Cloche and Dagger by Jenn McKinlay Page A

dormant without use, and I had to really think about it now. The BBC weather report this morning had said it expected the day to be partly cloudy and fifteen degrees. I knew that was somewhere around sixty degrees but I had a feeling it was still in the fifties. I was glad I had worn my thick wool sweater and jeans.
    Of course, this made my thoughts veer to Vivian. I wondered where she was and if she had packed the right clothes. Was she scared, lonely, drunk? It was maddening not knowing.
    At the door to the hat shop, Harrison stopped.
    “I’ll call you if I hear anything,” he said.
    “Likewise.”
    “She’s fine,” he said. I wondered if it was to comfort me or him.
    “Sure,” I agreed. My voice lacked conviction and his gaze met mine.
    He looked as if he wanted to say something but then thought better of it. In a surprise move, he put a hand on the back of my neck and pulled me close as he planted a kiss on my forehead.
    It was an oddly comforting gesture and I found it made my throat get tight. I swallowed hard.
    “We’ll find her,” he said.
    I nodded, unable to speak. And I was surprised to find that I believed him.
    • • •
    Friday morning, I met Andre at his studio. It had been two days since I’d seen Harrison and I hadn’t heard from him or Inspector Franks in the interim. I tried to tell myself that no news was good news, but I wasn’t buying what I was selling.
    I had called Aunt Grace every day and she still seemed to think everything was fine, but I was beginning to think she had a deep case of denial going. It was now five days since I’d arrived without a word from Viv. There was no way this was normal.
    Andre said he knew where the Ellis Estate was and had agreed to drive since he had to haul equipment, and I had no car and no idea of where we were going.
    We met in front of his shop at ten o’clock. He had several bags of equipment that he was stuffing into the trunk of his tiny car. Compared to the ridiculously giant gas-guzzlers I was used to in the States this felt a bit like trying to wedge myself into a go-cart, the wrong side of a go-cart for that matter.
    He merged into the traffic on Portobello Road and took several turns through Ladbroke Grove, heading south toward Kensington.
    “Are you sure of the address?” I asked.
    “Harrington Gardens?” he asked. “Of course. Don’t forget I spend my days photographing London and all of its surrounding neighborhoods. Nick accuses the old girl of being my mistress.”
    “Does he really mind?” I asked.
    “Well, I offered to take pictures of him in the buff if it would make him feel better, but he said the mere offer made it unnecessary,” he said.
    I could see Nick saying that and I smiled. A car honked and I whipped my head around to see if they were honking at us.
    “You can’t take every bleat of the horn personally,” Andre said.
    “Sorry, I’m just not used to it.”
    “No worries, we’re almost there,” he said. “I swear surface traffic in London moves at about five kilometers per hour. Mercifully, we’re not at peak driving hour otherwise it would take us forever.”
    We turned left onto Kensington High and I could see Kensington Gardens on the left. I promised myself that I would take a long walk there at the first possible chance. The large park disappeared as Andre wound further south into Kensington.
    After a few more short turns, he pulled up along a row of beautiful homes in the heart of Harrington Gardens. I felt my jaw thunk into my lap. The narrow mansions were built of terra-cotta brick with ornate stone facings and stone mullioned windows.
    “Wow,” I breathed, and Andre laughed.
    “I know what you mean,” he said. “I did a little research and found out that Lord and Lady Ellis’s Dutch colonial home was built in 1883 by the architects Ernest George and Peto for the second son of the Earl of Leicester.”
    “No wonder Lady Ellis seems to think she’s all that,” I said. “I would, too, if