A MORTAL CURIOSITY

Ann Granger

Copyright © 2008 Ann Granger

The right of Ann Granger to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2009

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN : 978 0 7553 7239 3

Cover photograph © Corbis/Trevillion Picture Library

This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

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About the Author

Ann Granger has lived in cities all over the world, since for many years she worked for the Foreign Office and received postings to British embassies as far apart as Munich and Lusaka. She is married, with two sons, and she and her husband, who also worked for the Foreign Office, are now permanently based in Oxfordshire.

Ann Granger’s Mitchell and Markby novels are also available from Headline, as are those featuring Fran Varady. A Rare Interest in Corpses is the first Victorian crime novel to feature lady’s companion Lizzie Martin and Inspector Benjamin Ross and it has been highly praised.

Praise for Ann Granger

‘Period colour is nicely supplied . . . This engrossing story looks like the start of a highly enjoyable series’ Scotsman

‘Murder most enjoyable’ Bournemouth Daily Echo

‘The book’s main strength is the characterisation and the realistic portrayal of London in the mid-nineteenth century’ Tangled Web

‘An intriguing tale, with period detail interwoven in a satisfying way’ Oxford Times

‘Enjoyable crime featuring credible characters in a recognisably real world’ Belfast Telegraph

‘A neat and fascinating whodunit with a wealth of memorable characters’ Huddersfield Daily Examiner

‘You’ll soon be addicted’ Woman & Home

‘This engrossing story looks like the start of a highly enjoyable series’ Scotsman

‘Ann Granger has brought the traditional English village crime story up to date, in setting, sophistication and every other aspect of fiction writing . . . sheer, unadulterated bliss’ Birmingham Post

‘A clever and lively book’ Margaret Yorke

‘A good feel for understated humour, a nice ear for dialogue’ The Times

‘A good old-fashioned whodunit with an up-to-date flavour that will leave you satisfied but hoping for more’ Prima

‘A stylish entertainment’ Oxford Times

‘The story just gets more complex, mysterious and chilling’ Good Book Guide

‘For once a murder novel which displays a gentle touch and a dash of wit’ Northern Echo

‘The plot is neat and ingenious, the characters rounded and touchingly credible, and the writing of this darkly humorous but humane and generous novel fluent, supple and a pleasure to read’ Ham & High

Also by Ann Granger

Lizzie Martin and Ben Ross crime series

A Rare Interest in Corpses

A Mortal Curiosity

A Better Quality of Murder

A Particular Eye for Villainy

The Testimony of the Hanged Man

Campbell and Carter crime series

Mud, Muck and Dead Things

Rack, Ruin and Murder

Bricks and Mortality

Fran Varady crime series

Asking for Trouble

Keeping Bad Company

Running Scared

Risking It All

Watching Out

Mixing with Murder

Rattling the Bones

Mitchell and Markby crime series

Say It with Poison

A Season for Murder

Cold in the Earth

Murder Among Us

Where Old Bones Lie

A Fine Place for Death

Flowers for His Funeral

Candle for a Corpse

A Touch of Mortality

A Word After Dying

Call the Dead Again

Beneath these Stones

Shades of Murder

A Restless Evil

That Way Murder Lies

About the Book

It is 1864 and as her train pulls out from Waterloo Station, Lizzie Martin considers her future. It is not without regret that she is leaving her friend Inspector Ben Ross from Scotland Yard, to whom she has formed an attachment. But for now her services are needed in Hampshire, where she is to be a companion to young Lucy Craven, who is recovering from the death of her baby.

It’s a tragic matter, made worse still by Lucy’s denial that her baby is dead. Then events take a sinister turn when a rat-catcher is found murdered in the grounds of Shore House, and Lucy is discovered beside the body, crying and covered in blood.

Not knowing who else to turn to, Lizzie calls upon Ben Ross to investigate this grisly death. And when he sets to work, he encounters sinister goings-on in the rural community and learns that Lizzie’s unerring instinct is not something to ignore.

THANK YOU

to everyone who helped me with the research for this

book; to Alan Shotter for a description of the site and

location of the original Southampton Town railway

station; to Graham Parkes for information regarding the

landing arrangements for the Hythe (Hants) ferry

before the building of the pier at Hythe; and, as always,

to fellow-writer Angela Arney who drove

me around the New Forest (and offered me her

ever-generous hospitality).

