Mrs. McCrae, Canon Pennyfather's housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole for the evening of his return. Theadvantages attached to a good Dover sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to thegrill or frying pan until the Canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until thenext day if necessary. Canon Pennyfather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone callor telegram arrived saying that the Canon would after all be elsewhere on this particularevening, Mrs. McCrae was fond of a good Dover sole herself. All therefore was in good trimfor the Canon's return. The Dover sole would be followed bypancakes. The sole sat on the kitchen table, the batter for the pancakes was ready in abowl. All was in readiness. The brass shone, the silver sparkled, not a minuscule of dustshowed an
ere. There was only one thing lacking. The Canon himself.
The Canon was scheduled to return on the trainarriving at 6.30 from London.
At 7 o'clock he had notreturned. No doubt the train was late. At 7.30 he still had not returned. Mrs. McCrae gavea sigh of vexation. She suspected that this was going to be another of these things. Eighto'clock came and no Canon. Mrs. McCrae gave a long,exasperated sigh. Soon, no doubt, she would get a telephone call, though it was quitewithin the bounds of possibility that there would not be even a telephone call. He mighthave written to her. No doubt he had written, but he had probably omitted to post theletter.
"Dear, dear!" saidMrs. McCrae.
At 9 o'clock she madeherself three pancakes with the pancake batter. The sole she put carefully away in theFrigidaire. "I wonder where the good man's got to now," she said to herself. She knew byexperience that he might be an
ere. The odds were that he would discover his mistake intime to telegraph her or telephone her before she retired to bed. "I shall sit up until 11 o'clock but no longer,"said Mrs. McCrae. Ten-thirty was her bed-time, an extension to elevenshe considered her duty, but if at eleven there was nothing, no word from the Canon, thenMrs. McCrae would duly lock up the house and betake herself to bed.
It cannot be said that she was worried. This sort ofthing had happened before. There was nothing to be done but wait for news of some kind.The possibilities were numerous. Canon Pennyfather might have got on the wrong train andfailed to discover his mistake until he was at Land's End orJohn o'Groats, or he might still be in London having made somemistake in the date, and was therefore convinced he was not returning until tomorrow. Hemight have met a friend or friends at this foreign conference he was going to and beeninduced to stay out there perhaps over the weekend. He would have meant to let her knowbut had entirely forgotten to do so. So, as has been already said, she was not worried.The day after tomorrow his old friend, Archdeacon Simmons, was coming to stay. That wasthe sort of thing that Canon did remember, so no doubt he himself or a telegram from himwould arrive tomorrow and at latest he would be home on the day after, or there would be aletter.
The morning of the day after, however, arrivedwithout a word from him. For the first time Mrs. McCrae began to be uneasy. Between 9 a.m.and 1 p.m. she eyed the telephone in a doubtful manner. Mrs. McCrae had her own fixedviews about the telephone. She used it and recognised its convenience but she was not fondof the telephone. Some of her household shopping was done by telephone, though she muchpreferred to do it in person owing to a fixed belief that if you did not see what you werebeing given, a shopkeeper was sure to try and cheat you. Still, telephones were useful fordomestic matters. She occasionally, though rarely, telephoned her friends or relations inthe near neighbourhood. To make a call of any distance, or a London call, upset herseverely. It was a shameful waste of money. Nevertheless, she began to meditate facingthat problem.
Finally, when yet another day dawned without anynews of him she decided to act. She knew where the Canon was staying in London. Bertram'sHotel. A nice old-fashioned place. It might be as well, perhaps, if she rang up and madecertain inquiries. They would probably know where the Canon was. It was not an ordinaryhotel. She would ask to be put through to Miss Gorringe. Miss Gorringe was alwaysefficient and thoughtful. The Canon might, of course, return by the twelve-thirty. If sohe would be here any minute now.
But the minutes passed and there was no Canon. Mrs.McCrae took a deep breath, nerved herself and asked for a call to London. She waited,biting her lips and holding the receiver clamped firmly to her ear.
"Bertram's Hotel, at your service," said a voice.
"I would like, if you please, to speak to MissGorringe," said Mrs. McCrae.
"Just a moment. What name shall I say?"
"It's CanonPennyfather's housekeeper. Mrs. McCrae."
"Just a moment please."
Presently the calm and efficient voice of MissGorringe came through.
"Miss Gorringe here. Did you say Canon Pennyfather's housekeeper?"
"That's right. Mrs.McCrae."
"Oh yes. Of course. What can I do for you, Mrs.McCrae?"
"Is Canon Pennyfather staying at the hotel still?"
"I'm glad you've rung up," said Miss Gorringe. "We have been rather worried as to what exactly to do."
"Do you mean something'shappened to Canon Pennyfather? Has he had an accident?"
