Forget to Remember

could put that thought into action, the door opened and a uniformed maid regarded Carol with a quizzical look. Not the young and luscious maid of cartoons, but a middle-aged woman with a spreading waistline who had undoubtedly been a fixture here for at least a generation.
    “May I help you, dearie?”
    “My name is Carol Golden. I would—”
    “Yes, yes, of course. Come on in. We knew you were going to call. I just wasn’t picturing a young lass like yourself.”
    Carol entered and was surprised to find herself in a house as modern as that belonging to Sebastian Ault. What had she been expecting, the Victorian furniture of a Sherlock Holmes movie? The maid took her jacket and ushered her into a room with hardwood floor, white sofas, and a white carpet that covered part of the floor in front of a fireplace. All this must be hell to keep clean. The spaciousness of the inside told her it was much wider than her vision of a row house.
    The maid told her Lord Binghamton would be along shortly and asked her to sit on one of the sofas, which she did, very gingerly, afraid of getting it dirty. Then she looked at the walls. They were covered with framed paintings, many of them old, some of them, she suspected, quite valuable. She stood to see them better. They reminded her of the paintings of the impressionists—Renoir, Monet, Manet, Pizarro. Sean had mentioned Renoir. She knew she had seen paintings by these greats before. Among the paintings here were a number of nudes.
    “How do you like my art collection?”
    Carol jumped. She had been so intent on looking at the paintings she had ignored the footsteps of the gentleman entering the room. Judging from his upper class accent and his impeccable dress, he must be the lord. He was slightly bent and walked with a cane, but he still carried himself well, even though he might be older than Ault. Were jeans and a sweater appropriate attire in the presence of such an august personage? Too late to worry about that now.
    She turned toward him, wondering whether she should bow. “You have a beautiful collection…sir.” She couldn’t bring herself to say “My Lord.”
    “It is the pride of my life. I’ve been a connoisseur of art since before your parents were born. Did you see my Monet?”
    “Which one is it?”
    “The painting over the fireplace.”
    Carol stood beside him and admired the exquisite painting of water lilies. Monet had used many different colors she didn’t ordinarily associate with water lilies, but he had made it work.
    Lord Binghamton smiled. “This is one of his lesser known paintings of water lilies although, I suspect it’s still worth a few schillings.”
    He guided Carol to a seat on a white couch and sat down on an identical couch adjacent to it. Although he hid it well, it took him some effort to sit. With perfect timing, the maid wheeled a cart into the room containing a teapot and everything that went with serving tea.
    Lord B poured the tea—she didn’t know lords did that—and Carol followed his example this time by adding milk and sugar. She tried to remember how many times she had been served tea, hot and cold, over the past few weeks. She was quite sure she hadn’t been a tea drinker in her past life.
    She attempted to balance the cup and saucer on her knee without looking too awkward, and without dropping the delicate pieces of china on the hardwood floor. She also helped herself to a couple of cookies Lord B referred to as biscuits.
    He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to talk business, chatting instead about his art collection and telling interesting stories about where he obtained some of his pieces. Carol relaxed in his presence, her nervousness about meeting a lord gone, and enjoyed the moment. After emptying one cup of tea and pouring himself another, he changed the subject.
    “Sean tells me you’re looking for a girl who may have lived in his flat once upon a time.”
    “Yes.” She briefly outlined the information she had about Cynthia being in London, sparse as it was.
    “You say this was two years ago. That would be two thousand seven. A young fellow had the flat then. He was about Sean’s age. I never ask questions about who they have staying with them. None of my business. Unfortunately, he died in a crash on the M twenty-five.”
    That was a jolt. “If Cynthia died with him that would have been reported.”
    “Yes. As I recall, he was alone in the car. What did this Cynthia look like?”
    “I’m told she