A Beautiful Blue Death clm-1

by Charles Finch

  “I am too,” said Lenox, thinking. “Say, Edmund, would you help me at Barnard’s ball?”

  “Does that mean I have to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dash it all.”

  “Will you or not?”

  “Of course I will. I hate a ball, though.”

  “I know you do. But just think, you shall be back in the country soon, at any rate, and you’ll have helped me.”

  Sir Edmund brightened. “That’s a good way to look at it, Charles. Very good.” He chuckled and took another scone—but offered the plate to his brother first, who took one, too, even though his hunger was gone.

  Chapter 29

  Almost as soon as Sir Edmund left, there was a soft tap on the door.

  “Yes?” Lenox called out.

  Graham came in quietly and stood by the door. “May I have a word, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll remember that I took the afternoon off yesterday, sir?”

  “To visit your aunt, wasn’t it?”

  “I confess that was a falsehood. I apologize, sir. I didn’t want you to stop me from going out.”

  “I would never have stopped you, Graham. I think you know me better than that, don’t you?”

  “In usual circumstances, yes. But I was trying to track down the two men who had assaulted you, sir, and I thought you might not like the idea.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want you to risk your skin for me—but thank you, Graham, it was awfully good of you. What happened?”

  Graham took a deep breath. “Well, sir, I had a rather adventurous day.”

  “Come in and tell me about it then.”

  The butler had been standing in the doorway, but now he moved to the two armchairs in front of the fire and sat down. Lenox went over to a little table in the front corner of the room and poured two glass cups of dark scotch from a bottle thick with dust. It had an old, stinging smell to it, like hickory. Mc-Connell had brought it back from Scotland after his last trip home. A local drink, aged for twenty-two years and then mulled over fire to concentrate it.

  “Here you are,” Lenox said, handing Graham one of the cups and sitting down with him. “I’m curious to hear about this adventure.”

  “My first thought, sir, was that Scotland Yard would be the place to begin, because of the comment the two men made just before they ran off. I spent a little while there and tried to talk to a few men, but I confess I failed.”

  “Better men than you and I have failed with Scotland Yard. What did you decide to do then?”

  “I thought I would go back to the alley to see if I could find a clue. I looked around, hoping for some trinket or piece of torn cloth left behind, but I didn’t find anything. Even what blood there must have been was cleaned.”

  “In the East End it would have lasted weeks, I suppose,” Lenox said. “What did you do next?”

  “I confess I was discouraged, sir, by my lack of success. I seemed to be running out of ideas. Being at a loss, I decided that while it was not related directly to the assault in the alley, it might be a good idea to return to Mr. Barnard’s house, which I imagined was probably the epicenter of all these events.”

  “Sensible, that.”

  “Thank you, sir. I had a brief conversation with a young lady I had befriended there; thankfully the housekeeper, Mrs. Harrison, was away. After perhaps a quarter of an hour, there was a commotion, and the coachman leaped into action and began to ready his carriage. From that I deciphered that Mr. Barnard was leaving and decided that, being at a loss, I would follow him.”

  “And where did he go?”

  “To the mint, sir. I suppose to work.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Soames was with him.”

  “Soames! Really! Now why would he have done that? Even though his committee is to deal with it, I wouldn’t have suspected he’d have any hands-on role.” Lenox took a thoughtful sip of his scotch. “What happened when you arrived at the mint?”

  “The gates opened, sir, and both men went inside the courtyard that stands in front of the main building.”

  “I know it.”

  “At the same time I noticed a group of four or five men, rather low in appearance, hanging on to the bars around the building. Mr. Barnard and Mr. Soames paused inside the courtyard to talk, and one of these men took the opportunity to yell, ‘’Allo, Guv’nor!’ Soames turned around but Barnard didn’t. Soon after that they both went inside, through different doors.”

  “Different doors? You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lenox stared into the fire, thinking. At last he said, “Suspicious of Soames, that.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

  “No matter.”

  “Shall I continue?”

  Lenox snapped out of his thoughts. “Yes, of course,” he said.

  “I was contemplating a return to Mr. Barnard’s house when I heard one of the men—the same who had shouted at the two men—say very clearly the name Barnard. Then all at once I saw that another man had a tattoo on his neck. He had been facing me, you see, sir, but when he turned there was a blue hammer on the back of his neck.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “I admit that I was surprised too, sir. I decided I ought to follow these men. Well, it was a long walk, through shabbier and shabbier neighborhoods, until at last I recognized that we were in the Rookery.”

  “You didn’t go in, I hope?”

  “I did, sir. It was getting dark—you know, sir, how early it gets dark at this time of year in London—but I followed them. Two or three peeled off at one point, but I stuck with the one who had the tattoo on his neck. He was with the man who had shouted at Mr. Barnard and Mr. Soames.”

