For a moment she continued to look at him, wondering for a moment where she had seen him before and remembering her first visit to the Four Seasons she had interrupted an argument with Kathleen. A tall, fair-haired man who was looking angry, bowed slightly and walked away.

  And Imogen realised that it was his image she had seen in the gallery long ago in Amsterdam, and how she had returned again and again after that visit because it had so fascinated her. Perhaps all Dutchmen looked alike but she had fallen in love with ‘Andres’, the sixteenth-century portrait of a young man by Vermeer, the same fair colouring and neatly pointed beard, in his outstretched hand a goblet of wine, a gentle, slightly mocking expression as if inviting the viewer to participate.

  How extraordinary, she thought, as she looked in the Stonegate for a shop selling newspapers to take one back to Faro. Then she walked back once more towards the Four Seasons and, seeing the ‘Closed’ notice was still there, the containers inside and the unloaders vanished, she continued down the street to the cafe where she had intended to meet Kathleen on that first visit. She walked across and glanced in the windows at some smartly dressed ladies who were obviously enjoying morning refreshments in what was a very respectable coffee house that lived up to its reputation for excellence. Taking advantage of the pretty young waitress’s friendly manner, as she paid for the delicious cream scone she mentioned the flower shop. Did they open later than the usual shops in the area?

  Mary Boyd, the owner and manager, overheard the question and came forward. She vaguely remembered this very elegant and lovely woman. Hadn’t she arranged to meet someone who hadn’t turned up?

  She didn’t want to appear nosey, it was none of her business, after all. She merely shook her head. She had no idea but if it was flowers madam wanted there were other shops and she thought there would be plenty of spring flowers and tulips about at this time of year. That wasn’t very encouraging, and paying her bill, Imogen said casually the Four Seasons had been particularly recommended.

  Oh yes, this was definitely the same lady. Mary again shook her head and smiled apologetically. She hardly ever went into a flower shop. No need, really. They were too expensive when she had lovely flowers in her garden at home.

  As Imogen was leaving the Ladies’ room hovering indecisively, wondering what to do next, four tough-looking men, grim-faced despite their smart suits, walked rapidly to the table she had just left. Her umbrella was still there. They looked up sharply as she approached and apologised. One of them was Andres come to life from the Dutch portrait, who she had noticed superintending those flower boxes outside the Four Seasons.

  When she said: ‘My umbrella, if you please’, without a word or a glance, he pushed it towards her irritably, hardly interrupting his conversation.

  What manners and a disappointment she thought, not much like the portrait of that gallant sixteenth-century young man, and looking across she saw the expression on Mary’s face. Imogen could almost feel her annoyance and fears for what the presence of such men would do for the coffee shop’s business and reputation.

  It spoke worlds of what Mary thought as she glanced anxiously in the direction of her tables full of smartly dressed York matrons, regular customers enjoying their morning coffee, as a male hand raised and fingers snapped sharply and impatiently for her attention from the newly entered quartet of men who seemed like strangers in this area.

  It wasn’t Mary’s first encounter with these unpopular customers and anxiously considering her ladies she hoped these common individuals weren’t going to make a habit of coming into her cafe. She did not like the look of them. She had an instinct about people. Something in their appearance said trouble and seeing them sitting there would undoubtedly spell disaster for her business.

  She remembered that first time, last week. The four men had gathered around a corner table. Four well-dressed but unprepossessing men whose grim-faced appearance and whispered conversations hinted to Mary that they were conspirators. Her ladies already looked scandalised, whispering among themselves. Not good news for the clientele since it was only in very recent years that middle class ladies had gone out unattended by their maids. The intruding males belonged to a definitely lower echelon of the social system and from her vast experience she would have hazarded a guess that at least one of them had a criminal record and carried a firearm in the jacket of that smart suit. She enjoyed reading short stories in the Strand Magazine about a detective called Sherlock Holmes and she was momentarily intrigued.

  ‘Up to no good, mark my words,’ she said to her pretty young waitress Amy, preparing their coffee.

  Amy gasped, ‘How do you know that? Just look like ordinary men from the offices to me.’

  ‘Foreigners,’ Mary sniffed, ‘not a nice local lad among them.’

  Amy darted a look at the table as she heaped rolls onto a plate. She did not share her boss’s misgivings. One of them looked young, not bad-looking, and Amy was on the lookout for a new young man − not one of the rough kind she met at the Saturday night dance hall who worked on the railways. She had her sights on some fellow with a good steady job and a bit of money as a matrimonial prospect.

  She giggled and shook her blonde curls. ‘Not all foreigners. I think I heard one Irish accent. I recognised it because the matron at the home was from Wexford. She was awful nice to me.’

  ‘Irish,’ Mary repeated, unimpressed by this observation. ‘Well, that’s bad enough but the others sounded like those sailors we get in sometimes from Hull, even if they are better dressed. Some too dark to be Dutchmen,’ she added.

