nothing," said James.
We settled into one of the empty compartments as I explained about Georgie Grimsley and the
peso.
Jane laughed at Georgie's black eye, but James's reaction was much more gratifying. He started up out of his seat, his fists balled up.
"The scoundrel. He'll have more than a black eye when I'm through with him." Could it be that he cared?
Both Jane and I leaped up to stand in his way. "Rather than worry about Georgie Grimsley, we need to develop a battle strategy for when we get to Charing Cross Station," I reasoned.
"Yes," said Jane. "We should be getting there soon." Indeed, the clickety-clack of the train wheels came farther and farther apart.
James sat back down, still muttering, but cooperative enough that by the time we arrived at Charing Cross Station, we had a working plan. I wished that in James's mutters there was something of the lover, but as far as I could tell, he was more worried about the slight to my good name than any danger I might have been in.
Once we disembarked, Jane and I strolled arm in arm through the busy station, making our way from vendor to vendor while Uncle and James departed in different directions to question ticket sellers, guards, and bobbies. At the first stall, I bought newspaper-wrapped fish and chips. "Thank you," I said as the vendor, a plump little woman with cherries hanging from her straw hat, handed me the steaming, fragrant food. "I was supposed to meet my gardener here in the station to choose summer flowers for my estate. You haven't happened to see a man with a dark mustache
and slouch hat, have you?" I gave the woman an extra sixpence and a smile.
"Laws, no, dearie. Sorry to say, I ain't seen no one like that. 'Ope you finds 'im, I do."
We proceeded from fish and chips to peppermints to the booksellers to the baker with no more to show for our troubles than several bags of sweets, some sticky buns, and a few newspapers and magazines. We devoured the fish and chips first thing, of course. There's nothing like a properly prepared bit of good old British fish and chips to fortify one, but I would have liked a tidbit or two of information as dessert.
James joined us just in time to enjoy the sticky buns while they were warm. "Where is your uncle, old thing? The bobby over there saw our man heading east."
"The suspect could be going anywhere. How are we going to find him?" asked Jane.
"It is my guess that he is going to find Salas," said James.
There was that name again. "Who is Salas?" Jane and I asked simultaneously.
"If I am correct," said James, "he is Don Hernando Salas, a Colombian aristocrat supposedly exiled in England since their civil war started a few years ago. His estates run into southern Panama, so he would have a lot to lose if Panama declared independence."
"If you know so much about him, where is he?" I asked.
James flashed a smile that smote my heart. The dashed man is too handsome for his own good. "He has a suite at the Savoy."
"Why, that's not far from here," said Jane.
"What is not far from here?" asked Uncle as he approached.
"The Savoy Hotel, Uncle Augustus. Where Don Hernando Salas resides." I noticed that several more bits of paper stuck out from
Insectile Creatures
and that Uncle looked as smug as James. I could only suppose that the insects we had seen on the train had their journeys cut unexpectedly short by Uncle's predations.
"Then shall we go?" Uncle offered me his arm, and we sauntered out of the station and onto the Strand, followed by James and Jane.
The Strand bustled with purposeful people striding this way and that along the sidewalk, while along the street itself flowed horse-drawn hansom and hackney cabs, tradesmen's wagons, the occasional motorcar, and hundreds of bicycles. In fact, the
ching-ching
of bicycle bells drowned out the
clip-clop
of the horses. Occasionally a motorcar sounded its hooter. The bustle was invigorating; however, crossing to the other side of the Strand would have been suicidal.
We settled into one of the empty compartments as I explained about Georgie Grimsley and the
peso.
Jane laughed at Georgie's black eye, but James's reaction was much more gratifying. He started up out of his seat, his fists balled up.
"The scoundrel. He'll have more than a black eye when I'm through with him." Could it be that he cared?
Both Jane and I leaped up to stand in his way. "Rather than worry about Georgie Grimsley, we need to develop a battle strategy for when we get to Charing Cross Station," I reasoned.
"Yes," said Jane. "We should be getting there soon." Indeed, the clickety-clack of the train wheels came farther and farther apart.
James sat back down, still muttering, but cooperative enough that by the time we arrived at Charing Cross Station, we had a working plan. I wished that in James's mutters there was something of the lover, but as far as I could tell, he was more worried about the slight to my good name than any danger I might have been in.
Once we disembarked, Jane and I strolled arm in arm through the busy station, making our way from vendor to vendor while Uncle and James departed in different directions to question ticket sellers, guards, and bobbies. At the first stall, I bought newspaper-wrapped fish and chips. "Thank you," I said as the vendor, a plump little woman with cherries hanging from her straw hat, handed me the steaming, fragrant food. "I was supposed to meet my gardener here in the station to choose summer flowers for my estate. You haven't happened to see a man with a dark mustache
and slouch hat, have you?" I gave the woman an extra sixpence and a smile.
"Laws, no, dearie. Sorry to say, I ain't seen no one like that. 'Ope you finds 'im, I do."
We proceeded from fish and chips to peppermints to the booksellers to the baker with no more to show for our troubles than several bags of sweets, some sticky buns, and a few newspapers and magazines. We devoured the fish and chips first thing, of course. There's nothing like a properly prepared bit of good old British fish and chips to fortify one, but I would have liked a tidbit or two of information as dessert.
James joined us just in time to enjoy the sticky buns while they were warm. "Where is your uncle, old thing? The bobby over there saw our man heading east."
"The suspect could be going anywhere. How are we going to find him?" asked Jane.
"It is my guess that he is going to find Salas," said James.
There was that name again. "Who is Salas?" Jane and I asked simultaneously.
"If I am correct," said James, "he is Don Hernando Salas, a Colombian aristocrat supposedly exiled in England since their civil war started a few years ago. His estates run into southern Panama, so he would have a lot to lose if Panama declared independence."
"If you know so much about him, where is he?" I asked.
James flashed a smile that smote my heart. The dashed man is too handsome for his own good. "He has a suite at the Savoy."
"Why, that's not far from here," said Jane.
"What is not far from here?" asked Uncle as he approached.
"The Savoy Hotel, Uncle Augustus. Where Don Hernando Salas resides." I noticed that several more bits of paper stuck out from
Insectile Creatures
and that Uncle looked as smug as James. I could only suppose that the insects we had seen on the train had their journeys cut unexpectedly short by Uncle's predations.
"Then shall we go?" Uncle offered me his arm, and we sauntered out of the station and onto the Strand, followed by James and Jane.
The Strand bustled with purposeful people striding this way and that along the sidewalk, while along the street itself flowed horse-drawn hansom and hackney cabs, tradesmen's wagons, the occasional motorcar, and hundreds of bicycles. In fact, the
ching-ching
of bicycle bells drowned out the
clip-clop
of the horses. Occasionally a motorcar sounded its hooter. The bustle was invigorating; however, crossing to the other side of the Strand would have been suicidal.
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