There had been an efficient knock on his door and then—
“Chief Inspector?”
“Yes. Miss…？”
“Gwendolen. Gwendolen Kelling. Your name was given to me,” she said, “by a Mr. Ingram. He was told by someone to contact you at Scotland Yard, but he couldn’t find you there.”
“That’s because I’m not there. I’m here.” Was it really beyond Scotland Yard’s capabilities to have redirected this Mr. Ingram to Bow Street? （Yes was probably the answer to that question.）
“Well, I have found you now. I’ll get straight to the point, shall I?”
“Please. Take a seat first, won’t you, Miss Kelling?”
“Well, the thing is,” she said, sitting on the chair opposite him, “I’m looking for two girls, Freda Murgatroyd and Florence Ingram. They’re fourteen—barely out of childhood, Florence in particular—she’s rather immature, apparently, convent-educated, and I’m afraid Freda persuaded Florence to run away with her to London.”
“And you are an…aunt?” Frobisher had asked, adding hastily, “Or sister?” in case “aunt” implied age. She was in her early thirties, he guessed, old enough to be an aunt, he supposed, although he was more skilled at judging the age of a horse than a woman. He still occasionally went hacking in Epping Forest. He would rather be on horseback than in an Austin Seven. Horses were on their way out, they would not be coming back.
“No,” she said, breaking into his wandering thoughts. “I’m a friend of Freda’s sister. Freda has no father and her mother is useless, I’m afraid, and Cissy—the sister, half-sister really—has small children, whereas I have no dependents and have taken a leave of absence from my employment—in a library—and am fancy-free, so I volunteered to come down to London to look for her.”
Frobisher found himself having trouble keeping up with all this information. She had a very rapid style of conversation. She seemed full of energy and amusement, it was an unusual thing to encounter in his own office. It threw him rather. “Do you perhaps have a photograph of either girl?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, hitting her forehead with the palm of her hand. （She was quite expressive for a librarian. Almost Italian. The word “librarian” had previously conjured up an image of a vinegary spinster, not the animated creature before him.）
“What an idiot I am not to think of that!” she said. “I’ll ask Cissy to send me one of Freda in the morning’s post. I’m sure she’ll be able to get hold of a photograph of Florence as well. Her parents are desperate, but I’m afraid Freda’s mother was rather glad to be rid of her.”
“Are these girls capable of fending for themselves?”
“As I said, Florence is rather young for her age.”
“And Freda?”
“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. I do have a note that Freda left behind for her mother but I don’t think you’ll find it much use.” She took a piece of creased pink notepaper from her bag and passed it over his desk.
“Dear Mother,” Frobisher read aloud. “I have run away to London to seek my—what’s that word, Miss Kelling?”
“Fortune.”
“To seek my fortune. I am going to dance on the stage. The next time you hear from me I will be—？”
“Famous. Her handwriting is atrocious. There’s an exclamation mark after ‘famous,’？” she added. “You’ve made fame sound very pedestrian, Chief Inspector. It’s a word that seems to demand a sparkle.”
Frobisher ignored this remark. It seemed safest. He was never sure how to respond to mockery, even the mildest kind, and certainly not from a woman. Nor was he sure how to put a sparkle on a word. Or indeed on anything. Instead he continued to read doggedly from the pink notepaper. It was impregnated with something rather unpleasant.
（“Scented geranium, I think,” Miss Kelling said. ）
“I will be famous. You don’t need to worry about me. Sincerely, your daughter, Freda.”
A note was better than no note, Frobisher supposed. Girls who left no note walked through a door and disappeared into thin air. Girls who wrote notes left some evidence behind. A note had purpose behind it.
“Seek my fortune,” he murmured thoughtfully, handing the pink notepaper back. He supposed he could send a constable round the dance schools—they were likely places to find girls who were “seeking their fortune” on the stage.