This gave Lenox three names to research and a building to focus on. He also knew that someone in his web of friends would belong to the Biblius, an elite and prideful sort of club which accepted members regardless of background who had exceptionally fine collections of incunabula. Lady Jane would know it. Her family had a famous library of early books.
Swallowing the thought of his old friend, Lenox picked up the papers that Mr. Folsom had just brought. On top of the pile was an unpublished collection called Seals, Crests, and Coats of Arms of Some British Organizations, Being an Attempt to Classify Their Genealogies and Histories. It was by somebody named H. Probisher Protherham whom Lenox thanked his lucky stars he didn’t know. A man who could write a treatise on crests was a man capable of anything, was Lenox’s feeling. Give him open rein at a dinner party and there was no level of tediousness he might not achieve.
He languidly flipped to the S section of the papers and perked up a bit when he saw that the seal of the September Society had been included. It was a rather ornate thing. Below it H. Probisher Protherham had written:
The September Society. Design: Butler. Approved 1849.
Argent, a wildcat over ermine chevron, passant Sable.
Motto: Nil Conscire Sibi. “Of Clear Conscience.”
Lenox sat back in his chair, thinking. Could it be? He read it over again and then copied the entire entry down in his notebook, also marking down the shelf number and the book’s title and author. He glanced through the index to make sure there was only one reference to the September Society and then read the description over one more time for good measure.
So, he thought. Another cat.
CHAPTER TWENTY
How do you do, Mr. Kelly?”
“Quite well, thank you, Mr. Lenox, but as I said before, please call me Red.”
“That’s right, the students call you that, don’t they?”
“They do, sir, though not because of this.” With a laugh, the head porter tugged at his shock of black hair. “Because I’m Irish, you see.”
“I remember we used to give our head porter a bit of chaff in my day, too. Sign of affection, I expect.”
“I hope so, sir. Was there anything I could help you with?”
“As a matter of fact there is, Red. I was hoping to talk to you about the day Bill Dabney and George Payson disappeared.”
“I can’t, sir, not after poor Payson’s body showed up in the middle of Christ Church Meadow. Dreadful, dreadful blow, that.”
“In that case I have a note here from Inspector Goodson asking you to answer my questions.”
Kelly looked over the note Lenox had handed him and then nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, “though I don’t reckon I’ll be much help.”
“Why is that?”
“I didn’t see much of Master Payson that day, sir.”
“But you saw his mother.”
“Aye, at a little before midday.”
“Were you accustomed to seeing her?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“She visited quite often, then?”
“Aye, sir.”
“And did you see the meeting between George Payson and his mother out here in the Front Quad, by any chance?”
“Can’t say I did, sir, no.”
“When was the last time you saw George Payson?”
“I did see him when he came out, sir, after he saw his mother and promised to meet her.”
“Ah!”
“He didn’t look at me, though. And that was the last time.”
“He followed his mother out?”
“She went out down Ship Street, sir, and then he went out five minutes later.”
Ship Street (once known as Lincoln College Lane) and Turl Street formed a tiny cross at the center of Oxford, and a great deal of colleges were clustered around them. At the end of Ship was the Saxon Tower, the oldest structure in Oxford, which dated to 1040.
“Did you see Bill Dabney that day, Mr. Kelly? Red?”
“I didn’t, sir. I had seen him the night before.”
“What was he doing?”
“Going to the dance at Jesus College.”
“Did George Payson go to the same dance?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Lenox thought of the dance card he had found in Payson’s room. “How about Payson’s scout?”
“He didn’t go to the dance, no, sir.”
Lenox laughed. “Very good. I meant—did you see the scout that day?”
“I see him every day, sir.” The head porter seemed to be growing impatient.
“Could I meet him?”
“He’s not here, sir.”
“That’s odd.”
“Not really, sir, begging your pardon. It’s his day off.”
“Do you know whether the police have spoken to him?”
“They haven’t to my knowledge, Mr. Lenox.”
Lenox puzzled over this. Suddenly the dance card seemed like another clue for his list. The strange thing about the card was that only one side of the correspondence appeared on it—the porter’s response. Had Payson sent his request down on a different piece of paper? But why would he have done that?
“Have you heard of the September Society, Mr. Kelly?”
“No, sir.”
“I believe you were in the military, however?”
“Yes, we were, all of us porters. The Royal Pioneer Corps.”
“Did you see the battlefield?”
“No, sir, thankfully not. Though mind, I would have done my bit when the time came.”
“Of course … what can you tell me about Bill Dabney?”
The head porter shook his head apologetically. “We have an awful lot of students, sir, and the only ones I know well are our third-years. Master Dabney was only another face in the long procession. Friendly enough, good pals with Masters Payson and Stamp—I fear that’s about the extent of my knowledge of him, sir.”
“Did he get much post?”
“Post? I couldn’t say, sir.”
“And Payson?”
“Oh—now that you mention it, he’d been getting more recently.”
“Do you have any memory of it?”
“One queer thing comes back, sir, now that you say it. He had been getting letters, properly stamped, Queen’s head on ’em, and then throwing ’em away unopened.”
