The late night seemed like a dream-it had been almost one o’clock when he had put Jane, Toto, and McConnell in a carriage. Afterward he had restlessly inhabited his study for another hour or so, but at last he had gotten to sleep.
At just past nine he went downstairs. He wrote a few notes, including one to Rosie Little, and then went to the table in his dining room. His eggs and toast were waiting there, and he dug into them hungrily, relishing their buttery taste and following it with swallows of hot tea. The rain had gotten louder, and by the time he finished eating it was lashing across the empty streets on a high wind. He decided to run across to the bookshop and risked doing it without an umbrella.
“Well,” said Mr. Chaffanbrass, sitting by his hot stove reading when Lenox entered, “look what the cat dragged in. Has Noah started to load up his ark yet?”
“No talk of cats, please, if you have a heart. Too frighteningly apt.”
“Quite a noisy affair last night, wasn’t it? It was lucky that Annie was only scratched.”
“Do you know her, then?”
“Oh, yes. She often stops by for a word or to pick up a book for Lady Grey.”
There were several customers patrolling the bookshelves that ran from floor to ceiling, and one of them came up to the front desk now. He had the look of a genuine bibliophile, something intangible in the way he held the book just so, lightly but at the same time as if he never wanted to lose his grip.
“How much for this, sir?” he asked, his eyes keen.
Peering over the man’s shoulder, Lenox saw that it was a battered but ancient edition of Lavater’s Physiognomy. “Three crowns, and a bargain at that price,” said Chaffanbrass.
The transaction took place, and the man left.
“Do you know who that was?” Chaffanbrass asked.
“Who?”
“Charles Huntly.”
“I don’t think that rings a bell.”
“Do you remember Princess Amelia?”
“George III’s daughter? Something of her-she died during my father’s lifetime.”
Chaffanbrass nodded. “When I was a boy. They wouldn’t let her marry her true love, Charles Fitzroy, but they had a child anyway. Illegitimately. That son was Charles Huntly’s father.”
“So then-”
“Yes, exactly. Great-grandson in the direct line to George III. Mad King George. They’ve kept him as a commissioner in some part of South Africa, but now he’s made his fortune and returned. It all would have been a great palaver in your grandfather’s time.”
“Is he a book lover, then?”
“He certainly is. When he was poor his uncle’s manservant came in to pay his tabs now and then. Old Prince Adolphus, the Duke of Cambridge.”
“Does he have any children?”
“Oh, a dozen, I expect.”
Chaffanbrass rambled on about the royal family a little bit longer-a favored subject of his-and then Lenox was able to ask about a book. Something recent, he said, and not quite as taxing as Erasmus. Chaffanbrass said he knew just the thing, then presented Lenox with about ten books. After a few minutes the detective left with a new volume under his arm, Felix Holt, the Radical. It had only just come out.
When he left he saw that the rain had subsided, and he was able to dash across the street without getting too wet. Just as he reached his own door, however, he saw something disheartening: The same tall, thin man in the long gray coat he had seen coming out of Lady Jane’s house before was there again. This was the second time. Who was he? Could he be the cause of that sorrow Lenox had detected in his friend?
It was in a duller mood that he ordered his carriage and departed to see Harry Arlington, McConnell’s friend at the War Office.
Arlington received Lenox in his usual jovial way. They had met once or twice before, though they had never spoken at length. He was a large man, tall and broad-shouldered, who had been forced into the military by his father straight out of school and spent his lifetime flourishing there. He had become a general three years ago, and two years after that become the military secretary, the senior military assistant to the secretary of state for Defense. He spent his days appointing colonels, considering court-martials, judging applications to Sandhurst, and overseeing Her Majesty’s Bodyguard of the Honorable Corps of Gentlemen at Arms, who protected the Queen, performed ceremonial duties, and also still, 350 years after their creation by Henry VIII, served on regular duty. He called the work dull but in fact was perfectly suited to the somewhat nebulous position he occupied between Parliament and the armed services. He was about fifty, in the pink of health, with five daughters and a string of horses in the country. In all he had done very well for himself. His best friend had once been Arthur McConnell, Thomas McConnell’s uncle, with whom he had entered the Coldstream Guards as a lad of seventeen. Arthur McConnell had died in the Crimean War, and since then Arlington had kept a close watch over his (as he called McConnell) honorary godson.
His office was massive and daunting, with a large window behind the desk overlooking Whitehall. The flag of the Lily-whites was on display next to the Union Jack on one wall, and on the other was a row of full-length portraits of former military secretaries. Arlington put Lenox at ease straight away, offering him a cigar and a handshake.
“Toto’s pregnant, then, Mr. Lenox? And I hear you’re to be the godfather? Well, well, congratulations.”
“Thank you, General. They seem awfully happy.”
“Call me Arlington, call me Arlington. Are you related to Edmund Lenox, by any chance? I come across him in my work in Parliament here and there.”
“He’s my brother,” said Lenox, once again marveling at Edmund’s hidden life in government.
“Wonderful fellow. Now, I have the file here which Thomas wrote to me about.” His manner became suddenly grave, as he took a folder out of the top drawer of his desk and tapped it thoughtfully against his palm. “And I can’t help noticing that the name is a familiar one.”
