As he climbed the stoop of his house Lenox thought of a long night’s rest. But in the front hallway he found Mary in a state of intense anxiety, pacing and waiting for him.
“Sir, sir!” she said when he came in. “There’s a man here!”
“Who is he?”
“I daren’t say!”
“Where is he?”
“In your study, sir, eating all the food in the house! He insisted, sir!”
“Take a deep breath, Mary. Has Graham not returned?”
“No!”
“Well, let’s see who it is.”
Lenox strode into his library and found a young man, covered in dirt, hair shorn close to his head, clothes disheveled, and eating, as Mary had said, from a massive plate of food. “I’m Charles Lenox. May I help you?” the detective asked.
The young man rose slowly and swallowed his mouthful.
“Perhaps,” he said, in a surprisingly educated voice. “I’m Bill Dabney.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Now,” said Lenox. “May I ask you a few more detailed questions?”
“Of course,” said Dabney. His voice had been polished by Oxford; it lacked the deep melodious quality of the Midlands his father’s voice had, but he was proving just as affable and thoughtful.
Lenox had instantly asked three questions when the two had first faced each other in the library. They were: Do you know who killed George Payson? Does anybody else know where you are? And: What happened? To these Dabney had replied: no, no, and that he wasn’t quite sure. Then Lenox, seeing the pathetic state of the lad’s clothing and the hunted, fearful look in his eyes, had put off his curiosity and asked Mary to draw Dabney a bath and find him some new clothes.
It was about an hour later now, nearing eleven at night, and he looked like a new man in a pair of gray trousers and one of the thick green Scottish sweaters that McConnell’s mother (one of the most charming and eccentric people Lenox had ever met) had sent him for Christmas the year before.
“How did you find me, to begin with?”
“After Payson died I was in Oxfordshire, roaming around the countryside, working toward London. I reckoned that I could disappear more easily here than anywhere else. And I was-I am-terrified by how quickly things went from mysterious to tragic. I have no idea how it happened.”
He seemed to be telling the truth. Inwardly, Lenox sighed. Obviously Payson had taken much of the truth with him when he died. “You made it here, evidently.”
“Yes, I did. I thought of going to Stamp first, but then it occurred to me that everybody knew we were friends, and at any rate I didn’t want to endanger him. So I sent him a card, a September Society card (I had a few, you see, which I nicked off George, just in case-he had been leaving them everywhere), and I wrote on the back of it ’Who can you trust?’ He came straight to you, and I watched you for a day and thought about whether I could trust you. But Stamp had. So I decided to take the risk.”
That explained that mystery. Stamp could probably return to London in peace.
“What is the September Society? How was George involved?”
Dabney threw up his hands. “I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened, then, from the beginning?”
“It all started at the Jesus ball. Stamp, poor chap, had to study for a makeup midyear exam. Collections, they call them at Oxford. So only Payson and I went to Jesus. Stamp and I-we kip together, but you’ll know that-we had noticed George was distracted, wasn’t quite himself. At the ball I confronted him about it.”
“After he met with the middle-aged man out in the quad?”
It was Dabney’s turn to look startled. “Exactly. I asked who the man was.”
“And what did Payson say?”
A look of sadness came into Dabney’s eyes-of deep sadness, of a new, unfamiliar sort that had only just come into his life. He didn’t seem close to breaking down; rather he seemed as if he were just beginning to realize what had happened, now that he had been able to stop running. “Oh, Lord, I wish he weren’t dead. What’s gone wrong?” He buried his face in his hands.
Lenox was silent for a moment, and then said, “Bill?”
“Oh-yes-he only said, ’He knew my father.’ Which was odd, as Payson never spoke about his father.”
“And what then?”
“He said to me, ’Dabs, something has gone wrong’ “-here again the lad paused, devastated-” ’and I may have to vanish for a few weeks.’ I asked him what he meant, and he said that some mystery had arisen about his father and this-this September Society, whatever that is, and then he told me not to worry any more about it. That he had left trail enough in his room if anything went awry.”
Lenox cursed under his breath. “Did he ever mention that trail again? In his room?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you to go with him?”
“On the contrary-I said I was going to go with him and he told me I couldn’t. We had breakfast the morning before he left, and he only said that I shouldn’t worry about him, that I couldn’t go.”
“Then how did you?”
“I caught up just after he had seen his mother. He looked horribly pale and jittery, and I followed him out past Christ Church Meadow.”
Lenox nodded. “South.”
“Precisely. Finally, after the bridge-you know the one, just over the Cherwell down past the lower fields-I simply tapped him on the shoulder. I told him that I was coming whether he liked it or not.”
“Good of you,” said the older man softly.
Dabney shrugged. “It didn’t help. Not in the end.”
“And what did you do?”
“We slept relatively close to town, just past the meadow. He had some food, and I went out and got a bit more at a shop by Magdalen Bridge where not many students go. The next day he went and saw the man again.”
“At the Jesus ball.”
“Lord, you’re omniscient.”
“You didn’t go with him?”
