“Why?”
“Because at a time when the false conductor had just committed murder, and every fiber of his being must have yearned to put as much distance between himself and the body as possible—”
Dunn interrupted. “Not if he was one of these brutes from Manchester. As good as a cow carcass to them, a human body.”
“Please continue, Lenox,” said Mayne.
“At a moment when every instinct he had was most probably to run, our criminal took the time to remove all traces of the origins of the victim’s clothing. Down to his boots and his hat.”
Mayne considered this. “I assume he didn’t want us tracing them back to some specific tailor. Was our victim very—what’s the word—stylish?”
Lenox shook his head. “He wore the average attire of a man in second or third class, Sir Richard. And the murderer removed every single label, not just one. It leads me to believe that all the clothes pointed to a specific location, wherever that might be.”
“London,” said Sir Richard.
“Manchester,” said Dunn.
Lenox didn’t think so. “But he was on a train between those two cities. Why bother to conceal that he was from one of them? There are only two possible answers that I can see: One, his identity is absolutely crucial; two, his clothes come from a place that would reveal who he was.
“In fact,” Lenox went on, “I suspect this may be the reason for the murder of Haase. So that the killer could be assured of the time alone to perform this very task after the second murder without the conductor entering the carriage and interrupting him.”
“Or the reverse,” Hemstock said. “Perhaps Haase was the intended victim, and the poor chap in the carriage saw it happen.”
“It’s possible,” Lenox replied, “but I do not think likely. It is the second victim’s clothes that were disfigured. And what would the motive be for killing an aging train conductor leading a quiet life in Epping?”
“What do you propose to do with all this theorizing, Lenox?” asked Dunn.
“I don’t know,” Lenox admitted. “But it cannot be bad to think through the murderer’s motivations.”
“I agree,” said Hemstock, encouragement from an unexpected source.
Lenox nodded to him, grateful.
For the rest of the meeting, he was silent as they discussed Scotland Yard’s normal procedures. There would be questioning of witnesses here and in Manchester, and the railway representative said that they would post notices offering a reward for information in all trains running between the two cities.
Mayne asked them to report to him each day. Dunn and Hemstock were to work together. Lenox was free to pursue his inquiries, provided they did not interfere with the official investigation.
“Or reveal additional information to the press,” said Dunn severely.
Lenox thought that a bit rich, given that Dunn himself had spoken to the Morning Illustrated. But he only assented. “Certainly not.”
“It would be good to know what you plan to do,” the Yard’s commissioner said to Lenox, tapping his pencil on his desk.
“There we agree,” Charles responded regretfully. “I am not quite sure. It is close—I know that something is lurking in my mind.”
“What cause for optimism,” Dunn said.
“That is enough, Dunn,” said Mayne. “As for you, Lenox—less lurking, if you wish to remain involved. This is no game.”
“No, Sir Richard.”
The meeting ended at 8:35. Lenox left the pale, imposing building that housed the Metropolitan Police and walked east. He was due to meet Graham at nine. He might be slightly late, for it was halfway across town in the Strand that their rendezvous was planned, but he needed the walk to think.
Though it was sunny, it was cool enough that the streets were still damp, orange leaves pasted stubbornly to the pavement, a smoky scent in the air. Lenox passed the usual fellows: men hawking newspapers, children selling cigars and tobacco, ladies and gentlemen shopping in the quiet midweek morning.
He had hoped that he might solve the case—ambition never hurt!—on this walk. Instead he found that his thoughts kept returning to Deere.
Lenox had once imagined himself, briefly, to be in love with Lady Jane. It had made things uncomfortable, until Jane, with her characteristic sensitivity, had contrived to put her husband and her old childhood friend in each other’s way more and more frequently over the course of a few months while Deere was at home.
Lenox had rejected the military as a career—and this had perhaps, unconsciously, created in him some prejudice against Lord Deere.
But he had been wrong. This realization had been slow, but in the end unambiguous. In its aftermath it came to seem obvious—for of course Lenox ought to have known from the start that Lady Jane would never marry anyone unworthy of herself.
He was glad they were friends now, very glad. Still, it left Lenox with a residue of sorrow. For he had proved, in a way, his own unworthiness of Lady Jane; and in truth, some dormant part of his heart still did, perhaps, just flash with love for her.
Was this life? This lack of resolution, and unease? To begin seeking a marriage while old memories still lingered?
It had not seemed as if affairs of the heart would be quite so involved when he was younger. Love, proposal, marriage, happiness: Such was the progression he had expected.
But he was twenty-seven now—rather old, he thought wisely, as he walked up Carting Lane, his cane thumping lightly alongside him—and knew something of life. He resolved (as so many do, and so few do) to leave the past behind. With that settled, closed in his mind, he walked into the Saltire Inn to meet Graham.
CHAPTER NINE
Graham had placed an advertisement in half a dozen newspapers the evening before. It had been intentionally bland.
Information requested
Any person who traveled on the 449 between Manchester and London Paddington three nights ago, Tuesday 8 October, will find it to their benefit to appear at the Saltire Inn, the Strand, between the hours of 9 and 11 tomorrow morning. Particular consideration granted those able to prove they were aboard the train.
