Baby (11)

Summary: How Errol Tilney spent his day.

11: Interlude

Mr. Errol Tinley ran his museum with clarity and purpose. His department heads knew what he expected of them, and they worked diligently toward those goals by ensuring the employees and volunteers in their departments knew what was expected of them in turn. If anyone didn't know what they needed to do or if they failed to do it, they had no future in Mr. Tilney's museum.

It had not been his idea to hire his own nephew. It looked bad, as if the museum director or his board could be persuaded by something as tawdry as familial ties rather than science and reason. But Henry had gotten his foot in the door through no support from his family, and then did well enough that the outgoing department head recommended Henry to take over his job when he retired. Mr. Tilney’s hands were tied but he made it clear that he didn't tolerate nepotism, and that Henry would be expected to work twice as hard as other department chairs to be taken half as seriously. It wouldn't be a bad thing for either of them if Henry decided to get a job in a different museum; it would be much better than for the museum to fire Henry for poor performance, but maybe Henry wouldn't get that choice.

Errol Tilney thought about the events of this morning with growing irritation. The
way Henry had treated him, the galling dismissiveness of it! It was more than a man could stand. The only thing that kept him from firing his nephew on the spot was that he didn't know how things stood between the museum and the Allen Foundation. Henry had refused to speak of it before impulsively taking a phone call in which a leopard figured prominently. The only thing that made any sense was the name Miss Morland although he had yet to figure out who she was to Henry.

The phone rang on his desk and he picked it up with a belligerent, "Yes?"

"Mr. Tilney, Mr. Fredericks is here to see you," said his secretary.

"Send him in!" he snapped then hung up.

He had given Mr. Fredericks the muddled and imprecise task of finding out what was going on with his nephew and the museum's money, and it had taken the man hours. Errol Tilney was beyond impatient for information.

"Hey, Boss," greeted Fredericks breezily, lounging in the guest chair without invitation. "Have I got a story for you!"

"Out with it!" Mr. Tilney demanded.

"First I went over to the Allen Foundation offices in town and asked to speak to Mr. Sherman. Figured I'd get it straight from the horse's mouth," Fredericks began. "But he wasn't available. So I asked his secretary to confirm that he at least met with your nephew yesterday for golf. You might have thought I was trying to steal military secrets, she was so close-lipped to me. I had to leave before she threw me out."

"But --" Tilney sputtered. How was Fredericks supposed to do his job this way?

"But," the younger man agreed, "I had also been flirting pretty hard with Cheryl, the assistant, and she caught up with me before I left the building to see if she could help. I figure if a girl wants to get in trouble over me, I should let her. She said that Sherman went to his club in the morning and came back earlier than expected. Either your nephew is really good at golf or he didn't make it."

He paused just long enough for Mr. Tilney to glower. Henry was bad at the sport and would have taken all morning to go a full round with Mr. Sherman plus secure the funding.

"But Cheryl said he had made plans to go back to the club for dinner last night and to let his wife know," Mr. Fredericks continued. "Me personally, I don't belong to any clubs like that, but if I did I'd eat there every night to get my money's worth. Mr. Sherman, however, has money to burn, so it stood out that he was going back twice in one day."

"So Henry met with him at dinner," Mr. Tilney concluded. Why couldn't his nephew just admit to that?

The younger man winced in anticipation. "He was supposed to."

"What happened?"

"After I was done talking to Cheryl, I drove to the club, met a bartender who was working last night. He told me about a ruckus they had during dinner. A young lady was playing with an olive but it falls to the floor and trips this guy. He's lying flat on his back in the dining room so the girl runs over and helps him up. Clearly they know each other but the bartender can't hear what they're saying. All of a sudden, a woman at the bar realizes her purse has walked away and starts a scene. Someone looks over at the guy who tripped on the olive and he's standing there literally holding the bag. The woman gets upset. Her husband gets upset. Other members get upset. The club manager comes out and makes the guy give the purse back. Then the girl who dropped the olive realizes that her purse is missing! People start calling for blood, thinking this guy is a thief. The manager pulls him out of the dining room and stashes him away until they figure out what to do with him.

