“What the devil is he after?” said Atherton.
“He’s going to take us clear out of town again,” said Edmund.
Indeed, the houses were thinning; they had trailed through some of the densest parts of Markethouse, but now they were in sight of open fields once more.
Then, at the foot of Clifton Street, which actually ran straight from the market to the countryside, Toby became frantic. Lenox had tied a piece of rope to his collar several minutes before, and the dog strained and pulled at it, barking.
And finally it became clear where he was pointed—toward a little cottage at the very end of Clifton Street, set some ways off from the rest of the houses, surrounded by a stone wall. As Lenox could see from the height of his horse, a thick, rich tangle of climbing plants rose up the walls of the dwelling.
Toby leapt and fought at the wall, barking furiously. Lenox saw Atherton and Edmund exchange a grave look.
“What is it?” said Lenox. “Who lives here?”
It was Atherton who answered, in a low voice. “Mad Calloway.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Edmund and Atherton watched Lenox, awaiting a signal. For his part he was feeling irresolute; he kept glancing from the dog to the door of the little cottage and back.
Then he glanced into the garden. He thought of the mint, the marjoram, and the rosemary in the rudimentary little kitchen inside Snow’s gamekeeper’s lodge, next to the butter.
“Look,” he said to Edmund after a moment, voice quiet, gesturing toward the garden. “Loosestrife growing there on the south wall, just by the second window.”
Edmund raised his eyebrows in response, a look that said he understood the implications of that loosestrife. Neither mint nor marjoram nor rosemary nor loosestrife was very uncommon; on the other hand, there likely weren’t many gardens in Markethouse or its environs that contained all four.
Lenox recalled watching Mad Calloway walking around the Saturday market with his little stringed-up bundles of herb and flower.
In the twenty or thirty seconds all of this took, Toby remained frenzied, jumping with his front paws against the wall, turning around at them beseechingly every few seconds.
At last, Lenox stepped down from his horse. “Atherton, will you hold the dog? My horse, too, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly,” said the farmer.
“Thank you,” Lenox said distractedly.
He was trying as hard as he could to recall what he could of Mad Calloway. It was very little. Calloway was the next thing to a hermit—disappearing for long stretches at a time into his little cottage, emerging every other market day usually, friendless, unfriendly indeed, and by all accounts truly mad. Lenox had never heard him speak a word.
On the other hand, he hadn’t heard of him being violent.
And yet—a full gray beard, that was what the man who had sold their horses to Tattersall’s had had, and that was what Calloway had. It was also common to see him ranging across town with a pipe clenched in his teeth, and Lenox hadn’t forgotten the tobacco ash that had been piled next to the door of the gamekeeper’s cottage, as if someone had been standing there for a long while, refilling a pipe as he waited.
A woman or a child, McConnell had said. But mightn’t an old, stooped man strike a similarly weak blow?
He was close enough to Atherton and Edmund that he could say to them, in a low voice, “Do Calloway and Stevens have anything to do with each other?”
Both men shook their heads. “Calloway has nothing to do with anyone,” said Atherton.
“What about Calloway and Hadley?” Lenox asked.
Again, both men said that they knew of no relationship between Calloway and any man in the village, and Atherton said that would be doubly true of a relative newcomer there, such as Arthur Hadley. “On the other hand,” he added, “Hadley and Stevens know each other well.”
“Well?” said Lenox. “What?”
Atherton looked surprised at the vehemence in Lenox’s voice. “Yes, Hadley bought Stevens’s house when Stevens moved to Cremorne Street,” said Atherton. “Ed, you must have known that.”
“I had no idea,” said Edmund. “In Potbelly Lane?”
“Yes, they’ve been friendly since.”
Toby was making an outright commotion at the gate of the cottage. Though nobody was stirring inside, in the rest of Clifton Street people had noticed. Glancing back, Lenox saw several women in the doorways, peering down toward the group on horseback.
