The September Society clm-2

by Charles Finch

  Lenox found his older brother in the anteroom just by the actual chamber of the House of Commons sitting with two or three other Members, heads huddled together, quite obviously speaking about something of importance to the party. He held back in the doorway and waited for their conversation to end. The House was down, of course, until the evening, and there was quiet in most of the building. He felt slightly out of place. After only a few seconds Edmund looked up and saw him, flashed him a smile, and made his excuses to his compatriots.

  “Charles,” he said, “I’m very glad to see you.”

  Lenox’s brother looked very much like him, tall, with a good head of brown hair and sparkling, curious eyes, but while the younger brother was slender, the elder was ruddy and heavyset from years of country life.

  “How are you, Edmund?”

  They shook hands. “Not bad, not bad.”

  “You look a bit knocked about.”

  “Do I? Late nights in here, I expect. I miss the country. But how’s this business in Oxford going?”

  “Are you having lunch with anybody?”

  “I am, yes-but come along, won’t you? Only a few chaps from the Board of Trade, the War Office, all our party. Russell. You’ll know one or two of them.”

  “Wouldn’t it disrupt your work?”

  “No, not at all. Purely social.”

  They had paused in the hallways that connected the street, just by the Thames, to the beehive of rooms around the House. “I shall, then, thanks,” said Lenox, and they moved inward once again toward the famous Parliamentary restaurant called Bellamy’s.

  Edmund’s group was at a large table to the rear of the room, far from the prying eyes of the entrance. By the table there were two large windows overlooking the swift, gray river, but nobody looked out that way. Edmund introduced Lenox to the people he didn’t know-his friend James Hilary was there and greeted him warmly-but had read of in the papers. There was the promising young MP Jonathan Brick, a great orator and defender of the poor from Warwickshire, with a melodious South Midlands accent, and also Lord Russell, whom Lenox knew slightly and who had only just served a year as Prime Minister. Russell had stepped down after trying to introduce a reform bill which his own party had opposed-scandalously, in Lenox’s view. An angry mob in Hyde Park that July had agreed.

  At the luncheon there were also several backbenchers, men Lenox knew and recognized, men useful to the party in small, unglamorous, and utterly practical ways. Peter Anthony, a soap manufacturer from Birmingham, was one, and so was Donald Longstaffe, a man with no aspirations other than to belong to good clubs, Parliament being one of them. His talent was for gossip, a currency always redeemable in politics.

  The Liberal Party missed its founder, Viscount Palmerston, who had died just the year before. Besides being politically gifted and uncannily savvy, Lord Palmerston had been a figure around whom Liberals could unite: Having begun as a Tory, he had decided upon the necessity of a new path and forged it himself. As an orator nobody in either party had surpassed him. Lenox would never forget Palmerston’s bold stance in favor of the revolutions that swept the Continent in 1848, support that lent legitimacy to the rebellious armies in Italy, France, and Hungary. It was a noble belief in the idea of constitutional liberties that had driven him. Yes, they missed Palmerston. The party missed its talisman.

  In the meanwhile the Conservative Party had its own still-living leader. The current Prime Minister, the Earl of Derby, was serving his third (nonconsecutive) term, and all agreed that the Liberals had to find somebody quickly who might match him both in rhetoric and vision. Brick was one candidate; Hilary another, at any rate in time; and William Ewart Gladstone, though rather puritanical for some tastes, was a third, though he wasn’t present at the luncheon.

  “What are we all speaking about?” Edmund asked.

  Out of deference they all waited for Russell’s answer. None forthcoming, Brick said, “Oh, all the usual catastrophes. Derby’s evil plans. Gladstone’s speech yesterday evening.”

  Hilary said, “Derby may mean to steal our reform bill-yours, I should say, Lord Russell. He wants to greatly increase the franchise, anyway, reading between the lines of his speech of last week.”

  Edmund nodded. “Yes, that seems to be so.”

  The attention the table granted Edmund was not deferential, as with Lord Russell; but it was somehow individualized, specific, respectful. The entire table took up Hilary’s point, debating it back and forth. Once, Russell said, “Well, if he does it, good for him,” and everyone nodded vigorously and then disagreed. Lenox chimed in once or twice energetically, and when he did Brick looked at him rather appraisingly. Between them they finished three bottles of claret, which went a long way toward the establishment of good feeling at the table, and by the time they stood up they all seemed to agree about something not quite spelled out but nonetheless significant. All in all it left Lenox confused, but at the same time with the feeling that the language was one of subtexts, which it would be easy to pick up.

  “What did you make of that?” Edmund asked, clapping his brother on the shoulder as they walked down the long corridor toward Edmund’s office.

  “Was anything accomplished, exactly?”

  “Oh, Lord, no! We simply wanted to begin talking about this reform bill we’re expecting next year. Needed to find out what Russell thought.”

  “He seemed unruffled.”

  “That was the right form on his part.”

  A man, dark, short, and striding quickly, approached them. Edmund said hello to him.

  “Oh-yes, hello, Lenox. I can’t speak at the moment-something-something quite important. Forgive me.”

