"Honest John Finds True Love"
by Michael Menser Dell

CHAPTER ONE

It was first seen scurrying across Mrs. Trumball's bedroom floor. Thankfully, the lady was out for her afternoon stroll at the time, leaving a chambermaid as the unwanted occupant's lone witness. The young woman, after a brief bout of frightful screaming, immediately brought the matter to the attention of the hotel manager, the honorable Mr. Percival Ipswitch, a nebbish little fellow whose shining scalp and dyspeptic digestion were owed entirely to his strong, almost obsessive, devotion to duty. This fastidious nature was rooted either in Ipswitch's paternal love for the Debonshire Hotel or his unholy fear of its owner, Mr. Lionel G. Cranston.

Upon hearing the chambermaid's breathless account of her terrifying ordeal, Ipswitch instantly recognized the significance of keeping the incident as quiet as possible. If not handled properly, the resulting scandal could be disastrous, both to the Debonshire's reputation and to Ipswitch's future employment. With a firm hand on the situation, and a weary eye on his bank account, Ipswitch dispatched a messenger to fetch the nearest exterminator and raced up to guard the infested chamber's entrance.

One of the grandest of London's growing list of grand hotels, the Debonshire was magnificently situated along the banks of the Thames and catered to society's wealthy elite. Capable of comfortably housing 800 sickeningly rich patrons, from affluent businessmen to visiting foreign dignitaries, the Debonshire was home to anyone who was anyone. It was not, however, home to rodents, unless they were of the kind licensed to practice law.

Ipswitch paced the hall before Mrs. Trumball's room, nervously consulting his pocket watch, fearfully calculating the woman's impending return and cursing the exterminator's delay in arriving. Finally, after an interminable wait and the sprouting of a few new ulcers, Ipswitch spotted a sturdy chap in threadbare tweeds stumbling around the corner. His long hair, which fell to the collar, unshaven face, and shabby wardrobe rendered him completely incongruous to his opulent surroundings, placing him as the common laborer Ipswitch had been so anxiously awaiting.

"There you are! I'm Percival Ipswich, the hotel manager. Quick, we don't have much time."

"What's that?"

"We must hurry, Mrs. Trumball could return at any moment."

"I'll certainly keep an eye out for her," said the confused man, turning to place a knock on the opposite door.

"What are you doing?" begged the frantic Ipswich. "This is the room over here."

"Downstairs they told me 615." He pointed to the gold numbers on the door in question. "And, as you can see, that is clearly a five." A brief moment of doubt followed, prompting the gentleman to confide in the manager. "That's a five, right? I'm afraid I may have had a bit too much to drink last night. And this morning."

"Yes, it is a five, but I'm telling you it's the wrong room." Ipswich authoritatively pointed to No. 614. "That is the room with the. . . ." He snapped his head around to make sure the coast was clear and lowered his voice to a hush before continuing. "That's the room with the M-O-U-S-E."

"There's a moose in there!" The man excitedly reached for the doorknob of 614. "Aw, I gotta see this."

Ipswich blocked his entry. "No, not a moose!" He checked his temper and returned his voice to its previous whisper. "A mouse!"

The man was sapped of all enthusiasm. His shoulders drooped and his mouth twisted as if dejectedly considering his next move. "Hmm, well, I've seen mice."

"I should hope so. But shouldn't you have a sack or a net or something? Or maybe a club of some sort?"

"Expecting trouble?"

"Aren't you the exterminator?"

"Sorry, no."

"Oh, excuse me, sir," apologized Ipswich. "Please forgive me, I just assumed from the way you're. . . . and your. . . What are you doing in my hotel?"

"My name's John Churchfield. I'm a detective. I have an appointment with a Miss. . . a Miss. . . ." The detective began rummaging through the pockets of his haggard coat and trousers. "I know I have it here somewhere. I think it starts with an H. Or a Q."

"The woman in 615 is Mrs. Bailey."

Churchfield pointed in triumphant agreement. "You may be right!"

The hotel manager, regarding the supposed detective with a suspicious eye, placed the knock on Mrs. Bailey's door. The woman herself answered the plea, greeting Ipswich with a familiar smile.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Ipswich."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Bailey. I hope you're finding the rooms to your liking."

"Oh my, yes. Everything is wonderful. I was just sitting down for a spot of tea, would you like some?"

"That's very kind of you, but no, no, I don't wish to disturb you." He directed a hand of introduction to his companion. "But this man says he has an appointment with you."

"Mr. Churchfield?" asked the woman.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I've been expecting you. Thank you for coming so quickly. And thank you, Mr. Ipswich, for seeing him to my door."

"It was my pleasure, Mrs. Bailey. Please let me know if I can be of any other service."

The charming woman nodded a sweet farewell and beckoned for Churchfield to follow her inside. Ipswich discreetly held the detective's arm.

