The Bedlam Detective Read Free Page A

cook said.
    Sebastian abruptly laid down his pen.
    “Tell me more,” he said.
    “Oh, it’s probably something and nothing,” she said. “They didn’t come home for supper last night. It’s a family that takes Rose Villa every year. The girls run wild all summer and Mister Bell comes up at weekends. Everyone in town knows them. They’re always out and about.” And she blew on the ink of his signature to help dry it before closing up the book and returning it to its place under the counter. “You watch. They’ll appear. In tears and all sorry for the trouble they’ve caused.”
    Sebastian said, “How long have they been gone?”
    “Only since yesterday. My opinion is that they’re on an adventure. Stayed out all night and now they’re scared to come home.” She tried to give a little smile, but anxiety betrayed her.
    “And in there?” He indicated the activity on the other side of the snug partition.
    “They’ve sent us a county detective,” she said. “He’s organizing a search. Or trying to.”
    With the guest book safely away, she took a room key from a hook board behind the bar. All the keys had wooden tags and all the tags bore the names of sea birds in handwritten script.
    Sebastian said, “Tell me something. How do I get to Arnside Hall?”
    “Sir Owain’s house?” the cook said.
    “Sir Owain Lancaster, yes.”
    “You won’t get there today. There’s no one to drive you.”
    “Because everyone’s on the search.”
    “They’ve even called in some soldiers.”
    “Now I understand,” Sebastian said.
    T HE WOMAN had expressed hope. But knowing what he knew, Sebastian already feared the worst. Up in the Sandpiper Room, which was of a generous size and had an oak-framed bed and plain whitewashed walls, he laid out his soap and his razor on the washstand and placed Sir Owain Lancaster’s notorious book on the bedside table. Next to it he laid a handwritten list, and a typewritten letter.
    He could hear voices from below. This room was directly above the snug. Every now and again, a phrase or a few words would come through. Someone was trying to organize the volunteers, and all the volunteers seemed to be arguing with their directions.
    Sebastian moved to his window and looked out. His window overlooked the shore. From here he could see the river snaking out through a deep cut in the sand toward the distant sea. Beyond the river, fanning out toward the far horizon, stretched an enormous and probably treacherous tidal beach. Way out across the flats, so far off that they were but sketchy figures in a vast landscape, a dozen men with staffs had formed a line and were moving across the bay, checking pools and quicksands. The local police would be few in number, bolstered by volunteers, and none would have been trained for such an operation.
    Sebastian looked back over his shoulder at the bedside table. Sir Owain’s book purported to be an account of an ill-fated expedition somewhere in the region of the Amazon basin, led by its author. Its publication had caused a scandal and the destruction of Sir Owain’s reputation, forcing him to abandon his town house in London and retreat out here to his country home. The implications for its author’s mental state were a significant part of the reason for Sebastian’s visit. His regular duties involved investigating the background and circumstances of persons of interest to the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy.
    In this instance, the list and the letter added a sinister dimension to his mission. The disappearance of children now added another.
    The lock on the bedroom door was hardly substantial, and the board of keys behind the bar was far from secure. He went over to the table and gathered up the list and letter, slipping them inside the pages of Sir Owain’s book. Then he hid the book under the pillow bolster and remade the bed over it, tucking in the sheets, blankets, and coverlet to make them as ruthlessly taut as before.
    Then he went