Thanks also to all those who regularly support me

in my labours: to my editor Clare Foss, my agent

Carole Blake and above all to my husband John.

Part One

Chapter One

Elizabeth Martin

THE MAN opposite in the first-class compartment wore a shiny black top hat draped from crown to brim in a large white silk handkerchief. It floated gracefully in the movement of the air and gave the impression his otherwise dignified form might levitate at any moment to disport itself above our heads, alongside the luggage racks.

The fancy made me hide a smile, because he was in all other ways a neat, even fastidious, figure. There were streaks of grey in his russet moustache and the luxuriant side-whiskers that followed his jaw line and joined forces beneath his chin in a forked beard. Still, I put his age at no more than forty-five or -six. His slim form was clad in a black frock coat; his linen – what could be seen of it – presented a snowy-white contrast. His hands rested one upon the other on the carved ivory knob of a long malacca cane. The pose drew attention to his best-quality braided kid gloves. The swell of my own skirts prevented my seeing his footwear but I was sure that, too, was immaculate. As for the hat, that had surely been an expensive purchase. Flying cinders from the engines entering and leaving Waterloo station might have damaged it. He’d prudently protected it with the silk scarf while on the concourse and had either forgotten to remove the covering, now we were underway, or still feared a flurry of hostile sparks might find its way into our compartment despite the tightly closed glazed windows.

Now then, Lizzie! That’s enough of that! I chided myself as I realised I risked appearing rude in staring at him so critically. I hoped he hadn’t noticed and hastily turned my gaze to the view outside, such as it was. We were rocking steadily out of the London and South Western Railway’s Waterloo terminus and the sight was an unexciting one of soot-grimed buildings.

A sense of adventure was beginning to tingle through my veins together with just a little nervousness. The south coast of England was as unknown to me as London had been when I’d arrived there from the north, earlier that year, with my modest baggage. Now I was on the move again. Unpleasant and unforeseen events had cut short my stay in the capital. As things turned out, they’d also opened the door to new possibilities. Yet I might have been venturing into darkest Africa for all I knew of my present destination. It certainly didn’t appear any less exotic in my imagination.

We rattled through Clapham and had reached the suburbs. Already the houses were smaller and clustered in brick terraces. Their carefully tended back gardens ran down to the railway embankment offering glimpses of modest domesticity. Linen flapped on lines and children’s toys lay abandoned on lawns. Trees and open spaces suggested the countryside. The overpowering presence of commercial London with its thronged streets, dust, smoke and never-ending hubbub was fading.

I wasn’t leaving it all without regret. One person in particular was very much in my mind.

‘That young man of yours,’ my Aunt Parry asked one day over the substantial midday meal she called a light luncheon. ‘Is he intending to offer marriage?’

I’m not normally lost for a reply but this question, put without warning, left me floundering. Aunt Parry wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were fixed on her plate and she was apparently concentrating on one of her favourite occupations: eating. I watched as the spoon reached her mouth and her pouting lips parted. I thought how small her mouth was and how, with her snub nose and pink pouched cheeks, she resembled a middle-aged cherub. Auburn curls escaping from her lace cap enhanced it. Very auburn. I do believe, I thought, she’s taken to using henna! Then my mind returned reluctantly to her question and how to answer it.

For the past three months I’d been officially ‘walking out’ with Ben Ross. In reality I saw very little of him. The truth was I had a rival and its name was police work. The criminal world took no holidays, I’d soon discovered. At all hours of the day and night, with a fine lack of consideration for the police officer and his private life, housebreakers relieved citizens of their valuables, fraudsters hatched their ingenious plots, while murder, that most ruthless of predators, prowled the alleys of the slums and slipped unseen into the dwellings of the better-off.

The continual foiling of any plans hatched by Ben and myself was embodied in the substantial form of Superintendent Dunn. He was a nice enough man, bluff and canny. But I’d quickly learned Dunn saw his junior officers as being at his beck and call, first, foremost and ‘pretty well all the time’, as I’d hotly declared to Ben.

