A good-looking older woman answered. “Yes?”
“A gentleman asked me to meet him here just a moment ago.”
“Who?”
Lenox opened his mouth, then closed it, at a loss. “I’m not sure of his name. He was—he was African.”
She frowned. “No Africans here.”
“I was answering an ad,” said Lenox.
“There are no ads here either.”
“About Eli Gilman.”
That worked. The woman stepped back and guided him to a small sitting room at the front of the house. Very small—it wouldn’t have fit more than five people. It was ornamented with a large wooden cross, a picture of a sailboat, and an ink portrait of a family of seven, the mother in it the woman who had answered the door.
She left without saying anything, but a moment later the African from the Salted Herring appeared.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, standing in the doorway. “You came about the advertisement?”
“Yes,” Lenox said, rising. “I hoped to inquire about Mr. Eli Gilman. I am a private detective. Charles Lenox is my name.”
“What is your business with Gilman?”
Lenox paused. He wasn’t sure what to say. Luckily, there was a knock at the door. Both men looked over expectantly; after a moment, the woman from the ink drawing reappeared with Graham.
“Ah. This is my colleague,” Lenox said. “He and I have been looking for a missing American—and I came to check if it might be your friend Mr. Gilman.”
The black man frowned. “You’ve been looking for a missing American?”
Graham reached into his leather folder and produced a picture. “Is this him, sir?” he said to Lenox.
It was an illustration taken from a newspaper. But it was finely drawn, a detailed ink drawing with Gilman written beneath it, above an article.
There could be no mistaking that this was the man Lenox had seen slumped and dead in the third-class carriage of the 449 from Manchester.
“Yes. That’s him.”
Graham looked back and forth between Lenox and the African—the American—Lenox was still not quite sure how to think of him. Simpler just to think of him in physical terms: the man with the bandage round his head and the unreadable look on his face.
“That is a portrait of Mr. Eleazer Gilman, sir,” the man said. “What do you know of him?”
“Almost nothing—but I’m very sorry to have to tell you that he is dead,” said Lenox.
“Dead!”
Lenox nodded. “He was stabbed aboard a train from Manchester to London. We are endeavoring to learn why.”
“Dead!” The man reflected on this, looking into the distance, for an instant caught in his own universe. “Then a great man is gone from the earth. Please excuse me. I must tell Mr. and Mrs. Thompson this news.”
He left. “Who was he?” Lenox whispered urgently.
Graham handed over a fat pile of newspaper clippings. “A congressman from Massachusetts, sir. And—”
“A congressman!”
“Yes, sir. A congressman. And also an ardent advocate of the abolition of slavery in the United States.”
They exchanged a look as Lenox absorbed this information. “Well,” he said. “Could I see the article?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lenox’s first thought was that he must go see Edmund. An anonymous death on a train had become, in the course of just a few of Lenox’s deductions and a day’s research by Graham, an incident with international political implications.
A great number of oddities had now been explained. Chief among these was the murderer’s care in removing the labels from Gilman’s clothing. But there was also his desire to have the body sit in Paddington Station overnight, when the passengers and crew of the 449 had scattered as widely as possible. The longer this particular death went unremarked, the less likely that anyone would associate it with the nonappearance in London of Eli Gilman. And the safer the perpetrators would be.
Lenox remained in the small sitting room with Graham and rapidly read the clippings that the latter had brought from the Manchester newspapers.
There was news of Gilman’s arrival among other dignitaries and notables aboard the Clarissa and a small item from the Manchester-Guardian recording that Gilman had spent two days meeting with business leaders in Manchester and Leeds, soliciting their support—financial, moral, political—for the abolitionist groups whose interests he represented.
But his most important meetings, it was obvious, reading between the lines, were to have been in London. So was a march, which was to have taken place the very next day. The Manchester Guardian reported that important members of the liberal and conservative parties had both agreed to meet with Gilman, as well as several connections at court. It was expected to be the best-attended abolitionist march in London in more than a decade.
In other words, Gilman had come to England with more than a naïve hope of finding an audience for his anti-slavery views. The question was whether this was the cause of his death.
Lenox glanced at the door; he was suddenly very curious about the bloodied bandage around the head of Gilman’s friend.
“Slavery,” Lenox said.
Graham nodded gravely. “Yes, sir.”
Whatever America had recently achieved, there was a point upon which all Britons could count themselves proud: The transport of slaves had been illegal within the empire for nearly fifty years now, since 1807.
It was a near-miracle. Almost never in the history of human events had a people forced its government to stand against such monumental economic interests. Indeed, some might have called it a true miracle—for the leaders of abolitionism in the country had been largely either Quaker or devoutly Anglican.
The instigators of the movement had both been deeply religious, Thomas Clarkson and William Wilberforce. They had performed complementary functions: Clarkson the organizer, Wilberforce the politician.
The first bill Wilberforce introduced to abolish slavery had been in 1791. It was defeated roundly, 163 to 88. Between that vote and the passage of the Slave Trade Act in 1807, sixteen years later, British ships had transported about half a million African slaves, to the immense profit of a few hundred men. Some of those arguing against Wilberforce said it was in fact the nation’s single most profitable business. This was their argument for allowing it—perhaps, they would concede, under heavier regulation—to continue.
