“Actually he did. We always ask for a number where we can contact our passengers before sailing in case there is any sort of delay.”

Livingston jotted down the number, which had a High-gate exchange. Highgate was only thirty miles from Oxford. “Thank you.” Quickly he dialed and anxiously waited as the phone rang six or seven times. Finally it was answered by what sounded like an older man. “Barleyneck Inn. Mason Hicks, at your service. Yes, yes. Can I help you? Oh my. Please hold on.”

Livingston looked at the receiver with a quizzical look. “I’m holding.” He listened as the voice at the other end apologized to someone who presumably was registering a complaint.

“Oh my, your tea wasn’t hot, was it? So sorry. Have a seat. We’ll get you another pot straightaway. Yes, yes. Have a seat. Have a seat—can I help you?”

Livingston drummed his fingers on the desk.

“Can I help you?” the voice repeated.

Livingston sat up in his chair as he introduced himself. “I need to know if there is a Cameron Hardwick there, or has he been there?”

“Cameron Hardwick. Yes.”

“Yes?” Livingston sounded surprised.

“Yes. Yes, he checked out at the beginning of the week. Hold on a moment, please.—Hello, it’s lovely to have you back. Sign the book, please.—Hello. Yes. So sorry. Cameron Hardwick checked out on Monday morning. A quiet chap. Very neat. Always borrowing the ironing board.” A laugh resembling a wheeze traveled through the telephone wires.

“He’s been there before?”

“Oh yes, yes. Oh-oh, hold on a moment.”

Livingston waited impatiently as the clerk rang a bell and called for a porter. When he got back on, Livingston asked for the address of the inn and how to get there. It’ll take all day to get any information on the phone, he thought to himself. After giving him the directions, the clerk said to Livingston, “Shall I reserve a room for you? We’ve got quite a nice one facing the stream.”

“No, but I will stop by this afternoon, if you will be there.”

“Yes, yes, of course. We serve tea and scones at four. My wife makes homemade jam. Oh-oh, hold on a moment.”

“That’s all right,” Livingston yelled into the phone before the voice went away. “I’ll see you later.” He winced as he hung up. I’m getting a bit cranky, he thought. I need a real meal, but not before I ring Valerie Twyler. There was no answer at her home, so he decided to try Llewellyn Hall. The maid answered.

“She and Philip have gone off to Bath for the day with some of the students who arrived for the summer program. They won’t be back till tonight around half ten or eleven. I’m here alone waiting hand and foot on Penelope.”

“How is she feeling?” Livingston asked.

“Her appetite’s back,” she said flatly.

“I see.”