Dallington nodded. “I won’t mind.”
“Won’t you? I hope not.”
“I haven’t yet. You couldn’t fathom the things that are said of me, you know. The most incredible falsehoods!”
“Yes,” Lenox said. He sighed. “You had it in mind to begin straight away?”
“Yes, I did. As I say, because of Payson, poor chap.”
“Would you mind giving me the morning to consider what you’ve said and what course of action to take?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Dallington, suddenly jolly again. “I’m absolutely famished, and I thought I’d pop round to the Jumpers and have a spot of breakfast if any of the lads are there.”
“You’re welcome to stay for breakfast here—”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t like to impose—and really, I think I had better let you alone. My absence, I reckon, will improve my campaign.”
He laughed a high, youthful laugh and bade Lenox goodbye, promising to return at noon. Before the door was shut, however, Lenox knew that he would assent to Dallington’s request. For several reasons: because he believed what he had said about the nobility and neglect of the profession, because the solitary life of the detective at times weighed on him, because he really did like the lad, and most of all because he was generous, and found it difficult to decline any earnest and thoughtful appeal, whatever it might be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The morning post arrived—Lysander’s note had been delivered by hand—and brought with it the coroner’s report on Major Peter Wilson’s suicide. The accompanying note from Inspector Jenkins offered whatever aid the Yard could muster, and Lenox found himself with two new and amenable colleagues in less than twenty-four hours.
It was a dull document. The jury had been unanimous in its verdict and the coroner had strongly endorsed their decision, and to Lenox’s untrained eye there looked like very little that could possibly be askance about it. So he put the report in an envelope and sent it with a short note to Mc-Connell, to see if the doctor, better used to such language, could make anything out of it. Then he wrote to Jenkins and thanked him for the report. After a last gulp of coffee, he went into his study and answered the correspondence that he had received while in Oxford. There was a letter written in painstaking English from a French scholar inquiring about life in Hadrian’s court, a subject on which Lenox was something of an expert, and another from his old Harrow friend James Landon-Bowes, who in Yorkshire was happily raising his children and farming.
Before he knew it noon had come, and there was a ring at the door that resulted in Mary’s presenting Dallington.
“Hullo again,” the youth said cheerily, sitting down in the chair Lenox offered. “Have you thought much about what I asked?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Right-ho,” said Dallington, and while he seemed airy, there was a look of intentness about him that gave Lenox hope.
“I’ll agree to it.”
“That’s more like it!” said Dallington.
“I’ll agree to it, but only if I have your word that this isn’t some passing fancy. Your solemn word, Dallington, with all due respect.”
“I give my solemn word, Lenox, and delighted to do so.”
“Very well. You asked me whether or not you might help solve the mystery of George Payson’s death. Well, it’s likely that you’d only prove a liability to me, but you’ll have your chance.”
“Lovely!”
Lenox jotted down a name and address. “This man’s friend claims that he’s gone out of town, though I find it highly doubtful. I’d like you to try to find out whether it’s true. For heaven’s sake, though, don’t follow him to Pall Mall or his club—any of his clubs.”
“Right-ho,” said Dallington, looking at the paper. “Theophilus Butler.”
“Yes—and please avoid asking anybody if he’s there who might tell him that someone was looking for him.”
Dallington nodded and laughed. “Clear enough,” he said. “Footwork—looking out—just the sort of thing I need to practice.”
Lenox sighed. “It isn’t practice, though.”
“Oh, no—of course not.”
“And don’t push the matter. If you can’t discover where he is, leave it.”
“Just as you say. Goodness, though, thanks.” Dallington grinned. “I’m dead excited.”
“Do you read the police report in the papers?”
“Sometimes.”
“Read them every day, all the papers. Crimes always repeat themselves.”
Dallington noted it in a small leather journal he had brought out.
“The agony column, too—those brief messages at the end of the newspaper, you know. More happens in those messages than in all the streets of East London put together.”
“Agony column … police report … all papers. Got it,” he said, binding the journal again. He stood up and thanked Lenox profusely. They had a short conversation about what equipment he might need—the older man recommended a variety of the clothes that existed along the subtle scale of class, a pocket ruler, a pocket magnifying glass, good boots, and the friendship of a good doctor. He saw Dallington off with a hearty good-bye that masked his trepidation at their fledgling project. It was no time to disrupt the system he had, he thought—but the milk was spilled.
At half past two that afternoon, Lenox presented himself at Lysander’s door. A man tending toward old age and with a military air answered the door, probably Lysander’s one time batman, Lenox thought. They went together into a snug but comfortable living room with a fireplace and chairs on one end. Nearby was a bookcase full of military histories. Glancing over the rest of the room, Lenox took one of the chairs and waited. Presently, Captain John Lysander came out and greeted the detective.