“Why did you notice that?”
“I didn’t, sir—Mr. Fallows, another of our porters here, he noticed it, Mr. Lenox.”
“Can you remember when?”
“Certainly, sir. About a week ago, I reckon—and finally Mr. Fallows went and took the letter out of the wastepaper basket to open it, and he found it to be empty!”
“Puzzling, that.”
“It is, quite.”
“Anything on the letter except the stamp and address? Any markings?”
“Nothing, sir. No return of address.”
A signal? How long had Payson known that he was in danger?
“You don’t have any mail for George Payson left, do you?”
“None, sir, nor for Master Dabney. Checked straight away, I did.”
“Which other porters were on duty the day Dabney and Payson vanished?”
“I was, sir, both days, Fallows on evenings, and with me in the daytime was a chap named Phelps.”
“You’re alone now?”
“No, Phelps is out checking the staircases and the student rooms. A new system since the unfortunate incident.”
“Ah. Well, thank you, Mr. Kelly. I appreciate it.”
Lenox left Lincoln and walked the short distance across Turl Street to Jesus College, another of the small to medium-sized colleges along this central artery, not quite as grand as some but beautiful in their own right. Jesus was known for having a large Welsh population (a Welshman had founded it, though officially Elizabeth I held the title of Founder) and for its frequent contributions to the ’varsity athletic clubs. The college also famously owned a huge silver punch bow
l from which the Tsar of Russia, the Duke of Wellington, the King of Prussia, and the Prince Regent had formally drunk to signify their defeat of Napoleon in 1814. But Lenox’s favorite thing about it was the daffodils that appeared in full bloom on (the Welsh) St. David’s Day, the first of March, to signify the beginning of spring. He remembered fondly seeing the daffodils and feeling his heart rise as another cold winter vanished behind him.
Seeing a porter, Lenox said, “I had a note from someone called Rosie Little. Any chance she’s still in?”
“Tomorrow morning, sir,” said the porter, a jowly chap.
“Thanks.”
It was dark as Lenox walked toward the Randolph, his notebook in one hand. The net was drawing tighter, he felt—but around whom?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In the lobby of the Randolph, Lenox stopped at the front desk for his key, but just as he was going to speak to the manager, he saw Lady Annabelle Payson. With a heavy heart he changed direction and walked toward her.
She was sitting in the far corner of the room, half hidden in the shade and all on her own. Lenox saw as he drew closer to her that her eyes were red-rimmed and that her cheeks had grown paler since he had last seen her. The air of utter defeat in her face was easy for Lenox to take as a personal rebuke.
“Lady Annabelle?” he said.
It took her a moment to look up. “Ah,” she said, bowing her head with great dignity, “how do you do, Mr. Lenox?”
“Lady Annabelle, is anybody here with you?”
“My brother is speaking to the police at the moment, but yes, he has kept me company.”
“I wanted to apologize, Lady Annabelle. For failing, and of course for George’s death.”
She didn’t contradict him. “Tell me, Mr. Lenox, do you still plan to work on this case?”
“I do, yes.” He didn’t add: until I drop dead myself, if need be.
“Good,” she said, though her eyes were still dull and lifeless, lacking even the fieriness of revenge that Lenox had so often seen in the grieving.
“Perhaps it will be some solace when we find out who did it,” said Lenox. “I hope so, at any rate.”
After a long, almost reproving pause, she went on, “What I cannot forgive myself for is letting him leave when I met him at Lincoln College, Mr. Lenox. I keep repeating the scene in my mind, and it’s beyond my comprehension that I could have let my poor George walk away from my embrace when he looked so pale, so … so vulnerable, Mr. Lenox. So vulnerable.”
“You couldn’t have known what would happen, Lady Annabelle.”
“I lost my husband, too, you know.”
“I do,” Lenox answered quietly. “I remember him.”
“But that,” she said, her voice a whisper, “was a walk in the park to this.”
“Perhaps you could help me, Lady Annabelle.”
“Help you?”
“To solve this case. For example, have you heard of the September Society?”
“I haven’t, no, Mr. Lenox.”
“Does the color red mean anything to you?”
“Not in particular.” Her tone was distracted, even faintly annoyed, and Lenox didn’t blame her for it.
“Did George take long walks?”
“Only in the country, he always said.” She laughed in a rather choked way. “Said there was no point walking in Oxford or London, when there was always a pub nearby.”
“I see.”
“He was awfully sweet, my dear George. The funniest person I ever knew.”
“Yes,” said Lenox. A moment’s silence later, he reached for his pocket. “Do these pen lines mean anything to you?”
He handed her the September Society card that was marked with the black and pink X. Taking it from him, her brow furrowed, and she turned it over several times. She studied it closely. She looked slightly puzzled—the only deviation from the wan, downcast mien her face had borne throughout the conversation.
“It rings some vague bell, Mr. Lenox.”
Trying to suppress his eager curiosity, Lenox said, “Can you think of what it might be?”