“I did, yes, but George said that I had to hide.”
“What was his attitude like-Payson’s?”
“Hopeful, actually. Jittery, as I say, but he also seemed hopeful. He seemed relieved.” Dabney paused. “Stamp and I always wondered about George’s governor, you see. There were all sorts of rumors. I had the sense that George finally felt proud, for some reason.”
“Proud?”
Dabney nodded firmly. “Yes, proud-and as if it were an adventure, not as if he were afraid. He didn’t seem at all afraid.”
“Can you describe the man he met with?”
“Not well, because I didn’t catch much of his face. Average build, I should say. Dark hair. Whiskers, and perhaps a mustache, though perhaps not. On his throat was-”
“A scar?”
Dabney looked again surprised. “Yes, exactly. A red scar.”
“Lysander,” muttered Lenox. Yet according to Dallington he couldn’t have actually killed Payson. Or could Dallington have missed a trick?
“Who is that?”
“A member of this Society, the September Society.”
“Ah. So.”
“I’m afraid I have to ask you something difficult now, Bill.”
A grim look came onto Dabney’s face. “About his death. Right.”
“Yes,” said Lenox.
“I had gone to get food, you see. We were just running out, and we agreed it was much better that I risk being seen than that he did. It was around nightfall. When I came back with the food, he was-he was dead.”
Now Dabney did weep, and once and for all Lenox struck him from the list of possible suspects. For his tears were entirely genuine, born out of a grief that surpassed not only words but the years of upbringing that had taught him to keep a stiff upper lip.
“You took his body to Christ Church Meadow.”
“Yes,” said Dabney, taking the handkerchief Lenox offered him. “Yes, I carried him into the meadow. Our hiding space was just between
a grouping of trees, and it was awfully well hidden. But I wanted his body to be found, because I wanted the police-and you, I suppose, though I didn’t know you existed-to figure it out straight away.”
“You didn’t want to come forward yourself?”
“No.”
“I can see why you wouldn’t, of course.”
“It was simply so shocking-so shocking to find him there. Suddenly it all seemed so much different than what we had been playing at. I had had no idea it was serious. And of course I assumed that they would want to kill me, too, whoever had done it, because George might have confided in me.”
“Yes, of course.”
“So I put his body in the meadow and then I ran for it. It took days of walking-I hadn’t very much money, you see, because I thought we would only be gone a short while-and a bit of scavenging-and then I couldn’t quite turn to old Stamp, because I didn’t want him to become a target…”
Exhaustion seemed to overtake the lad. Again he buried his head in his hands.
“We’ll push you upstairs to bed in just a moment,” said Lenox. “I know how tired you must be. But are you fit to answer another question or two?”
“Oh, yes, yes.”
“Did George say anything at all about the man he was meeting with? About the Society?”
“No, he didn’t. I wish I had asked.”
“I take it you cut your hair and changed into the clothes you had on as a means of disguise?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“I thought so. Tell me, what did you speak about? Out beyond the meadow?”
Now the phantom of a smile came into Dabney’s eyes. “We talked about old times. About when we were freshers. About what spring would be like, this year, when we had written our exams and we could simply punt all day and go to the Bear and have pints to drink.” Another short sob, which he managed to cut short somewhere in his chest. “Lord, I can’t believe it’s happened!”
After two or three more inconclusive questions, Lenox led Dabney upstairs and put him in the guest bedroom; in only moments there was a deep quiet from within.
As for the detective, he went back downstairs. The candles guttered out, and long after midnight he was left staring into the embers of the fire for light, as a comfortless rain beat against the window.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
It was almost noon when Dabney woke the next day. Lenox had spent the late night and the morning devising a plan of action; it depended on one man, but he thought it might just work.
He also had half a dozen questions he had forgotten to ask Dabney the night before. The foremost of these was about Hatch. When the lad had finished eating his breakfast (prepared by a wrathful Ellie, who thought that once the master started asking for eggs and kippers at noon the apocalypse couldn’t be far behind), Lenox began that line of inquiry.
“Did he deliver a parcel to you, out in the Meadow?”
“Who-old Hatch? No, I don’t know anything about that. I certainly didn’t see him, and I don’t think he could have spoken to Payson without my knowing about it.”
“Are you certain? It would have been on Sunday afternoon. And the two of them met at a place called Shotter’s just before Payson disappeared on Saturday.”
“Did they?” Dabney seemed perplexed. “Professor Hatch was decent for a laugh and a drink, but I doubt that he would have been George’s choice as a confidant. I very much doubt it.”
This exchange immediately led Lenox to reevaluate his thoughts about Hatch. He had to some extent discounted the possibility that Hatch was guilty, even as an accomplice. It had seemed logical to assume that Hatch had been helping his troubled young friend, bringing him a parcel of-what, food? Clothes? It seemed feeble now. Quickly he wrote a telegram to Graham, requesting that he remain in Oxford another twelve hours.
“Another question, then,” he said to Dabney. “What do you mean to do? I’ve met with your parents, and while they’ve handled it admirably, they’re of course frantically worried. I’m inclined to send them a telegram instantly. I fought against the instinct after you had gone to sleep last night, out of respect for your free will.”