He was a distinctly military man, with a trim mustache and tidy whiskers, a scar on his neck that looked like it had once been painful, quite black hair, and utterly average features. He wasn’t tall, but he stood quite upright, jutting his chest out, and it gave him an authoritative air. His clothes were informal but clean and creased, puttees of the standard postmilitary variety. No doubt he would exchange them for a more proper suit when he went out but felt at ease in them at home. His bearing was neither kind nor unkind, but efficient. Lenox had seen his type a hundred times, both good and bad.
“How do you do, Mr. Lenox? May I offer you some coffee or tea?”
“No, thanks.”
Lysander nodded to his man, who retreated. “Well, how can I help you?”
“You may have heard something of the death of George Payson, Captain Lysander.”
“Indeed I have. Terribly sad. I never went to the ’varsity, of course, and in the military men die at that age many a time, but never so senselessly.”
“I don’t suppose you knew him, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. And I can’t quite see what connection you suppose I might have to the young man.”
“Or Bill Dabney?”
Lysander’s face was blank. “No, nor him.”
“You’re a member of the September Society, aren’t you, Captain Lysander?”
“Indeed I am, and it’s saved many of us returned from the East from losing touch and helped us in making that—well, call it that uneasy transition back to civilian life.”
“Quite a military atmosphere there?”
“Yes, indeed. As we like it.”
“It’s probably nothing,” said Lenox cautiously, “but I have a duty to follow every possible clue.”
“Quite right.”
“And I found in Payson’s belongings several mentions of the September Society.”
“Did you!” If Lysander’s shock was feigned it was done rather well.
“I wondered whether you could think of any connection between the lad and your group.”
“I wish I could help you, but I can’t think of any possible link. We’re only an assembly of twenty-five or thirty, Mr. Lenox—I suppose the exact number, if you want
it, is twenty-six—and keep much to ourselves. We have our friendships outside of the Society and inside the Society, and the two rarely meet. Of course, this young man couldn’t possibly have served with us, and it’s most unlikely that an uncle or cousin would even mention such a small organization to a lad who had no prospect of joining. We firmly intend for the Society to die out with us.”
“I see,” Lenox said. He took a different tack. “Major Butler is out of town?”
“Yes, I’m afraid he is.”
“Did you know I had written to him as well?”
Lysander laughed. “I did, but no cause for suspicion. I know that you detectives often interpret every small unknown as guilt, but I only heard of the note you wrote Major Butler because we live in such close proximity and our houses trade a good deal of talk.”
“If it’s not impertinent, Captain Lysander, why do you live so closely together?”
“Ah—well, Major Butler served rather longer than I did. I was injured outside Lahore, you see. When I returned my parents had been dead a year, and I had inherited a comfortable sum from them, and decided to settle down in London, as so many ex-servicemen do. I had a few friends here from my school in Hampshire and a few others from the military, and I belonged to the Army and Navy, and thought I’d get along all right. So I moved into this flat, with its modest few rooms, counting—correctly—upon spending a good deal of time at my clubs and that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“When Major Butler returned in ’52 he came to see me. He had been my commander in the East, but we were always pretty pally, and when he said he hadn’t anywhere to stay—well, you see. I offered him my spare room here. He declined in favor of a hotel, but through my landlord I put him onto the free rooms a few doors down.”
“Ah—that makes a good deal of sense.”
“It suits us both, as we’re close to our clubs and to Piccadilly. And then, our valets served together as well, both of them, and it’s nice for them to have each other’s company.”
“Awfully considerate, that.”
“Well, as I mentioned, the transition to civilian life can be difficult.”
“Certainly. Could you tell me about Peter Wilson?”
Lysander’s back went up at this. “I don’t see how that question could possibly be relevant to whatever it is you’re investigating, Mr. Lenox.”
In a conciliatory tone, the detective said, “I had hoped to speak to him, you see.”
“Well—he’s dead. He killed himself. It was the damnedest thing that ever happened. I loved old Wilson like a brother.”
“I’m sorry to have brought it up. I only thought you might be able to tell me why he killed himself.”
“I don’t know. And I wish I did.”
“Again, I’m sorry.”
“No, no … in fact, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help with your case,” said Lysander.
“Not at all—it was a dark horse, as I say. Thanks awfully for your time.”
“Don’t mention it,” Lysander said and walked Lenox to the door.
As he said good-bye and walked down the stoop, Lenox wondered about the man. He was personally quite agreeable, not at all volatile, and he seemed honest. He might have been either a banker or a bank robber, from his demeanor. The only thing that seemed clear was that if Lysander was a criminal, he was an exceptionally level-headed one, exceptionally cool. There was little emotion in him. If he was a criminal, Lenox knew, and shuddered to think it, he would be capable of nearly anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Green Park, a shamrock-colored rectangle that lay behind the Houses of Parliament, was warm and beautiful that afternoon. The willow trees bent toward the lake, their lowest branches just brushing the water, and the park’s lone wanderers and couples alike walked more slowly than they had along the fast city blocks, stopping to watch for a while. Lenox always liked to watch the swans gliding serenely, birds with just the mix of beauty and danger that humans like in wildlife—for a swan, of course, could break a man’s arm.
