“No,” Wren answered, mere surprise curdling into genuine alarm. “Why? What’s going on?”
“I expected him for Christmas, but he never arrived.” Tolhurst peered past Wren into the darker corners of the office, as if he expected Felix to jump out of them and reveal himself. “If he hasn’t come here then I fear the worst has come to pass.”
Wren could think of a few more likely places in London to find Felix than Mr Grigsby’s office. None appropriate to divulge to Tolhurst if they hadn’t occurred to him already. He tried a more sedate suggestion. “Perhaps he’s spent the holiday with a university friend.”
“I’ve just come from Oxford,” Tolhurst said almost before Wren had finished speaking. “His intimate friends said they all came down to the city on Saturday for an evening’s entertainment. They parted ways afterward. No one’s seen him since.”
Saturday the twentieth. Wren knew someone who’d seen Felix since then, all right. Though he could hardly explain why, after letting a drunken Felix into his garret, he’d then left him alone in such a state and told no one of it when Felix had up and vanished by the next morning.
Yet it wasn’t the thought of trying to explain his own indecent adventures in the fae realms that gave Wren pause. No, it was the dim recollection of a blond young gentleman whose black tailcoat and top hat had appeared so out-of-place amidst the pseudo-medieval garb of his fellow revellers at the solstice duel.
“Lofthouse?” came Mr Grigsby’s curious call from the stairwell. The gentleman himself followed soon after. In his haste to dress he appeared almost as dishevelled as Tolhurst, though far less distressed. His creased brow of confusion lifted in surprise upon sighting their visitor. “Oh! Good morning, Mr Tolhurst! What brings you to our humble doorstep today?”
Tolhurst explained his concerns in full, to Mr Grigsby’s increasing alarm.
“He must be found without delay!” Mr Grigsby declared when Tolhurst had arrived at a breathless finish. “But do sit down a moment whilst we form a plan of action. Lofthouse, if you would—?”
Wren had already pulled out his own desk chair for Tolhurst to sit in and put the copper kettle on for tea. Mr Grigsby thanked him. Tolhurst did not, though doubtless he had more pressing matters on his mind.
“You’ve done very well so far in eliminating possibilities,” Mr Grigsby assured Tolhurst as the latter sank down in Wren’s chair with a hollow look. “And a great deal more than anyone could expect a single man to accomplish alone. Mr Knoll is fortunate to have such a devoted uncle as yourself.”
Wren noted that Mr Grigsby did not suggest calling up the Horse Guards in search of Felix.
“Thank you,” Tolhurst replied, his words clipped. “But I fear it has not been enough.”
Mr Grigsby, his eyes brimming with unsinkable optimism, opened his mouth to counter Tolhurst’s despair.
Wren cleared his throat.
Both gentlemen turned their heads to regard him.
“Is it possible, Mr Tolhurst,” Wren ventured in his most careful tone, “that Mr Knoll may yet attempt to meet you at your lodgings in Rochester?”
Tolhurst considered him with a curious furrow in his brow.
“Why, Lofthouse is quite right!” cried Mr Grigsby. “Yes, we should hope that Mr Knoll is doing his best to find his way home, just as we shall do our utmost to find him.”
The weariness in Tolhurst’s aspect grew still more pronounced.
Wren hastened to reach his point before Mr Grigsby could pontificate further. “It may prove more expedient to have you wait for him there, while his friends likewise await him in Oxford, and Mr Grigsby remains ready to receive him here. That way, no matter where he may choose to seek shelter, he may be assured of a warm reception.”
“And who should go out in search of him, if I do not?” asked Tolhurst, doing a better job than most men at disguising his impatience with the half-cocked notions of an upstart clerk.
“I shall,” said Wren.
Tolhurst, for the first time since Wren denied any knowledge of Felix’s whereabouts, gazed upon him with something approaching interest.
“I’m well used to walking throughout the city,” Wren continued, as Mr Grigsby seemed on the verge of interjection. “I’m familiar with its by-ways and bolt-holes. I’m prepared to examine it minutely, street by street, from sun-up to sun-down. And if, Heaven forbid, my own search proves unsuccessful, I can bring our case to the Bow Street Runners—with your permission, Mr Tolhurst,” he added in his most respectful tone.
“What a splendid notion, Lofthouse!” said Mr Grigsby.
Wren noted how Mr Grigsby made no mention of the fact that today was supposed to be a holiday for him—then put that disappointment from his thoughts as he fixed his attention on Tolhurst, who seemed to require another moment to turn the proposal over in his mind.
“If you were to undertake such a charge,” Tolhurst said at last, his words well-measured, “I would be indebted to you, Mr Lofthouse.”
“Excellent,” said Wren, striding in for the door. “Then I should set off without delay.”
“But to where, Lofthouse?” Mr Grigsby called after him. “It wouldn’t do for us to lose you, too!”
