“Yes,” Winston said. “I understand.” If Gladys had gone voluntarily with Northcote, she might well have chosen to stay at a different hostelry. But there wasn’t time to check them all. He would get on to the railway depot.
The station was a red brick building next to the tracks that stopped at the north edge of town. Woodstock was located on the branch line that joined Great Western Railway’s main line at Kidlington. In a bit of local whimsey, the locomotive that served Woodstock had been named “Fair Rosamund” when it was put into service in 1890. And just now, Fair Rosamund, trailed by three attached carriages, was waiting at the station, steam hissing from its boilers and smoke pouring from its smokestack. A trio of schoolboys stood nearby, hands in their pockets, watching-truant from the nearby National School, Winston guessed.
The stationmaster lifted his hand and dropped it, and Fair Rosamund began to pull out of the station, blowing her whistle shrilly, much to the delight of the schoolboys, who cheered and threw their caps into the air. The stationmaster turned, saw Winston, and said, “If you’ve a ticket, sir, and look smart, you can just catch ’er. She’s going slow enough for you to hop onto that last carriage.”
“Thank you, no,” Winston said. “I’ve come for some information. Were you on duty this morning?”
“Since Bob Pomeroy took the first run out at six,” the stationmaster said, hooking his thumbs into his blue serge vest. “And I’ll be here ’til he brings ’er back at six this evening. Same thing every day, six t’six.”
“I wonder,” Winston said, “if you happen to know whether Lord Henry Northcote was on that train.”
“ ’Fraid I couldn’t say, sir,” the station master replied with a cheerful air. He bent over and began to load a stack of boxes onto a hand trolley. “He’s not one I know. Now, if you was to ask me if His Grace the Duke took the train, or the mayor of Woodstock, or Mr. Budd, the baker, I’d tell you right off, ’cause I know ’em well. But lords and other such, they come and go here all the time, on their way to Blenheim and back to Lonnun, and I couldn’t tell one from another, if y’ take my point, sir. Lords all look the same to me.” He straightened, lifted his blue cap, and wiped his forehead with his coat sleeve.
“A tall gentleman,” Winston persisted. “Military bearing, dark mustache.”
The stationmaster replaced his cap. “A tall military gentleman? Well, now, come to think on’t, believe I did see such a one go out on the first train.” He grinned slightly. “In rather a foul mood, he was.”
“Thank you,” Winston said. It was as good an identification as he was likely to get. “And perhaps you noticed a lady,” he added hopefully. “A very pretty young lady. She might have been in the company of the tall gentleman. Or she might have been traveling alone, either on the early train, or a later.”
“A lady, sir?” The stationmaster pulled his brows together. “And how would she be dressed, sir?”
Winston was nonplussed. Quite obviously, if Gladys Deacon had taken the train, she would not have been wearing the gold evening dress in which she had vanished. “I can’t say, I’m afraid,” he replied ruefully. “But she has red-gold hair.” He put on a knowing smile. “And rather a fine figure.”
Pulling his mustache, the stationmaster considered for a moment. “Sorry to say, sir, but I don’t b’lieve such a lady rode out on Fair Rosamund today.” He gave Winston a wink. “B’lieve I’d remember a lady like that, sir. Fine figure and all, I mean.”
“I see,” Winston said, swallowing his regret. He had almost convinced himself that Northcote had persuaded Gladys to go off with him-a preferable outcome, of course. Sunny would then have realized that the relationship promised nothing but trouble and would have given it up. Unfortunately, this did not appear to be the case. Still, the circumstances of Northcote’s abrupt departure suggested that the man had something to do with Gladys’s disappearance. Winston frowned. One did not like to dwell on the possibility of violence, of course, but Botsy was known for his difficult temper. What if With a shudder, Winston turned back to the stationmaster. “I should like to send a telegram,” he said, hoping that George Cornwallis-West was at the London house and would be willing to tell him what he knew about Lord Henry Northcote’s background.