The Saltire was a discreet hotel of about two dozen rooms. It must have been a comfortable secret among a certain class of middle class English gentleman; it tended to attract owlish, solitary travelers who did not belong to any of London’s clubs but did not mind paying rather high rates in order to ensure themselves prompt, hearty meals, large rooms with comfortable beds, all the latest journals and newspapers in a lounge of absolute silence, a central location within the city, and a general air of quiet, competent privacy.
A cousin of Graham’s managed the hotel, and once or twice had permitted them to hire a small side room off the entryway—which had its own door—to conduct this kind of meeting.
The advertisement brought, as such placements always would, at least fifteen or so variably cunning swindlers, who had clearly never heard of the 449, much less ridden it. But all of them were prepared to swear in a court of law to whatever Graham and Lenox wished. After brief conversations, Lenox and Graham discharged these fellows with half a shilling, a sum at which Graham frowned but which Lenox viewed as a tax, justly to be paid, for the imposition he had made upon the world by being born into a sphere of affluence he had himself done nothing to achieve.
There were another four or five men who were simply nosy about the murder, having connected the ad to the train number; they were turned away curtly.
Amazingly, however, two of the visitors actually seemed to be of some use.
The first was there before Lenox. Graham said he had been waiting at the door at ten till the hour, and when the detective arrived he was seated at a small table in the interview room, eating a plate of eggs doused in red onion and tomato ketchup. He was a lean, hollow-faced, ashen fellow.
“Good morning,” said Lenox. “What is your name?”
“Walter Swain, sir. My ticket, sir. I’m glad I kept it, sir—didn’t think I had, don’t know w
hy I did, but there you are, I’m glad I did.”
Lenox examined this ticket, which showed that Swain had traveled third class between Tamworth and Nuneaton. Lenox asked him what his reason for doing so had been. He’d been in search of work, was the reply. He had heard there were field jobs there. In October? Yes, apple picking. He did hops in the spring, whatever paid best in summer, and managed as he could in winter. Lenox inquired what had resulted from the journey. Swain said he had returned the next morning, disappointed—walking much of the way between Nuneaton and London, though he had been able to ride partways on the outside box of a carriage with a kind owner.
Though he had been on the train but briefly, Swain swore that he had seen the victim, whom Graham had described to him.
“It makes no difference to the reward if you did not,” Lenox said gently.
“I did though,” Swain said, soft cap in his sooty hands.
“Was he with anyone?”
“Alone.”
They showed him the sketch of the man they believed to be the murderer. He hadn’t seen this person, and to his credit was quick to say so.
“Was the carriage fairly empty, then?” asked Lenox.
“Only four or five of us, sir—uncommon empty.”
“Did you speak to the man you saw, the victim?”
“No, sir. I didn’t speak to anyone.”
“Can you remember anyone else who was in the carriage?”
“Their faces, sir, but nought else.”
“I’ve taken descriptions of them, sir,” said Graham.
“Thank you. Did you see anyone at all speak to the victim, Mr. Swain? What was he doing?”
“I did not, sir. As I recall he was asleep some of the ways. When I fetched off at Nuneaton I had to pass him, and he said, ‘Excuse me,’ uncommon polite.”
“Did he have an accent?”
“An accent, sir? Of what sort?”
“Any sort at all—northern, southern?”
The man frowned. He looked so painfully desirous of being helpful that Lenox was again concerned he might dissemble, but in the end he said apologetically, “No, sir, no accent. It was just the two words, sir.”
Lenox asked Swain a few more questions. At the end of the exchange he asked where Swain was from. From? Nowhere, Swain said; or rather, nowhere at the moment. He had heard there was work in some of the port cities.
Lenox gave him two pounds. It was a large sum, as good as a month of apple picking. Swain was grateful, but for some reason he didn’t appear inclined to leave, despite there being a line at the door.
“His breakfast, sir,” Graham said quietly.
Lenox glanced at it, half-eaten. “Oh! How inconsiderate of me. Swain, please remain and eat—you may take it into the next room—and they will pack you up some sandwiches for your midday meal, too, if you don’t object.”
“Ah! Thank you, sir! It does make a difference to a chap.”
So they knew their victim had been traveling alone. That told them something about the murderer.
The other person who had actually ridden the 449 was in almost every respect the opposite of Walter Swain. He looked to be somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five, with a substantial light gray overcoat, fine leather gloves, a gleaming black top hat, and a fresh haircut and shave. Indeed, he might have been one of the out-of-towners staying at the Saltire on city business. He arrived on the stroke of eleven o’clock.
Lenox and Graham had planned to remain here until eleven thirty—someone always arrived late—but the gentleman, in a bit of haste, said he was glad he had made it on time. They stood up and introduced themselves, and he said he was called Alfred Baxendale.
“Thank you very much for coming, Mr. Baxendale,” said Lenox, sitting. “Please have a seat. You were on the 449?”
“I was, sir. I only saw your advertisement twenty minutes ago, and I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t also seen in the papers that there was a death aboard the very train I rode. Remarkable thing. Are you from the police?”
“We are,” said Lenox. He was not quite lying, though he was bending the truth.
