Rising from her seat, she left the room. Her hair was mostly dry and she tied it back with a ribbon. Never would she have left her house with such simple hair back in London, but right now, her hair didn’t matter a bit.
Walking down to the lobby, she smiled at Mr. Weber. “I’m just going to check on my carriage,” she said quietly so no one else could hear. There wasn’t anyone else around.
If her confidence was misplaced with Mr. Weber, she would pay dearly. But she depended on the fact that he was significantly detrimented by all this. Her situation would feel infinitely worse if she couldn’t depend on anyone. All this was still incomprehensible, and she would struggle with the idea that she couldn’t trust anyone. That wasn’t how the world was. It couldn’t be.
The wind was blustery outside, the air smelling fresh. Heavy clouds threatened rain.
Her arms wrapped around her to protect her from the chilly wind, she walked toward the carriage house, which was quite substantial. The guests typically came with carriages, so a great number of them had to be housed.
Inside the building, carriages were lined up, including the one she’d seen the day before, and her own. A number of other carriages were there too, smaller in size, and even what she would classify more as carts. The hotel needed to cart material, mostly food and coal, and those vehicles stood in the far end.
Next door was the stable, she guessed, judging by the smell when the wind came from that direction.
“Can I help you, Mrs. Rowland?” an unfamiliar man’s voice said, surprising her enough to make her startle. Quickly she turned to see her driver. She didn’t even know his name. His name hadn’t mattered to her as Oliver had dealt with him. He’d simply been a figure sitting high on the front of the carriage. It shamed her a little how she hadn’t even acknowledged him as a real human being.
“I…” she said, not knowing what to say to this man. The man had a rough face with pox scars. Someone she would naturally stay away from if she encountered him on the street. A type of person whose employment she never dealt with directly. “You are familiar with what’s happened?”
“I have been told that Mr. Rowland is currently missing.”
“Did you speak to him after we arrived here?”
“He came to tell me you were preparing to leave.”
“He did?”
“Yes. I made ready to leave. The horses were strapped, but the departure didn’t come.”
“You were in here the day he disappeared?”
“Naturally.”
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“Such as?”
“Mr. Rowland must have been taken from the hotel in some manner. He is not here.”
The man was silent for a moment. It couldn’t be him, could it, Clemmie found herself wondering. Has she upset him at some point, to the degree he sought to take revenge? These questions cropped into her head with everyone now, and she hated that it did, but how could she know who was responsible? She hadn’t met anyone she would assume that about.
“I was here most of the day he disappeared. Either in here, preparing, or just outside. I brought the carriage outside and we waited. I would have seen anyone coming here. Then I unstrapped the horses and stabled them again. I would have seen him if he’d been taken here.”
“What about the day after?”
“Then I would have been in the hotel. I feed and groom the horses in the mornings, but I have a room.”
Again she chided herself because she’d never even wondered where he’d taken himself. “So if he was taken by carriage, he’d had to have been brought out after that.”
“A missing carriage would have been noticed,” he said. “We know the sounds of our carriages. More likely, he would have been taken in a cart. They come and go all day, and one cart is much like another. And they can be taken by one horse. Carriages are too heavy. Maybe one of the smaller like a trap, but it would be harder to hide someone.”
Clemmie listened intently. This was valuable information. What he said made perfect sense. It must have been that Oliver had been in the hotel for a while, then transported some time later, but before the hotel was searched. “He must have been taken somewhere.”
The man stood by, waiting.
“What about when Mr. Carter disappeared?”
“I don’t know. Unless it was in the morning, I wouldn’t have seen.”
“No,” she said absently. Perhaps it was his presence that had delayed them from moving Oliver, provided they’d attacked him in the hotel itself. For a while, she’d been under the assumption that he’d left the hotel, but he’d had no plans to. He must have been attacked in the hotel. “Someone in this hotel means harm,” she finally said. “Is doing ill deeds.”
“I can be ready to leave any time.”
“A constable is coming,” she found herself saying. She felt too embarrassed to enquire about his name. “Hopefully he will clear this all up, and we will find Mr. Rowland.” Or his remains, she added silently.
When had she lost hope that Oliver was alive? Maybe at the point when she’d realized she needed to stop being childish and incompetent. There was still hope, but she needed to acknowledge that the probability