They must do something soon, or risk Calloway running as he had before, if indeed it had been he who’d taken their horses outside the gamekeeper’s cottage. This new information about Stevens and Hadley—this troubling new information—would have to wait. He looked back to make sure that Atherton was still restraining Toby. The dog was pulling hard at the end of his leash, forelegs lifting off the ground, but Atherton had him.
Lenox went to the gate. As he pushed it open, it gave a loud creak.
“Mr. Calloway?” he called.
There was no reply. He went in and took one or two steps up the short path to the low front door. Edmund, too, had dismounted. He followed behind his younger brother.
Together they waited at the front door. “Do you hear anything?” Lenox asked in a quiet voice, after he had knocked on it.
“No. You?”
Lenox pushed the door inward. The garden smelled strongly, but as they moved into the house the smell of greenery became all-consuming—neither pleasant nor unpleasant precisely, a jumble of every herb that had ever been, living, dead, growing, dried. In the dim light, Lenox could see dozens of jars on a small table by the door.
“Mr. Calloway?” he called out loudly.
There was no answer, and he began to have a dreadful feeling. What if they found him dead, Mad Calloway? The town’s mayor and its hermit in the same week?
What if that chalk drawing was waiting on the wall?
The rooms of the house were tiny. There was a sitting room, a kitchen, and a bedroom, none much wider than the span of Lenox’s arms, and none of the ceilings high enough that he felt confident walking entirely upright.
These rooms were also empty.
“What now?” asked Edmund.
“I’m not sure.”
“Hm.”
“Let’s see if there’s a back gate,” said Lenox. “It’s a trick that fooled us once before.”
They returned to the front door and walked out the little path. Then, peering around the corner of the house into the garden, Lenox noticed a rickety shed at the end of it, made of what looked like ancient time-blackened driftwood.
Through its slats he saw a movement.
Heart quickening, he gestured to Edmund to follow him, and they waded through the deep herbs growing all around to get to it—trying not to trample them underfoot, which was funny, Lenox thought. After all, Stevens was nearly dead.
“Mr. Calloway?” Lenox called when they had come to the shed.
At the sound of his voice, there was a thin whine for response—a dog’s whine.
Without hesitating, Lenox opened the door and saw them both: There was Calloway, still alive, thank God, bent over a small sprig of some herb, pruning it with infinite care and tenderness, and behind his chair, staring up at them with beautiful wet dark eyes, was Mickelson’s spaniel.
“Mr. Calloway?” said Charles softly.
There was no reply.
“Mr. Calloway, I’m Edmund Lenox. My brother and I hoped to have a word with you.”
Calloway didn’t turn away from his project, and Lenox said, “It’s about Stevens Stevens, the mayor. Did you know that he’s been attacked, Mr. Calloway?”
There was a long pause, and then the old man put down the plant carefully on a bed of wet cotton that he had evidently prepared before beginning this delicate operation—there were similar such beds on the makeshift table, a kind of infirmary for plants—and turned to them.
“Is he dead?” Calloway asked.
L
enox would later learn that these were the first words anyone in Markethouse had heard Mad Calloway speak in eleven years. Not surprisingly, his voice was hoarse. “No, he’s not,” said Lenox.
“More’s the pity. Have you arrested anyone?”
“No, sir.”
“And who do you think did it?”
“We don’t know, sir.”
A look came over Calloway’s face then that struck Lenox, a look he would remember, some odd mixture of strain, relief, and exhaustion. “Well,” he said calmly. “I did it. Give me a moment to finish this and I’ll come away with you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was a few hours later when Mrs. Appleby, highly professional representative that she was of the Royal Mail, came to find Lenox in the jailhouse near the Bell and Horns.
“You have three wires addressed to you at Lenox House,” she said, “but I thought you might prefer to have them now.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Appleby,” said Lenox.
“I heard that you were here, you see.”