But for once the moral argument had triumphed over the commercial argument. All across England, in part thanks to Clarkson and the Quakers, leagues had sprung up from nowhere to assist former slaves and to campaign against the creation of future ones.
Josiah Wedgwood, one of the country’s most famous and important men, designed a medallion: a black man in chains, speaking the words Am I not a man and a brother? The image had become so popular that women of the upper and middle classes pinned it to their dresses and wore it upon necklaces and bracelets. Gentlemen kept it in their lapels.
Meanwhile, Wilberforce worked tirelessly. Vote after vote, speech after speech, year after year, never yielding an inch. At long last, on February 23, 1807, he brought the bill of 1791 to the floor a final time. This time the vote was a rout, 283 to 16—in favor of abolition.
In quick succession, France, the Netherlands, and Spain agreed to adopt some variation of its contents. The bitterest irony was the nation that adopted the act only weeks after Wilberforce: the United States of America. This seemingly admirable action came with one enormous and tragic ambiguity; it did nothing whatsoever to address the nation’s internal slave trade.
Lenox had been just four or five years old when Wilberforce died. By the time the young Charles had reached school age, Wilberforce’s name was already a legend, particularly among the boys who knew themselves to be headed into lives of religion. A weak student at Cambridge, given to socializing and flirtation, Wilberforce had found, suddenly and to his great surprise, a cause to which he had been willing to commit hi
s life. Was this not evidence that divinity could enter any soul? Rarely had a moral crusade so perfectly matched the spirit of Christ.
Now, not half a century later, there were already statues of Wilberforce across the country, plaques and busts. Many men and women kept his penny portrait on their walls. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. Meanwhile his equally devout and energetic partner, Clarkson, had lived the years until his own later death, in 1846, campaigning against chattel slavery in America. He had found followers there—though never the same success that he and Wilberforce had in Britain.
There was a footstep in the hall, which proved to belong to the lady of the house. She was carrying a tea tray.
“Mrs. Thompson?” Lenox ventured.
“Yes?” the woman said.
She set down the plain wooden tray, which had a chipped white porcelain pot and four mismatched cups on it, along with fragrant toasted teacakes piled on a plate.
“Is your—lodger, I suppose—is he returning?”
“Mr. Hollis. Yes. He went to send a telegram; may the Lord preserve him.”
They heard the door at just that moment, and Hollis, as he was apparently called, reentered the sitting room.
Lenox had an additional moment now to examine him, and noticed a brass watch-chain, a sturdy gray cravat, and shoes that were creased here and there but well preserved. Good, functional attire.
Lenox stood. “Mr. Hollis, this is my associate, Mr. Graham,” he said. “As I told you, my name is Charles Lenox. We’ve been assisting Scotland Yard in the investigation of a murder on train 449 from Manchester to London. I came to the Salted Herring in response to your advertisement, and now, unfortunately, it appears that we have answered your question about your missing friend—though I have just learned of his name and position.
“Given all of that, may I inquire who you are?”
The black gentleman gestured to the tea. “Please, sit, if Mrs. Thompson doesn’t mind.”
She nodded, and they sat, she taking her own place, Lenox noticed, very freely. As she did, he saw a wooden cross swing from her neck, and realized that she must be a Quaker. Theirs was a religion that gave women an equal hearing, he had heard—as far as that went. This perhaps explained Hollis’s deference to her.
“Thank you,” said Lenox, and took a sip of the very strong, almost muddy tea. At this evening hour it was welcome. “That’s a bracer.”
“Mr. Lenox, my name is Josiah Hollis. I hail originally from Atlanta, in the state of Georgia. For the first twenty-seven years of my life I was held in bondage not far from there, on the plantation of the Hollis family.”
He spoke with a marked formality. Perhaps a fortification against people who would judge his intelligence by his race.
“Some months ago,” Hollis continued, “Congressman Gilman and I, along with a secretary to the Congressman, Mr. Abram Tiptree, formed a party to come here. We accepted donations to fund the trip and were happily surprised to receive far more in donations than we had expected.
“Our aims were twofold: to solicit support from high-ranking members of British society, first financial, second political, for the abolitionist movement in America. We were not the first such party, nor will we be the last. Yet we had great hopes. Our letters of introduction, thanks to Mr. Gilman and his friends, reached the highest levels of your society.”
“And your wound?” said Lenox, motioning toward his head.
Hollis set down his tea. “Ah. Yes. As I was saying, we are not a unique party—except in this, that two of the three of us are dead, and I myself—this is the reason for my telling you I was armed—was nearly killed yesterday.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Two of the three?” Lenox said.
“It appears so, sir,” said Hollis. “Mr. Tiptree died in Liverpool.”
“Good God,” Lenox said. Then suddenly he said to Graham, “What time is it?”
Graham checked his watch. “Ten past five.”
Lenox thought for a moment. “Would you mind going to the Salted Herring and making a note of who comes in? Particularly anyone who seems to be looking for Mr. Hollis, obviously.”