"This clumsy purse snatcher is your nephew, by the way," Fredericks added casually, taking glee from Mr. Tilney's reaction. "He couldn't have met with Mr. Sherman because he was being held in the manager's office until they could decide whether to call the police."

"Henry would never --" Mr. Tilney began, his face purple with indignation.

"Yeah, he didn't," Fredericks said. He was always willing to get someone else in trouble, but there was more to the story. "That bartender I was talking to was the one who found the girl's purse. It was sitting on the bar the whole time. Apparently she was the one who walked off with the wrong purse when she saw Henry fall down and it just spiraled from there."

Errol Tilney took a deep breath and tried to calm down. "So you're saying that Henry failed to meet with Mr. Sherman after all. He spent the night flirting with some girl and completely ignored his responsibility!" He would deal with his nephew later, but he needed to focus on the matter at hand. "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. I'm off to see Mr. Sherman."

"Not so fast, boss," the younger man stalled him. "Cheryl -- that girl from the Allen Foundation -- she said that Mr. Sherman wasn't at work today, said he called in sick. He hit his head or something last night and his wife wanted to go back to their place in Connecticut for a few days to rest."

"Connecticut?" He hated driving to the country.

"Yeah. Now, before you get in the car, you said that Henry got a phone call from a woman named Miss Morland, right?" He waited for the director to nod. "And that's the same name as the girl who lost her purse last night, who just happens to be Mrs. Allen's niece. That's Mrs. Allen of the Allen Foundation. So it doesn't sound like your nephew completely wasted his evening."

Mr. Tilney did not know how to take that news.

"After the club, I swung by Allen's place in the city, thinking I'd catch your nephew in flagrante delicto with Mrs. Allen's niece but the girl was gone. Henry was gone too, but I'd bet my hat he was there. A cute little maid told me that someone delivered a leopard to the house today, and that Miss Morland and the leopard got into a car driven by a nervous suit of a man so that she could take the leopard to the country. Do you want to know where in the country?"

Mr. Tilney frowned. He wanted to say no but he nodded instead.

Mr. Fredericks was enjoying this a little too much. "Small world but Mrs. Allen has a farm in the same town as Mr. Sherman has his own place in the country: Fullerton, Connecticut. They're practically neighbors. I think your boy took his girl and her leopard to see Mr. Sherman or Mrs. Allen, or both."

"The leopard…" Mr. Tilney said.

"I have no idea what the leopard is about," Fredericks said with a shake of his head. "But I have the addresses for Mr. Sherman and Mrs. Allen, take your pick. But if I can offer some advice, man to man --" he raised his eyebrows in petition -- "pick Mrs. Allen. It's her foundation. It's her money, and she's probably got more money than she's sunk into the foundation. And she's a widow, probably wouldn't mind a handsome man her own age paying attention to her for a bit."

The director looked deeply offended. He did not stoop to romancing just to get his way. "Out of the question," he said, voice implacable.

"Then you won't need her address," Fredericks said, pulling a small sheet of paper from a suit pocket and preparing to rip it in two.

Tilney snatched it from his hands and put it in his own pocket without looking at it. "I may still need to track down Henry," he excused himself.

Fredericks didn't hide his smile, just pulled out another piece of paper. "Well, here's how to get to Mr. Sherman's. If you leave now, you should get there in time for dessert, or whatever it is people have in the country. Now, if you'll pardon me. I've had a busy day running all over the city, and I've got a hot date tonight with Cheryl. If a girl wants to get into trouble for me, I really want to let her."

.o8o.

Mr. Tilney drove up to the farm house. It had taken him longer than expected to get here -- although perfectly in keeping with Fredericks' estimate -- but he had gotten turned around on the country lanes and he'd had to backtrack and ask for directions, and then it had gotten dark which made finding anything more difficult. But he was here now, at Allen Farm.

He parked the car on the driveway before the house and approached the front door. Lights were on which meant people were inside, possibly his nephew, possibly a rich widow.