“The lad at Oxford?”
“Exactly, Lenox, exactly.”
“You won’t be surprised to hear that the errand I’m on is related to his death. I’m investigating it, helping the police there.”
“I see. And how do you think that the death of the boy’s father however many years…” He peered into the folder. “Nineteen years ago-how do you think that may be involved?”
“Have you heard of the September Society, Arlington? For retired officers of the 12th Suffolk 2nd?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“A small club of men. But they keep turning up in unlikely places. Daniel Maran-you know that name, I’m sure?”
Arlington’s brow darkened. “Yes, yes I do. We run on parallel lines, and the less I deal with him the better, as I find it.”
“He’s a member of the Society. It would be too complicated to explain it now, in full anyway, but I think George Payson’s death may have some link to his father’s death, and I wanted to look into the file.”
Arlington turned so that he was in profile to Lenox and looked out through his window. “In this room I make decisions,” he said, “which affect my country-my Queen-every day.”
“Yes,” said Lenox.
“To give you this would be to break a hard and fast rule, you know. You have no claim to that file.”
“I understand.”
Arlington turned back to him. “But your brother could legally request it.” Lenox was silent. “My rule of thumb here has been total honesty. I’ve been guided entirely by the rules that bind me. I can’t change that now. But I’ll send the file to my friend Edmund Lenox this afternoon.” He put the file back in his top drawer, and with a firm nod the subject was closed. “Now, have I heard correctly that Toto wants to name the child Malory?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
W hen Lenox returned to Hampden Lane he found Dallington, carnation firmly established in his buttonhole, his feet up near the fire in Lenox’s favorite armchair, evidently feeling quite at home. He
was smoking a cigarette and reading Punch with a small grin on his face.
“Entertaining?” said Lenox.
Dallington turned to him. “Oh-your maid put me in here. Hope that’s all right. Yes, it is, rather,” he added, gesturing toward the magazine. “What’s that parcel you’ve got?”
There was a rectangular package under Lenox’s arm, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Oh,” he said vaguely, “just something.”
“Your powers of description would put Wordsworth to shame.” The small grin had grown wider by now. “At any rate, I didn’t come here to josh you.”
“Didn’t you?” Lenox sat down opposite his pupil. “What a lovely surprise.”
“I wanted to ask about the servant who got shot.”
“Oh-yes, it worked out as fortunately as it could have.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“The wound wasn’t serious at all.”
“I saw the bobbies outside. They looked at me as if I might be returning to the scene of the crime when I sidled up here. By the way, you got my note about Theophilus Butler?”
“I did-and about the 12th Suffolk 2nd, thanks. Both a big help. In fact, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk about another assignment.”
Dallington’s eyebrows arched inquisitively. “At your service, of course. Everything’s gone well enough so far, give or take.”
“This task might be a bit more delicate-closer to the heart of the case.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“Do you remember I told you about Lysander?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I think perhaps he murdered George Payson.”
“What!”
“Yes. At any rate, I think he met with Payson before Payson disappeared. Who knows what they talked about.”
“Why? What would his motive have been?”
Lenox laid out the trail of clues connecting the younger George Payson, his father, and the September Society. “So you see, you’ve asked the precise question Goodson and I have been asking ourselves… motive.”
“What can I do?”
“You can put together as accurate a record as possible-you really can’t be too meticulous-of this last week of Lysander’s life. We know, or at least I think I know, that he was in Oxford this weekend, and we know that he and I met two days ago. The rest will need to be sketched in.”
“Any advice?”
“Only that it would be much better that you fail miserably than that you succeed and at the same time tip Lysander off.”
Dallington nodded, his face grave, transformed since only a moment ago. Lenox recognized a flicker of that fire of curiosity and-well, anger that he felt in himself when he worked on cases like this.
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. Please don’t speak to his servants, or anything like that. Hard evidence, his name in the club register-you don’t belong to the Army and Navy, of course? No, well, you’ll know somebody who does. Ask the conductors on the Oxford train, speak to the man who sits on the bench in Green Park all day and watches that row of houses Wilson and Lysander live in-you know they live two doors away from each other?”
“Yes, of course. What man, though? In Green Park?”
“I was speaking figuratively. I mean-be imaginative.”
Dallington nodded again, though less certainly. “Yes, I see what you mean. I’ll do my level best at any rate.”
“Lovely. Oh-and look Lysander up in Who’s Who for a bit of background information. Do you have it? Because it’s somewhere on these shelves…” Lenox peered around the bookcases.
“Father has it, I’ll ask him.”
“All right. And remember-caution. The case’s demands have to be more important than anybody’s ego, yours or mine. It’s no use trapping him dead in a lie if he’s already on a train to Moscow by the time you have.”
“Thanks, Charles. Your trust means the world to me.”
Dallington took up his copy of Punch as he said this, and suddenly Lenox saw the young lord for what he was: a boy. Not five years out of school, and already the misery of his parents, a notorious failure. His bantering manners and air of worldliness-not to say weariness-somehow masked a truer part of him. A part that had already come to the surface in flashes during his brief working relationship with Lenox. Whether it would stay there was another matter entirely.