So what on earth was I to reply to Aunt Parry? I could have told her that I thought Ben was probably working up to a proposal but, on the other hand, nothing specific had been said. What was more, if I would see as little of him as his wife as I was currently seeing of him as his ‘young lady’, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to be married to an inspector of the Metropolitan Police, plain-clothes division.

My turmoil had been made worse by the note delivered only that morning by an impudently grinning urchin. In it, Ben begged my forgiveness and presented heartfelt apologies, but he would not be free to accompany me to the open-air concert in Hyde Park as planned that afternoon. When the outing had been decided upon Ben had assured me that, given the long hours he had been working and the not inconsiderable success of his efforts, it should be possible for him to claim a free Saturday afternoon. But no, again we were frustrated. I knew he was as disappointed as I was. But it didn’t help, and the most annoying phrase in the whole carefully worded note, over which I knew poor Ben had sweated, was that in which he declared he was sure I ‘would understand’.

Oh yes, I did understand very well. Superintendent Dunn had required Ben’s services and the concert was pushed aside to make way probably for another gruesome murder.

So I replied at last to Aunt Parry’s question with a brisk, ‘I’m sure I have no idea.’

She looked up, startled. ‘I am responsible for you, Elizabeth my dear!’ she said as if to justify her curiosity.

She probably thought my brief frown meant I felt she was intruding on a delicate private matter. The question about Ben’s intentions hadn’t annoyed me but the declaration that she was ‘responsible’ for me did jar.

I wanted to tell her she wasn’t responsible for me at all. She was only my aunt ‘by marriage’, being the widow of my late godfather, and currently my employer. I had been my widower father’s housekeeper and general factotum until his death and looking after myself had always been very much my own responsibility. But it would not only have been imprudent of me to say any of this, it would also have been ungrateful. In her own way, she had been very kind to me. It was the fault of neither of us that we were quite incompatible.

When a child, if I had found myself faced with some difficult situation, I would run to the top of our ramshackle old house and hide in the attic until I had sorted things out in my own mind. I couldn’t do that now. What I needed more than anything was to go away, be alone, and have time to consider my predicament undisturbed. Instead I spent most of my time (thanks to Superintendent Dunn) listening to Aunt Parry’s chatter and playing whist with her and her friends.

‘Dear Aunt Parry,’ I said. ‘I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me. I know you worry about my future. I should of course be sorry to leave this house and the home here you’ve been so good as to give me, but I’ve been thinking that perhaps I should leave London altogether for a little while.’

‘How about Hampshire?’ asked Aunt Parry immediately.

I gaped, then pulled myself together. ‘I don’t know Hampshire. I’ve only ever been in my home town and here in London.’

‘Oh, you’d like Hampshire,’ said Aunt Parry confidently. ‘Especially the area called the New Forest. It’s very pretty and on the coast. You would benefit from the sea air.’

Was she proposing I take a holiday? I couldn’t believe it. I was right to have my doubts. A holiday wasn’t what Aunt Parry had in mind.

She pushed aside her dish of gooseberry fool – an action that told me how serious she was.

‘I’ve been talking,’ she said, ‘to an old acquaintance of mine, Mr Charles Roche. Mr Roche was once in business with my poor Josiah; silks, you know. For a few years now he’s added the import of tea from China to his interests. He owns, I understand, two fast clipper ships. Just fancy, from Canton to London in only nine weeks!’

Aunt Parry paused to smooth the fabric of her sleeve with her short podgy fingers. ‘So clever of Charles,’ she murmured, ‘to combine silk and quality tea, two things no lady can do without.’ She roused herself from whatever interesting byway this had led her into, and went on briskly, ‘Now I’ve just learned that a little – private difficulty – has arisen in his family. It occurs to me you could be just the person to help out.’

I had to be intrigued. ‘Yes?’ I encouraged her.

Aunt Parry beamed approval. I wasn’t going to be difficult.

‘Well, dear, Mr Roche has a young married niece, Mrs Craven. She’s called Lucy. Mrs Craven is not long since delivered of her first child but sadly the infant died after only two days.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ I said sincerely.

‘Her spirits have been very low ever since,’ Aunt Parry went on. ‘Her husband—’ Here she paused and looked a little awkward.

‘Mr Craven?’ I suggested blandly.