“Then I am glad I came,” Baxendale replied. “Here is my ticket. I am prepared to be of whatever use I can.”
The gentleman presented them with a second-class ticket for what was indeed the correct train. He had traveled the whole route, he said, from Manchester to Paddington.
“May I ask what brought you to London?” said Lenox.
“I work for a shipping agency in Manchester. I come here every six weeks as part of my duties and stay for three or four days. I am at the Mancunian Club. You may inquire about me there if you wish. They know me.”
“You are native to Manchester, then.”
“Since Roman times, or at least my grandmother always said, sir.”
“Did you notice anything strange on this trip?” asked Lenox.
“No, sir.”
“Did you recognize the conductor? Did you speak with him?”
“I didn’t recognize him, no. They vary. Nor did I speak with him, except to show my ticket. He thanked me when he took it and put it in his pouch. That is all I recall.”
“He was a young man with dark hair?”
Baxendale looked surprised. “No, an older one, with spectacles—perhaps ten or so years older than myself. I am forty-eight.”
Norman Haase. “And the other passengers? No peculiarities? Nobody noticeable?”
Baxendale had been fiddling with his pipe, and now he looked up, face screwed tight in thought; but he had to conclude that alas, nothing of note had taken place aboard the train that he had seen.
Lenox read the two descriptions they had. “Do either of these men sound familiar?”
“Not in particular. They are generic descriptions.”
Lenox was just beginning to despair of this very useful-seeming person being any use when Graham said, “Did you notice the conductor when you left the train, sir? Or anything at all that you would not have seen on your normal travels?”
Then Baxendale brightened. “Ah! Since you mention it, I did.”
“What was that, sir?”
“There is generally a newsboy on the platform upon the train’s arrival, with papers and his other wares all laid out. He’s got a good way about him. Never pushing, seems to work hard. I cannot recall his name, if indeed I ever heard it—but I always did buy an evening paper from him. To read with my supper. There’s a tavern I like just down Praed Street, the Bull.”
“Close to the station?”
“Yes, exactly. On Tuesday, I looked for the lad, but he wasn’t there. It was no great matter. I read an afternoon edition.” The London papers appeared three or sometimes as often as four times a day, depending on the importance of the news. “But I did remark his absence.”
“And can you recall anything else about the trip, sir?” said Lenox.
Baxendale shook his head. “I’m sorry to say that I cannot. It was an average journey by train.”
“Of course. Thank you so much for taking the trouble to come. May we offer you remuneration?” asked Lenox.
“I would feel wrong to take it in exchange for so little help,” said Baxendale. He produced a card. “But if you are ever in a way to put custom in my direction, I would, of course, be grateful.”
Baxendale nodded politely to them as he left, pipe between his teeth. Lenox noticed that he had on stockings not unlike Edmund’s of the evening before, this Manchester burgher. He supposed it was a vogue.
Graham and Lenox sat for some time, discussing the case and waiting for any last respondents to the advertisement.
Only as they were packing up did something strike Lenox.
He stopped in place, the papers he had been sorting forgotten in his hands. “Graham!” he said.
“Sir?” said the valet, cautiously.
“Did you notice Baxendale’s stockings?”
“Stockings, sir?”
Lenox shuffled the papers together hastily and put
them in his valise. “Come, we must go to Savile Row—come on this instant. He was American, Graham. The murder victim, he was American.”
CHAPTER TEN
“To Hawkes’s, please,” Lenox called up to the cab driver as he and Graham clambered inside. “As quickly as possible.”
They were bound for a shop of particular distinction. In 1771, a young tailor’s journeyman named Thomas Hawkes started a tiny business as a capmaker in Brewer Street. His specialty was velvet hats. They were good; he quickly earned a reputation for quality among military officers. After he had been in business for around fifteen years, that reputation was so high that King George III, a steadfast friend of the army, had made a special trip to the shop to order a cap.
Hawkes made it and sent it to the King—who, true to his reputation for being slightly mad (later more than slightly), accepted the cap, said no more of it, and then, one day, wandered in off the streets and ordered something on the order of five thousand scarlet military uniforms.
That made Hawkes’s career. By the time the century turned, his small hat business had become the foremost tailor’s in Great Britain. He received a Royal Warrant, and though he had begun to make suits and coats of all variety, he had also gone on making hats. Indeed, it had been he who designed the shako—a hardened leather hat that could withstand saber cuts, to the relief of many a chap who, like Deere, encountered the occasional saber.
Hawkes himself had been Charles and Edmund Lenox’s own first tailor. At the age of five, each had stood solemnly before his mirrors as the diminutive, watery-eyed old man walked carefully around them, a bit of soapstone in hand to mark the cloth, a tape measure over his shoulder. He never spoke a word. Still, in due course, each received his first complete suit of clothes: jackets down to the knee, top hats up to the sky.
Hawkes was gone now (his nephews ran the business), but Lenox had never had a suit from anywhere but his shop. He went twice a year, and Graham was often in and out of their storefront on Piccadilly—Hawkes’s was part of Savile Row only in the notional, not literal, sense—to have something mended or replaced.
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