  “Not at all,” said Edmund, and the man walked on.

  “Who was that?” Lenox asked.

  “Daniel Maran.”

  “What! That’s a strange coincidence, to lay eyes on him.”

  “Not that strange, of course-he haunts this little building. I must see him at least once a day. Why are you so surprised?”

  “He may figure into this case of mine.”

  “How so?”

  Lenox quickly told Edmund what the September Society was, about Wilson, Butler, Lysander, and the shooting accident at Maran’s property that killed Wilson. He also mentioned that he had come by in part to see the file Arlington had sent over, and reminded his brother about James Payson.

  Edmund’s brow furrowed. “That’s quite strange, you know, about Maran.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “I could swear-yes, I feel certain that only the other day he was closeted with that man Lysander when I wanted to see him.”

  “What do you mean?” said Lenox keenly.

  “I popped into his office to ask him a question or two-I was with James Hilary, actually-and he said he couldn’t meet, and then introduced us to Lysander in a rather hurried way.”

  “When was this, Edmund?”

  “Oh, last… was it last Thursday? Yes, I think so.”

  “Why have you been dealing with Maran?”

  “Oh, just a small task they’ve asked me to do-nothing important, mind you. A few matters of ordnance. Some strange spending there, it would appear-though nothing that can’t be sorted out. But listen, Charles, what about Lysander?”

  Lenox’s mind was racing, and he answered his brother’s questions distractedly. When at length they reached Edmund’s small, cluttered office, he sat down and jotted a few notes. Then he took the file on James Payson, which Edmund had found on his desk. It was thin and looked inconsequential. Lenox scrambled backward in his memory for some further recollection of James Payson in his early days of marriage but couldn’t remember any. He opened the folder expecting disappointment but still half hoping for a breakthrough. After a bit of boilerplate, the report of the 2nd Battalion’s medical staff read: Already there are rumors in the camp about Captain Payson’s final hours, some of them quite outlandish… it is the consensus of this panel that these rumors should be encouraged while a deeper inv
estigation of the circumstances of Captain Payson’s death is undertaken, for it seems to us certain that, first, the subject was not injured by the enemy, and, second, that he may well have been the victim of foul play, intended to simulate suicide… whether or not this turns out to be the case, the death is not one which redounds to the credit of the 12th Regiment or the 2nd Battalion, and we believe that precautions should be taken against the revelation of the true facts of the incident in order to maintain morale… please see our initial findings below…

  Following this introduction the report went on for some time, describing in great detail Payson’s wound and how it might have been sustained. Lenox scanned this quickly and flipped to the second page of the report, an addendum from the same pen, which read: After further investigation we must conclude that our original report’s conjecture about Captain Payson’s death was incorrect, and that in fact he was a suicide… it may be seen that the angle of the shot, while unusual, was not impossible… in re the question posed about the scars on his face and chest, an animal had obviously been at the remains between Payson’s death and the discovery of the corpse, not surprising given the emaciated state of the domestic animals in this region… the scent of aniseed around the body points to canines… added to the peculiarity of Payson having wandered off alone, quite out of his usual routine, we are forced to believe that he killed himself with aforethought…

  Lenox read over the report a second time; his brother was sitting at his narrow window, tapping the ash of his pipe outside as cold air blew into the room. Nevertheless Lenox flushed as he read on, slowly realizing how this twenty-year-old description of James Payson’s suicide corresponded with McConnell’s report on the suicide of Peter Wilson. Was it possible that these two men, drawn from the same small circle of a battalion’s officers, had died in the same fashion, under the same cloud of uncertainty, coincidentally? No, of course it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.

  Above all it was eerie that James and George Payson’s deaths were so similar: both bodies found in public fields, their bodies mauled, their lives over at the age of twenty.

  “This damned Society,” Lenox muttered. “Look here, Edmund, I don’t suppose I can take this folder with me?”

  They had both seen that Arlington had marked it NOT TO BE REMOVED

  FROM GOVERNMENT PROPERTY.

  “You know, I’m not sure you should, Charles. I hate to say so. Is it quite important?”

  Lenox waved his hand. “Oh, I understand, of course-look here, would you mind if McConnell came in and had a look at it?”

  “Not at all-as long as he does so before the end of the day.”

  “Then I’ll fetch him right now. I won’t come back myself, Edmund-thanks awfully for lunch, and I’ll see you as soon as this business is resolved, all right?”

  “Yes, all right. You can’t explain?”

  “I wish I could,” said Lenox, taking his coat and heading for the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  A s he stepped out of his carriage by McConnell’s house, Lenox heard a piano and a clear, melodious voice accompanying it.

  It was Toto, playing and singing. Her spirit was captured in music, often: evanescent, chatty, generous, warm. He almost hesitated as he knocked at the door, loath as he was to cut her off. Then again, Arlington’s file would only be with Edmund for the rest of the day.

  “Charles!” she said. “You see how frivolously we pass the time.”

  “Good for the baby, to hear such sweet sounds. Where is Jane?”

  Toto looked cross. “Where is she ever! As secretive as the sphinx, and always in and out. I should chain her to this piano. But how’s your case?”