Aunt Parry wasn’t a fool. She blinked and said sharply, ‘Quite so. Mr Craven is abroad on business. He and his young wife are by way of being cousins – once or twice removed, I fancy. At any rate, Mr Roche would like to see Mr Craven advance in the firm, and so he’s sent him to China to learn about the tea trade.’

‘Business is business, I suppose,’ I said. ‘But it seems very unkind to send the young man away when his wife is recovering from her lying-in and both of them in mourning for their child.’

‘I gather he’d sailed before the child was born,’ Aunt Parry admitted and held up her hand. ‘The circumstances don’t concern us, Elizabeth. The present situation is this: young Mrs Craven is living with Mr Roche’s sisters, a pair of maiden ladies, at their home in Hampshire. I gather it’s beautifully situated just where the New Forest looks out on the Solent. One may see right across to the Isle of Wight, where our dear Queen has that charming Osborne House.’

Aunt Parry paused to give a sigh. I thought it was in sympathy with Her Majesty in her widowhood. But I should have known Aunt Parry better.

‘I often said to your godfather, “Mr Parry, you should buy a country retreat!” but he never did. “My dear,” he would always reply, “here in Marylebone I am as near the countryside as I wish to be.” He never liked to be far from his counting house.

‘However, I was speaking of Shore House in the New Forest where the Roche ladies live. Although in an utterly delightful spot, it is quiet; there is no young company; the ladies are elderly and reclusive. As I said, Mrs Craven’s spirits are very low. Charles Roche thinks having a female companion would cheer up his niece. It would also relieve his sisters of some of the burden of caring for her. He doesn’t want someone too young, of course, and flibbertigibbet. He’s seeking a person entering her more mature years but still considerably younger than his sisters. I thought of you at once.’

‘I shan’t be thirty until the end of the year,’ I protested.

Aunt Parry made a brushing gesture to dismiss this trifling objection.

‘You’re a doctor’s daughter, Elizabeth, and it seems to me that you’re the very person to act as companion to Mrs Craven for a short period; until she improves. The situation would only be for a few months. After that you could return to London and this house – or perhaps to another place.’

It was clear which of these two options Aunt Parry preferred.

‘I could look out for another situation for you while you’re away,’ she added, confirming it. ‘Not, of course, that I have any desire to see you go, dear Elizabeth.’

Thus convention requires us to tell lies. I couldn’t get out of this house fast enough and my employer was anxious to wave me goodbye. I told her I quite understood and let her make of that whatever she wanted.

I then fell silent thinking about it and Aunt Parry set about the rest of the gooseberry fool. She looked relieved at having got the matter off her chest.

I had to admit that, although there seemed to be a certain mystery about the whereabouts of Mr Craven, the suggestion had a lot to recommend it. My late father had treated many women in low spirits after a birth. I knew, without being a mother myself, that this wasn’t uncommon, even with a squalling healthy infant. Poor young Lucy Craven had buried her baby. In supporting her, I would be doing something of worth and the short stay in Hampshire would give me time to review my future.

All that was very well – except in one respect: Ben Ross’s likely reaction. But it wouldn’t do to admit this to Aunt Parry. I also told myself that it would be silly to mention all this to Ben before I spoke to Mr Roche. After all, nothing might come of it.

‘Perhaps I could meet Mr Charles Roche and discuss it,’ I said.

‘Of course, my dear. I anticipated you’d say that. Mr Roche would be pleased to see you at his house in Chelsea at eleven thirty on Monday morning.’ She patted her chin with her napkin, picked up the little brass bell on the table and rang it. ‘I think I could manage a little cheese. How about you, Elizabeth?’

I was very favourably impressed by Charles Roche. The Chelsea house, in an elegant terrace, was expensively furnished. The butler who opened the door gave the appearance of being in his sixties and I put his employer at about the same age. Charles Roche was a tall, large-framed man, a little stooped now. When younger, he must have topped six feet. He proved a gentleman ‘of the old school’: very polite and anxious that I should not be inconvenienced in any way. I would receive the same salary as I presently received from Aunt Parry. Living in the country, I wouldn’t have the same expenses as in London. The Roche ladies didn’t entertain, not only because of the current situation but because they preferred a quiet life. This meant I would be quite considerably better off. Mr Roche would provide a first-class railway ticket to Southampton. (Luxury indeed!) Miss Christina Roche, the elder of the sisters, would write to me before I left with instructions for my onward journey from there.

