Byron asked, rather gently, for he approved of her concern for Snow Flake.
"Oh I can't tell you anything about him." Byron and Prance exchanged a frustrated glance. "It was dark, you know, and he wore a mask and gloves and never said a word. He seemed rather small, somehow. He just reached out and took the money and gave me the letters and the bag with Snow Flake in it. I snatched the bag and my letters and ran home as fast as my poor legs could carry me, as soon as I peeked in the bag and made sure it was Snow Flake."
"What kind of bag was it?" Prance asked. "Could we see it?"
"I burned it with the letters. It was just a dirty old bag. There was nothing written on it."
They pestered her with questions for some time but couldn't get another detail about the man other than that he was smallish. She couldn't even say for sure it wasn't a woman, although whoever it was wore a man's curled beaver hat and seemed mannish somehow.
"How long had Snow Flake been missing?" Prance asked.
"I hadn't seen her since the night before," she replied. "I said goodbye to her when Jergen and I left the house that evening. Hiram, my butler, always puts her out before she goes to bed. He usually lets her in but sometimes she goes to the back door, and when he couldn't find her, he assumed Cook had let her in. She does sometimes, but she hadn't that night. That must be when she was stolen.
"I did wonder when she didn't come into my dressing room the next morning, for she likes to watch me make my toilette. Cook had complained about a mouse in the larder, however, and I thought that must be what Snow Flake was doing. She usually sits on the bed while I dress and if she doesn't like what I put on, she meows. She hates red, won't let me wear a very nice scarlet suit I had made up," she said with the proud air of a parent announcing her child could read and write while still in the cradle. The cat, bored with the conversation, walked stiff-legged from the room.
The gentlemen abandoned the attempt to hold rational discourse with the lady and spoke to each other. "Do you still think it was someone from inside the house who took the letters?" Byron asked.
"It was someone acquainted with the circumstances of both families. And their routines. He knew the cat would be let out. The neighbours would know that sort of thing," Prance said. But when he asked for the names of the neighbours, he could not believe that either an eminent Cabinet Minister, an elderly duke and duchess living in retirement or Lord Feldon, who owned an abbey, had sunk to stealing cats.
Neither could they believe that servants were capable of such an ambitious project. "And in any case they wouldn't know with such accuracy the exact sum that two different ladies could pay," Byron pointed out.
"Let us pay a visit to Lady Callwood," Prance said, when their hostess offered them coffee.
"Yes, do," Lady Jergen said, "but don't tell her I told you about her, for I promised I wouldn't tell a soul."
There seemed no point trying to show her the impossibility of honouring this request. "Does your nephew, Mr. Danby, know about your trouble?" Prance asked, as they rose to leave.
"No, I would have borrowed the money from him if he had been in town, for we became good chums when he was staying with us."
Prance's ears perked up at this. "When was this, Lady Jergen?"
"Oh some little time ago." She again went into a recital of who had been married to whom and what social events had occurred before saying, "It must be two years ago, when he returned from India. He stayed here for a few weeks while he was looking about for a house, but in the end he hired rooms at Stephens's Hotel in Bond Street instead and said he will let his wife choose the house that suits her. When he marries, I mean. Not that he shows any sign of settling down. A bit of a womanizer, I fear. But as I was saying, I couldn't have borrowed the money from him for he was away in Surrey. And I wouldn't like to tell him about
"Oh I can't tell you anything about him." Byron and Prance exchanged a frustrated glance. "It was dark, you know, and he wore a mask and gloves and never said a word. He seemed rather small, somehow. He just reached out and took the money and gave me the letters and the bag with Snow Flake in it. I snatched the bag and my letters and ran home as fast as my poor legs could carry me, as soon as I peeked in the bag and made sure it was Snow Flake."
"What kind of bag was it?" Prance asked. "Could we see it?"
"I burned it with the letters. It was just a dirty old bag. There was nothing written on it."
They pestered her with questions for some time but couldn't get another detail about the man other than that he was smallish. She couldn't even say for sure it wasn't a woman, although whoever it was wore a man's curled beaver hat and seemed mannish somehow.
"How long had Snow Flake been missing?" Prance asked.
"I hadn't seen her since the night before," she replied. "I said goodbye to her when Jergen and I left the house that evening. Hiram, my butler, always puts her out before she goes to bed. He usually lets her in but sometimes she goes to the back door, and when he couldn't find her, he assumed Cook had let her in. She does sometimes, but she hadn't that night. That must be when she was stolen.
"I did wonder when she didn't come into my dressing room the next morning, for she likes to watch me make my toilette. Cook had complained about a mouse in the larder, however, and I thought that must be what Snow Flake was doing. She usually sits on the bed while I dress and if she doesn't like what I put on, she meows. She hates red, won't let me wear a very nice scarlet suit I had made up," she said with the proud air of a parent announcing her child could read and write while still in the cradle. The cat, bored with the conversation, walked stiff-legged from the room.
The gentlemen abandoned the attempt to hold rational discourse with the lady and spoke to each other. "Do you still think it was someone from inside the house who took the letters?" Byron asked.
"It was someone acquainted with the circumstances of both families. And their routines. He knew the cat would be let out. The neighbours would know that sort of thing," Prance said. But when he asked for the names of the neighbours, he could not believe that either an eminent Cabinet Minister, an elderly duke and duchess living in retirement or Lord Feldon, who owned an abbey, had sunk to stealing cats.
Neither could they believe that servants were capable of such an ambitious project. "And in any case they wouldn't know with such accuracy the exact sum that two different ladies could pay," Byron pointed out.
"Let us pay a visit to Lady Callwood," Prance said, when their hostess offered them coffee.
"Yes, do," Lady Jergen said, "but don't tell her I told you about her, for I promised I wouldn't tell a soul."
There seemed no point trying to show her the impossibility of honouring this request. "Does your nephew, Mr. Danby, know about your trouble?" Prance asked, as they rose to leave.
"No, I would have borrowed the money from him if he had been in town, for we became good chums when he was staying with us."
Prance's ears perked up at this. "When was this, Lady Jergen?"
"Oh some little time ago." She again went into a recital of who had been married to whom and what social events had occurred before saying, "It must be two years ago, when he returned from India. He stayed here for a few weeks while he was looking about for a house, but in the end he hired rooms at Stephens's Hotel in Bond Street instead and said he will let his wife choose the house that suits her. When he marries, I mean. Not that he shows any sign of settling down. A bit of a womanizer, I fear. But as I was saying, I couldn't have borrowed the money from him for he was away in Surrey. And I wouldn't like to tell him about
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