She needn’t have added that; the entire village had known within seconds, it seemed to Lenox, that Mad Calloway had been arrested for the violent assault upon the person of Stevens Stevens. This, even though they had tried their hardest to transport him to the jailhouse anonymously. It hadn’t mattered. The word had run up Clifton Street faster than their horses, then perhaps north to Pilot Street over a back fence, then probably down Pig Lane with the washing-woman—and now here they were, with half the people of Markethouse again gathered in the square, and half of them convinced that Calloway had killed Arthur Hadley, too.
Clavering had a little desk outside of the single jail cell. Edmund, Lenox, and he were seated in chairs around it, staring at Calloway, who was asleep upon the low straw-filled bed in the cell. Atherton had gone home at last, taking Toby with him along the way as a favor to Edmund—though not before the dog had been treated to a piece of beefsteak from the public house next door by Lenox, who had strong convictions about fairly rewarding anyone who assisted him in finding a murderer, regardless of the number of legs they might possess.
“Damned awkward,” Clavering said for the dozenth time, after Mrs. Appleby had left. “He was never a bad sort. Even a very good sort, I would have said, before he lost his mind.”
They had tried to question Calloway for hours now; they might as fruitfully have tried to question the wall behind him, or the straw in the bed. He was silent.
“What was his motive?” Edmund muttered, yet again.
Lenox had his own thoughts on that score. Until his mind had worked over the facts, however, he was going to stay quiet.
He tore open the first of the telegrams, read it, and sighed heavily. “What is it, sir?” asked Clavering.
“The case began with Arthur Hadley coming to us,” he said, “and his problem, at least, I think we have solved.”
“We have?” said Edmund doubtfully.
Lenox passed across the telegram, which was from the Dover Limited Fire and Life Assurance Company. “I believe so.”
Edmund read it out loud:
Arthur Hadley safe STOP staying night in Chiselhurst STOP plans return home when work concluded STOP sends thanks for concern STOP
Clavering took it from him and read it again, frowning. Edmund, looking at Charles, said, “I still cannot see the thread.”
Lenox explained. “As soon as Atherton told us that Hadley lived in Stevens’s old house in Potbelly Lane, the pieces fell into place. My first thought was of the sherry.”
“The sherry,” Edmund said slowly, still in the dark.
“According to Miss Harville, Stevens Stevens drank sherry several times a day without fail.”
“Usually with an egg in it,” Clavering said.
“Yes, with an egg in it. Now: think of Hadley’s house, which someone broke into on consecutive days.”
“Presumably Calloway.”
They all looked into the cell, where the old man slumbered on. “Why twice?” Lenox said. “Looking back on it, the crucial break-in is the second one. To whoever did it—Calloway, let’s assume—it was important enough to break in again that the person sent in a false report of a fire at the corn exchange in Chichester, which guaranteed that Hadley would be drawn away from home.
“But why? The person had already been in the house the day before! They had chalked their strange image on the steps. Why risk being seen to get inside the house again?”
“I confess I still don’t know the answer,” Edmund said.
“Because they had made a mistake,” said Lenox. “What was changed by the second break-in? Only one thing. The sherry.”
Clavering frowned. “Hm.”
“My belief is that Stevens Stevens was the sole target of this series of crimes. The intruder at Hadley’s house actually believed they were entering the house of Stevens. In the course of the break-in, this intruder poisoned the bottle of sherry, counting on the mayor to drink it that very night. A reasonable presumption, given that Stevens always did drink sherry throughout the day. But soon enough—”
“The intruder learned of his mistake,” Edmund said, finally comprehending it, “and had to figure out a way to get the sherry out of there before killing an innocent person.”
“Precisely right,” said Lenox, with a feeling of satisfaction. “Hence the false telegram about the fire in Chichester. And hence the necessity for a second, more direct attack on Stevens—and the second figure chalked upon the wall.”
Clavering’s eyes were wide. “I’ll be blowed,” he said. “In Markethouse, no less.”
