Night of a Thousand Stars. Deanna Raybourn

garage man was wiping his hands on an oily rag when we appeared, looking a little out of place amongst the spanners and grease. I flicked Masterman a look indicating she should stay behind me. She obeyed, keeping a little distance as the garage man came forward.

      “Can I help, miss?”

      I put out my hand, then thought better of it when he apologetically showed a soiled palm.

      “I hope so. Are you the proprietor, Mr. O’Loughlin?”

      He grinned. “Naw, miss. I’m Wilson. Never has been an O’Loughlin here. I gave the place that name because the quality do like their Irish chauffeurs, don’t they?”

      I returned the smile. “Clever of you, Mr. Wilson. I’ve come because I’m trying to find an acquaintance of mine, a gentleman who assisted me under some very trying circumstances. He gave me a ride when I rather desperately needed transportation. I’m afraid I didn’t have a chance to thank him properly and it’s rather got under my skin. It would have been about a week ago. He drives a pretty little Talbot tourer. Painted blue? Quite fast?”

      The garage man’s face brightened. “Ah, yes, a right little beauty, isn’t she? And Mr. Fox is a good customer, he is. Always ready with a pleasant word and what matter if he forgets a bill now and then? He always pays it and a little more when he realises. A real gentleman.”

      “Mr. Fox, you say? I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name when he gave me a ride.”

      “Sebastian Fox,” the garage man said promptly. “He lodges in the next street with Mrs. Webb what keeps the big house on the corner.”

      I thanked him and followed his directions to the corner house with Masterman trotting alongside.

      “Honestly, I don’t see what all the fuss with being a detective is,” I told her. “It’s quite easy, really. But did you hear the garage man? The curate was right. Sebastian’s name isn’t Cantrip at all. It’s Fox. Why on earth would he lie?”

      “Perhaps he’s a criminal,” Masterman said blandly.

      “He’s nothing of the sort. I think he was hiding from someone,” I told her. “Perhaps he is in some sort of trouble.”

      She snorted. “What sort of trouble would a man be in that he changes his name and lies about his identity rather than going to the police? He’s a criminal,” she repeated slyly as we reached the corner house.

      I noted that the front steps were freshly scrubbed and the brass knocker had been polished to a blinding shine. I used it to rap briskly, and the door was opened almost immediately by a tall, imposing woman with a wealth of iron-grey hair bundled into an old-fashioned snood. She wore a black dress with a crisp white collar, and everything about her spoke of respectability.

      “Have you come to inquire about the room?” she asked pleasantly.

      I was caught off guard. “Oh, no, I—” I broke off, thinking wildly. I couldn’t very well explain who Masterman was. Ladies who could afford maids didn’t live in boarding houses. I felt a sudden jolt of inspiration and smiled winsomely at Mrs. Webb. “That is to say, not just a room. My, er, friend and I would need a pair of rooms.” I flicked a glance at Masterman, who must have been surprised but kept her expression perfectly impassive.

      Mrs. Webb nodded. “Well, I’ve only the one, I’m afraid, but it is large enough for two. I could put in a second bed, no trouble at all. It’s only just come available, but I assure you it’s in very good condition. The gentleman who occupied it was not always tidy, but he was clean, if you take my meaning.”

      “Show us,” I said, amending it hastily with a fervent, “please.”

      Mrs. Webb escorted us up the stairs and unlocked a door from the ring of heavy keys at her belt. “There you are, miss?” She let the word dangle hopefully.

      “Cantrip,” I said promptly. “And this is my friend, Miss Smith.”

      Mrs. Webb nodded. “I’ll leave you both to look around. I have a sponge in the oven. If you will make your way down when you are finished, you’d be most welcome to a cup of tea.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Webb.”

      The landlady withdrew and Masterman gave me a grudging nod, her expression speculative. “You’ve a talent for lying, miss.”

      “I always have had,” I admitted. “Learnt in more boarding schools than I can count. Now, let’s have a good sniff around and see if we can discover anything about our mysterious Mr. Fox.”

      Masterman busied herself with the wardrobe while I circled slowly, taking in the room. It was large with a bow window that gave onto the street. I flicked aside the crisp white curtains with a gloved finger. There was a perfect view of the comings and goings of the neighbourhood from this room, although something at the back overlooking the garden would certainly be quieter. Interesting.

      I turned and inspected the rest of the room. There was a small sitting area by the fireplace, a deep armchair, and a little table just large enough to hold a cup of tea and a book. The fender was well-polished and the leather cushion on top showed a bit of wear. I could just imagine Sebastian there, slouched comfortably in his chair, stockinged feet propped on the fender as a fire crackled merrily away.

      Masterman finished with the wardrobe and wandered to the bookshelf, touching the books idly. “Not so much as a pin in the wardrobe, miss. It’s been thoroughly cleaned.”

      There was nothing else to search save the bed and bookshelf. The bed was stripped to the mattress, narrow and freshly turned, and the bookshelf was nearly empty. Only half a dozen volumes stood upon it, and I motioned for Masterman to move as I took each one down, riffling through hastily.

      Most were classic novels of the sort anyone might have, Dickens and the ubiquitous Austen, but I was intrigued to find the last book was Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. I held it up to Masterman. “See? Not a criminal. No criminal would have a copy of this. It’s a child’s adventure book.” I thumbed through to find my favourite picture, the Rackham illustration of Queen Mab, the queen of the fairies in Kensington Gardens.

      And there it was, on the flyleaf in neat copperplate script. “Sebastian Fox,” I said, tracing the handwriting with a fingertip.

      “Do you suppose it’s his real name?” she asked.

      “I suspect so. It’s dated 1911, the year the book was published, and the handwriting is a boy’s. So, confirmation he lied to me but told the garage man the truth.”

      I looked up at Masterman with fearful eyes. “This book is very nearly falling apart. It’s been read to pieces. Look where he’s mended it, here and here. And he’s underlined passages. This was no ordinary book to him, Masterman. It was a treasure. He would have had to have been in a very big hurry indeed to leave without it.”

      She nodded. “I’m beginning to think you’re right, miss.”

      I shoved the book back onto the bookshelf with reluctant fingers. “I think his leaving this behind is a sign that we are onto something here.”

      Masterman said nothing as I prodded her downstairs to find the landlady. Mrs. Webb was in the kitchen finishing laying the tea things, and she gave us an apologetic look.

      “I’ve nearly done here if you would go through to the sitting room, my dears.”

      I hesitated. We had passed the sitting room on our way up the stairs. It was precisely the sort of room a proper landlady would keep—chilly and formal with an ancient Victorian horsehair suite of furniture and too many china ornaments. It was not a place for confidences. No, one wanted a kitchen for that. Many secrets could be exchanged in a warm and cosy room over a fat brown teapot and good bread and butter.

      “That is so kind of you, Mrs. Webb, but I wonder if you would mind very much if we had our tea in here? It’s just that I seem to have twisted my ankle a little in these wretched shoes and I shouldn’t like to take my shoe off in your