“But O my virgin lady, where is she?”
L
ambert waited in the splendid confines of St. Lawrence's church, Ludlow, inspecting stained glass, misericords, monuments, and all, until evensong began. He took a seat then and waited through the service. The scale of the place was grander than the chapel of St. Mary's at Glasscastle, though the ornament was not as rich. The candles did not burn as brightly to Lambert's eye, nor were the voices of the choir as sweet to the ear. After the choir and congregation filed out, he dawdled until the verger approached him.
“Do you need help, sir?” The verger's steely eye warned Lambert not to try any fancy stuff.
Lambert did his best to look as though he'd come to Ludlow specifically to be improved. “No, thanks. Just admiring the misericords.”
“Lovely work, isn't it?” the verger agreed. “The finest you'll ever see.”
“You haven't seen a young lady admiring them recently,
have you?” Lambert held his hand level with his upper lip. “About this tall. Dark hair and gray eyes?”
If anything, the verger looked even more disapproving. “No young person of any such description has been admiring the misericords. Come back in the morning, if you must. The light is better then.”
Meekly, Lambert let the verger escort him out of the church. The doors were locked behind him. St. Lawrence's was saved from its admirers for another night. Stained glass and carved wood, not to mention the odd candlestick, were protected for another day.
Lambert was worried about Jane's tardiness. He'd followed her instructions. The train from Leominster to Ludlow had set him down in late afternoon. He'd walked up to the town on the hill and booked himself a room over a pub. The rest of his day had been spent in getting the lay of the land, learning which church was most likely to be the kind of rendezvous Jane had in mind, and fixing the pattern of the city plan and the local landmarks in his mind's eye so that he could find his way through the streets and passageways. It had been pleasant work. Time hung heavily enough on Lambert's hands that he purchased a two-penny booklet on local history and sat on a bench near St. Lawrence's to study it.
Ludlow, the booklet had informed him, crowned one of the green hills of southwest Shropshire and was crowned in its turn by the vast sprawl of Ludlow Castle, stronghold of the Egerton family, now the Earls of Bridgewater, who had been lords of the marches for centuries. Even before the Egertons won it as reward for their faithful service to Queen
Elizabeth, Ludlow Castle had been a strategic point. It had been from Ludlow Castle that young King Edward V had set forth to ride to London for his coronation, a ceremony that had never taken place. The booklet did not go into detail about why not, but Lambert had the vague recollection that wicked uncles were involved.
Lambert had been distracted from his booklet by the sound of church bells. Time for bell-ringing practice, apparently. The cascade of notes Lambert associated with bells at Glasscastle was a more haphazard affair here. Sometimes the fall of notes dried up for several minutes at a time, only to resume in a completely different pattern. There was none of the sense of deliberation and little of the order and inevitability of Glasscastle bells.
Still, it had been agreeable, sitting in the shade, listening to the rehearsal, letting the world go on without him. Lambert was in a brown study, staring at nothing, by the time the bell ringers fell silent. Eventually they emerged from the church, walking in twos and threes as they argued over how many pints of ale they were going to put away. Idly Lambert watched them go. His attention sharpened only when he recognized the last of them to leave, a more than ordinarily tall man, his bearing regal, his demeanor striking despite his simple clothes. The last time Lambert had seen the Earl of Bridgewater, he had been urbanity itself at Fell's club in London, but he looked even more at home here.
Lambert's stare seemed to draw Bridgewater's attention. As if he sensed a watcher, the tall man glanced around as he walked. He spotted Lambert, and to Lambert's utter astonishment, approached with a friendly smile.
“Mr. Lambert, isn't it?” Bridgewater held out his hand as Lambert rose to his feet.
With a sense of disbelief, Lambert shook hands. It was like shaking hands with King Arthur. “I'm surprised to meet you here.”
Bridgewater looked puzzled. “But I live here.”
“You live in the castle.” Lambert gestured toward the church. “I meant, here.”
“I can't always be here to take my turn,” Bridgewater said, “but when I am at home and a practice is scheduled, I try to do my part.”
Lambert blinked. “You're one of the bell ringers?”
“Yes. Why, are you surprised? It's wonderful exercise, for the brain as well as for the body.”
“Is it? I had a notion the big attraction was the excuse to drink beer afterward.”
Bridgewater chuckled. “Oh, that too. I think a pint or two is definitely in order.”
“I won't keep you, then,” said Lambert.
Bridgewater's courtesy was flawless. “Won't you join me?”
“Thank you, no.” Lambert didn't want to high-hat his lordship, but he was reluctant to miss his rendezvous with
Jane. “I appreciate the invitation, though.”
“Are you sure you won't? You're a friend of Nicholas Fell's, after all. If I may make a bold statement, any friend of his is a friend of mine.”
For a moment, Lambert was tempted, very tempted, to tell Bridgewater why he was in Ludlow, and to enlist Bridgewater's help in the search for Fell. Better to discuss it with Jane first, perhaps. Lambert hesitated and the moment passed.
“Another time, perhaps,” Bridgewater said. “Enjoy your stay here.”
“Thank you, I will. It's good country hereabouts.” Lambert glanced around. “I saw what looks like a fine brook for trout down that way.”
Bridgewater looked amused. “If anyone asks, you have my permission to fish it, but I advise you to be careful how you refer to it. That's not a brook. It's the River Corve.”
Lambert couldn't stop himself. “You call that a river?”
“Indeed we do.” Bridgewater's amusement grew.
“The other one rattles along at a tolerable rate,” Lambert conceded. “You
might
call that one a river.”
“We do. It is the River Teme,” Bridgewater said.
