This was taking a long chance, but was the best move I could think of. I
asked the lady behind the counter to mark the telegram as though it
came from Oxford. She said she could not do so, but I happened to have a
five-bob piece in my pocket and that persuaded her. I convinced her that
it was a harmless joke.
I didn't see that there was anything further to be done immediately. If
the telegram brought no word I should have to think up something else.
In the meantime, if I was to pose as an antiquarian investigator I had
better get up some dope on the history of Wolverhampton. I poked about
until I found a bookshop, where I bought a little pamphlet about the
town, and studied a map. Bancroft Road was out toward the northern
suburbs. A little talk with the bookseller brought me the information
that Mr. Kent was one of his best customers, a pleasant and
simple-minded gentleman of sixty whose only hobby was the history of the
region. He had written a book called “Memorials of Old Staffordshire,”
but unfortunately I couldn't get a copy. The bookseller said it was out
of print.
Then I went to have a look at St. Philip's Church, a fine old Norman
pile with some lovely brasses and crusaders' tombs. Here I had a piece
of luck--fell in with the vicar. One of the jolly old port-wine and
knicker-bocker sort: an old Oxford man, as it happened. I pumped him a
little about the history of the church, and in his delight at finding an
American who cared for such matters he talked freely. “Why,” he kept on
saying, with a kind of pathetic enthusiasm, “I thought all you Americans
were interested in was Standard Oil and tinned beef.” Finally he invited
me over to the vicarage for tea. As I sat by his fire and ate toasted
muffins I couldn't help chuckling to think how different this was from
the other Scorpions' plan of attack. They were probably all biting
their nails up and down Bancroft Road trying to carry the fort by direct
assault. It's amazing how things turn out: just as I was wondering how
to give the conversation a twist in the right direction, the vicar said:
“If you're really interested in the history of this region you should
certainly have a talk with old Mr. Kent. He's our leading antiquarian,
and knows more about the Stour Valley than any one else. He says there
was a skirmish fought here in 1645 that all the books have overlooked.
The Battle of Wolverhampton, he calls it. He wrote a little pamphlet
about it once.”
I assured the good parson that my eagerness to know more about the
Battle of Wolverhampton was unbounded. I nearly spilled my tea in my
excitement.
“Is that Mr. Kent of 318, Bancroft Road?” I asked.
“Yes,” answered the vicar. “How did you know?”
“They told me about him at the bookshop.”
I explained that I was in Wolverhampton for a day or so only, and
finally the excellent man came across with the suggestion I was panting
for.
“Well,” he said, “as it happens, I have one or two calls to make in that
direction this evening. If you care to have me do so, I'll speak to
Mr. Kent about you, and he can make an appointment. You said you were
stopping at the Blue Boar?”