Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [143]
The address I had been given for Philippa Helen O’Meary was in a small town named Webster, to the west of Toronto. I began to worry that the only means of reaching the place would be by dog-sled, but in Toronto the storm suddenly tired of us. By Thursday morning the skies were clear and our hotel reassured us, with jaunty Colonial confidence, that we’d have no problem on the train.
Somewhat to our surprise, we did not. The tracks were clear, the carriage warm, and by the middle of the afternoon we were pulling up to a small brick building on which hung the sign, WEBSTER. We climbed down onto the freshly swept platform, took a deep breath of furiously clean air tinged with smoke from the train, and looked out across an expanse of pristine white countryside. After the well-hedged fields of southern England—or indeed the countryside around Paris—the land here seemed to go on for a long, long way. We exchanged an apprehensive glance, and went to find an hotel.
The rooms were basic but clean, the odours from the dining room promising, the arrangement of motorcar and driver nearly instantaneous, but no-one knew Philippa O’Meary. Nor Phil nor Hélène. Finally the hotel’s owner took pity on us and suggested the manager of the local bank. There was only one in town, he said, so he’d be certain to know anyone with a savings account or a mortgage. We spent the evening in the tiny town, taking dinner in the hotel dining room with the good citizens of Webster, and for lack of entertainment, went early to bed.
Thus, the following morning we were at the bank’s door at ten o’clock, and were ushered in to the manager’s august presence. I looked at his rotund features, then looked again in annoyance.
“You were dining at the hotel yesterday night,” I accused.
“Why, yes I was. Were you there as well?”
“We were. And the hotel owner knew we were looking to see you today. He might have introduced us then.”
“Oh no. He knows I never work outside of hours. Now, what can I do for you?”
Other than kicking me for the fool I am, I thought, not to recognise a banker—even of the rural Canadian variety—when I am across the room from one? I resolved never to tell Holmes of my failure.
“We are looking for a woman named Philippa O’Meary,” I told him. “She may go as Phil, or Hélène. It’s about an inheritance,” I added, although it was possible that the only wealth to change hands would be a few old letters. Bankers need to hear that money is involved before they take any interest in a matter.
“I don’t believe . . .” His voice trailed off dubiously.
“She has green eyes and was an ambulance driver in France during the—”
“Oho!” the banker interrupted, transformed by recognition. His eyes sparkled, and he all but slapped his knee with pleasure. “You mean Mad Helen!” And we watched in astonishment as he burst into laughter, then thumbed the toggle on his desk telephone to bring in his secretary. “Miss Larsen, would you have Booth run these two ladies up to Mad Helen’s place?”
“Mr Booth is out at the Grimes farm this morning, Mr Cowper. I could see if Mr Rhoades is available.”
“Rhoades is fine. He can leave the ladies there; they’ll telephone to the hotel for a car to fetch them back. Or Mad Helen can, shall we say, drop them there?”
This last baffling remark caused a great deal of merriment on the part of the manager and, to a more subdued degree, his secretary. The latter ushered us out and, obedient if confused,