“The Teme might qualify,” said Lambert, “although back home it would hardly be rated a creek. But the Corve is not a river.”
“For your own protection, I advise you to keep that opinion to yourself. Our traditions are nearly as old as our waterways. I fear you may bruise some feelings if you apply your standards to our rivers.”
“I don't mean to be discourteous,” said Lambert. “If people in these parts are used to calling a creek a river, I will try to play along.”
“Oh, it isn't the people you need to worry about,” said Bridgewater. “It's the rivers themselves. Very sensitive, some of them. You wouldn't wish to provoke a flood, would you?”
“You're right. I wouldn't.” Lambert took his hat off and bowed slightly. “You win, sir. I've told a few stretchers from time to time, but never one as neat as that. My hat is off.”
“I am entirely serious, I assure you.” Bridgewater fairly exuded sincerity.
Lambert put his poker face back on. “Yes, sir. I'll remember. Don't speak disrespectfully about the rivers here.”
“Not where they can hear you, at any rate,” said Bridgewater.
Bridgewater had taken his leave and Lambert had sat down on his bench again. While he had waited for Jane, he had plenty of time to soak up the peace of the place. He put away his booklet and watched the birds. As the evening began to draw in, swifts and swallows came to hunt insects, and their darting flight was all the entertainment Lambert needed to pass the time until evensong began.
Lambert's appreciation for the beauty of the place had dwindled as evensong came and went with no sign of Jane. The afternoon hours had passed as effortlessly as the rivers that skirted Ludlow. Now time seemed to drag past.
Where was Jane? Lambert asked at the fancy inn on the other side of town, the one she'd planned to patronize. He described her. He described the Minotaur. Nothing. Alarmed, Lambert made inquiries with the police. No motor accidents had been reported anywhere between Ludlow and Leominster. Lambert officially notified the police that Miss Jane Brailsford and a motor car licensed to her brother Robert Brailsford were missing. The police were courteous but promised nothing.
Â
M
uch later, Lambert clambered to the foot of the city wall and sat in the long grass, looking south, away from the town. He ignored the fact that he had his back to the most important
parts of Ludlow. Behind him to the north lay the city, the castle, the great sweep of the countryside off to Wenlock Edge. Here on the south side, there was only the River Teme and the wooded hills of Whitecliff beyond.
Lambert didn't care. He liked it there. It was quiet and it smelled good. That mattered more than usual, after the long day spent rattling along in a motor car and then breathing the institutional vapors of a railway carriage, seasoned only by the odd puff of coal smoke from the locomotive.
The time he'd spent at the police station had done nothing to ease his mind. The constables had their routine. Lambert was sure they would take Jane's disappearance seriously, once sufficient time had elapsed. Meanwhile they had assured him they would make their customary inquiries. Lambert took this to mean they would do nothing until compelled. Eventually, Lambert's anger had burnt itself out and, disgusted, he'd left the police station to send a telegram to Amy. That had been a difficult message to write. He'd tried to make it the most soothing telegram possible, given the disturbing circumstances. She deserved to know the true state of affairs, but he didn't want her to leave Glasscastle.
Lambert soaked in the peace of the evening. The loudest sound was the river running over stones, the next loudest, the silvery rattle of crickets, and then came the rustle of the trees. Where was Jane now? What could she hear, what could she see where she was?
The stones at Lambert's back held the warmth of the summer day for a long time. Eventually, the cool of the evening penetrated, reminding him of his bruises. Lambert admitted to himself that sitting in the grass thinking wasn't going to
do him any good. Whatever had happened to Jane, Lambert was the only person in the world who had a chance of helping her. No one else even knew she needed help.
Whoever had taken Jane had to have some connection with whatever had become of Brailsford and Fell. Even Lambert's imagination staggered at the thought of three separate and unrelated disappearances.
A prudent man would wait for morning and decide on a plan of action after a good night's rest. Lambert knew with utter clarity that he wasn't going to be prudent. Jane had been missing long enough. Time to find her, and Fell, and Brailsford. Lambert pushed himself to his feet and turned back to the town. The best way to work off his fatigue and aggravation was to take it out on someone else. The perfect frame of mind, he thought, to begin his own search for missing persons. He would start at the Feathers.
Â
I
t took time and beer, but by last orders, Lambert found a corruptible groom. After Lambert had bought him enough pints and handed over enough shillings to prime the pump, the man said, “The mad lady, right? That's who you're talking about, isn't it? She's gone back to the home.”
Lambert fought the urge to shake the man. “Gone back home?”
The groom was scornful. “No, gone back
to
the home. The rest home. The sanatorium. The loony bin. Whatever you care to call it. She wasn't twelve to the shilling, was she? Stole the family motor car and went for a drive. She might have killed someone. You could, easily, running them over with a great powerful thing like that. Her family sent four
men to fetch her. They carried her out in a chair. It took two men just to drive the motor back. Big tips all round to make sure there were no complaints here, no alarming stories to get back to the other guests. Bad for business, that. Madwomen on the loose.”
“What did the men look like? Can you describe them?” Lambert demanded. “Where did they take her?”
The groom hesitated, as if taken aback by Lambert's ferocity. “I only saw the men who came for the motor. They were nothing special. Just what you'd expect. I don't know what mental asylum she escaped from. Couldn't have been far, could it? She might have landed in a ditch somewhere, driving that whacking great thing. Why do you want to know?”
“Are you joking? Do you often have a madwoman on the loose around here? It's only natural I'd be interested, isn't it?” Lambert kept his tone level. “Lucky her family found her before someone was hurt. How did they know where to look for her?”