Mr Roche’s concern for his young niece seemed so genuine, his worry as to how his sisters were coping with the difficult situation so frankly expressed, that before I knew it I’d agreed.

Aunt Parry was delighted. It only remained to break the news to Ben Ross.

‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Lizzie? Who on earth is this Miss Roche at Shore House?’

Ben fired this salvo after I had, quite reasonably and gently, informed him of my intention.

‘I don’t think I have, Ben. I’ve given the matter considerable thought.’

I made my reply with as much dignity as I could muster. I’m the first to admit I’m inclined to be imprudent from time to time, especially in the matter of letting my tongue run ahead of my brain. But I’ve never been unable to make up my own mind.

Ben, standing before me with his hat in his hand, his face flushed and his mop of black hair rendered untidy by the hand he had just swept over it, positively glowered at me. We were in the room designated as the library in Aunt Parry’s house. It certainly had some books in it but they were of the dry variety and nobody ever touched them.

‘Josiah bought them at a house sale,’ Aunt Parry let slip to me once. ‘A job lot, as they call it.’

‘Do you know, Lizzie?’ Ben raised his hand to point at me, realised how rude it looked and hastily dropped his hand back by his side. ‘Look here,’ he went on with a poor attempt at calm, ‘I’d have said you were the most sensible female of my acquaintance. You, if anyone, I should have thought had her head screwed on the right way. But you propose to go off to Hampshire, where you’ve never been in your life, and take up a post as companion to someone you never heard of until a week ago.’

His voice and manner were becoming agitated again and the tones of his native Derbyshire more marked. ‘The whole thing sounds rum. Don’t tell me I’m a policeman and have a suspicious mind. Well, yes, if you like, I am a policeman and I do have a suspicious mind and not without foundation. There is something decidedly fishy about this business, Lizzie, mark my words, there!’

He made a theatrical sweep of his hat towards the portrait of my godfather Josiah above the fireplace.

‘Ben,’ I said loudly and firmly since there was no other way to break into his tirade, ‘if you’ll let me explain?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Only please do let me finish and then I’ll listen to whatever you want to say.’

A snort in reply.

‘In the first place I only continue to live in this house because I’m Aunt Parry’s companion; although we’d both like to put an end to the arrangement. You and I know perfectly well why. While I remain here, she can’t forget the murder of my predecessor that you investigated. I can’t forget it, either.’

I drew a deep breath. ‘Josiah Parry was my godfather and she can’t put me out on the doorstep, bag and baggage, but she has gone to some trouble to find an alternative situation for me. I know that’s the way of it. She doesn’t care twopence for the Roche family or young Mrs Craven. But she does want me gone. I can only accept the arrangements she’s taken such pains to set up.’

‘Humph!’ was the muttered response to this.

‘The proposed situation is only for six months until Mrs Craven has fully recovered her spirits or Mr Craven returns to Britain.’

‘If he exists!’ snapped Ben.

‘The thought did occur to me,’ I admitted. ‘But now I’ve spoken with Mr Roche that doubt’s laid to rest. Mr Roche is a very respectable old gentleman. He explained to me that he hopes that young Craven will eventually run the tea side of the Roche family interests. So that’s why he was sent abroad; to see how the crop is grown and shipped. He’s in China somewhere.’

‘Certainly!’ was the cold comment. ‘Why not on the moon?’

‘That’s unworthy of you, Ben.’

His jaw had set obstinately. ‘See here, Lizzie, I know you’re upset because I haven’t had much time for us, but I do hope you aren’t taking yourself off to Hampshire in revenge for my neglect of you. I’m the first to admit it and I know—’

‘I’m not flouncing off in a huff!’ I interrupted. ‘Please don’t think that, Ben. I don’t deny I find Superintendent Dunn’s constant demand on your attention very annoying. I also know it’s not your fault and that whatever future we might have together, it would of necessity include Superintendent Dunn.’ I managed a wry smile. ‘My father was a family doctor and never knew when he might be called out. I do understand the situation.’