Dabney winced. “Please, please don’t. I have a good reason.”
“What’s that?”
“Listen, when will all this be over, do you reckon?”
“Not later than Monday evening, I should say.”
“How can you know that?”
“I have a plan in mind that should force things to a conclusion, one way or another.”
“Tuesday morning, then, as early as possible. I’ll write them then.”
At half past noon, Lenox set out to execute his new plan. He walked with some trepidation for Pall Mall and the row of clubs along it. As he drew close to Carlton Gardens and the September Society (and Biblius Club), his uncertainty increased, and he decided to wait until after his lunch. At the Athenaeum Club he had turkey on the joint with cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes-heavy but sustaining in the weather, which continued cold and wet-and read the Cambridge Journal of Roman History.
The Athenaeum was a place for people accomplished intellectually rather than socially, and many of the people in the dining room were reading similar journals on any number of subjects. While its members were still largely drawn from the landed classes, some had arrived on the merit of their achievements. For example, in the late 1830s, when the club had been in a difficult financial position, its board had decided to admit forty less well born men from a waiting list. Thereafter known jocularly as the Forty Thieves, their number had included Dickens and Darwin. Lenox liked this tradition in the club-one dedicated to Athena, after all, the goddess of wisdom whose cunning had guided Odysseus-much better than he liked the tradition of exclusivity at Boodle’s, where the SPQRs met.
At half past one he finally made his way out, nodding to the familiar faces he saw on the way, and started for Carlton Gardens.
At the September Society, however, he did not find Hallowell as he had hoped, but the second, older doorman who had directed him once before to the Royal Oak.
“After Hallowell again, sir?”
“Yes, actually.”
“He won’t be at the Royal Oak now, I shouldn’t imagine, sir. His shift doesn’t begin for another hour and a half.”
“I see.”
“Would you like me to leave word for him that you called?”
“No, that’s quite all right. Thanks.”
Lenox decided to check the Royal Oak anyway. He turned up his collar against the rain and once more walked down the slender alleyway which housed the pub.
It was as he had left it, dim, the walls dampening a constant murmur of voices, and in the air the steamy warmth of a wet day brought indoors. In fact, the people at the tables might not have moved at all since he had last been there. The man with the large mustache was still behind the bar.
“Hello,” said Lenox. “I’m trying to find Hallowell. You may remember I was here-”
“In the back,” said the barman, pointing with his thumb.
It was a stroke of luck. Hallowell was reading a newspaper at a rear table, a full pint of Guinness before him. When he looked up and saw Lenox, his face fell slightly-and who could blame him? What had begun as a conversational acquaintance had become dangerously uncertain.
“Really, sir,” he said as Lenox approached, “I’ve told you all I know about Major Wilson. I haven’t thought of anything else.”
Lenox sat down. “Of course, and I’m sorry to bother you again.”
“It’s not a bother, sir, but it may be more than my job is worth.”
“Have you read anything about this business at Oxford?” the detective asked, pointing at the newspaper Hallowell was still holding.
“Some, yes, sir.”
“I know I’ve asked you to go against your conscience, but a great deal is at stake, you see. A lad died, a lad of twenty.”
“Yes, Mr. Lenox.”
“In part it was my own fault. I kne
w something was afoot before he died, young George Payson, and I couldn’t stop it from happening. But I may be able to stop it from happening again.”
Hallowell nodded slightly
“I need to ask you a larger favor, Thomas.”
“Sir?”
“It’s not about Major Wilson. It’s about the meeting tomorrow.”
“The September Society’s meeting?”
“Yes, precisely.”
“But I won’t even be there, sir. As I told you, we receive the night off.”
It was time to level with the man. He was sharp enough, clever enough, to see that things had changed. “I told you that I was working in the same direction as the Society, whether they knew it or not, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That no longer appears to be the case.”
Hallowell blanched. “Sir?”
“I think somebody in the Society is responsible for George Payson’s murder-perhaps several other deaths, too.”
“Sir, I can scarcely credit-I mean to say, I know these men, it’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid it is, in fact. And I need you to sneak me into the club before the meeting so that I can spy on them all.”
“No, sir, I simply cannot-”
“But you must!”
“I simply cannot, Mr. Lenox-”
Lenox’s temper rose. “They shot at my friend’s house, Hallowell! Did you read about that in the papers, on Hampden Lane? They threatened a woman with no involvement in the case-they’ve killed an innocent lad-they probably killed Major Wilson-you must!”
For a moment there was silence at the table. The paper fell out of Hallowell’s hands, while in the front bar the voices grew suddenly louder and a wave of laughter rose and fell among the house’s patrons. Outside, Lenox saw through the small window above him, the rain had stopped.
At last, almost imperceptibly, Hallowell nodded. “Yes,” he said. “All right.”
Relieved, Lenox said, “Good. Excellent.”
“But just a moment-how can I trust you? How can I be sure you’re not involved?”
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