'Dora will be totally lost in London,' the young man said.

He was leaning forward in his seat from desire to convince me, long fingers clasping the edge of my table, fair hair flopping over his forehead. 'She's only nineteen. She'll be an abandoned fawn on a prairie of prowling lions.'

The sound that came from the girl on the other side of the table might have been a suppressed sneeze. Since the poetical young man didn't react to it, I hoped that was what he took it for, but I knew better. I glared at Tabby, to remind her of strict orders to keep quiet. From childhood, Tabby had survived by her own resources on the prairie of prowling lions, so had precious little sympathy for the fawns of the world. This interview was her first official appearance as my assistant and the start of what would probably prove to be an apprenticeship that tried the patience of both of us. At least she looked reasonably tidy in her grey dress, with hair clean and tied back. I picked up my pencil.

'You say you last saw Dora Tilbury at church on the Sunday before last. That's eleven days ago.'

He nodded.

'And that was at Boreham, in Essex?'

Another nod. It was, he'd told me, a village on the far side of Chelmsford, which made it about five hours from London by mail coach.

'And Miss Tilbury was living with her guardian?'

'Yes. Her parents died some time ago.'

'Shouldn't it be the guardian's role to start investigations rather than yours – since she's no relation to you?' 'She's everything in the world to me,' the young man said.

In his note, asking permission to call, he'd introduced himself as Jeremy James. He looked to be around twenty, some four years younger than I was, but there was still a schoolboy air about him. His lips quivered after speaking. Perhaps he was nervous of me and hadn't expected a businesslike air.

'Are you suggesting that her guardian cares for her less than you do?' I said.

'Not that, precisely. I'm sure he is concerned for her. He's her uncle, quite elderly, a clergyman who had to resign his living because of ill health. He's very conscious of people's opinion. And in a small village ... you know.'

'You believe he might be too ashamed that his ward's run away to London to do anything about it?' 'She hasn't run away, I told you. She wouldn't do anything like that.'

'And yet she's disappeared from her home. Are you telling me that she's been kidnapped?'

'No.'

'So she went willingly?'

'She must have had a reason. She wouldn't just go. She's hardly been ten miles from the village since she was a child.'

I heard stubbornness as well as strain in his voice. He wouldn't be an easy client.

'Tell me what happened from Sunday onwards,' I said. 'You saw Miss Tilbury in church. Did you speak to her?'

'A few words. I asked her how she was and whether she was enjoying a book I'd sent her. Then Mrs Meek came up and hurried her away. Mrs Meek keeps house for Dora's guardian.'

'Why should she hurry her away? Does the guardian disapprove of you?'

'No, I think not. As I said, he is very conscious of propriety.'

'Are you engaged to Miss Tilbury?'

'In our hearts, yes. As the world sees it, no. My father says I should qualify for the bar first, then look for a wife.'

'Do you live in the same village as Miss Tilbury?'

'We have a small estate just outside it.'

'That Sunday, did she say anything to suggest she was thinking of going away?'

'Of course not.'

'So what did she say?'

He blinked. 'I've told you.'

'No, you've told me what you said to her. What did she say to you?'

He seemed at a loss. 'The usual things, I suppose. She was well. She thanked me for the book.'

I was tempted to say that was hardly the language of passion, but perhaps it had been one of those occasions when eyes did the talking.

'When did you find out she was missing?'

'The Thursday morning. Her guardian came round in his pony cart, demanding to know where she was. My father was furious.'

'With him or you?'

'With him. The old man was accusing me of eloping with Miss Tilbury. My father knew I wouldn't do anything so dishonourable, and in any case there I was, at home.'

'She'd said nothing to her guardian, left no note?'

'No. She went up to her room as usual, at about ten o'clock on Wednesday night. She didn't come down to breakfast. Mrs Meek went up to her room. Her bed hadn't been slept in.'

'Had anybody seen her leave?'

'Not leaving the house, no. But the landlord of the Cock saw a young lady getting into the coach for London at about six o'clock in the morning. I've spoken to the driver of the coach and there seems no doubt about it. His description matches Dora exactly, even down to her blue cloak and hood. He remembers her getting out in the yard of the Three Nuns at Aldersgate in the City when they arrived at about midday. After that, she seems to have vanished from the face of the earth.'

'Did he notice if she had any luggage with her?'

'A small bag, he thought.'

'Did she have money?'

'I believe about two hundred a year, from her parents.'

'Money in her pocket, I mean.'

'Her guardian allowed her pin money, for gloves and church collections and so on, but even if she'd saved it, she couldn't have had more than a sovereign or two.'

I put down my pencil. 'Miss Tilbury's been missing for six days now, so the trail's already cold. But I shall do my best. My terms are two guineas payable now, a further three guineas when the person is found, plus expenses whether we find her or not.'

'Expenses?'

'Omnibus or coach fares, payments to people who may have information. I try to keep them as low as possible. The initial two guineas covers two weeks of investigation.'

I'd been in business as a paid investigator for less than a year, but one thing I'd already learned was to establish the fee from the start. Clients who were prepared to promise the world when they wanted something would haggle over shillings once they'd been given it.

'And if you haven't found the person in two weeks?' he said.

'In my experience, if a person isn't found in two weeks, he or she is not likely to be found at all.'

So far my experience of looking for missing persons had amounted to three cases, two of them successful. Mr James looked doubtful, then slowly felt in his pocket and put two sovereigns and two shilling pieces on the table. I signed to Tabby to push pen and inkwell towards me and wrote him out a receipt.

'Now our work starts,' I said. 'I need a list from you of any friends or acquaintances Miss Tilbury has in London.'

'None.'

'None at all? Most people have an old schoolfellow or two.'

'Miss Tilbury was educated at home.'

'An aunt or cousin?'

'Apart from her guardian, the only relations I ever heard her mention were an aunt and some cousins in Scotland.'

'Had she any particular friends?'

'There are few young ladies in the area. Her guardian doesn't pay social calls because of his health.'

'Did you and she ever talk about London?'

'Not that I can recall. I may have mentioned a play or an opera I'd read about.'

'What were her interests?'

He thought for a while. 'She was very fond of her pet linnet and talented in embroidery.'

'Did she have any dreams involving London...