“A good man,” replied Mr. Songer. “He told me he urged the young mother when she was dying to let him get in touch with the baby’s father. He felt the man was entitled to be made aware of the situation-to take the child and raise it if that was his wish-but she refused to name him. And so the doctor talked to this couple who had been hoping to adopt for some time.”
“Do you know if Dr. Green is still alive?” My heart was thumping hard.
“I wouldn’t think it likely. He was close to sixty at that time.”
“Never mind.” I tried not to sound as disappointed as I felt. “That would have been too easy, wouldn’t it?”
“So it would.” Mrs. Malloy got to her feet. “But fortunately my partner and I have the experience to turn a dead end into,” she valiantly lifted her chin, “into a shortcut.” As this made no sense I began voicing my thanks to Mrs. Joritz and Mr. Songer for the information they had given us, only to be interrupted by that nice woman.
“But we haven’t told you the name of the couple who adopted the baby. It was Merryweather. They managed to track our family down through a blanket I’d knitted for the baby that went with her when she was taken from here. I’d done several of the same pattern for the church bazaar.”
“Jan was a whiz with her knitting even at twelve years old,” enthused her father.
“Well, it’s not to be expected you’ve kept in touch with the Merryweathers all these years,” said Mrs. Malloy somewhat ungratefully.
“Isn’t it?” Mr. Songer’s boyish grin was back in place as he turned to his daughter. “Jan, where does your mother keep the address book?”
Eighteen
Mrs. Malloy was in a major snit when I dropped her off at her house in Herring Street. She thought me derelict in my professional duties in refusing to go rushing off to the address we had been given. Time, she reminded me sententiously, was of the essence, a point on which I agreed with her. At close on 4:00 in the afternoon it was time for me to get home to my family. Tomorrow would be soon enough to attempt making contact with Ernestine’s adoptive parents, to which statement she responded darkly that she hoped I wouldn’t live to regret them words.
It was already dusk when I parked the car in the stables and entered the house by the garden door, feeling foolishly like a child who had stayed playing outside beyond the time I had been allowed. Freddy was alone in the kitchen. And I have to say I was shocked. Usually in such a situation I would find him lolling back in a chair with his feet up on the table and a bulging sandwich in each hand. Not the case this time. He was standing with his back to me chopping onions. It has never pierced my soul to see a man slaving away in a kitchen, especially when it is my kitchen. But there was something about my cousin’s lackluster ponytail and the dejected sway of his skull-and-crossbones earring that temporarily wiped all thoughts of Ernestine and the motley goings-on at Moultty Towers out of my head.
“You’re worried about your Mum, aren’t you?” I said as I hung my raincoat on one of the pegs in the alcove. “Any word?”
“Not a peep.”
“Oh, Freddy! I am sorry.”
“It’s been seven days now, and Dad’s contemplating having her declared legally dead.”
“That’s Uncle Maurice. Always the stiff upper lip.” I stowed my handbag on the Welsh dresser and went and placed a hand on his shoulder. “But surely there’s no reason to think something terrible has happened to her. Hasn’t she done this sort of thing before? Gone off on one of her shopping expeditions and…” My voice petered out.
“Lost track of time?” Freddy laid down the knife and turned to face me.
“Or met someone-an old friend from boarding school-and gone to stay with them for a few days, quite forgetting in the excitement of getting caught up on all the gossip to phone home. Let’s face it, she can be a little feckless, in the sweetest possible way of course.”
“Yes.” Freddy lounged over to a chair and sat head bent, hands lolling to the floor, “Mum has done a bunk before, usually when Dad’s been narking on at her to cut down on her shoplifting, if she’s going to come home with the same hat three days running.”
“While’s he’s needing a new cardigan.” I put the kettle on and reached into the cupboard for cups and saucers. “I suppose some people would say he had a point.”
“In certain ways, Ellie, theirs is one of those old school marriages, with Dad laying down the law and Mum every so often deciding she’s had enough.”
“There you are then.” I handed him a cup of tea and a biscuit. “This is just another of those times. She’s setting out to teach him a lesson and when she thinks he’s had time to get the idea she’ll come home.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself, coz.” Freddy sipped at his tea but set the biscuit down on the table-not a good sign, given his usual willingness to eat anything that didn’t run for cover before he got within a yard of it. “But I’ve got a bad feeling this time. I suppose it’s Dad telling me about her being down at that pub, The Wayfarers, or whatever it was called. Mum just isn’t a pubby sort of person. She thinks they’re places for amateurs, getting their start by pocketing those cardboard coasters. The Red Lion and such just aren’t her scene.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” I sat down across from him and stirred sugar into my tea. “You were worried this morning, but not to the point where you are now.”
“This is going to sound stupid.” He brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes.
“Tell me.”
“Okay, it’s like this: Mum has always sent me a card on the anniversary of the date when I cut my first tooth.”
“I think that’s dear.”
“Don’t go all sloppy on me, Ellie. She doesn’t remember my birthday, but this is different. She never missed until this time.”
“When should you have received the card?”
“The day before yesterday. But you know how the post can be. Sometimes you get a letter before it’s been sent and other times you’d think someone was hanging on to it hoping the value of the stamp would go up.”
“So why panic?”
Freddy got up and strolled back to his onions. “Mum always sent the card off early to be on the safe side. And when it didn’t show up today,” he resumed chopping, “I’ve got to tell you, Ellie, my blood ran cold.”
“Have you talked to your father?”
“I got him on the phone just before you came in. He had nothing to report, other than he was having to make do with poached eggs on toast for the third night in a row. And that there was nothing but tinned peaches for afters. What really got him splattering was that they were an off brand. And his blaming that on Mum just didn’t wash. She never thinks price when she goes to the supermarket. She always takes the very best. Says it’s more economical in the long run.”
“Less seasoning to add,” I concurred. “Freddy, what are you doing with those onions? And where”-I hadn’t wanted to bring the subject up before-“where are Ben and the children?”
“He took them out somewhere about half an hour ago. To the library I think. And since I’d invited myself to dinner I thought I’d get a meal started. I’m making spaghetti bolonaise.”
“That’s really thoughtful.” I was now standing refilling my teacup. “But you know Ben always has containers of pasta sauce in the freezer. Why not just relax?”
“Thanks, but I need something to do.”
“Then would you help me lay the table? Or, better yet, fix a salad?”
“All right.” Freddy set down the knife before wandering over to the fridge and returning with a head of lettuce in one hand and a couple of tomatoes in the other. “What do you think, coz, about my calling in a private detective to help find Mum? What about that bloke Mrs. Malloy works for?”