فصل 09

CHAPTER 9

A MYSTERIOUS GENTLEMAN

ENVELOPED IN THE bumpity-bump and clickity-clack of the train car they’d boarded in Paddington Station, Molly and George made the hour’s journey to Oxford, looking at the scenery and sipping tea. It was a beautiful, sunlit day with only the occasional puff of cloud dotting the rich blue sky.

They passed thatch-roofed farmhouses, green fields surrounded by stone walls, horses and cows, dogs and ducks. Occasionally one of them would attempt conversation, but it was awkward; both were nervous about being away from home on their own, and all too aware of being together, boy and girl.

As they neared Oxford, George, after a long gaze out the window, turned to Molly and said, “I don’t want to be negative, but I don’t see how we’ll ever find out who placed these personal notices. There are far too many for anyone to remember a particular one, especially given that the last one your father mentioned ran in the paper more than twelve years ago.”

“There was a name in the ad: a Mr. Starr.”

“But even so…” George complained.

Molly lowered her voice. “And we have a date. Father said the last notice for Mr. Starr was placed twelve years ago, just before I was born. So we can start looking at the newspapers right around then.”

George nodded. “I suppose that’s a start,” he said.

“Yes,” said Molly. “It’s better than nothing.” She hesitated, blushed, then added, “I’m ever so grateful you’ve come along.”

It was George’s turn to blush. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said.

After that they spoke little until they arrived in Oxford, where they took a cab to the Oxford Observer, which occupied a massive stone building on High Street. The lobby, smelling of ink and glue, was busy with people bustling this way and that.

A receptionist directed Molly and George to the Archives Department, on the third floor. They climbed the stairs and found themselves in a large, musty room that looked like a sort of library, with bank after bank of racks filled with newspapers hanging from wooden rods. Molly filled out a request slip and gave it to a clerk, who disappeared among the racks and returned ten minutes later with several weeks’ worth of newspapers. The clerk passed these across the counter to Molly and George, who took them to one of the long wooden tables where several other people sat poring over old editions of the Observer.

Molly and George began paging through the twelve-year-old newspapers, starting with the one published on Molly’s birthday, then working back. It was slow going—scanning page after page, reading dozens upon dozens of notices printed in small, cramped type. At the end of an hour they had gone through three issues and found nothing, and Molly was beginning to worry that their trip had been a waste of time.

And then, on the thirteenth page of the issue printed four days before her birthday, she saw it.

“There!” she whispered, gripping George’s arm with one hand and pointing with the other at a two-line notice on the bottom of the page:

Mr. Starr: Expect your package Friday the 18th.

(DS5G3—10/2)

“Capital!” exclaimed George. “But what are those letters and numbers?”

They put this question to the Archives Department clerk, who explained that the letters and numbers were a billing reference used by the Accounts Department. The date that followed represented the first day the notice had been posted; it had run for over two weeks before the current issue. Molly wrote down the billing reference and the date of the notice, and, following the clerk’s directions, she and George went down to the Accounts Department, which was on the floor below ground level.

They found themselves in a dimly lit hallway, which they followed to a door marked ACCOUNTS. George knocked, and they were called inside by an ancient-looking man wearing thick glasses and seated behind a cluttered desk piled high with ledger books. A plaque on the desk read: MR. RINGWOOD.

“May I help you?” His voice sounded dry and fragile, like the paper in his old ledger books.

“Yes,” said George. “We’re interested in…that is to say, we’re trying to find out…That is, we’d like to know…”

Molly, rolling her eyes, interrupted. “Someone placed a personal notice some years ago in your newspaper. It mentioned a package and a man’s name—Mr. Starr. That’s my, ah, father, and…well…”

Molly ran out of steam. Ringwood sat patiently, waiting.

“Her father has taken ill, I’m sorry to say,” said George. “This person who placed the ad, he…he…”

George looked at Molly for help.

“I believe he may be my father’s brother,” she said. “A long-lost brother, that is. My uncle. I’m hoping you might have his address, as it’s quite important we locate him. Our business with him involves my family’s estate.”

Ringwood sighed, then carefully placed his pen in its holder and slipped a wooden disk over his inkwell. He gestured at the shelves behind him, which were filled with hundreds of fat ledger books like the ones on his desk.

“Young lady,” he said, speaking slowly and carefully, as though afraid his words would break. “The Observer has printed a great many personal notices. Could you be a bit more specific as to when your uncle…”

“Yes, of course,” said Molly, hastily pulling out a piece of paper. “I have the date of the notice and the billing reference.”

“Well,” said Ringwood. “That’s another thing altogether.” He took the piece of paper in shaking hands and peered at it through his thick lenses. Then he slowly stood and turned to consult his ledger-lined shelves. He dragged a ladder that moved on rollers to a certain spot, and with some difficulty, climbed up several steps. He withdrew a leather binder, climbed down, and returned to his desk. There he began to turn the pages far too slowly for the impatient Molly, who was intensely aware of the need to get back to London before nightfall.

Finally, Ringwood found the page he wanted. He ran a bony finger down a column of writing.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Here it is.”

George and Molly waited. Ringwood read the ledger entry, then looked up at Molly and frowned.

“Interesting,” he said.

“What?” said Molly. “Do you know him?”

“As it happens, I did,” said Ringwood. “I wasn’t a personal friend of the gentleman, but he was a customer here for a number of years. Put in a notice only every few years, but it always ran several weeks. And he had a…memorable way about him.”

“You speak of him in the past tense,” Molly said softly.

“Yes, miss. Sadly, I do.”

“What happened?” said George.

“Bit of a mystery, actually,” said Ringwood, eyeing Molly. “The gentleman and his wife went missing under…odd circumstances. They simply disappeared. Vanished. The police searched for weeks on end, but they were never seen again, at least not here in Oxfordshire. It was on the front page of this very newspaper for days. Weeks.”

“What kind of odd circumstances?” George asked.

“You can read the articles,” Ringwood told him. “We’ll have copies upstairs in Archives. But as I recall there was a child—a son, just a baby, left behind. Terrible thing.”

“A boy,” said Molly, suddenly feeling a strange chill. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“As I recall,” said Ringwood, “he was not claimed by family, so he was placed in an orphanage.”

Molly felt light-headed. “What orphanage?” she said.

Ringwood frowned and rubbed his chin. “Saint Somebody’s, I believe. St. Nigel’s? No, that’s not it…”

“St. Norbert’s?” Molly whispered.

“St. Norbert’s! That’s the one,” proclaimed Ringwood.

Molly, her face pale, grabbed Ringwood’s desk for support.

“Are you all right?” said Ringwood.

“Yes,” said Molly, though she was obviously shaken.

“Well, in any event,” said Ringwood, “this man could not have been your father’s brother.”

“Why not?” said Molly, looking up.

“You said your father’s name is Starr,” said Ringwood.

“I…uh, yes. Starr,” said Molly.

“This man’s name was not Starr,” said Ringwood. He looked down at the ledger. “Quite a mysterious gentleman,” he muttered.

“What was his name?” said Molly.

Ringwood looked up; his eyes met Molly’s.

“The gentleman’s name,” he said, “was Mr. Pan.”