  Lenox had been to the Rookery on cases. It was no place to be caught even in broad daylight: narrow streets with tenements on either side; a foul smell mixed with sulfurous coal of people who couldn’t wash and lived close together; prostitutes in threadbare dresses laughing ostentatiously and offering their business, while they sipped penny pints of gin; gangs of children roaming here and there, picking pockets and getting cuffed by the men on the streets. The men too, made violent by years of unkind life, were quick to lash out. Suddenly Lenox felt a memory of that night when Graham’s father had died. He was awfully lucky, sad though it was, that Graham had called on him.

  “What happened next?” Lenox asked.

  “After a few minutes they ducked into a bar. I took off my tie and my jacket, scuffed my face with a little soot from the street, and went in after them.”

  “You did!”

  “Yes, sir. Then, I’m afraid, I made an error. I went in and had a pint of bitter, and after I had drained it asked for another. Then, when the barman brought it, I asked him in a low voice, ‘Do you know what this tattoo of a hammer means?’ The place went instantly silent. The barman simply walked away. After a moment, three men came up and asked who I was and why I was asking questions I shouldn’t be. Another man came up and then another. There was only a thin crack in the circle but I decided to dash through it. I was pushed and grasped at on my way out, but I managed to run into the street and around a corner.”

  “Graham!”

  “Unfortunately I had lost my way. So I looked at the last light of the sun and walked west toward it. Pretty soon after that I found a cab.”

  “I have to say, it was terribly brave of you, the whole thing,” Lenox said. He stood up and poured two more drinks. “What conclusion do you draw from it all?”

  “First, sir, that the men are dangerous. The Rookery is no happy place.”

  “Truer word was never spoken.”

  “And second, I think you ought to consider the possibility of Barnard as the murderer.”

  “I think perhaps Soames is the interesting case here. Why was he at the mint?” Lenox said. “What did it mean? Barnard’s a public figure—in the papers, you know.”

  “I don’t thin
k these sort read the papers,” Graham responded, and both men took sips of their drinks and looked into the fire.

  Chapter 30

  Shreve, the McConnells’ funereal butler, admitted Lenox that evening without explicit reluctance, but with a kind of mute reproach nevertheless. It was remarkable that he and the irrepressible Toto lived in the same universe, much less the same house.

  “Mr. Lenox, sir,” Shreve announced.

  The doctor was sitting in a tiny ornamental wooden chair, in a small alcove along the front hallway but almost hidden from view. He was reading the newspaper, with a glass of gin in his hand and his hair falling untidily over his forehead. The cuffs of his pants were splashed with mud, though he seemed not to notice. He stood up and grasped the detective’s hand.

  “Why are you sitting out here?” Lenox asked.

  “The place is crawling with my wife’s friends.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re like rabbits, you know. They keep multiplying. Every time you think they’re gone, another six of them jump out and ask what you think about some horrible scarf or hat or something. It’s absolutely harrowing.”

  Lenox laughed.

  “You won’t laugh so much when they start to close in on you.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “For supper. And to try on their dresses.”

  “For the ball.”

  “You’re going?” McConnell asked.

  “Of course. Are you?”

  “I shall have to, I think.” A look of grim determination came over his face. “But they won’t catch me looking at their dresses. Not for all the tea in China.”

  “I may need your help at the ball, Thomas.”

  McConnell nodded.

  “I need your help now, as well,” said Lenox. He pulled the small glass jar out of his pocket. “I found what’s on this cotton in Potts’s room.”

  “Is it Potts, then?”

  “No, actually. I think it may be Soames.”

  “Soames!”

  “Keep it strictly quiet, Thomas. Only my brother and Jane know.”

  “I shall. But Soames!”

  “I know. At any rate, I may be incorrect, and I need this analyzed.” He pointed to the cotton. “Can you do it?”

  “Of course,” said McConnell.

  He took a sip of gin; Lenox almost wished he could say something to stop him.

  “How soon?”

  “Well—since it’s a limited sample, I’ll have to be careful. Two days, to be thorough.”

  “Perfect. That’s what I told Exeter.”

  “Exeter?”

  “He let me into Barnard’s house. That’s how I took the sample.” Saying this, he handed it over to McConnell, who held it up to his eyes.

  The doctor laughed. “You and Exeter. Miracles will never cease.”

  “I would have bet ten pounds that they had ceased, right before the moment when Exeter offered me help—but evidently not.”

  “Let’s take this up to the lab, eh, Charles?” said McConnell, shaking the glass jar.

  “Certainly.”

  They spoke as they went up the stairs. It was a narrow back staircase, with cartoons from Punch on the walls.

  “What do you know about the Pacific Trust?” Lenox asked.

  “I don’t pay any attention to it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I keep our fortune beneath the floorboards.”

  Lenox laughed. “Of course.”

  “But I know that something happened recently.”

  “My brother said so, too.”

  “I couldn’t say if it was for good or bad, only that it happened.”

  “It’s probably not an issue, anyway.”

  They had reached the library; Lenox looked up at the familiar railing that encircled the room, fifteen feet up, and the second level of books behind it.

  McConnell walked to the tables with his lab equipment. A strong smell of charcoal lingered in the air, and he said, by way of explanation, “An experiment, you know.”

  “Successful?”

  “Hard to say. The kit I gave you worked, did it?”

