Page 23 of Beatrix

‘He’s frightened,’ Beatrix murmured the moment the door had closed.

Rob nodded thoughtfully. ‘I noticed,’ he agreed, ‘though whether it’s our presence that’s causing it...’ He trailed off with a slight shrug.

There was no time for further speculation as only seconds later the door opened again and a small, round man with a face best described as unremarkable stepped into the office. Behind him was a taller, much greyer man. Both wore the pained expressions of men who’d been interrupted at something much more important than trivial matters brought to them by the front office.

‘Mr and Mrs Noon,’ the small, round man murmured, favouring them with a small, polite nod. ‘I’m Mr Holt, and this is my partner, Mr Grainger. We understand you’ve come rather a long way. Please do come through.’ As one, they turned and headed back through the door.

Behind their backs, Bea and Rob exchanged a glance, surprised that both solicitors deemed them worthy of their time. ‘After you, Mrs Noon,’ he murmured, extending his arm towards the door. ‘You watch Grainger, I’ll watch Holt…’

The office they were shown into was larger than the front one, panelled in dark wood, with a heavy oak desk positioned to put maximum distance between whoever sat behind it and whoever was obliged to sit in front. Clearly the office was Mr Holt’s since he seated himself behind the desk, while his partner took a chair by the window. Both folded their hands with the air of men well practised in listening to people’s troubles without being unduly moved by them.

‘How may we be of service?’ Holt was the one who spoke. His companion remained silent.

Rob told it plainly, starting with Tom’s disappearance, the desperate voyage from Melbourne after being advised that the boy had been taken to England. He didn’t mention the Society by name straightaway, and Beatrix understood why. Better to let the two solicitors reveal what they knew of it themselves rather than hand them the excuse of pretending ignorance.

‘We’ve been told,’ Rob finally concluded, his voice roughening in a way Bea suspected owed nothing to artifice, ‘that a charitable organisation calling itself the Society for the Advancement of Industrious Children may have taken him in… and that your firm has had some dealings with them.’

Beatrix, watching closely, immediately saw Grainger’s face carefully arrange itself into blankness. She suspected Holt’s expression was exactly the same.

‘I’m afraid client confidentiality prevents me from confirming or denying any such arrangement, Mr Noon.’ Holt’s voice was smooth without any inflection at all.

‘Of course,’ Rob responded, ‘I quite understand. But you’ll forgive me if I say that a boy’s life seems to me a little more pressing that a firm’s discretion.’

His words were spoken without heat or any accusation, but Beatrix observed the slightest ruffle in Grainger’s composure all the same. The tall man shifted slightly in his chair as Holt continued, after a pause that was just a second too long…‘I’m sure you understand our position. Regrettably, I’ve no knowledge of any child by that name. Perhaps, if you were to leave your particulars, we might make some discreet enquiries on your behalf.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ Rob responded, bowing his head slightly in thanks. As spoke, his face held nothing but sorrow and concern, both of which she was sure were genuine. However, underneath it, she guessed he was feeling the same satisfaction as she was.

Grainger and Holt might not have given them any information, but the old adage silence speaks louder than words was particularly relevant on this occasion, since the silence that had followed Tom’s name made it abundantly clear that both men knew a great deal more than they’d been prepared to say.

They were shown back into the front office some ten minutes later, having achieved nothing more than an address for correspondence and a vague promise of enquiries that both parties understood would never be made. Indeed, the door closing behind them had an unmistakable finality about it.

Billy, who’d been idly bouncing up and down on an overstuffed leather chair in the corner, jumped to his feet as they entered.

As soon as the door closed, the young clerk also climbed to his feet, this time coming round the desk to personally see them out. At first, they assumed he’d simply been instructed to make sure they left the premises, but his careful ‘Allow me,’ as he reached past Beatrix to push open the door, holding it open from the outside step, gave them pause.

Once all three were through, he stepped forward to return inside, but as he did so, he leaned in close to Beatrix at the back. ‘The White Hart,’ he breathed, barely above a whisper, his eyes darting behind her shoulder into the office. ‘On Fore Street, nine o’clock. I can’t… I have to speak to someone…’ He stopped himself, swallowing hard, then continued past her, beads of sweat clearly visible on his brow. ‘I do hope you find your godson, Mr Noon,’ he said, loudly, before finally stepping back inside and shutting the door firmly behind him.

For a second none of them moved.

‘Well,’ Billy said eventually into the silence, ‘that wos worth the price o’ the ticket.’

Rob nodded, his face losing the careful grieving performance he’d adopted inside, finally allowing the anger to come to the fore. ‘Nine o’clock. That gives us the better part of the day to decide whether we’re mad enough to keep his appointment.’

‘We came all this way,’ Bea declared, surprised to find her voice entirely steady, despite the fact that her heart was behaving as if she’d just run the length of Paignton Pier. ‘In truth, I don’t see that we have much choice.’

Rob looked down at her, swallowing the anger that had momentarily gripped him. He gave a ghost of a smile. ‘No,’ he agreed, holding out his arm, ‘I don’t suppose we have.’

Billy, meanwhile, had already turned his attention to more important matters. Trotting beside them as they started across the road, he asked a question with the air of someone who clearly considered the answer a key consideration as to whether they would indeed attend the evening’s clandestine appointment.

‘I don’t s’pose either of yer ‘appen ter know if the White ‘Art does a decent steak an’ kidney puddin’?’

CHAPTER 12

The Lovelaces’ reception and drawing room was entirely as expected given the lions decorating the gates. Half a dozen gilt-edged mirrors competed with portraits of random individuals dressed in clothing ranging from the Norman Conquest to the advent of Queen Victoria. Henry guessed that none of the subjects had any connection with the owners of the house. There were spindle-legged occasional tables everywhere and a chaise longue that looked as though it doubled up as a torture device.

Evelina Lovelace was wearing a dress in a shade of blue that Charlotte suspected cost more than most families in Torquay saw in a year, and her husband had the hearty, desperate joviality of someone only just preventing himself from drowning.

‘You have a beautiful home,’ gushed Charlotte in a voice so unlike her own that Henry had to look at her twice. ‘And that dress… you clearly have excellent taste.’