"No, no, nothing of that kind. But we expected himback from Lucerne on Friday or Saturday."
"Eh – that'd be right."
"But he didn't arrive.Well, of course that wasn't really surprising. He had bookedhis room on – booked it, that is, until yesterday. He didn't come back yesterday or send any word and his things are still here. Themajor part of his baggage. We hadn't been quite sure what todo about it. Of course," Miss Gorringe went on hastily, "we know the Canon is, well – somewhat forgetfulsometimes."
"You may well say that!"
"It makes it a little difficult for us. We are sofully booked up. His room is actually booked for another guest." She added: "You have no idea where he is?"
With bitterness Mrs. McCrae said:
"The man might be an
ere!" She pulled herself together. "Well, thank you,Miss Gorringe."
"Anything I can do –」 Miss Gorringe suggested helpfully.
"I dare say I'll hearsoon enough," said Mrs. McCrae. She thanked Miss Gorringeagain and rang off.
She sat by the telephone, looking upset. She did notfear for the Canon's personal safety. If he had had anaccident she would by now have been notified. She felt sure of that. On the whole theCanon was not what one would call accident-prone. He was what Mrs. McCrae called toherself "one of the scatty ones," andthe scatty ones seemed always to be looked after by a special providence. Whilst taking nocare or thought, they could still survive even a Panda crossing. No, she did not visualiseCanon Pennyfather as lying groaning in a hospital. He was somewhere, no doubt innocentlyand happily prattling with some friend or other. Maybe he was abroad still. The difficultywas that Archdeacon Simmons was arriving this evening and Archdeacon Simmons would expectto find a host to receive him. She couldn't put ArchdeaconSimmons off because she didn't know where he was. It was allvery difficult, but it had, like most difficulties, its bright spot. Its bright spot wasArchdeacon Simmons. Archdeacon Simmons would know what to do. She would place the matterin his hands.
Archdeacon Simmons was a complete contrast to heremployer. He knew where he was going, and what he was doing, and was always cheerfullysure of knowing the right thing to be done and doing it. A confident cleric. ArchdeaconSimmons, when he arrived, to be met by Mrs. McCrae'sexplanations, apologies and perturbation, was a tower of strength. He, too, was notalarmed.
"Now don't you worry,Mrs. McCrae," he said in his genial fashion, as he sat down tothe meal she had prepared for his arrival. "We'll hunt the absent-minded fellow down. Ever heard that story aboutChesterton? G. K. Chesterton, you know, the writer. Wired to his wife when he'd gone on a lecture tour 'Am at Crewe Station.Where ought I to be?'"
He laughed. Mrs. McCrae smiled dutifully. She didnot think it was very funny because it was so exactly the sort of thing that CanonPennyfather might have done.
"Ah," said ArchdeaconSimmons, with appreciation, "one of your excellent vealcutlets! You're a marvellous cook, Mrs. McCrae. I hope my oldfriend appreciates you."
Veal cutlets having been succeeded by some smallcastle puddings with a blackberry sauce which Mrs. McCrae had remembered was one of theArchdeacon's favourite sweets, the good man applied himself inearnest to the tracking down of his missing friend. He addressed himself to the telephonewith vigour and a complete disregard for expense, which made Mrs. McCrae purse her lipsanxiously, although not really disapproving, because definitely her master had got to betracked down.
Having first dutifully tried the Canon's sister who took little notice of her brother'sgoings and comings and as usual had not the faintest idea where he was or might be, theArchdeacon spread his net farther afield. He addressed himself once more to Bertram'sHotel and got details as precisely as possible. The Canon had definitely left there on theearly evening of the 19th. He had with him a small B.E.A. handbag, but hisother luggage had remained behind in his room, which he had duly retained. He hadmentioned that he was going to a conference of some kind at Lucerne. He had not gonedirect to the airport from the hotel. The commissionaire, who knew him well by sight, hadput him into a taxi and had directed it as told by the Canon, to the Athenaeum Club. Thatwas the last time that anyone at Bertram's Hotel had seen Canon Pennyfather. Oh yes, asmall detail – he had omitted to leave his key behind but hadtaken it with him. It was not the first time that that had happened.
Archdeacon Simmons paused for a few minutes'consideration before the next call. He could ring up the air station inLondon. That would no doubt take some time. There might be a short cut. He rang up Dr.Weissgarten, a learned Hebrew scholar who was almost certain to have been at theconference.
Dr. Weissgarten was at his home. As soon as he heardwho was speaking to him he launched out into a torrent of verbiage consisting mostly ofdisparaging criticism of two papers that had been read at the conference in Lucerne.
"Most unsound, that fellow Hogarov," he said, "most unsound. How he gets away with itI don't know! Fellow isn't ascholar at all. Do you know what he actually said?"