Another curious fact about them was that every swan in England belonged to Queen Victoria. Not many people knew it, but poaching swans was an offense the crown could punish. The official swan keeper to Her Majesty wrangled the birds in the third week of July every year, when they were served at the Queen’s table and a few others across the isles, in Cambridge, Oxford, York, Edinburgh. The swans were mute, but at their deaths they found voice and sang, and the long line of wranglers always claimed to be haunted by the sound. It was the origin of the term swan song.
Lenox pondered the bizarre customs of his beloved country as he walked toward Toto and McConnell’s house. He had omitted his congratulations from the note he sent to McConnell with the coroner’s report in case the doctor wanted to announce the news himself.
When Lenox arrived at the vast house, McConnell and Toto were in the small anteroom by the door with Lady Jane. They only used the room with their closest friends, preferring its intimacy to the rest of the house’s grandeur. When they invited him in, McConnell stood up.
“Hullo again, Lennox.
I can’t stop beaming, can I? By the way, Toto and I are delighted that you’ll be the godfather. Here, sit down, sit down.”
Lenox laughed and took his place on a highly fashionable blue and white sofa that was Toto’s pride and joy—or had been at any rate, before young Henry or Anna or Elizabeth or whatever the baby would be called. The room smelled buttery, like tea and toast.
“How are you, Charles?” Lady Jane asked.
“Quite well, thanks, and you?”
“I say, Lenox,” McConnell cut in, “I haven’t had time to look at the coroner’s report you sent over. We’ve had visitors all morning, distant aunts and things, or I would have.”
“It’s not pressing by any means,” Lenox answered.
“I’ll look at it this evening, though, while Jane and my wife go to the doctor’s.” He turned to Toto. “Do you really mean to go every day of your pregnancy, darling? You do realize that I’m a doctor, after all.”
Toto laughed. “Of course I do, you dear man, but Dr. Windsor takes care of all the babies and he’s ever so cheerful about it and I like him to reassure me. Anyway, you’d rather neglect me for dead cats and coroner’s reports.”
“Yes,” said Lady Jane, “what is the coroner’s report? You’ve been secretive, Charles.”
“Have I? Not intentionally, I promise. It’s only that there’s not much to tell, unfortunately. There’s a tiny club called the September Society that may be bound up in George Payson’s murder, and one of the Society’s founders killed himself, I’m sorry to say. I sent McConnell the verdict on his death to see if it looked suspicious. That’s all.”
“It’s too sad,” said Lady Jane. “Poor Annabelle—to have both her husband and her son die in such odd and violent ways.”
As she said this Lenox looked carefully at his friend and saw again the same sorrow that had lived just beneath her exterior for the past few weeks, and again wondered what it was that could reduce her eternal cheer to its threadbare outward appearance; and wondered why an air of secrecy hung around her; and wondered who the man in the long gray coat was.
With a charming pout Toto said, “I scarcely think murders are as celebratory as toast. Have some, won’t you? And Shreve”—their butler, standing somnolently in the hallway—“be a lamb and bring a bottle of champagne. What’s a nice one, darling?”
McConnell turned to Shreve and ordered a ’51 Piper. “I don’t mind a glass. Charles?”
“Of course,” said Lenox.
The champagne came, and all but Toto had a glass—she was content to put her nose to McConnell’s glass and give a small sneeze of protest. They looked so happy that Lenox almost turned to Lady Jane and asked her to marry him there and then. Soon, though, the company broke down into two pairs as Thomas and Toto argued good-naturedly about the baby’s name and whether it would go to school in Scotland or England
, if it was a boy, that was, while Lenox and Lady Jane resumed the conversation that had been ongoing between them for their entire lives.
“I feel I haven’t seen you in years!” she said. “Is it dreadful to be up there on your own?”
“Graham came up, kind soul that he is, but of course I miss home.” He just barely resisted the urge to say “and you.”
“Is the case very hard?”
“The hardest I’ve ever had, I should say.”
She took his hand and said, “It will turn out well in the end. You’ll see to that.”
He believed her. “I’m sorry to have been preoccupied.”
“Oh, not at all. I’ve missed our visits from house to house, but Mrs. Randall has supplied her company in your absence.”
Both of them laughed at this old joke. Elizabeth Randall was a widow of about ninety, well known for staring out of her drawing room window (which looked out onto Lenox’s and Lady Jane’s houses) and quietly passing judgment on their visitors. It was never a surprise to Lenox when he met Mrs. Randall on the street and she inquired nonchalantly about the particularly scruffy young man in the stovepipe hat she had seen, or the dark-looking woman in the crimson dress—even when the visits were weeks old. Her complete shamelessness was almost endearing.
“One thing that’s nice, though, is to see Oxford again.”
“Is it? That was the dullest time of my life, of course, not yet living in London and without the diversion of all you young gentlemen who had gotten to go out into the wide world.”
The September Society Page 13