Graham nodded, stood up, picked up a guttered candle, and said to Mrs. Thompson, “May I?”
“May you what?”
Taking this as assent, Graham disheveled his hair and rubbed a few just faintly perceptible streaks of black tallow into his cheeks, mucking up his face imperceptibly but tellingly.
He removed his jacket. Lenox took it for him. Despite the subtlety of the changes, he was transformed. Lenox knew that an accent—a growling Oxfordshire intonation that he could adopt at will—would prove no trouble. Graham could blend in anywhere. He bowed toward the room and left.
“Quick work,” Hollis said.
Lenox turned toward him angrily. “Did you not consider that one of your attackers might see your ad?”
“Excuse me?”
“Now it is Graham who must do the dangerous work of identifying whatever species of villain comes through that public house.”
Hollis looked surprised, and then his face darkened. “You’re both free to leave.”
“In fact we are not.”
“I cannot see anyone detaining you.”
“Our remit keeps us here. But my apologies,” said Lenox tersely. He was furious on behalf of his friend, but cognizant that he must coax what information he could out of Hollis. “You were saying—did you say that Gilman’s secretary is dead?”
“Yes. He fell between the gangway and the dock at our disembarkation in Liverpool. He was accompanying Congressman Gilman’s luggage. Neither of us was with him. We were traveling in three different classes and had agreed to meet at the hotel. They fished Mr. Tiptree out of the water with a gaff, but his head was badly wounded, and after several days of fever he died in the hospital. Gilman wrote to his wife from Liverpool to inform her of the news.”
“His name was Abram Tiptree?” Lenox said, writing it down in a small notebook he had pulled from his pocket. A present from his mother.
“Yes.”
Lenox looked up. “Why did you and Gilman separate on your way to London?”
Hollis frowned and thought.
The pause gave Lenox a chance to study him. He had a strong jawline and a good profile. He was missing a tooth near the back of the left side of his mouth. The shade of his skin was closer to tan than to ebony. The bandage around his head looked passably fresh but inadequate.
Lenox had never met a black American before. There were few people of African descent in Great Britain; those there were had a difficult time. Every second talk at the scientific academies seemed to Lenox to be an attempt to prove their intellectual inferiority—this was the word that had gained currency in London—and outside of places with a heavy naval population, such as the port cities of Liverpool and Cardiff, they were extremely noticeable, drawing stares, jeers, impertinences.
There was, however, a small but healthy black population in Canning Town, not from where they sat. A minor case had taken Lenox there two years before, and in the course of it he had met a man named Richard Bartlett, of such clear and remarkable intelligence that those scientific proofs had sat uneasily in Lenox’s mind since. (The world was a mysterious place, and nearly everyone in it knew rather less than they thought. Such were Lenox’s feelings.) Bartlett had been of no use, as it happened, in that particular case—but Lenox had kept his name and address, in the event that he ever found himself in Canning Town again.
The only eccentricity he had been able to discern in Bartlett was that he drank between forty and fifty cups of tea a day. But you could say the same of the Earl of Ascot, if you substituted sherry for tea.
All of these reflections passed very quickly, in the moment or two that Hollis pondered how to tell his tale.
“Would you like the full story, or the abbreviated one?” he asked the detective.
“It would be best if I could return to Scotland Yard quickly.”
H
ollis nodded. “Very well. Then suffice it to say that Mr. Gilman was an evangelist for the cause of abolition, while I am the willing exhibit and witness of slavery’s evils. I was once enslaved, and there are enough otherwise well-meaning people who are amazed that I can dress in a suit of clothes and speak in complete sentences that sometimes it entices them to support our work.
“Gilman—I still cannot believe he is dead!—stayed in the north of England after Tiptree’s death in order to meet with textile factory owners there. It is they who demand the cotton that keeps slavery alive. Having heard that northern attitudes in England were less enlightened than in the south, Gilman and I decided that I should come here in advance to meet with the anti-slavery societies and help organize our march.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At a hotel close to Embassy Row. The Greensleeves. It is expensive, but has no policies of discrimination. Mr. Gilman had a room reserved next to mine.”
“Mr. Gilman was due to arrive Tuesday?”
That was the night of the body on the 449. “Yes. I went to sleep Tuesday expecting to see him in the morning. When I didn’t, I assumed he had been held back by either work or a missed train in the north. By the afternoon, however, when the fourth train from Manchester had arrived, and I met it on the platform to find that again he was not aboard it, I wired there. His hosts there assured me that he had left on time. It was then that I started to worry. I did not imagine for a moment that he was dead.”
“Did you see news of the murder?” Lenox asked.
“No. I would have with my supper yesterday evening, perhaps, for I usually read a paper in the evening. But as I was returning to my hotel, walking down an alleyway, a man came toward me from the other direction, his face and appearance in all respects ordinary. Gray hair, a gray mustache, of average height and build. When we were close to each other, he dealt a tremendous clout to the side of my head. His hand must have held some sort of blackjack—so I think in retrospect, at least. It gave me the wound you see bandaged over on my head.”
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