three weeks ago. He spent the night here. He was ‘John’ to Benny, I seem to remember. Just a minute, I’ll look at the book.”
The visitors’ book on its lectern stood near a closed door which led to the drawing room. Joe went over to it with Gordon, and they looked at the open page. “Nobody here; he didn’t sign at all, the man I’m thinking of,” said Gordon. “There’s very few visitors, so it would be on this page.”
Joe, by way of curiosity, turned back a few pages, but although he recognized a few of the names, nothing corresponding to Lucan was there. “Anyway, Lucan’s second name was John and generally applied to him when he was a student. It means nothing, though, John by itself could be anybody.”
“A tall man with white hair, in his sixties, squarish face,” said Gordon helpfully. “In good form, I would say. I didn’t take much notice.”
They had returned to the fireplace. Joe realized that the description would fit Lucan as he might be today. It was plain to both Joe and Lacey that they had probed enough. They had neither of them desired to go blatantly behind Benny’s back. Joe had already told Lacey he intended to drop Benny a line explaining his search for Lucan. “After all, it’s a legitimate search,” he had remarked to Lacey.
Now he said, “Well, thank you, Gordon, and you, too, Mrs. Kerr.”
“I hope,” said Lacey, “we haven’t disturbed you.”
“Mind how you go. Take your time,” said Betty Kerr. “You could have stayed for a meal, but we don’t have much in the house. Not like when that gentleman was here. Smoked salmon and lamb cutlets two days running.” “Smoked salmon and lamb chops . . .”
“That’s right. Benny ordered them specially for him.
His preference.”
Next morning on their way still further north Joe was truly optimistic. They had already celebrated the final words of the Adanbrae Keep domestics, but Joe could not keep off the subject. It was like winning a bet at long odds.
” ‘Smoked salmon and lamb chops served two dinners running . . .’ Benny knows Lucan’s preferences. What a fool Lucan is to allow himself to be trapped by that characteristic of his; that eccentric taste for smoked salmon and cutlets day in, day out for years on end. It had to be Lucan.”
“Or someone like him, who has studied his ways from the press accounts,” said astute Lacey. “And Benny Rolfe would expect him to have had his face fixed.” The landscape was bleak and flat, below a pearly sky. They seemed to be driving into the sky. St. Columba’s Monastery, lately established, was some way out of a silent, almost deserted but well-kept stone village.
A young bespectacled lay brother bade them to wait a minute. Joe had telephoned in advance. Sure enough, Father Ambrose appeared as if by magic with his black habit floating wide around him. You could not see if he was thin or fat. He had the shape of a billowing pyramid with his small white-haired head at the apex as if some enemy had hoisted it there as a trophy of war. From under his habit protruded an enormous pair of dark-blue track shoes on which he lumbered towards them. As he careered along the cold cloister he read what was evidently his Office of the day; his lips moved; plainly, he didn’t believe in wasting time and did believe in letting the world know it. When he came abreast of Lacey and Joe he snapped shut his book and beamed at them. “Joe,” he said.
“Ambrose, how are you? And how goes it in your new abode? This is Lacey, daughter of Maria Twickenham. Remember Maria?”
“Well, well. How do you do? How’s Maria?” They followed him into a polished parlor; it smelt keenly of cleanliness.
It will be seen that the above description of Ambrose applies to a man very convinced of himself. Calling or no calling, Ambrose had arranged his life so that there was no challenge, no fear of any but the most shallow pitfalls. He could hardly err, there was no scope for it. He was good
The visitors’ book on its lectern stood near a closed door which led to the drawing room. Joe went over to it with Gordon, and they looked at the open page. “Nobody here; he didn’t sign at all, the man I’m thinking of,” said Gordon. “There’s very few visitors, so it would be on this page.”
Joe, by way of curiosity, turned back a few pages, but although he recognized a few of the names, nothing corresponding to Lucan was there. “Anyway, Lucan’s second name was John and generally applied to him when he was a student. It means nothing, though, John by itself could be anybody.”
“A tall man with white hair, in his sixties, squarish face,” said Gordon helpfully. “In good form, I would say. I didn’t take much notice.”
They had returned to the fireplace. Joe realized that the description would fit Lucan as he might be today. It was plain to both Joe and Lacey that they had probed enough. They had neither of them desired to go blatantly behind Benny’s back. Joe had already told Lacey he intended to drop Benny a line explaining his search for Lucan. “After all, it’s a legitimate search,” he had remarked to Lacey.
Now he said, “Well, thank you, Gordon, and you, too, Mrs. Kerr.”
“I hope,” said Lacey, “we haven’t disturbed you.”
“Mind how you go. Take your time,” said Betty Kerr. “You could have stayed for a meal, but we don’t have much in the house. Not like when that gentleman was here. Smoked salmon and lamb cutlets two days running.” “Smoked salmon and lamb chops . . .”
“That’s right. Benny ordered them specially for him.
His preference.”
Next morning on their way still further north Joe was truly optimistic. They had already celebrated the final words of the Adanbrae Keep domestics, but Joe could not keep off the subject. It was like winning a bet at long odds.
” ‘Smoked salmon and lamb chops served two dinners running . . .’ Benny knows Lucan’s preferences. What a fool Lucan is to allow himself to be trapped by that characteristic of his; that eccentric taste for smoked salmon and cutlets day in, day out for years on end. It had to be Lucan.”
“Or someone like him, who has studied his ways from the press accounts,” said astute Lacey. “And Benny Rolfe would expect him to have had his face fixed.” The landscape was bleak and flat, below a pearly sky. They seemed to be driving into the sky. St. Columba’s Monastery, lately established, was some way out of a silent, almost deserted but well-kept stone village.
A young bespectacled lay brother bade them to wait a minute. Joe had telephoned in advance. Sure enough, Father Ambrose appeared as if by magic with his black habit floating wide around him. You could not see if he was thin or fat. He had the shape of a billowing pyramid with his small white-haired head at the apex as if some enemy had hoisted it there as a trophy of war. From under his habit protruded an enormous pair of dark-blue track shoes on which he lumbered towards them. As he careered along the cold cloister he read what was evidently his Office of the day; his lips moved; plainly, he didn’t believe in wasting time and did believe in letting the world know it. When he came abreast of Lacey and Joe he snapped shut his book and beamed at them. “Joe,” he said.
“Ambrose, how are you? And how goes it in your new abode? This is Lacey, daughter of Maria Twickenham. Remember Maria?”
“Well, well. How do you do? How’s Maria?” They followed him into a polished parlor; it smelt keenly of cleanliness.
It will be seen that the above description of Ambrose applies to a man very convinced of himself. Calling or no calling, Ambrose had arranged his life so that there was no challenge, no fear of any but the most shallow pitfalls. He could hardly err, there was no scope for it. He was good
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