“The difficulty is that it puts us no closer to knowing why Calloway attacked Stevens,” said Edmund.
“Mm. Calloway,” said Lenox.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Edmund thought for a moment. “Hadley is simply gone on business, then, not vanished. But what about the safe, the gemstones?” he asked.
“He has no family, no close connections,” Lenox responded. “Those gemstones are what he cares about most passionately in life. I believe he heeded our advice and removed them from his house. It may also be why he chose to stay away from Markethouse the past two nights.”
“Yes.”
Edmund sighed then—and Lenox understood the sigh. There was still so much to reconcile in all this. For his part, he kept returning to Harville and the Watson sisters, the two charwomen.
“Tell me, Clavering,” he said, “do you know how Stevens is faring?”
“No. I’ve been intending to run over to the Horns and get Bunce to fetch a report back to us. Shall I do it now?”
They all glanced over at Calloway, who was still asleep. “Yes, why not?” said Lenox. “Who knows—he might have awoken.”
When Clavering had gone, Edmund stood up and began to pace the small room, hands in pockets, face pensive. Lenox took the moment to reach for the second telegram.
It was from Jane—and if Dallington was profligate in his style, Jane, in hers, was positively reckless, at least when she got into stride.
Well the Queen did not come STOP I should write ‘alas’ here but honestly cannot feel so very sad about it STOP she would have made the entire affair very formal and prestigious but instead we had many small conversations and nice food and anyhow we did manage three royals STOP felt badly for them because unless you’re queen you’re counted just that way like pups in a litter STOP one I liked very much indeed Carlotta STOP she gave Sophia a kiss on the nose and took a ribbon out of her own hair and tied it in Sophia’s STOP and of course most important we raised a great deal of money for the hospital STOP Toto ever so pleased STOP people say ‘most important’ when they mean least important often STOP but you may take it as read that I am altogether more saintly STOP I really do care so does Toto STOP you would be altogether shocked how much Emily Westlake gave too STOP all of us here missed you dearly STOP my love always STOP Jane
Lenox read through this twice, and onl
y when he glanced up did he see that Edmund was looking at him intently.
And in that look, Lenox for a flash of an instant experienced the full force of what Edmund was suffering. The case fell away; Muller, too. He imagined himself without Jane.
The feeling lasted a second—less than a second—but it left him shocked, a buzzing in his ears. He had believed that he was being kind and empathetic to his brother. Only now did he perceive how inadequate his understanding had been.
He said the one thing he could think to say. “Listen, Ed, I’m so terribly sorry that I lectured you about teaching that family.”
Edmund shook his head. “No, no, it is I who should be sorry—very high and mighty. And I said that thing to you about trade.”
“Oh, that. Anyhow, listen, I think it’s a very fine thing to do. Molly would have been happy. She always saw everything through—a very determined person.”
“Do you think so?” Edmund glanced at the door. “Well, perhaps, perhaps not. But I am sorry, Charles, for saying that. Forgive me.”
“You’re my brother, you oaf. You never have to ask my forgiveness for anything, in this life or the next. Ah, there’s the door—that will be Clavering back. Let’s see what he says about Stevens.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Roughly a century and a half before, in 1714, the King of England had been very, very nervous about the possibility of revolution. He was George the First, a Hanoverian, and therefore persuaded that the Stuarts were going to form mobs and depose him, or perhaps even kill him.
To settle his nerves, the government passed a law. If any twelve or more people were engaged in “tumultuous assembly,” a magistrate could stand up and formally demand their dispersal by reading it out loud. If they hadn’t separated an hour after the magistrate’s proclamation, they could be arrested, and sentenced very harshly indeed, even up to two years of imprisonment with hard labor.
The law the magistrate had to read out loud to bring into effect had a name: the Riot Act.
The act was still on the books, Lenox knew from his time in Parliament, though it hadn’t been widely used in a very long time—surviving, instead, in its name, a term for any stern lecture from a schoolmaster or mother or disappointed friend.
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