Niven doffed his hat. “I’m looking for Miss Kelling.”
“I’m afraid Miss Kelling went out some half an hour ago.”
Of course she was out, Niven realized. Why would she be inside, in this stuffy place, in such pleasant weather? She had probably gone for a walk in one of the parks. Perhaps she had gone for a walk with the man who had deserted her in the club last night.
“I have no idea where she has gone, it is not my business,” Mrs. Bodley said. “Miss Kelling is continually flitting in and out. Are those flowers for her?” she asked, grimacing at the sight of the straggly bunch in his hand. The flowers had seemed like a romantic gesture when he picked them, but now they just looked like half-dead weeds. “Do you wish me to put them in a vase?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Whom shall I tell her called for her?”
“No one,” Niven said.
“You persist in your anonymity, I see. You know you are not even her first gentleman caller today.”
“Oh, really?” Niven said, feigning indifference. The deserter, presumably.
“Very popular young lady, Miss Kelling,” Mrs. Bodley said.
She was clearly trying to needle him and she succeeded. “Forget I was here,” Niven said, turning on his heel and running back down the steps. Sanctimonious old cow, he thought, flinging the humiliating flowers into the dank and mossy basement well of a neighbouring house. What on earth had he been thinking when he decided to come courting Gwendolen Kelling? Thank God she had not been in. He was saved from his own lunacy.
* * *
—
On his way back through town he thought he may as well stop off at the Savoy to check that everything had been taken care of. Perhaps, he thought, Gwendolen Kelling was still inside, lingering in the luxury of the suite he had paid for. He could invite her for a late luncheon in the Grill. (The lunacy had returned, apparently.) Perhaps they would talk about the war. More and more, as the conflict faded into the world’s history books, Niven found himself not wanting to forget. Gwendolen Kelling seemed like someone who might understand the need to remember.
When the doorman at the entrance to the hotel spotted Niven advancing along Savoy Court towards him, he straightened to attention, saluted and deferentially murmured, “Mr. Coker,” as was the way of doormen.
A man had been indulging in idle Sunday chatter with the doorman, but whipped his head round when he heard the Coker name. He was the brazen sort—scrawny, wearing a cheap suit and with a foreign look about him. Niven had known scrappers like that in the Army. He was wearing two-tone sports shoes as though he were on the golf course, although he was more caddy than player. Niven himself wore handmade shoes—calf-leather brogues—and detested golf. Keeper, always a good judge of character, let out a quiet growl. The man tipped his hat at Niven and sauntered off into the Strand. Something about him made Niven’s own hackles rise.
Yes, everything had been perfectly all right with Miss Kelling’s bill, the member of staff on duty at the reception desk said when Niven enquired. In fact, Miss Kelling had insisted on paying it herself when she checked out. So, she was too proud to accept charity? If Niven had known she was going to reject his offer, he would have booked her into a more affordable room. More fool her. He felt cold towards her, where moments ago he had been ready to unburden his soul. Again, a lucky escape, the lunacy vanquished.
The doorman saluted him again on his way out. What was the name of the man who had been loitering around when he entered the hotel? Niven liked to have a name to put on a man. There were enough nameless men in the soil of Flanders.
The usual gavotte followed. The doorman set his features into a picture of blandness and said, “What man would that be, sir?” and Niven withdrew the customary shilling from his pocket and with great theatricality the doorman suddenly remembered.
“Oh, you must mean Mr. Landor, sir,” he said. “A gentleman from Hungary, I believe.”
The transaction was paused as a police sergeant in uniform strolled past the top of the little street in that annoyingly slow way that a policeman on the beat adopts. He stared at Niven and then raised his forefinger to his helmet in a gesture of acknowledgement to the doorman. The doorman gave an almost imperceptible salute back and waited until the sergeant was well on his way down the Strand before resuming business with Niven. “They call that bloke the Laughing Policeman,” the doorman said. “After that song, you know?” Niven ignored this unrequested information.
Another shilling secured the answer to the question of why Landor had been scouting at the hotel.
“Enquiring about one of our guests,” the doorman said. “Naturally, I gave him no information. The privacy of our guests is sacred.”
How sacred?, Niven wondered. He grubbed up another coin. “And what was it exactly that he was asking?”
“He wanted a name.”
Niven had run out of change. Reluctantly he produced a five-shilling note. “And did you give it to him?”
The doorman was indignant with denial. Another note dampened his affront. Ten shillings secured the name of the guest. Niven would be bankrupt at this rate and the doorman would be able to retire.
“A Miss Kelling,” he finally admitted, replete with wealth. “He was asking about a Miss Gwendolen Kelling.”
* * *
—
Niven caught a taxi, the charm of the day having worn off. He frowned all the way to Hanover Terrace. Why on earth was this man Landor spying on Gwendolen Kelling? Was “Miss Kelling” not in fact a provincial librarian—which would be an excellent disguise—but someone employed to infiltrate the Cokers? By Azzopardi, perhaps? Or Maddox? In which case, she certainly appeared to have succeeded, duping even his astute mother. But then that still didn’t answer the question of Landor’s interest in her. Was Gwendolen Kelling in danger? Niven was surprised at how disturbed he was by this possibility.
Another Gentleman Caller
Sunday was turning out to be a particularly difficult day in Ealing, as it would have been the birthday of the child Lottie lost during the war. Frobisher had forgotten until reminded. He supposed it explained the morphine.
“Elle aurait eu douze ans,” Lottie kept saying, wandering from room to room as if she would eventually find the girl in the house. Lottie had nothing, not a lock of hair nor a photograph, not a scrap of christening gown or shawl. Sometimes Frobisher wondered if the child had really existed. The child, imaginary or otherwise, had been called Manon and had, Lottie said, been obliterated along with the village they lived in during the war.
He had been woken early this morning by the sound of a distracted Lottie roaming through the house calling Manon’s name, convinced somehow that the child was hiding in a cupboard or behind a piece of furniture. “Can’t you hear her calling for me? Maman, maman. It’s breaking my heart.” These hallucinations—this was not the first time—frightened him. What if one day they took over completely?