The Hunt for Sonya Dufrette by R.T. Raichev

But Scarlett - what a girl! Oh well. You shouldn’t keep me talking, Miss D.!’ Colonel Haslett chided her. ‘Pleasure of course but must go now. Awful lot to do. You too. The Gresham papers are off your hands now and I’m sure you can concentrate on your filing system without any more distractions.’ He gave her arm the usual bracing pat and walked out of the library.
    But Antonia wasn’t going to work on her filing system today. In fact she didn’t feel like working at all. The bug of the hunt had got into her. She sat down at her desk and reached out for the telephone.

    Her call was answered almost at once. ‘Twiston House. Mrs Ralston-Scott’s secretary speaking,’ a woman’s voice said.
    Ralston-Scott. Must be the new owners.
    ‘My name is Antonia Darcy. I do apologize for bothering you, but, you see, I used to know the people who lived at Twiston before you -’
    ‘You knew Mr and Mrs Sandys?’
    ‘No, no. Sir Michael and Lady Mortlock. That was back in 1981.’
    ‘Oh yes?’ the friendly voice continued after a pause. Had a note of caution crept into it or was Antonia imagining it?
    ‘I was wondering whether you had any contact number for Lady Mortlock or for her stepson? It’s Lady Mortlock with whom I’d like to get in touch. It is a bit urgent, so I’d be extremely grateful if -’
    ‘I believe I have a number for Mr Mortlock - Mr George Mortlock. He pays us occasional visits. I have never met Lady Mortlock, but let me see - yes, I have a number for her too. It is - have you got a pen?’ The secretary read out the number.
    ‘Thank you very much . . . That’s central London.’
    ‘Belgravia, I think.’
    Not far from the club, Antonia reflected. She could walk. ‘Thank you very much indeed,’ she said. ‘I used to know the Mortlocks very well at one time. I had no idea Twiston had changed hands twice since,’ she prattled on. Sometimes, she reflected, important information springs from the most unlikely sources. ‘How long have your employers - Mr and Mrs Ralston-Scott, did you say? - been at Twiston?’
    ‘There is only Mrs Ralston-Scott. She has been at Twiston a year. Would that be all, Miss . . .?’
    ‘Darcy. Antonia Darcy . . . So Mrs Ralston-Scott bought Twiston from Mr and Mr Sandys?’
    ‘Yes. They left for Kenya. I believe they are still there. Well, if that’s all -’
    A click was heard and a muffled woman’s voice said, ‘Sorry. Are you talking to someone, Laura?’
    ‘Yes, Mrs Ralston-Scott. A Miss Darcy. She wanted Lady Mortlock’s phone number.’
    Antonia spoke. ‘Hello. I am still here.’
    ‘Oh hello. Are you a friend of Lady Mortlock’s?’ Mrs Ralston-Scott asked. ‘You were? I see.’ It was a pleasant voice. Warm and musical, its upper-class cadences played down. Antonia wondered whether she was a singer. ‘Terribly hard keeping in touch with people, isn’t it? Especially if one’s been abroad. You haven’t been abroad, have you? You can go, Laura, thank you.’
    ‘I used to work for Lady Mortlock. Twenty years ago,’ Antonia explained.
    ‘I lived abroad until last year. Did a lot of sailing.’ Mrs Ralston-Scott clearly wanted to chat. Rich woman at a loose end. Bored and lonely, Antonia imagined. ‘Sailed all the way from Monte Carlo down the Italian coast and around the Greek islands to Istanbul, then back . . . I am in port now and like it more than I thought possible! You are familiar with Twiston then?’
    ‘Oh yes. It’s a lovely place.’
    ‘That’s putting it mildly. There’s something magical about it. I can’t get enough of it. A Grade 1 listed house. So very English. As a matter of fact there’s a lot of repair work going on here at the moment. It’s real pandemonium. I am having parts of the gardens redesigned too and I am at my wits’ end what to do about that ghastly tree. It seems I have to ask special permission to have it cut down, can you imagine? On top of all my other problems. I am talking about the oak. The one