  She knew that the Dutch accent might be mistaken for German. Two of them looked like Arabs. She sighed. What was York coming to? No longer good-humoured, tough but kindly solid Yorkshire lads working on the railway, always good for a laugh or even a wee flirtation, but always plenty of compliments and a good tip. But these foreigners didn’t even have the manners to say thank you miss. Took their coffee and rolls all straight-faced or scowling and left, no tip either.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As Imogen retraced her steps towards Kathleen’s shop, the Minster chimed ten. Ah, the shop was open and the doorbell rang as she entered. It wasn’t Kathleen as she expected but the young girl she had seen putting up the ‘Closed’ notice who stepped forward from behind the counter.

  ‘What can I do for you, madam?’

  ‘I’m looking for Kathleen – Mrs Roxwell?’

  The girl looked round nervously and shook her head. ‘I am sorry, madam. You must be in the wrong shop.’

  ‘I most certainly am not,’ Imogen said. ‘Mrs Roxwell is a relative of mine and I visited her in this shop just recently.’

  ‘You must be mistaken, madam, there is no one of that name here.’ The girl’s voice held a note of panic.

  ‘I think it is you who are mistaken, miss. Mrs Roxwell has managed this shop for some time.’

  The girl gave a nervous laugh. ‘I have never heard of this person and I am in charge here.’

  Imogen regarded her sternly. She was very young to be in charge of anything, not more than seventeen or eighteen. She looked like a schoolgirl with her long fair hair, straggly and thin. Shivering slightly, she reminded Imogen of a lost puppy and her appearance was no great advert for the flower shop.

  Imogen’s annoyance was overtaken by pity. She leant forward and asked: ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘What do you mean, something wrong? Nothing is wrong.’ The note of panic was almost hysteria.

  ‘Are you sure, miss? You look rather poorly.’

  The girl made an effort to straighten her shoulders. ‘I am quite well.’

  And Imogen, who was good with voices, had detected a foreign accent in the girl’s quavering replies. Her curiosity aroused, she said: ‘How long have you worked here?’

  The girl frowned, thought for a moment. ‘A long time.’

  ‘Mrs Roxwell was here three weeks ago.’

  The girl was gaining confidence. ‘I have no idea, madam, who was in this shop before me.’

  The doorbell pinged. Here was a customer. Obviously relieved at this interruption, the girl moved Imogen aside: ‘If you will excuse me, madam, I must attend this gentleman. There are many other flower shops – you made a mistake here.’

  ‘Very well, but may I know your name, miss?’

  The girl bit her lip, gave Imogen a doubtful glance and seemed about to refuse. Then she shrugged. ‘It … it is Sofia.’

  Although the man had his back to them, studying various bunches of flowers, Imogen recognised Andres again. She wanted to say to him, You were here that last time I came in, talking to Kathleen. But she was too confused at that moment and left the shop, not only frustrated but also anxious and for the first time afraid.

  What had become of Kathleen? Where was she? Where did she live? She should have asked that young man. He might have known. All she remembered was Kathleen pointing vaguely towards the residential district, her apologetic manner indicating that it was near the flower shop.

  She heard the city clocks strike again. Heavens above, Faro’s early train would have arrived. She should have been at the station meeting him half an hour ago. She looked round frantically but there were no cabs in sight, so she had better go straight to the hotel where he would be wondering what had become of her.

  As she quickened her steps along the Stonegate, her anxiety and fears for Kathleen increased. The fact that the foreign girl in the flower shop was lying was assuming sinister proportions and awakened a feeling in her stomach that one of her intuitions of disaster might be moving rapidly in her direction, and was not merely due to that rich cream scone, the sort of indulgence she was very strict about before ten in the morning.

  Reaching the hotel, she hurried up the steps into reception to be told to her great relief yes, Mr Faro had arrived. He had been served coffee in his room.

  She ran upstairs and threw open the door.

  He unwound his tall frame from the sofa and stood up to greet her.

  ‘Imogen, where the devil have you been? I thought you were meeting me at the station.’

  ‘So did I,’ she groaned as he kissed her. ‘That was my intention,’ she said throwing down her cloak, ‘but something dreadful has happened.’

  He regarded her calmly. ‘I rather gathered that from reception, since you had cancelled our reservation.’ He frowned. ‘What is going on? Why this change of plan?’

  Of course, he didn’t know about the Dower House. She sat down. ‘Well, you see, I have been offered a better place to stay here in York for a couple of weeks. It’s a lovely house—’ Her voice broke, she couldn’t go on.

  She was obviously very shaken, and Faro was troubled by this reaction. This wasn’t at all like his Imogen, usually so calm and collected, able to deal with any situation. Bewildered he sat down beside her and held her close, stroking her hair. ‘This lovely house?’ he asked gently.

  She stood up sharply. ‘No, no – tell you later.’ She gulped, and the tears threatened as she whispered, ‘Faro, oh, Faro! Something really awful has happened. Kathleen has disappeared.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  It took Faro a moment to identify who this Kathleen was and he put an arm around Imogen. ‘Now, keep calm and tell me what has happened.’ Reaching over to the table, he poured out a brandy as an instant cure for all ills.

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t need that,’ she said.

  ‘Drink it. There now, try to be calm.’