“Why—I think—only faintly, but I think it resembles the Payson crest.”
“The crest?”
“You know, the coat of arms, whatever you call it.”
“How so?”
“The crest’s a shield in black and pinkish red. George had it on his stationery.”
“Black and pinkish red?”
“A bit darker pink than this, but an X shape, yes—the pink for the blood the Paysons have spilled in battle.” Though Lenox was worried it might, the thought of blood didn’t seem to bother her. “Yes, it looks like a quick, crude rendering of the crest.”
“How odd,” Lenox murmured, his mind quickening
At that moment John West, Lady Annabelle’s brother, came toward them. After introducing himself and again trying to find a few consolatory words for her, Lenox left them. As he went upstairs, his thoughts moved on to the cat on the seal (seals and crests were certainly flying fast and furious now) of the September Society. It must have been related, the dead cat, to the Society. Every bone in Lenox’s body told him that George Payson, or Bill Dabney perhaps—perhaps even someone unknown—had left behind a minefield of clues waiting to be discovered. The cat was one of those clues, like the walking boots, the line of ash, all of it.
Now they were gone, dash it. If only he had thought to make a more thorough catalog of what the room had contained. Perhaps he would go back and look at it again despite the cleaning. The question was why whoever had planted the clues had felt the need to make them obscure, and there was only one answer: The person had known that somebody would search the room after it had been abandoned. The cat was a clever touch, in that case. It would draw the instant focus of anybody who saw it. Perhaps, Lenox mused, that meant that the cat was the least important of the clues—pointing toward the September Society but not in itself the critical puzzle piece. Perhaps it was designed, with the cryptic numbers written on the note underneath it, to seem more significant or baffling than it was.
When he reached his room, Graham was sitting on a chair in the hall.
“There you are, Graham,” said Lenox. “Is this my kip?”
“Just here, sir. I acquired a suite with a bedroom and sitting room. If it does not meet with your approval, sir—”
“Not at all, no. Thanks awfully for coming and figuring it out.”
“Was the Bodleian a fruitful detour, sir?”
“It may have been. I’m not certain.” Lenox related the tangle of uncertainties to Graham as he unpacked the detective’s clothes. “The damned thing about it, Graham, is that it might have been a local criminal or a far-flung one, we can’t know yet.”
“Frustrating, sir. I think you’ll find the navy socks are preferable, sir.”
Lenox discarded the black pair and donned the navy blue.
“McConnell’s meeting me downstairs, then? How much time do I have?”
“Half an hour, sir.”
“I say, Graham, have you started your investigations into Hatch yet?”
“Not yet, sir. I planned to begin in the morning.”
“Could you figure out whether he was in the military? In the East, for obvious reasons? I forgot to look up Who’s Who in the Bod.”
“Yes, sir, I certainly shall. Is he of the correct age, sir?”
“Hard to say. One of these chaps who could be twenty-five or forty-five.”
“Indeed, sir.”
Lenox, dressed now, shot his cuffs in front of the mirror. His black tie was a bit off center, and Graham tended to it.
“I saw Lady Payson downstairs.”
“Yes, sir?”
“It was painful, though that’s nothing. She’s as broken as I’ve ever seen anyone.” Lenox paused. “This may be the first time somebody has come to me before a death.” Another pause. “It’s a pretty bad lookout, Graham.”
“Yes, sir.”
“To put it another way
—every effort, don’t you think?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Not that it’s ever otherwise.” Glancing again in the mirror, Lenox said, “I think I’ll have a drink at the bar before I meet McConnell. Steady myself a bit.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Do you have anything planned? Have the night off, of course. I can draw my own bath and that sort of thing.”
“Thank you, sir. I may see one or two of the other footmen from my Balliol days, sir.”
“Our Balliol days, Graham. Which ones are still kicking around?”
“Oh, Mr. Bond, of course, Mr. Middleton, and Mr. Dekker.”
“Will you buy them a round on me? Here’s a couple of shillings.” Lenox reached into his pocket and handed the money over. “Tell them I said hello, won’t you? And tell Dekker I haven’t forgotten him dropping that boiled egg in old Bessborough’s lap, won’t you?”
With a smile, Graham said, “Yes, sir.”
“All right. I’ll wander off, then. Hopefully McConnell’s solved the whole thing and we can go back to London.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The next morning, slightly hungover after a merry dinner with McConnell, Lenox woke up to find the soft sun peering through the curtains. The Turf was well and good, but it was nice to sleep on soft sheets and to find his coffee waiting for him on a tray with a vase of nasturtiums. Graham must be awake, he thought. So the careworn detective lay in bed and read for twenty minutes or so, losing himself in the copy of The Praise of Folly that he had bought from Mr. Chaffanbrass. The sharp, warm coffee slowly brought him back to the world. By the time Graham had come into the room, Lenox was alert enough to have his mind on the case again. He would devote this morning to speaking to Rosie Little at Jesus College and looking over Payson’s rooms again. Then he would take the 11:35 train to Paddington and search out Theophilus Butler and the September Society. It was high time he found out more about both of them.
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