Lord Ingram held out his hand. “Be as it may, this is a photograph of our friend.”
Livia stilled. She did not have a picture of Mr. Marbleton, but Lord Ingram did?
In the photograph, Mr. Marbleton stood in an open field, his arms wide, his face tilted up to the sky.
The innkeeper excused himself and went to fetch his reading glasses. Livia leaned closer to Lord Ingram and whispered, “My lord, where did you obtain this?”
“Long story,” he whispered back. “The picture was developed last summer from one of the negatives I borrowed from the Marbletons, during the Sackville investigation.”
“Borrowed?”
“Yes.” He grinned. “Though when I attempted to return the plates, the Marbletons did not take it too kindly.”
The innkeeper returned with glasses on, and with one look at the photograph, said, “Why yes, I remember him. That’s Mr. Openshaw. A more amiable young man I’ve rarely met and I’ve seen the whole world pass by.”
Something cracked inside Livia. Having seen Mr. Marbleton with her own eyes, she knew that fewer than twenty-four hours ago he was still alive and in one piece. Yet this unexpected confirmation of his itinerary last December made her feel . . . as if he’d been gone a decade and this was first time she’d had his news.
Yes, something had been fractured—the protective restraint she’d put into place so that she did not obsess over his fate every hour of the day. Through this damaged dam streamed all the questions she’d had no one to ask. How had he looked? What had he said? Had he eaten properly? Had he given any hints about his past or his future?
She bit the inside of her cheek. Best let Lord Ingram do the talking. If she opened her mouth, her emotions wouldn’t just spill all over the table, they would submerge the inn, possibly the entire village.
Lord Ingram looked at her before he turned to the innkeeper again. “That is excellent news indeed, Mr. Upton. Do you recall when he stayed with you?”
“Toward the end of last year. But I can fetch the exact dates for you from the register.”
The innkeeper departed yet again, this time to consult his books.
“Are you all right, Miss Olivia?” asked Lord Ingram quietly.
“Yes, I think so,” she said, even as she shook her head.
She had not cried once after Mr. Marbleton’s departure, but now tears welled in her eyes, stinging her corneas. She had the wild urge to leave the table and run through the inn, as if Mr. Marbleton might be waiting for her atop the staircase or at the end of a corridor.
The innkeeper came back with a satisfied rub of his hands. “Mr. Openshaw stayed for two nights shortly before Christmas. The twentieth and twenty-first of December, in fact.”
Livia’s stomach rolled over. December twentieth was the day Mr. Marbleton had left London. So when he’d stayed in this little inn, under the care of Mr. Upton, he had indeed been on his way to Moriarty.
“Two nights, you said?” Lord Ingram’s voice came as if from a great distance. “Do you remember anything else about his stay?”
“And did he tell you where he was headed?” asked Livia, despite her desire not to betray herself.
She knew—they all knew—where Mr. Marbleton had ended up, but she was still hungry for the details. Ravenous.
Lord Ingram pulled out the chair nearest him and indicated for the innkeeper to take a seat, but Mr. Upton only braced his hands on top of the chair. “Mr. Openshaw said he planned to cross the Channel soon, that I remember. Said he might not return to England for a while—and that he’d miss it.
“As for what else I remember about him—he was mostly in his room during the time he was here. Came down for an hour or so in the evenings to have his supper and a drink. Didn’t mind listening to me rambling on about my day—I was used to talking to the missus, but she went to her rest three years ago and it’s been hard to find anyone else who’s half as patient.”
“He was always the kindest listener,” said Livia, her impulse again overwhelming her desire to appear only moderately interested.
“Aye, that he was. Quite sorry I am, to hear that he’s been missing.”
They were silent for a moment, then Lord Ingram said, “May we see the room he took, Mr. Upton? We’ll be happy to compensate you for your troubles, of course.”
The innkeeper smoothed his hand over his head twice, as if weighing his choices. “Come along then. It said on the register that he stayed in room 5, which doesn’t have anyone at the moment.”
Room 5 was on the next floor. As they followed the innkeeper up the stairs, Livia whispered to Lord Ingram, “Do you think he left anything in that room?”
Lord Ingram shook his head. “I wouldn’t have. It has guests coming and going, not to mention maids cleaning and the innkeeper inspecting everything.”
But Livia’s hope persisted until she saw the immaculate floor and the gleaming furniture inside room 5. From fluffed white pillows to trimmed lamp wicks, everything spoke of attention to detail. She bit the inside of her lower lip. No, indeed, Mr. Marbleton couldn’t have hoped to hide anything here, unless . . .
“He didn’t leave anything behind, Mr. Openshaw,” said Mr. Upton, as if hearing her unspoken question, even as he opened armoire doors and pulled out nightstand drawers for them to inspect. “I keep careful track of forgotten belongings, as some will write to inquire. If they enclose the correct amount of postage, I send their things via the post. And Mr. Openshaw didn’t leave anything behind, not even a scrap of paper. Very tidy he was.”
“Do you remember anything else about him?” said Livia, no longer capable of any pretense of sangfroid. “Anything else he might have said or done?”
Mr. Upton gave her a sympathetic look. “Well, you know how it is, miss. Sometimes you get very amiable guests, but it’s only after they leave that you realize they haven’t told you much about themselves. And I thought . . .”
He hesitated a moment. “He was quick to smile, our young Mr. Openshaw. Had a nice smile to him, too. But even though he smiled, I was sure that he was sad on the inside. Full of sorrows.”
You already know this. You knew, from the moment you realized that he’d left under duress, that he must have felt wretched.
Still, the innkeeper’s words fell like an avalanche upon her chest.
Lord Ingram placed an arm around her shoulder. Livia allowed herself to lean into him. They asked more questions but soon it became apparent that the innkeeper had told them all he could remember. Lord Ingram thanked him and wanted to know whether he could speak to the maid who cleaned Mr. Marbleton’s room.
“That would be Ellen Bailey. But she no longer works here. I’ll give you her new employer’s address.”
Ellen Bailey’s new employer lived in a house on the outskirts of the village, with large gardens both in front and in the back. After much knocking, they learned from the caretaker that the family and most of the staff, including Ellen Bailey, had returned to town. And no, he could not give out their London address without first consulting the mistress herself by post.
Lord Ingram wrote a note and gave it to the caretaker, along with a sizable tip, to send the note to Ellen Bailey.
Livia observed the proceedings, but her mind remained fixated on Mr. Marbleton. The fear he must have felt in his final days of freedom, the isolation, the horror of being at last towed under by those malevolent forces he’d been fleeing his entire life.