Page 21 of The Missing Page
“That’s about the size of it. Are Edith and Cora about?” Leo had hoped that the elderly ladies might have remembered more gossip about the Bellamy affair.
Wendy let out a sigh. “No ‘how are you Wendy?’ or ‘how are the piglets, Wendy?’ Rude.”
“How are you, Wendy? How are the piglets, Wendy?”
“Excellent and not quite fat enough to eat. I’ll leave you to decide which is me and which is the piglets. I hope James won’t mind but I put in a few more garden beds behind his shed.”
“It’s February. What can he possibly do with more garden—wait. James doesn’t have a shed.”
“Well, he does now,” Wendy said brightly. “Also, there are a few chickens living in it, but they’re on the run from the law.”
“Wendy, he’s been gone for less than a day. How did you build a—you know what? I don’t want to know how. It’s either black magic or the black market and it’s better to keep me in the dark.” Wendy had an extremely flexible and communitarian approach to rationing, which involved a steady stream of goods changing hands for what Wendy insisted wasn’t technically money or ration tickets. At this point, Leo was pretty sure that subverting the rationing system was the only thing keeping her from running drugs or arms or taking control of the criminal underworld.
“When you get arrested, I shan’t do anything about it,” he lied.
“Tomatoes, Leonard. Tomatoes and roast chicken.”
“That isn’t my name,Gwendolyn.” Thatwasher name.
“I bet you miss me terribly,” Wendy said.
“Do you know, I really do,” Leo said earnestly. It was a little terrifying, how quickly he had let himself get attached to these people. To James’s people. They weren’t his own—they were borrowed, in the same way that his half of James’s bed was borrowed. But they still felt like his own. In reality, Leo didn’t have any people and he would do well to remember it.
He wondered, just for a second, what would happen if he disappeared just as comprehensively as Rose Bellamy had done. He had disappeared before, after all. A solid percentage of his jobs ended with him—or the person he was pretending to be—disappearing. Walking away and never coming back was his bread and butter. How long would it take everybody in Wychcomb St. Mary to forget he had ever been there? How long would it take James?
“You needn’t sound so cut up about it,” Wendy said, breaking into Leo’s thoughts. “Anyway, Cora and Edith are at the vicarage. Shall I take a message or do you want to ring them there?”
“Don’t bother,” Leo said, suddenly eager to end this conversation. “I’ll ring again later if I need their help.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Iwonder if you’ll tell me why you look like the cat who got the cream,” James said later, when they were putting on their hats and coats in preparation for a walk that Leo desperately hoped would lead them to a tea shop. He had skipped breakfast, such as it was, and was determined not be done out of lunch. “Where were you off skulking about while I fought to the death over the last teaspoon of milk for my tea?”
“This is slander and calumny,” said Leo lightly as he held the door for James to precede him into the garden. “I didn’t skulk at all. Not even a little.” He was conscious of being pleased that James had guessed what Leo was up to during breakfast, and even more pleased that James didn’t seem put off despite his innate distaste for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. “I just took myself on a little tour of the upper stories of the house.”
James snorted. “And what did you learn on your tour?”
“Marchand only brought bespoke suits. Not a jumper or cardigan in sight.” He gestured between them, demonstrating what normal people wore in the country. Beneath his winter coat, James wore a cream-colored Aran jumper and corduroy trousers. Leo wore one of James’s cardigans that always seemed to find its way to Leo’s half of the closet and a pair of nondescript brown trousers. They each had on one of the mufflers that Edith knit in such quantity that everyone in Wychcomb St. Mary had at least one. “There’s a fine line between being posh and being a pillock.”
“Honestly, not that fine a line,” James said.
“Even rich people let themselves get a bit rumpled in the country. Otherwise they look even more untrustworthy than usual.”
“You just don’t like him,” said James, smiling a little into his muffler.
“Of course I don’t like him,” Leo protested. “Anyway. Lilah’s room is a tip. Do we know why she’s even here this weekend? She wasn’t mentioned in the will and Martha didn’t have a room prepared.”
“She seems close to Martha,” James said. “But in that case, you’d expect her to have at least rung ahead.”
“Right. Madame Fournier keeps her room as neat as a pin. So does Lady Marchand, surprisingly. A delight to search, both of them. The only interesting item was a carpetbag in Madame’s room with the initials GB sewn inside. Of course, she might have bought it secondhand or borrowed it from this GB. But it’s still worth noting. Also, she isn’t foreign. I’d say East London, but with a pretty convincing effort to sound middle class.”
“And that’s it?”
They appeared to be alone in the garden, but Leo lowered his voice anyway. “Except for the small matter of a blackmail note that I found in Marchand’s bedroom. He was using it as a bookmark, if you can believe it. He’s readingTheEustace Diamonds, of all things.”
“I don’t care what he’s reading!” James said, laughing. “What did the note say?”
Leo recalled the note. It was typed on paper that was thin and slightly gray, but not the cheapest money could buy. “It said ‘I’m sure that after twenty years you’ve got quite comfortable, but remember that there’s one other who knows your secret.’” As far as threatening letters went, this was pretty mild. To start with, there was no threat, nor even a demand.
