Eva Ibbotson

“Your niece’s festivities—which interest me little-will, however, have to wait,” said Rom pleasantly. “And if you don’t want to lose your license, you will stop spitting into the road.” He turned back to Edward. “Perhaps I can help. My name’s Verney, by the way. I’m on my way to the Sports Club to pick up a message; it’s quite a decent place, run by an Englishman—Harry Parker. They sometimes accommodate travelers for a few days—members of expeditions and so on. I can’t promise anything, but I daresay he might fit you in.”

“I used to know a Harry Parker at my prep school,” said Edward. “He kept a weasel in his tuck-box. Don’t suppose it’s the same chap.” But he brightened visibly at the thought of someone in this steam-bath of a city who might conceivably have been at Fallowfield preparatory school on the bracing and healthy Sussex Downs.

“You’re a zoologist, I see,” said Rom, giving the driver his orders and climbing over Edward’s collecting gear and large tin trunk—for Edward was not a person who traveled light or thought that field work excused one from appearing decently dressed for dinner.

“Well, yes. Entomology’s my field, actually. The Aphaniptera in particular. Fleas,” explained Edward. “I’m a Fellow of St. Philip’s.”

“So you’ll be staying a while?”

“Yes… Well, not too long, I hope. I mean…” He looked at the man who had come to his rescue. Handsome; a bit foreign-looking but obviously a thoroughgoing gentleman by his voice and his clothes, and the cab-driver had become positively servile in his presence. So Edward, who had manfully kept his secret on the long journey, now said, “I don’t mind telling you that I’m also here for another reason—not just collecting. I’m looking for a girl who has run away from home. A dreadful business. Her father’s the Merlin Professor of Classics, and I… well, before this happened I was interested in the girl myself. Not now of course,” he added hastily. “We think she’s with the ballet company which is playing here at the Opera House. As soon as I’m settled and have got rid or my stuff, I intend to start making inquiries.”

“What is her name?”

Edward hesitated, but his rescuer’s face as he looked out at the street showed only the most polite and casual interest.

“Harriet Morton. This is strictly between you and me, of course.”

“Well, she may be here,” said Rom lazily. “But as I understand it, all the girls are Russian. However, perhaps I may be able to help you. I happen to be the chairman of the Opera House trustees and the director might let me have information he would not disclose to a casual inquirer. The girls are very strictly guarded, you see.”

“I say, that’s terribly decent of you! It’s for her own good, but she must be brought back and the whole thing hushed-up if possible.”

Rom turned his head. “Hushed-up?” he said, surprised. “One would rather imagine it to be a cause for boasting, to have a daughter accepted by such a distinguished company.”

Before Edward could digest this unexpected remark, they had reached the club. The Harry Parker who welcomed them was not the one who had kept a weasel in his tuck-box and Edward had not really expected such a stroke of fortune, but all was not lost for it turned out that the Featherstonehaugh for whom Parker had fagged at Stowe had mentioned being related to a Finch-Dutton of Goring-on-Thames who had stroked for Cambridge in the year in which they sank.

“My father,” said Edward with quiet pride.

Rom’s patronage would have secured for Edward one of the rooms in the annex in any case, but these revelations made it certain that in Harry Parker he had found a lifelong friend.

“Well, I shall leave you to settle in,” said Rom, “and see what I can find out for you. The great thing is not to hang around the stage-door or go to the theater by yourself. Monsieur Dubrov is apt to set the police on stage-door johnnies!”

And waving away Edward’s thanks, he climbed back into the cab—whose driver had disclaimed all interest in his niece’s confirmation—and was driven back to the theater.

“Well,” said Dubrov, “what’s the position?” News of Harriet’s pursuer had spread through the cast like wildfire.

“He’s certainly after Harriet and has been instructed to bring her home. As you may have gathered, he once intended to become her fiancé. However, he himself has no legal power and he is also an oaf. If we can keep him quiet, I see no reason why Harriet shouldn’t finish her tour in peace… and then we shall see.”

Dubrov looked at him curiously. “Might I ask why you are taking so much trouble over Harriet’s career as a dancer when…”

He left the sentence unfinished, but Rom did not pretend to misunderstand him.