Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(46)

“Well, do come downstairs if you feel up to it,” the Vicar said. “Let’s deal with the first before we tackle the second.”

“Wait. I’m not quite sure—how did I come here?”

“If you mean to this house, Randolph Glyde brought you yesterday morning. If you mean Burwell, you arrived with a gentleman from London on Monday.”

Saul blinked. “What day is it?”

“Thursday. About eleven o’clock.”

Saul had set off on that accursed walk on Tuesday morning. “Thursday? What the hell happened to Wednesday?” He caught himself, flushing. “I beg your pardon, sir. It’s just that, uh, I seem to have lost a day.”

“Time passes differently where you’ve been.”

Mr. Herbert said that in such a tone of religious platitude that Saul didn’t take in the meaning for a moment, and then he could only stare. The Vicar gave him a weary smile. “Yes, I did mean that. Do come down, Mr. Lazenby, I think we could both do with a cup of tea.”

Saul followed him to a light, airy kitchen, where a plump woman in an apron gave him a surprised smile. “Nice to see you up and about, sir.”

“Mrs. Allan, my housekeeper,” the Vicar said. “I expect you’re hungry? Mrs. Allan, perhaps breakfast?”

“Bacon and eggs?” Mrs. Allan suggested. Saul murmured thanks, with a sensation of profound dismay at the idea of waiting for food to be cooked. She gave him a shrewd look as she went to the larder, and returned with a loaf of bread, pat of butter, and plate piled with ham. “Help yourself while I put your breakfast on the stove, and I’ll just get the kettle on.”

Saul reached for the plate, and stopped himself. It all felt entirely real, entirely normal, but he was losing track of normal. Perhaps he had imagined being in fairyland, but what if he were in fairyland, imagining being home?

He glanced round to see if there was a clock in the kitchen. One hung on the wall behind him. It was ticking, a barely audible sound, and as he looked, the minute hand moved. He twisted back, feeling ridiculous, and saw the vicar’s sympathetic expression.

“I understand your concern, Mr. Lazenby. Mr. Glyde explained a little of your experience. Let me assure you, you are safe here, and may eat without fear.”

“Well, I should hope so,” Mrs. Allan said, somewhat huffily.

Saul did, devouring two thick slices of bread laden with ham even before the tea was made. He stopped himself there, with reluctance, since the housekeeper was busy at the stove and the smells rising were delectably savoury. He took a sip of tea instead, and looked up at the Vicar who sat opposite.

“Thank you for your hospitality, sir. I have a number of questions.” He glanced at Mrs. Allan’s back.

“If you’d like to discuss anything, be my guest,” the Vicar reassured him.

“Well, Randolph Glyde. You said he brought me here. Where is he?”

“He returned to London yesterday.”

“I beg your pardon?” Saul said blankly. “He left me here?”

“He seemed to have urgent business,” the Vicar said. “There’s a letter for you. I’ll get it once you’ve eaten,” he added firmly as Saul made to rise.

“And what about Major Peabody?” Saul asked. “My employer. He and I were staying with the Abchurches.”

“He returned to London the day after you arrived, I think.”

“He what?” The Major was eccentric and obsessive, and Saul was used to being disregarded, but this was beyond anything. “I disappeared and he just went home? Where did he think I was? Did he call the police?”

“Not to my knowledge. He left after lunch on Tuesday, while for all anyone knew you were still taking a long walk.”

“But we’d only just arrived. Why would he leave?”

“I couldn’t say. I only know that he departed most abruptly, leaving a verbal message for you to join him in London. The Abchurches were rather put out, I think. I’m sure he will be most concerned by now.”

Saul bloody hoped so. “What about my bag, do you happen to know?”

“Oh, we have that. I sent to the Abchurches yesterday.”

“I should offer them my apologies for vanishing.”

“If there’s time, I dare say.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’ll get Mr. Glyde’s letter.”

Saul had to bite back a sharp remark—evidently all Randolph’s acquaintance shared his reluctance to answer a damned question—but he waited patiently until the Vicar returned with a sealed envelope. He tore it open and scanned the note. Randolph had angular, slanted handwriting, more beautiful than legible, which didn’t surprise Saul at all.





Saul

Apologies for leaving; you were reluctant to wake and events are pressing. Herbert will look after you; he is one of ours.

Come and find me.

Randolph





There was also one of Randolph’s cards, on which he had written a second address: 166 Fetter Lane. Saul turned the card and note over and back, but there was nothing more.

He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about this. Not that he’d expect Randolph to sit by his bedside—the man had work to do, after all. Merely, it would have been better if he’d been here, if Saul had been able to talk to him. But he wasn’t, and one would just have to put up with that.