  That seemed to have the right effect. She put down the glass, took his hand and told him how she had gone on a quick visit to Kathleen before his train arrived, only to find that the flower shop denied all knowledge of her. She was to go over the incident many times, without mentioning the customer she called Andres, too embarrassed to admit to Faro how many years ago she had fallen in love with a sixteenth-century portrait, and even if she did tell him, there was no way of tracking down this man who happened to be in the shop when she first met Kathleen.

  She said: ‘The girl this morning claimed that she had been the only one working there for some time, that she had never heard of Kathleen. She insisted there were a lot of flower shops in York and I had come to the wrong one, made a mistake.’

  ‘And could that have been possible, do you think?’ asked Faro gently. He had been listening very carefully and hoping this story was not as sinister as Imogen implied.

  She laughed scornfully. ‘Come now, Faro, you know me better than that. It’s the girl who is foreign and might have got her facts wrong, not me.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to the beginning, surely we can track her down. But before we start, do you mind telling me where we go next, and why you have cancelled our reservation here.’

  ‘Oh, the Dower House.’ She told him about her meeting with the Hardys and their offer, and briefly about its history and connection with the Roman occupation. ‘I hope you will approve. I’m sure you will love it.’

  She stopped and sighed, tightened her hold on his hand. ‘I never mentioned it in Edinburgh, you see. Knowing how you hate hotels, I wanted it to be a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘It certainly is a surprise,’ he said wryly, thinking such an offer from a stranger was more than generous, and was definitely to be regarded with caution. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘I just know you’ll love it. But at this moment, I am more concerned about Kathleen. We must find her.’

  ‘Of course we will. Where did she live?’

  Imogen regarded him blankly. ‘I didn’t have her exact address, she told me in a house near the shop, no distance for her to walk each day.’

  ‘No street number, nothing?’

  Imogen shook her head. ‘That was all. This was to be a surprise visit, as I told you, when we were both going to be in York.’

  And Faro realised guiltily how he had dismissed as of little importance Imogen’s plan regarding Kathleen in this opportunity to spend a few days exploring York together, something he had always wanted, before going to the wedding at Elrigg Castle in Northumberland. Imogen had kept in touch with the family and was godmother to the daughter Mercia who was getting married. As for Kathleen Roxwell, all he knew of her was vaguely as one of Imogen’s innumerable Crowe family. In truth, he hadn’t been particularly interested in meeting her, glad Imogen would have that visit behind her before he arrived. He had learnt to dread and keep to an absolute minimum visits to Carasheen, where Imogen’s family were very direct and had been in the past, not to put too fine a point on it, vulgar in their queries about his intentions.

  And when are you putting the claddagh ring on her finger? was the main one. Then the scornful sniff and reminder that of course he wasn’t Irish, making that sound like an incurable disease and that such behaviour was only to be expected of the English. The kindlier, more diplomatic Father Seamus, Imogen’s uncle and also the parish priest, explained tactfully that Imogen’s man wasn’t the hated English but from Scotland. No, Imogen pleaded, not Scottish, from Orkney. That made matters worse. Shrieks of dismay. And where in the name of God was that? Suspicious looks followed, as if he was a Hottentot.

  Faro had looked around him and despaired; among the vast army of females, he wondered how they had managed to produce Imogen. Small wonder that he limited himself to no more than token visits, avoiding the relatives one had never and would hope never to meet, particularly wearisome when there were no faces to put to vast chronicles of who had died, got married, or been born since the last visit, and where bright, clever Father Seamus was the only person he felt comfortable with.

  In her anxiety over Kathleen’s disappearance, Imogen had only briefly mentioned the change of their plans for York. Now calmed by Faro’s reassurance that they would conduct an immediate search and having utmost confidence in his remarkable abilities, she was content to be persuaded to wait until tomorrow morning. Certain that they would find out where Kathleen was and contact her, she returned to the subject of the cancelled hotel booking and that they were to stay at the Dower House.

  ‘I hope you approve, Faro, darlin’,’ she sighed. ‘It really is lovely.’

  Faro nodded vaguely; his reaction was a disappointment too. Yes, she had said something of the sort, but affected by her distress, his main concern was now for the business of this missing girl to be settled, and having asked her for more details, Imogen continued:

  ‘Kathleen told me she managed the shop and was in every day, and quite honestly, at that time, I had no idea we would have the chance of meeting again and an opportunity to get to know each other. I hadn’t seen her since she was a wee girl. It was only when I sent a chatty Christmas card to Uncle Seamus, telling him I would be going to York − he had always admired the Minster – that I heard about Kathleen being here.’

  Imogen paused and sighed. ‘She’s had a hard life, Faro, in her thirties now and I would never have recognised her. It was all very garbled, that first meeting, interrupted with customers in the shop all the time. When I thought about it afterwards and knew we were coming back in three weeks, I scribbled our new address on one of our cards and pushed it under the shop door. Spend some time together, get to know her, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You were the one to be surprised, my darling,’ Faro said and thought how, in a few weeks, whole patterns of life could be completely altered.

  ‘Did she have your address?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I put Preston Drove on the card. I had told her that I was married to a policeman, a retired detective inspector, and that we had been staying with his daughter Rose who lives in Edinburgh. That piece of news was unlikely to reach her from Carasheen.’