The Archdeacon sighed and had to be firm with him.Otherwise there was a good chance that the rest of the evening would be spent in listeningto criticism of fellow scholars at the Lucerne Conference. With some reluctance Dr.Weissgarten was pinned down to more personal matters.
"Pennyfather?" hesaid, "Pennyfather? He ought to have been there. Can't think why he wasn't there. Said he was going.Told me so only a week before when I saw him in the Athenaeum."
"You mean he wasn't atthe conference at all?"
"That's what I've just said. He ought to have been there."
"Do you know why he wasn't there? Did he send an excuse?"
"How should I know? He certainly talked aboutbeing there. Yes, now I remember. He was expected. Several people remarked on his absence.Thought he might have had a chill or something. Very treacherous weather." He was about to revert to his criticisms of his fellow scholars butArchdeacon Simmons rang off.
He had got a fact but it was a fact that for thefirst time awoke in him an uneasy feeling. Canon Pennyfather had not been at the LucerneConference. He had meant to go to that conference. It seemed very extraordinary to theArchdeacon that he had not been there. He might, of course, have taken the wrong plane,though on the whole B.E.A. were pretty careful of you and shepherded you away from suchpossibilities. Could Canon Pennyfather have forgotten the actual day that he was going tothe conference? It was always possible, he supposed. But if so where had he gone instead?
He addressed himself now to the air terminal. Itinvolved a great deal of patient waiting and being transferred from department todepartment. In the end he got a definite fact. Canon Pennyfather had booked as a passengeron the 21.40 plane to Lucerne on the 18th but he had not been on the plane.
"We're getting on,"said Archdeacon Simmons to Mrs. McCrae, who was hovering in thebackground. "Now, let me see. Who shall I try next?"
"All this telephoning will cost a fearful lot ofmoney," said Mrs. McCrae.
"I'm afraid so. I'm afraid so," said Archdeacon Simmons. "But we've got to get on his track, you know. He's not a very young man."
"Oh, sir, you don'tthink there's anything could really have happened to him?"
"Well I hope not… Idon't think so, because I think you'd have heard if so. He – er – always had his name and address on him, didn'the?"
"Oh yes, sir, he had cards on him. He'd have letters too, and all sorts of things in his wallet."
"Well, I don't thinkhe's in a hospital then," said theArchdeacon. "Let me see. When he left the hotel he took a taxito the Athenaeum. I'll ring them up next."
Here he got some definite information. CanonPennyfather, who was well known there, had dined there at seven thirty on the evening ofthe 19th. It was then that the Archdeacon was struck by something he hadoverlooked until then. The aeroplane ticket had been for the 18th but the Canonhad left Bertram's Hotel by taxi to the Athenaeum, having mentioned he was going to theLucerne Conference, on the 19th. Light began to break. "Silly old ass," thought Archdeacon Simmons tohimself, but careful not to say it aloud in front of Mrs. McCrae. "Got his dates wrong. The conference was on the 19th. I'm sure of it. He must have thought that he was leaving on the 18th.He was one day wrong."
He went over the next bit carefully. The Canon wouldhave gone to the Athenaeum, he would have dined, he would have gone on to Kensington AirStation. There, no doubt, it would have been pointed out to him that his ticket was forthe day before and he would then have realised that the conference he was going to attendwas now over.
"That's what happened,"said Archdeacon Simmons, "depend upon it."He explained it to Mrs. McCrae, who agreed it was likely enough. "Then what would he do?"
"Go back to his hotel," said Mrs. McCrae.
"He wouldn't have comestraight down here – gone straight to the station, I mean."
"Not if his luggage was at the hotel. At any rate,he would have called there for his luggage."
"True enough," saidSimmons. "All right. We'll thinkof it like this. He left the airport with his little bag and he went back to hotel, orstarted for the hotel at all events. He might have had dinner perhaps – no, he'd dined at the Athenaeum. All right, hewent back to the hotel. But he never arrived there. He paused a moment or two and thensaid doubtfully, Or did he? Nobody seems to have seen him there. So what happened to himon the way?"
"He could have met someone," said Mrs. McCrae, doubtfully.
"Yes. Of course that'sperfectly possible. Some old friend he hadn't seen for a longtime…. He could have gone off with a friend to the friend's hotel or the friend's house, but he wouldn't have forgotten for three whole days that his luggage was at the hotel. He'd have rung up about it, he'd have called for it,or in a supreme fit of absent-mindedness he might have come straight home. Three days'silence. That's what's so inexplicable."
"If he had an accident –」
"Yes, Mrs. McCrae, of course that's possible. We can try the hospitals. You say he had plenty of papers on himto identify him? Hm – I think there's only one thing for it."
Mrs. McCrae looked at him apprehensively.
"I think, you know," saidthe Archdeacon gently, "that we'vegot to go to the police."
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