?” Mr Grigsby asked Tolhurst.
“Yes,” Tolhurst said softly. “I’m very much afraid I have.” In a stronger voice, he continued. “Neighbours of Mrs Bailiwick’s Academy report seeing a young lady departing before dawn… in the company of a young gentleman.”
Mr Grigsby bolted upright in his chair. “Mr Knoll! Can it be?”
Wren thought it particularly cruel of happenstance to taunt Mr Grigsby with this impossible hope. Yet, without any material proof of Felix’s demise, he could say nothing against the supposition Mr Grigsby had formed.
Tolhurst likewise seemed more defeated than roused by this prospect. “I dare not hope so, sir. If the young gentleman is indeed my nephew, he is making a grave mistake and dragging Miss Fairfield down with him.”
“If it is Mr Knoll,” Mr Grigsby continued regardless, “I cannot imagine how he might have procured a special licence without my knowledge or assistance, much less yours. We must therefore conclude—however dreadful it must be to suppose—that he has taken Miss Fairfield over the border, where there are no such obstacles to their marriage.”
“Assuming it is my nephew,” Tolhurst reminded him in a gentle yet firm tone.
“Miss Fairfield has said nothing of their engagement being broken,” Mr Grigsby countered. “Nor is she the sort of young lady to entertain suitors when her heart is promised to another. You may know your nephew, sir, but I know my ward, and to run away with a stranger is quite unlike her.”
Tolhurst regarded Mr Grigsby in stunned silence, then turned to Wren with an expression that implored him to reason with his master. Unfortunately for Tolhurst’s sake, Mr Grigsby followed his gaze and alighted upon Wren as well.
“Lofthouse!” cried Mr Grigsby. “You found our dear Mr Knoll once before!”
Wren did not fail to notice how Mr Grigsby’s tact prevented any mention of how Felix could not be found a second time.
“Pray,” Mr Grigsby continued, “employ those same methods in searching for Miss Fairfield. I’ve every faith you shall find her!”
Tolhurst didn’t look anywhere near so convinced of Wren’s capabilities.
“Did the neighbours happen to mention,” Wren asked him, “what gown the young lady wore? What colour or pattern?”
Tolhurst’s gaze shifted away from Wren’s face toward some mark in the middle distance over Wren’s shoulder. “They claim to have seen her in a blue gown. I suspect it is Miss Fairfield’s morning dress—a ribbon-trimmed poplin, no less handsome for its modesty, and of a cornflower-blue hue which brings out her eyes to great advantage.”
Wren stared at him. Some might excuse the minute description by supposing that, as a music master for Mrs Bailiwick’s Academy, one must expect Tolhurst to have some familiarity with the garb of the students he taught every day for years on end. However, Wren doubted Tolhurst could describe the dress of any student other than Miss Flora if Wren were to ask him here and now. But Wren refrained from performing the experiment at present and restrained himself to reply merely, “I shall keep a weather eye out for such a garment.”
Tolhurst cleared his throat. “I regret I cannot stay further, gentlemen. If Miss Fairfield is not here, then I must find her elsewhere. I ask only that you keep your door open to her should she by chance return.”
“But of course!” said Mr Grigsby, looking more shocked that Tolhurst could think he’d do anything less for his ward.
Tolhurst excused himself with a nod and fled the office.
Wren snatched up his hat and coat and hastened to follow his example.
By the time Wren had rambled down the stairs to the courtyard, Tolhurst had vanished from it. Which was just as well, as Wren didn’t want Tolhurst to see him head not towards the train station or any other conveyance northward, but down Oxford Street to Cumberland Gate and into Hyde Park.
Few passers-by bothered casting a first glance, much less a second, at an unassuming clerk walking alone. Fewer still saw him wander into the woods. And none, he thought, saw him step through the toadstool ring and vanish out of London altogether.
~
“What’s wrong?” Shrike asked the moment Wren came into view.
Wren supposed his distress showed in his face. Or perhaps Shrike simply remembered the last time Wren had arrived in Blackthorn without warning in the middle of his work day. Just now Wren had run into the back garden to find him cross-legged on the flat rock by the bend in the stream, plying his whetstone to the sword laid out across his knees, sunlight glinting off blade and water alike.
“Miss Flora is missing,” Wren blurted.
Shrike set his sword aside and stood. The request had not yet left Wren’s tongue before Shrike’s hand dropped to the pouch hanging from his belt and withdrew the knuckle-bones to scatter across the flat stone.