Some twenty minutes later, the telegram to George having been composed and dispatched, Winston tied up the pony beside the Black Prince at the other end of Woodstock, a seedy-looking pub on the main road from Oxford to points north. It was not the sort of pub that catered to gentlemen, and he had never been inside. But Sheridan had asked him to find out what he could about the housemaid who had gone missing, and Winston frowned. That wretched housemaid. Damn it all, what was the girl’s name? He furrowed his brow, trying to remember, but all he could recall was that she had been seen at some point chatting up a man with a red beard. Well, it wasn’t likely he’d turn up anything important at the pub, but he wanted to report to Sheridan that he had done all he was asked, so he would inquire and see what could be found out.
As Winston went inside, the fragrance of hot eel pie reminded him that, in his haste to carry out his investigative duties, he had missed his luncheon. He stepped up to the bar and bought a pie, a chunk of bread, and a mug of ale, which he carried to an empty table.
It was bright daylight out-of-doors, but the pub was windowless and lit only by gas lights that hung from the low ceiling. A dozen or so men were in the dusky room, several lounging at the bar, the rest seated around tables. The air was flavored by beer and unwashed clothes. Winston put his hat on the chair beside him, settled down to his lunch, and finished it in good order, finding the eel pie all he might have wished. As he was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand (a napkin not being part of the service), he happened to notice a pair of fellows in a far corner. One of them had copper-colored hair and a reddish beard.
Recalling his errand, Winston pushed back his chair, put on his hat, and sauntered over to the table. The men looked up at him, not cordially. The one with the red beard was nattily dressed in a black jacket, blue waistcoat, and red-striped cravat, with a blue silk handkerchief in one pocket-a commercial traveler, no doubt. The other, of a more common appearance, was stout and thick-chested, with broad shoulders, beefy hands, and thick black hair. He was dressed in a dark corduroy jacket, rather out of repair, and fustian trousers. A red kerchief was tied around his neck.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Winston said, adopting the amiable manner with which he usually addressed his Oldham constituents when he went electioneering. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and put out his hand. “My name is Winston Churchill. I’m-”
“Wot’s yer bus’ness, Churchill?” growled the dark-haired man, ignoring the outstretched hand.
“Forgive my companion, sir,” the red-bearded man said with a genial deference. He jumped up and pumped Winston’s hand vigorously. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Churchill, and I do mean pleased, sir. I’ve heard you speak about your experiences in South Africa. Thrillin’ escape that was, sir! Bloody good show all ’round! Flummoxed them stinkin’ Boers right proper, you did, sir!”
Winston felt himself warmed by the man’s admiration. “Thank you,” he said modestly, retrieving his hand. “Very kind of you to say so.” He paused and added, apologetically, “I’ve taken the liberty to introduce myself because I’m looking for someone, and wondered if you might be that person, sir. One of the young women at Blenheim-the household of my cousin, the Duke of Marlborough-seems to have gone off without letting anyone know. It’s thought that she might have spoken to a red-bearded man here at the Prince. That wouldn’t by any chance have been yourself, sir?”
The red-bearded man laughed easily. “A young lady from Blenheim? Not jolly likely, I’d say, Mr. Churchill. I just arrived here not two hours ago, on business.” He looked inquiringly at his companion. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a young woman, would you, Bulls-eye?”
Bulls-eye drained his mug of ale in one large gulp. “’Fraid not,” he muttered. “Not ’xactly in my line.”
“I fear we can’t be of much help to you, sir,” the red-bearded man said.
“Well, then, I’ll wish you good day,” Winston said, and tipped his hat. “Forgive me for intruding, gentlemen. I’ll be on my way.”
“Oh, no intrusion at all, sir!” cried the red-bearded man with enthusiasm. “It’s a great pleasure to have shaken the hand of a man who escaped from them bloody Boers and lived to tell the tale. I wish you luck in the House, sir. We need men like you there, sir, ’deed we do!”
It wasn’t until Winston was nearly back to Blenheim that he recalled with some chagrin that he had not asked the man’s name.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