There was a silence. Ben came to take the wing chair next to mine. He cleared his throat and his face turned alarmingly red.

‘Lizzie,’ he began, ‘you must know that my hope—’

The seriousness of his expression and the beads of perspiration that had broken out on his brow filled me with panic.

I burst out, ‘Please, Ben! Forgive me if I’m presuming too much, but if you’re going to ask what I think, then I really can’t give any kind of answer just now. I’m very sensible of the honour,’ I went on, sounding as stilted as he had done, but knowing no other way out of it. ‘It isn’t that I’m not – that I wouldn’t like . . .’ At this point I faltered to a halt, my face, I was sure, even redder than Ben’s.

‘In that case—’ he began eagerly, but I interrupted him again.

‘So much has happened in the last few months my world’s turned fairly topsy-turvy. Some mornings I’ve woken up wondering what on earth will happen next. I need time to put my thoughts in order. Please try and see that.’

‘Of course,’ Ben said, looking so contrite that I felt a monster. ‘I should have realised this isn’t the moment. Take all the time you want. But I’d find it easier to be patient if I felt you weren’t refusing me outright. Not,’ he added hastily, ‘that I have any right to presume you’d accept. And you certainly don’t have to run away from London. I won’t pester you for an answer.’

This was worse than being accused of taking myself off in pique. I assured him earnestly I never for one second thought he’d behave in any other way than utterly correctly. This at first seemed to cheer him up and then to cast him down.

‘I’m pleased to hear it, I’m sure,’ he said gloomily.

‘I will give you an answer, Ben, but not at this moment. I do feel a need to be away from London. It will only be a short while.’

Ben looked even glummer. ‘I don’t like it. I’m not being selfish, Lizzie. The whole story is like a cracked cup. It just doesn’t ring true.’

‘Oh, Ben,’ I said and took his hand. ‘You mustn’t worry about me. I am perfectly capable.’

‘Perfectly capable of getting yourself into a pickle!’ said Ben. He clasped my hand between his palms and begged, ‘I know that once you’ve taken something into your head nothing will shift it. But promise you’ll write to me every day, Lizzie, and tell me everything. All of it, agreed? I don’t want yards of description of the scenery. I want to know what is going on.’

So did I, and the only way I would find out was by going to Hampshire. I promised I would write regularly and not devote more than one paragraph per letter to the scenery.

I knew his concern for me was genuine. But the journey to Hampshire was necessary to me; of this I was sure.

‘Not more than six months,’ I repeated.

Fate plays curious tricks. Ben did all in his power to be free to accompany me to Waterloo Station and personally install me in a first-class ladies-only compartment. But as usual the criminal world had other ideas on how he should spend his time that morning. So, in the end, Simms the butler had accompanied me to the station while Ben attended to ‘police matters.’

Our cab was held up partly by the bustle of traffic and partly by Simms disputing the fare. At the station we had difficulty in finding the platform because of the higgledy-piggledy way these were numbered. The station had been built piecemeal and platforms added as required without any attempt to make sense of it all. Simms and I were not the only ones scurrying back and forth in increasing frustration. When we did locate the train, all the places in the ladies-only compartment were taken. That is why I travelled in the company of the man in the veiled hat and two other people: a clerical gentleman absorbed in some book of devotions and an elderly lady whose nimble fingers produced a steadily lengthening strip of tatted lace. It was as well no one else had wanted to enter, as my crinoline-supported skirts and those of the old lady took up any remaining space.

I settled on the comfortable banquette; thrust all the arguments of the past weeks from my mind and concentrated on the possibilities of the future. As a start I opened my purse and took out the letter giving the directions for reaching my final destination, Shore House. I had unfolded it and begun reading it through when the gentleman in the veiled top hat took off his headwear and set it, still draped, on his knees. He then leaned forward and gave a discreet cough designed to engage my attention.

‘Forgive my addressing you when we’ve not been introduced,’ he said. He had a cultivated, reassuring kind of voice. Joined to a sober yet sympathetic mien, it made me think at once he must be either a doctor or a solicitor. Also, to judge by his wardrobe, one with a profitable practice! ‘But do I have the honour of travelling with Miss Elizabeth Martin?’