"Mr. Churchfield, I trust you'll keep our earlier conversation in the utmost confidence. We wouldn't want that sort of thing getting out in the public."

"What? That stuff about the rat?" Churchfield swatted Ipswich affectionately on the shoulder. "Yeah, no worries. I'll keep it all hush hush."

"Thank you, sir," sighed a relieved Ipswich.

Churchfield closed the door and joined Mrs. Bailey in the sitting room. "Good man that Ipswich. Do you know this place has rats?"

"Really?" gasped Mrs. Bailey. "How awful!"

"Yeah, apparently there's one across the hall the size of a moose. So you might not want to leave any cheese lying around."

Mrs. Bailey's apartment certainly seemed free of rats, mice, and other vermin. It was a sumptuous suite, luxuriously decorated to please even the most refined tastes. The room was a welcoming embrace of creams and whites, boasting plush pile carpeting and overstuffed furniture capable of comforting the weariest traveler. Mrs. Bailey appeared right at home amongst the extravagance, furthering Churchfield's belief he had stumbled into something good.

Aside from apparent wealth, Mrs. Bailey also possessed certain other attributes that Churchfield found appealing in potential new clients. Most of these qualities were fashionably confined within a flowing frock of peacock blue, its modern cut accentuating her lean, elegant frame. A small mound of golden locks was gathered in a demure bun at the back of her head, accentuating the line of her graceful neck, her hair's rich hue the perfect compliment to her flawless, alabaster skin. Despite her relative youth, appearing well shy of her thirtieth birthday, she had a commanding presence not normally found in women her age. It owed less to her natural beauty, which was staggering, and more to her confident carriage. Erect and alert, she had a decisive step, almost masculine in her movements as she crossed the lavish hotel suite and claimed one of two Baroque armchairs framing the room's central window. A small table with a sterling silver tea set split the accommodations. She directed Churchfield to her chair's twin, positioned to her right, and immediately set to pouring two cups of refreshment.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Churchfield. I apologize for the irregularity of having you meet me in my room like this, but this is a decidedly private matter. Would you care for some tea?"

Despite seldom drinking anything without a proof, Churchfield didn't have the heart to refuse, clumsily accepting the dainty cup and saucer. It also provided an opportunity for confirmation. There was a ring on her finger. Back to business. "I came as soon as I got your note."

"And I'm grateful for your prompt attention. Time is of the essence. Of course, you know by now that my name isn't Mrs. Bailey." A sly smile dawned. "I suppose I don't have to tell you who I am."

"Only if you want me to know who you are."

The woman's expression soured. "I'm Lily."

Churchfield answered the admission with a blank stare.

"Lily Grove." Her milky cheeks flushed. " The singer!"

Balancing the tea cup was still occupying the majority of Churchfield's concentration. "Oh, you sing?"

Miss Grove struggled to quell her mounting temper. She composed herself, suppressed any damaged pride, and attacked from a new front. "Have you ever heard of Lowry Cain?"

"Are you kidding? Who hasn't heard of Lowry Cain? He's only the most influential musician of our time. You know, I was supposed to see him at the Savoy last year, but I kind of misplaced the tickets... and the entire weekend. But, yeah, Lowry Cain's great."

"He's my husband."

A portion of Churchfield's tea found his saucer. Miss Grove calmly sipped her own, waiting for the truth of her identity to settle upon the detective.

"I checked into the hotel under an assumed name to avoid any undo attention. Lowry's a favorite of the scandal sheets. I suppose you know of my husband's, shall we say, weaknesses?"

"We all have weaknesses, Mrs. Cain."

"I prefer Miss Grove." Churchfield noted the correction. "And I was referring to my husband's morphine dependency."

Churchfield sipped his tea, cringing at the taste. "Yeah, I'm aware of Mr. Cain's weakness. The papers are always full of it. Addiction is an ugly thing. A real shame. You wouldn't happen to have a drop or two of gin for the tea, would you?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't."

Churchfield stared thoughtfully at his cup and saucer for a moment before lowering them to the table. "I think I'll just save it for later. So how is it I can help you, Miss Grove?"

"I need you to find my husband, Mr. Churchfield."

"He's missing?"

"For the past three days. He ran away from the hospital." The woman's once powerful veneer began to crack. Her body, now entirely feminine, convulsed with emotion. "And we must find him, Mr. Churchfield! We must!"

Emotional women always made Churchfield nervous. They had a tendency to slap him "Why was he in the hospital?"

Miss Grove dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "It really isn't a hospital. It's a private clinic specializing in the treatment of opium addiction. Lowry's craving for the horrid drug was out of control. He was in desperate need of help. The incident in Rome was the last straw. Something had to be done."

"What happened in Rome?"