He knocked and the door was soon opened by a maid. He didn't waste his time with a grand introduction, just told the woman to inform Mrs. Allen that Mr. Errol Tilney was here.

The maid escorted him into a sitting room and left him there, hustling away to find her employer and bring a tea tray.

The farmhouse exterior had been hidden by darkness so Mr. Tilney could not form much of an opinion on it. But the interior was well-lit and well-appointed with details that quietly screamed Old Money.

An older woman entered before Mr. Tilney could get bored. She apologized haphazardly but she had not been expecting a guest at this hour so perhaps he could explain what he was doing there?

“My name is Mr. Errol Tilney,” he began, his tone both obsequious and indulgent for a donor audience. “I am the director of the Museum of Natural Sciences and History in New York. I believe my nephew Henry was here earlier today.”

“Oh, of course!” Mrs. Allen chimed in. “He drove my niece Catherine and Baby here from New York.”

The phone rang but Mrs. Allen would not let it interrupt them. “I'm sure Susan will answer on the kitchen extension,” she said. The phone didn't ring again.

“I heard he had left New York,” Mr. Tilney said, determined to continue. “Henry has been trying to speak with Mr. Alexander Sherman from the Allen Foundation about securing a grant for my museum.”

“That poor young man,” sighed Mrs. Allen. “The drive was not kind to him. His suit was ruined. Susan took it to the cleaners but it won't be ready until tomorrow. Mr. Noh was going to stay the night here and meet with Sacha in the morning.”

“Mr. Noh?” Errol repeated with some confusion.

“Yes.”

“Who is Mr. Noh?”

“Your nephew is Mr. Noh.”

“My nephew is Mr. Tilney.”

“I thought you were Mr. Tilney.”

The man opened his mouth to retort then sweetened his tone before speaking. “My nephew and I are both Mr. Tilney.”

“Then who is Mr. Noh?” Mrs. Allen blinked in confusion.

“I assure you, Madam,” he said, trying to remain unperturbed, “I have no idea. If he is still here, perhaps he can explain himself.”

“I'm afraid he and Mr. Thorpe are out looking for Baby.”

Mr. Tilney was annoyed by the growing cast of characters. “And who is Mr. Thorpe?”

“He's a young man I brought with me from Boston to manage Baby until my nephew returns from Africa.”

He was just about to ask about Baby when the maid bustled in with a tea tray. Mrs. Allen thanked her and then asked about the telephone call.

“It was the police station,” Susan got straight to the point. “They said they are holding a woman who claims to be Miss Catherine. They say she and her companion -- who is neither Mr. Thorpe or Mr. Noh -- were driving around in a stolen car. I told them that's impossible. After all, your niece is safely upstairs.”

Mrs. Allen looked nonplussed at the news. “It wouldn't be the first time Catherine had snuck out if she thought it was important,” she recalled in a quiet voice. “And she really did want to help Mr. Noh. I suppose it's not really impossible that Catherine might have snuck out, but where and when did she steal a car and pick up a hitchhiker on the way?”

“Do you know the name of the hitchhiker?” Mr. Tilney asked, wishing for a notebook so he could write some of this down.

“Tilney,” the maid answered flatly, “which is obviously a lie because you're right here. Someone is impersonating Miss Catherine and you, sir, and they've stolen a car while they're at it.”

Errol Tilney found himself on his feet. “That's my nephew Henry, it has to be!” he deduced. “He left New York with a young woman who claimed to be Catherine Morland but he never showed up here. He must have gotten mixed up in some mess and now he's been arrested for it. Oh, this is terrible! I must go to the police station at once!”

“I'll come with you,” announced Mrs. Allen. “I very much want to see the woman who is pretending to be my niece.”

“Oh, ma'am!” warned the maid. “What about Baby?”

“I'm sure Mr. Noh and Mr. Thorpe have it all under control, Susan. I won't dawdle; don't worry. I'll expose this imposter, reunite Mr. Tilney with his nephew, and be home within the hour. You can count on me.”