Dallington left, and Lenox was alone. He sorted through his post, discarded most of it, and then picked up his parcel and went toward the door. He was going over to Jane’s house.
Kirk greeted him with his usual measure of corpulent politeness, then said, “I am sorry to say that her Ladyship is not at home just now.”
“Oh, I know. I was hoping to see Annie, actually.”
Kirk raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“If it’s not an inconvenient time for her, that is.”
“No, sir, I’m sure it’s not.”
“She has recovered some, then?”
“Very well, sir, yes.”
“If she’s retired-”
“No, sir, she is situated in the second upper drawing room.”
Kirk led Lenox up a long flight of stairs to a wide, rather drab room, prettily furnished, on the second floor. Lady Jane lived primarily in two places: her morning room, a small, beautifully light square where she wrote letters and took her breakfast, and the drawing room Lenox knew so well. This room was new to him. Annie was perched on a long chaise by the window, facing away from the door, her arm in a sling. She didn’t appear to be doing anything particular and tried to crane her neck to see who had entered. Kirk bowed and left the two of them alone-commenting quietly to himself, no doubt, on the impropriety of the situation.
She was a plump woman, rosy-cheeked, maternal in bearing, with the strong arms and sloped back that a lifetime of labor bestowed on so many women of her class. She wore a cheery bonnet and a long, plain gray dress.
“How do you do, Annie? I’m Charles Lenox.” She made the best curtsy she could from her compromised position, and Lenox sat in a chair that had been left close by. “I recognize you, of course, but I’m not certain we’ve met properly.”
Awkwardly, he took her outstretched hand. Then he handed her the parcel Dallington had asked about, saying, “Oh, this is for you, incidentally-just to pass the time.”
She opened it deliberately and cooed over its contents: a few penny dreadfuls, several women’s magazines Lenox had sent Mary to fetch, an ivory-handled comb, and a wax-paper-wrapped bundle of chocolates he had bought himself.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Lenox. How kind of you!”
“Oh, no-we’ve all been ill,” he said, smiling. “The hours do drag on. I remember receiving just such a parcel from my mother when I was at school. It made all the difference.”
“As this shall, too, sir, I’m quite sure.”
“Really I wanted to come apologize, however, Annie.”
“Oh, Mr. Lenox,” she said skeptically, “please don’t think about it.”
“Really; none of this would have happened if it weren’t for me. I’m sorry. If I can ever do you a good turn, simply say the word, won’t you? I do wish it had happened to me rather than you.”
“Don’t mention that, sir. As my lady pointed out, you had no more control over this madman than I did. And to be honest”-her voice fell to a whisper-“it hasn’t been all that bad, having a vacation. Mind, I’m not saying I’d do it again, but it hasn’t been all that bad.”
Lenox laughed. “Still-for all that, I am sorry.”
As he walked down the stairs a few minutes later, he was glad it was over. It had been an awkward transaction. He wished that he might have expressed himself more eloquently-impressed upon her more urgently how sorry he was that he had endangered her. Even how fearful he was that he had endangered Lady Jane.
Of course, though, that was impossible. Their stations were too far apart. He went home and answered one of the l
etters he had received. Mary came in to ask him whether he would have his lunch in or out, and he decided that he would try to drop in on his brother, Edmund, and perhaps get the file Arlington had sent over. No, he told her, he would eat out. He gave her the letter to post and, asking for his carriage, said he would be reading until it was ready to take him to the Houses of Parliament.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
T he Parliament of the United Kingdom was by no means a perfect body, but it was getting better-had gotten better, in fact, in Lenox’s lifetime. He could remember the infamous borough of Old Sarum, which in 1831 had elected two Members, and in doing so overcome the notable handicap of having only eleven residents. But the Reform Act of 1832 had finally abolished Old Sarum and places like it. (The town of Dunwich, in Suffolk, for example, had also elected two MPs in 1831 despite literally not existing, an impressive feat; while it technically had about two dozen voters, the town itself had long been claimed by the waters of the local river.) Now, only thirty years after the reforms, which had been unimaginable to his grandparents’ generation, more and more people had suffrage, landowners could only vote once, and the Earl of Lonsdale no longer had the right to name nine Members completely on his own. In all it allowed the House of Commons to become more forceful in its dealings with the House of Lords-allowed the people, in other words, to be more assertive with the noblemen. Taken together, the years of that era had added up to a gradual reclamation of rights that was on par with the Magna Carta.
As he looked up at the famous long facade of the Palace of Westminster (its formal name) just above the rolling Thames, he thought for the hundredth time that the highest service an Englishman could do was to work in this building, to serve here with honesty and compassion and patriotism. At Balliol his friends had called him “the Debater” because of his tendency to make long and ardent speeches about civil reform and imperial restraint. His friends and family had all assumed he would find himself within these doors before too long. Yet here he was, nearly forty, and no closer than he had been twenty years past. It was a deep, mostly healed-over wound. He was reconciled to his profession, loved his profession. Still, just as his heart rose every time he caught a glimpse of Big Ben, it fell when he had to sign in as a guest at the door.
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