  Lenox looked to McConnell. “In fact, I came here about it. Do you think you could go to my brother’s office and look over a file he has there?”

  Toto looked unhappy at the request, but McConnell nodded. “Of course. What’s it all about?”

  Briefly Lenox explained what he thought was the similarity between Wilson’s death and Payson’s. “I’m not sure, however, and I could use your opinion.”

  “I’ll go straight away.”

  “Thanks very much. I have to be off as well-let me give you a ride.”

  “Perfect.”

  In the carriage, Lenox said, “Thanks for your letter to Arlington, by the way. He thought it best to send the file through official channels, rather than handing it over. Sensible enough I suppose.”

  “Don’t mention it. How did you find him?”

  “I liked him. He seems to be straightforward about things. He says exactly what he means.”

  As he dropped McConnell by Westminster Abbey a moment later, Lenox said, “Do you want to come around to see me afterward?”

  “Yes-it shouldn’t be above half an hour, if the file’s as short as you say.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you, then.”

  At home Lenox sorted through his post and found that there was a report from Graham about Hatch’s movements in the last day or two. It read: Mr. Lenox – Per your request, I have closely followed the movements of Professor John Hatch since your departure. Unfortunately he has done nothing untoward; his routine seems to be very set, a limited range of motion including his rooms at Lincoln, his laboratory, and the lecture hall. I shall continue to observe him but have little hope of a breakthrough. Unless I receive instructions to the contrary I will return to London tomorrow.

  It would be best for Graham to return, certainly. Lenox sighed. If Lysander and the September Society were responsible for killing George Payson, why? What did Hatch know that he wasn’t revealing? And where on earth was Bill Dabney?

  There was also a note from Inspector Goodson. It was very brief but made Lenox more hopeful than anything had in days. Have found a small campsite just by the meadow, due 100 yards south in a thick grove of trees. Sign of habitation some days old. Remnants: some food, a bright red lock of hair, and a thick, straight line of ash. Thought the latter two might interest you. Please report any findings, as we have lost Canterbury and no sign of Dabney. Goodson.

  Before he had time to think about this, there was a knock on the door, and he knew it must be McConnell.

  The doctor was drenched. He came in smiling ruefully. “Don’t suppose I could have a cup of that?” he said, gesturing toward the tea tray. “Something hot would go down well.” He took the towel that Mary had just arrived with and managed to make himself slightly drier.

  “Come over by the fire,” Lenox said. “Only milk, right?”

  “Right.”

  They sat opposite each other in the brown armchairs by the fire, Lenox quickly removing a small stack of books he had left on the one he never sat in.

  “Was I right, then? About the report?”

  “Yes,” said McConnell, removing his flask and taking a slug with a wince, “you were absolutely right. There’s no question about it. Unless James Payson and Peter Wilson’s regimental training encompassed a uniform lesson on the proper way to commit suicide, they were both murdered.”

  Though he had known it was coming, Lenox’s composure lurched a bit. “Murdered?”

  “That’s as clear as I can see it. I wanted to come over here first, but then I’m going to go see the coroner who worked on Wilson’s case and ask his opinion.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t, just yet.”

  “Why?”

  “In a day or two it won’t matter-next week, say-but at the moment I don’t want him calling in Daniel Maran and the rest of this damned Society for testimony about that weekend, asking them about George Payson.”

  McConnell nodded. “Yes, all right. By God, it’s pretty grim all around.”

  “Yes. Pretty grim.”

  “Have you heard anything from Oxford?”

  “They found the place where Payson and Dabney were hiding out behind Christ Church Meadow.” Lenox handed his friend Goodson’s note. “Everything seems conclusive enough, and at the same time completely baffling. Why would this Society care
after twenty years that old James Payson’s son was sitting around studying modern history in some innocuous college? And it has to be Payson, doesn’t it? He was the one killed; he’s the one with the link to this group; Lysander was in Oxford. And yet, and yet…”

  “It’ll come clean soon, I’ve no doubt,” McConnell said consolingly, giving the note back.

  “I suppose you’re right. Jane’s doing well, incidentally?” said Lenox.

  “It would put anyone’s back up to have their maid shot, but she’s doing remarkably well, yes.”

  They spoke for another few moments, but as soon as he had drunk his last drop of tea, McConnell stood up and said he had to go. Lenox could see his eagerness to return to his pregnant wife, and envied him it.

  “Sorry to have taken you away from home, but the file couldn’t leave Edmund’s…”

  “Oh, not at all, I was glad to get a look at it. One of the queerest means of murder I’ve ever heard of. By the way, what do you make of that missing sheet? In the file on Payson?”

  “Missing sheet?”

  McConnell had been halfway out the door, but he turned back fully to Lenox now. “You must have seen that there was a third sheet in Payson’s file. In the War Office’s file.”

  “I confess I didn’t.”

  “Yes-in all that useless information on the bottom of the first page it said 1/3, the second said 2/3… I suppose I got used to looking there when I practiced medicine.”

  “Unforgivable on my part.” Lenox shook his head. “What do you think it was?”