"We were finishing up the final few dates on Lowry's Italian concert tour when the strain of performing must have gotten too great. Lowry has always been a tormented soul, Mr. Churchfield. His pain is the source of his art. But it's also what drove him to opium. He had been free of its vile clutches for months, but I could see his mood changing, growing darker. I feared he was once again slave to the vile drug. Then one night I returned to our hotel room to find. . . . to find. . . ." Miss Grove forced a deep breath. Her eyes glazed over as she recalled the gruesome scene. "He said it was an accident. But he nearly died. It was champagne and chloral hydrate pills. He was in a coma for twenty hours. I was so frightened. I thought I had lost him." The handkerchief reappeared. "When we returned to our home in Blackpool, Lowry insisted it was merely an accident. He swore he was fine. But I feared the worst. And Lowry has a North American tour on the horizon. It's been booked for months, every show has been sold out. We sail for America in six weeks. The thought of undertaking such a lengthy, arduous trip abroad convinced me something had to be done. I gathered our closest friends and we begged Lowry to get help. It took all our pleading to finally persuade him. He was admitted to the clinic on the morning of March 30th. Things seemed to be going well, but after only two days in its care, he left the facility. And I'm afraid he may do something foolish. He recently purchased a shotgun. He said it was for protection, but thinking of it scares me so. We must find him before he returns to old habits, or before he has another accident."

"What's the name of the clinic?"

"The Exodus. It's in Luton. The doctor promised me a full investigation of how Lowry was allowed to leave. I'm expecting an update by the afternoon post."

"And you want me to go up there?"

"No. Wherever Lowry is, it surely isn't anywhere near that clinic. I fear our best hopes may be to check the local opium dens. I was hoping you'd be willing to assist in that particular endeavor, since it's hardly a realm for a lady, and I'll continue contacting railway stations and the hotels. There's one other place." She handed Churchfield a small slip of paper listing an address in London's East End. "Lowry has been known to frequent this house when yielding to temptation."

"It's an opium den?"

"It's the private residence of a Miss Kaitlin Brown."

The lowering of Miss Grove's eyes and the embarrassed tone of her voice left no need for further explanation. Churchfield folded the address away in his coat pocket. "I'll check it out. Would you happen to have a photo of your husband? As well known as he is, it still might come in handy."

Miss Grove hurried off to the bedroom and returned carrying a large pink heart-shaped box tied with a strand of white ribbon. "We're so often away from home, I like to carry some cherished items with us wherever we go." She carefully sorted through the precious contents of the box, mostly photographs and what appeared to be personal letters, quite possibly of the loving variety, before selecting a small picture of Mr. Cain sitting at his piano. Churchfield recognized the image of the popular icon immediately. It was a striking portrait of the great musician, his piercing eyes confronting the camera through a tangle of long, unkempt hair. His cheeks were thin and drawn, a growth of stubble covering his square, cleft chin. His trademark layers of tattered workingman's shirts hung loosely from his emaciated frame. In short, he looked very much like Churchfield's malnourished little brother.

"Does he have any friends in London who could be putting him up?"

"Lowry doesn't have many friends. He's a very private man. And he's utterly helpless without me. I don't even think he'd be able to hail a cab on his own."

"What about your home in Blackpool? Is it being watched?"

"Yes, Lowry's friend Derwood is there to keep an eye on it. He's like family. He'll let me know immediately if Lowry shows up."

The front door could be heard opening, and into the room bounded a little girl in a navy blue dress. She had her mother's dazzling blond hair, dangling about her cherubic face in fanciful curls, and her father's haunting eyes, leaving little doubt to her parentage. A plain young woman of stout build and shy countenance followed the child, both embarrassedly halting their progress upon seeing Churchfield. "Excuse me, madam," spoke the woman, placing her hands on the child's shoulders, "I didn't know you had company."

"Nonsense, Margaret," smiled Miss Grove, reassuringly. She waved the child to her. "How was your walk?"

"Fine, mummy."

Miss Grove stooped to help her daughter off with her coat. "Frances, darling, this is Mr. Churchfield. He's a friend of your father's."

"Daddy's in the hospital," informed the little girl, her brilliant eyes conquering Churchfield's cold disregard for children.

"That's right, dear. Now why don't you and Margaret change clothes while I finish talking to Mr. Churchfield, then we'll all go downstairs for lunch." The girl obediently did as she was told, leading her governess from the sitting room. When the duo was safely from earshot, Miss Grove returned to business. "It should go without saying, Mr. Churchfield, that money is no object." She lifted a small change purse from the sofa and handed Churchfield a ten-pound note. "This should be enough to get you started. All I'm interested in is my husband's safe return."

"I'll do my best, Miss Grove."

"I pray it's enough."

"It usually is."

Churchfield took his leave, a vision of a fatherless child in his heart, and a determination to succeed etched upon his soul. So focused was his attention, he failed to notice a frantic Ipswitch, broom in hand, streaming into the distant hall, nor the tiny grey blur that chased him. He didn't hear the hotel manager's girlish squeals of fright. He didn't even smell the rat.