Free The Daughters of Gentlemen by Linda Stratmann Page A

Davey’s a good young man; he’s a carpenter and has worked up quite a nice little business in the area.’
    ‘I think I ought to speak to your son and also to Davey. They may have heard from Matilda since last night. And if you could let me know the name and address of the school your granddaughter attends —’
    ‘No. I’ve said. Tilda won’t have gone there.’
    ‘How old is the little girl?’
    ‘She’s —,’ Mrs Springett appeared to be struggling to remember. ‘Seven – yes, seven.’
    ‘And her name?’
    ‘Edie.’ She suddenly leaned forward. ‘Miss Doughty – we never mention the child in front of Davey. It upsets him.’
    Frances, knowing that Davey was not the child’s father, suspected that he had not even been told of Edie’s existence, and guessed that Mrs Springett was understandably concerned that should he learn of it, a cloud might be cast over the forthcoming wedding. She wondered what was being hidden and if it had any connection with Matilda’s disappearance. There were, she knew, places which did not deserve the name of schools where unwanted children could be minded for a fee. Had the child been sent to such a place and was Mrs Springett ashamed to admit it? Perhaps the little girl was one of those sad mites born with some disease or deformity yet which nature had somehow kept alive, and was being kept from the eyes of the world? She knew that it would be hopeless to press Mrs Springett further at this juncture but thought it possible that she might have to do so in future. She would very much have liked to search the house and garden, to see if there were any signs that Matilda had been there recently, but did not feel that this was something she was in a position to insist upon.
    ‘I will abide by your request, of course,’ said Frances, finishing her tea. She wrote her address on the letter of introduction. ‘If you should hear anything at all, or if you should discover one of the pamphlets in the house, please send me a note. I will return this evening to speak to your son and to Davey.’
    Mrs Springett nodded dolefully.
    Frances wondered if she might ask Chas and Barstie to keep a lookout for Matilda, but it seemed improbable that they would recognise her, as their substantial memories only extended to persons with rather more capital than £20.
    ‘I don’t suppose,’ Frances asked Mrs Springett, ‘that you have a portrait of Matilda?’
    ‘No,’ said Mrs Springett, ‘we’re going to have one done special, for the wedding.’
    That was a disappointment, but Frances suddenly thought where she might obtain an image to assist in the search.
    She returned to Westbourne Grove via the imposing terraces of Kensington Gardens Square, and sat and looked at her notebook again. Not only was there still a long list of people to whom she had not yet spoken, but the pamphlet itself was eluding her, forever out of her grasp, like something that had existed only in storybooks. What, she wondered, if the copies Mrs Venn had burnt were the only ones ever to be printed, and the answers to all her questions lay in ashes?

C HAPTER S IX
    S arah, who had been hunting for apartments with all the determination of a sportsman out for a good kill, returned in a state of some satisfaction as she had found one that she felt sure would suit in Westbourne Park Road. She described its merits and extracted a promise from Frances that they would go together and see it without any delay, but recognised with some concern that Frances’ introspective mood was not a happy one. A hard stare was all that was required to induce Frances to reveal what she would have told no other person, that she was far from confident that she would be able to succeed in solving what had seemed at first to be such a simple problem, and was afraid that their entire future would depend on her ability to do so.
    Sarah’s first instinct was to deal with difficulties by the liberal application of food, especially as she knew