“I didn’t know. I know nothing about him except that he’s kidnapped me.” Alma sat in the chair held out for her by Dempsey and eyed the stewed prunes in the bowl in front of her with suspicion. “I don’t fancy stewed prunes.”
“There’s rhubarb and apricot, if you prefer,” offered Brunhilde as she whisked the prunes away to oblivion and lifted the cover of a small salver in which the rhubarb and apricots, also stewed, looked to Alma as though they’d been laid to rest without the benefit of a clerical oratory.
“I’ll just have some tea and toast.”
Brunhilde shrugged.
Dempsey said, “He plays the saxophone.”
“What? Who does?” This is unreal, Alma was thinking, terribly unreal. Hitch will adore it. We must try and find a place for it.
“Blinky does. He’s quite good,” said Dempsey.
“Saxophone players are so rare in my life,” said Alma. “Where’s he gone to fulfill this engagement?”
“Now, mum,” chided Dempsey, “that would be telling.”
A sudden anger enveloped Alma. “So what’s to become of me?”
“I don’t rightly know, mum,” said Dempsey as he poured Alma’s tea. “I don’t read leaves.”
For the first time in hours, Alma burst out laughing.
* * *
“Why, Miss Farquhar,” asked Hitchcock, “have you been lying in ambush all night?”
He and Nancy Adair had been tiptoeing out of the bedroom at 6 A.M. and found the little lady ensconced behind the front desk, adjusting a lovely watch she had pinned to her dress.
“I see you’re over your asthma attack. I’m so glad.” It hadn’t occurred to Hitchcock to camouflage his face with his handkerchief, as he hadn’t expected to find the landlady awake at this hour.
“Thank you so much,” said Hitchcock with an affable smile. “The room was most comfortable, and now we must be on our way, mustn’t we”—he turned to Nancy Adair, who stood behind him—“… dear.”
“But I’ve breakfast for you!” Miss Farquhar looked as though she’d just been told war was declared. “Kippers and bangers and bacon and stewed tomatoes and eggs and hot muffins and butter and jelly and tea and sweet rolls…”
“… alive, alive, oh…” murmured Hitchcock.
“We really can’t,” interrupted Nancy, “we’re overdue in Medwin.” Hitchcock wanted to kick her for mentioning Medwin.
“Medwin? What a strange destination.”
“Why?” asked Hitchcock, “is something wrong with it?”
“On, no, no. It’s just that it’s such a tiny little village, nobody ever seems to go there intentionally.”
“Well, obviously you’ve been there,” said Hitchcock.
“Oh, yes, I have a cousin there. Cousin Phoebe. Phoebe Allerton. Actually she’s a cousin twice removed. We were girls together. She lived with us when she was a child. Oh, you must have some breakfast.”
Actually, Hitchcock was quite famished and admitted it. He chose to be oblivious to Nancy’s look of annoyance and her tut of impatience and followed Miss Farquhar into the small dining room, where the breakfast was charmingly laid out on a sideboard. “Oh, doesn’t this all look delicious, dear?” asked Hitchcock as he helped himself. Nancy Adair settled for tea and a sweet roll. As Hitchcock piled food on his warmed plate, he asked his hostess, “When visiting Medwin, have you ever chanced to come across a Miss Madeleine Lockwood?”
“Oh, yes,” chirruped Miss Farquhar, “she’s a spy.” Hitchcock almost dropped his plate. Nancy Adair’s chin dropped, but she hastily raised it again.
“A spy?” Hitchcock moved to the table while Miss Farquhar indicated where he should sit.
“Well, I don’t know if she’s still involved in espionage these days, but during the Great War, she was a very well-known spy. She wrote a book about it. I have a copy. Would you like to have a look at it?”
“Indeed I would, if it isn’t too much trouble.” He and Nancy exchanged a look. Nancy was lighting one of her French cigarettes, and Hitchcock demanded she wait until after breakfast. Miss Farquhar went into the next room, which was labeled The Library, while with annoyance Nancy stubbed out the unsmoked cigarette.
“Imagine that, dear,” said Hitchcock as he piled egg and bacon on his fork and then consigned it to his gaping mouth, “our Madeleine a spy. I wonder how Freddy Regner knew all this?”
“Maybe he read the book.”
“Oh, do you suppose there was a German edition?”
“I doubt that,” said Miss Farquhar, as she returned and handed Hitchcock the slim volume. “The book was privately printed.”
“I see.” There was a picture of a young Madeleine Lockwood on the back of the dust jacket. Hitchcock studied the portrait. “She was quite a beauty. Look, dear”—he showed the picture to Nancy—“wasn’t she quite a beauty?”
“Yes, quite a beauty.” She might have been commenting on a side of gammon.
“She isn’t any longer,” said Miss Farquhar, as Hitchcock thumbed through the slender book.
“Lost her looks, has she?” asked Hitchcock.
“She did after the scandal.”
“Won’t you sit down, Miss Farquhar?” Hitchcock’s charm was ingratiating, and the landlady sat. “Now what was that about a scandal?”
“She had a lover in the military. Very highly placed. Quite a rich man, too. She brought him down.”
“How do you mean?”
Miss Farquhar leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “He told her secrets.”
“How unwise of him.”
“Indeed. He was disgraced. Cashiered out of the army. Strings were pulled to keep him from a more serious penalty. It was all very hush-hush. Powerful family. Links to the royals, you know.”
“Oh, them.” Nancy Adair was examining a fingernail. Strange woman, thought Hitchcock. Terribly strange. With this kind of information Miss Farquhar was providing, if Hitchcock were a reporter, even a freelance one, or especially a freelance one, he’d be taking notes. Madeleine Lockwood was becoming a more fascinating link in their chain of progression, and now more than ever he was looking forward to meeting her.
“Them indeed. He was known to be quite matey with the late King George. Taught young Edward how to play polo.”
“Is all that in this book?”
“Oh, no. The book’s contrived from whole cloth. All very glamorous, you know, the
