His expression was of one poised for abuse, but that changed at the sight of a gent.

“Just hold on,” he said, and disappeared again. A few moments later Sebastian heard the muffled shout of a name somewhere in the back of the inn. Moments after that, the noise in the snug returned to its previous level.

A woman in cook’s whites appeared, bringing with her a waft of warm kitchen air. She was short and broad and homely.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said.

“Sebastian Becker,” he said. “I’ve a reservation.”

“A reservation?”

“Sorry. A booking. I sent a telegram.”

She went behind the bar counter and reached down for a visitors’ book. “A reservation,” she said, as if it was a word that she didn’t hear too often. “You speak a little like an American gentleman, Mister Becker.”

“My wife’s American. I spent some years there. I often slip.”

He scratched his name in the book with the pen that she gave him.

As he was writing she said, with due apology, “I’m afraid there’s no one to take your bag upstairs.”

“I can manage that for myself,” Sebastian said. “What’s going on?”

“Two children are missing,” the cook said.

Sebastian abruptly laid down his pen.

“Tell me more,” he said.

“Oh, it’s probably something and nothing,” she said. “They didn’t come home for supper last night. It’s a family that takes Rose Villa every year. The girls run wild all summer and Mister Bell comes up at weekends. Everyone in town knows them. They’re always out and about.” And she blew on the ink of his signature to help dry it before closing up the book and returning it to its place under the counter. “You watch. They’ll appear. In tears and all sorry for the trouble they’ve caused.”

Sebastian said, “How long have they been gone?”

“Only since yesterday. My opinion is that they’re on an adventure. Stayed out all night and now they’re scared to come home.” She tried to give a little smile, but anxiety betrayed her.

“And in there?” He indicated the activity on the other side of the snug partition.

“They’ve sent us a county detective,” she said. “He’s organizing a search. Or trying to.”

With the guest book safely away, she took a room key from a hook board behind the bar. All the keys had wooden tags and all the tags bore the names of sea birds in handwritten script.

Sebastian said, “Tell me something. How do I get to Arnside Hall?”

“Sir Owain’s house?” the cook said.

“Sir Owain Lancaster, yes.”

“You won’t get there today. There’s no one to drive you.”

“Because everyone’s on the search.”

“They’ve even called in some soldiers.”

“Now I understand,” Sebastian said.

THE WOMAN had expressed hope. But knowing what he knew, Sebastian already feared the worst. Up in the Sandpiper Room, which was of a generous size and had an oak-framed bed and plain whitewashed walls, he laid out his soap and his razor on the washstand and placed Sir Owain Lancaster’s notorious book on the bedside table. Next to it he laid a handwritten list, and a typewritten letter.

He could hear voices from below. This room was directly above the snug. Every now and again, a phrase or a few words would come through. Someone was trying to organize the volunteers, and all the volunteers seemed to be arguing with their directions.

Sebastian moved to his window and looked out. His window overlooked the shore. From here he could see the river snaking out through a deep cut in the sand toward the distant sea. Beyond the river, fanning out toward the far horizon, stretched an enormous and probably treacherous tidal beach. Way out across the flats, so far off that they were but sketchy figures in a vast landscape, a dozen men with staffs had formed a line and were moving across the bay, checking pools and quicksands. The local police would be few in number, bolstered by volunteers, and none would have been trained for such an operation.

Sebastian looked back over his shoulder at the bedside table. Sir Owain’s book purported to be an account of an ill-fated expedition somewhere in the region of the Amazon basin, led by its author. Its publication had caused a scandal and the destruction of Sir Owain’s reputation, forcing him to abandon his town house in London and retreat out here to his country home. The implications for its author’s mental state were a significant part of the reason for Sebastian’s visit. His regular duties involved investigating the background and circumstances of persons of interest to the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy.

In this instance, the list and the letter added a sinister dimension to his mission. The disappearance of children now added another.

The lock on the bedroom door was hardly substantial, and the board of keys behind the bar was far from secure. He went over to the table and gathered up the list and letter, slipping them inside the pages of Sir Owain’s book. Then he hid the book under the pillow bolster and remade the bed over it, tucking in the sheets, blankets, and coverlet to make them as ruthlessly taut as before.

Then he went downstairs and across the empty saloon and opened the door to pass through into the snug.

And to the sudden silence that greeted him, he said, “Who’s in charge?”

IAM. WHO ARE YOU?”

The man who’d spoken up was sitting behind a map table in the snug, a Bartholomew sheet for the area opened out before him. Another man, the parish constable in the hand-me-down uniform, stood looking over his shoulder. The rest of the company, and the source of most of the noise, were local men who appeared to feel that wetting their whistles in the bar was an essential prerequisite for a successful search. A door stood open to the inn yard outside, and more of them stood out there.

Sebastian said, “My name is Sebastian Becker. I just arrived. I’m staying in this hotel.”

“What of it? You can see we’re busy here, Mister Becker.”

“I heard about the children. I want to join the search.”

The seated man was around thirty, perhaps even younger. The detective from the county force. The parents of the girls must be people of some influence.

He said, “Do you know the area?”

“I can read a map,” Sebastian said.

“This is the only map we have.”

“Then put me with someone who knows the land,” Sebastian said, his irritation rising. “Preferably one not doing his looking in the bottom of a pint glass.”

As a couple of the whistle-wetters made indignant noises, the parish constable moved toward the yard and beckoned for him to follow.

“I’ll send him out with Endell’s men,” the constable said. “This way, Mister Becker.”

Sebastian followed the man out. He would later learn that the parish constable was also the Sun Inn’s landlord, and that when required the snug became a makeshift police headquarters. The cellar had served as a lockup until a seafront cardsharper had spilled an entire barrel of ale in a bungled attempt to get a drink out of it.

They joined a waiting company of searchers around the back of the inn, just as a horse-drawn farm wagon with a twelve-year-old boy at the reins came clattering into the yard.

“One more for you, Ralph,” the constable said.

Ralph Endell was a middle-aged man who moved like an old one, dressed for outdoor work. His fair hair was mostly sheared close and he had a mustache that Lord Kitchener might have envied.

“Aye?” he said.

“Aye. Don’t lose him.”

All climbed on, and Endell offered Sebastian a hand to scramble up.

“Where are we going?” Sebastian said.

“We’re taking the woods and quarries,” Endell said. “There’s a few wrong places up there where two kiddies might come to grief.”