  “Yes. In fact, I need another.”

  McConnell nodded. He unscrewed the top of the glass jar, took a pair of tweezers, and pulled the cotton out. Then he transferred it to a waiting beaker, which he shut with a rubber stopper. He stepped back and paused.

  “Let’s see,” he said.

  There was a huge cabinet above the desk, perhaps thirty feet long, which Lenox had never seen opened, but McConnell opened it now, swinging out door after door after door. Inside were long rows of bottles, the majority of them marked only by a number, arranged neatly. They must have numbered in the thousands. McConnell looked for a moment and then began to walk to and fro, searching for bottles, pulling one down now and then from the other end of the room until an idea brought him back. It was exhausting to watch. By the end he had a small mountain of bottles sitting on the empty table.

  He turned and grinned at Lenox. “May as well be thorough,” he said.

  “Good lord, where did you get all these?”

  “There’s a bit less under the floorboards because of them. But when one is passionate.”

  “I understand entirely.”

  “I’ve even got a bit of bella indigo, just a bit, although it’s two years old. Only good now for plants.”

  “I know your love for botany.”

  McConnell grinned again. “Well, well. Each of us has an eccentricity. Look at you, when you don’t have a case, wandering around and trying to spot Hadrian.” He pointed at the sample Lenox had given him. “Two days—or perhaps less.”

  “Thank you.”

  McConnell ordered the bottles to his satisfaction, and the two men walked toward the door and downstairs by the same back staircase, ducking whenever they heard women’s voices echo through the house.

  Chapter 31

  The next evening, a Sunday, at just past six, Lady Jane and Lenox were standing in the middle of his living room while helped him affix his buttons properly, smooth down his dinner jacket, and complete all of those offices which a bachelor can occasionally find irksome but which are improved inestimably by a female hand.

  Lady Jane herself was already in a plain light-blue dress that was tight around her waist and curved out like a bell below, with a black scarf tied around her neck and white kid gloves to her elbows. She always said that some beauty was offset best by complex and bright material, but that what small parcel of beauty she had was only overshadowed by it; as a consequence she dressed with as few frills as she possibly could and still be à la mode. She looked beautiful.

  “We live at an odd time,” Lenox said, submitting to have his collar fixed.

  “No odder than any other, surely, darling?” said Lady Jane distractedly.

  “Much odder.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “For one thing, you and Barnard going to botanical gardens together.” Lenox shook his head.

  She laughed. “Only one botanical garden. But what do you really mean?”

  “Look at us! This ball will be the last word in everything conservative and correct, I don’t doubt, and all the unmarried girls will dance with innocent hearts, well chaperoned, and the young men by and large will behave politely and everything will be staid and proper and right, you know—much more staid and proper and right than anything was a century ago—or during the time of the great monarchs—or ever.”

  “Is that so odd, Charles?” said Lady Jane.

  “It is! For us to have such conservative values, values that would have constrained our most revered ancestors in their behavior?”

  “I suppose.”

  “But then,” said Lenox, warming to the subject, “at the same time! At the same time, the last fifty years have been revolutionary!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think, my dear, about all the reform. Parliament has granted unprecedented rights to the lower clas
ses, unprecedented—things that would never have been dreamed of: property rights, voting rights—”

  “I’m for that, though,” said Lady Jane.

  “So am I, of course. But how odd a juxtaposition—”

  “Finished! Go look in the glass, dear heart.”

  Lenox went over to the mirror in the corner of his library and saw that she had done a very good job: his buttons were fixed, his tie was neat, and his collar was straight.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t think of it. Only, you must save me a dance.”

  “Must I?”

  “Oh, Charles, you horrid man. Look. For all of what you’ve been saying, you aren’t even staid and right and proper enough to assent to a lady’s request. We fall behind the age of chivalry in that area, I suppose.”

  He laughed. “Of course I shall dance with you.”

  She looked at him crossly. “I withdraw the offer. Edmund will do, instead.”

  “Very well, but he’s used to those country dances, you know. Much more active. No doubt he’ll twirl you around, things like that.”

  “Don’t be a beast, Charles.”

  He laughed again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. May I have the first dance?” He bowed and then proffered his hand.

  “You may,” she said, and curtsied, which sent both of them into gales of laughter. It seemed like yesterday that they were children, peering through the slats of the staircase at their fathers’ dances and then pretending to dance themselves, barefoot on the rugs in a dark hallway.

  It was nearly six by the time they were prepared to leave and the dinner before the ball began at seven, so they sat down on Lenox’s sofa and passed the remaining minutes chatting amiably until the half-hour struck and then hurried through the cold air—Graham behind them, holding an umbrella over them to block the few flurries in the air—and into the carriage.

  Now there were only a few dozen houses in London that were equipped to host a ball and of those four or five were supreme: the McConnells’, the Duke of Westminster’s, Lady Rother-mere’s, and George Barnard’s. Each house had one or two balls a year, though Toto sometimes threw three, if only, she said, to clear Thomas’s sporting equipment out of the room, for he used their ballroom as a sort of indoor playing field for everything short of polo.