Free The Case of the Missing Marquess by Nancy Springer

them.
    Also that afternoon on a country road I met a travelling peddler, his wagon hung round with tin-ware and umbrellas and baskets and sea sponges and birdcages and washboards and all manner of trifles. I stopped him and had him show me everything in his stock, from copper kettles to tortoise-shell combs for the back of the hair, in order to disguise my purpose before I bought the one thing I really needed: a carpet-bag.
    Laying it across my handle-bars, I pedalled on.
    I saw other wayfarers, on foot and in conveyances ranging from coach-and-four to donkey-carts, but my memories become faulty as my weariness blurred the day. By the time night fell, every part of my person ached, and I felt fagged as never before in my life. Walking now upon turf cropped to the roots by sheep, pushing my bicycle and leaning upon it, I struggled up a low, limestone-studded hill on top of which stood a grove of beeches. Once I reached the concealment of the trees, I let my bicycle fall where it would, while I myself collapsed in dirt and last year’s leaves, my spirits as low with evening as they had been high with morning, for I wondered: Would I find strength to get on that bicycle again tomorrow?
    I could sleep where I was. Unless . . . for the first time I thought: What if it rained?
    My plan not to plan seemed more foolish with every panting breath I drew.
    After I had despaired for a while, I managed to stagger up and, in the concealing darkness, take off my hat, hairpins, and the baggage I carried on my person, along with my tormenting corset. Too weary even to think of food, I folded to the ground again and, wearing petticoats and my much-soiled taupe suit as my only covering, fell asleep within moments.
    So nocturnal had my habits become, however, that sometime late at night I awoke.
    No longer the least bit sleepy, I felt famished.
    But there was no moon tonight. The sky had clouded over. It might indeed rain. And without moonlight or even starlight, I could not see to find myself the food I had packed in the box on the bicycle. Nor could I see to find, for the sake of light, the tin of matches I had stupidly left in the same place. I would consider myself fortunate if I stumbled upon the bicycle at all.
    “Curses,” I muttered naughtily, feeling beech twigs scratch my face and catch at my clothing as I lurched to my feet.
    But the next moment I forgot about food. I stood staring, for at no great distance I saw lights.
    Gas lamps. Glimpsed between the trunks of the hilltop trees, they twinkled in the distance like earthbound stars.
    A village. I had come up one side of the hill not knowing, and too weary to realise, that a village lay on the other side.
    A town, rather, being large enough to have gas laid on.
    A town with, perhaps, a railway station?
    And even as I thought it, there came floating to my ears, across the dark of night, a train whistle’s long tenor call.
     
    Very, very early the next morning, I stole out of the beech woods—so early, I hoped, that few if any folk would catch sight of me. Not that I was afraid anyone would recognise me. It was just that it would look a bit odd for a well-dressed widow, on foot, with a carpet-bag, to emerge from such primitive lodging.
    Yes, a widow. Head to toe, I wore the black garb of mourning I had taken from my mother’s closet. The costume, by indicating that I had been married, added a decade or more to my age, yet allowed me to wear my comfortable old black boots, which would not be noticed, and my hair in a simple bun, which I could manage. Best of all, it made me nearly unrecognisable. Hanging from the brim of my black felt hat, a dense black veil enveloped my entire head, so that I looked rather as if I intended to raid a beehive. Black kid-leather gloves covered my hands— I had made sure of this detail, as I lacked a wedding ring—and dull black silk covered me from my chin to my black-booted toes.
    Ten years ago, Mum had been thinner, so her dress fit me nicely