Home by Nightfall

by Charles Finch

  Now they went to see Mrs. Agatha Browning. As they had come into the village that morning—by carriage, in case they needed to move quickly—Edmund had told him that Agatha Browning was a widow, nearly eighty, the mother of nine, grandmother of thirty-odd, who was related in one way or another to nearly every other person in Markethouse.

  She answered the door of her small thatch-roofed house herself, a wiry, clear-eyed, gray-haired woman, very thin, in a loose shift, not bent even slightly by age. “Hello, Sir Edmund,” she said. “Charles Lenox, I doubt you’ll remember me, but you once danced with my daughter Eliza, when she was eight, and you were eighteen. She never forgot it. I’m so pleased you’ve come back to stay.”

  “Ah, thank you, but in fact—”

  “Come in, though, come in. It’s brisk this morning, and I’m an old woman.”

  They went into her immaculate little sitting room, which had a silver spoon over the fireplace, and a knitted sampler next to it: a room of utter respectability. She served them tea in small blue cups, very sweet, too, whether they took it that way or not.

  Edmund told her they were there to ask about Calloway. Lenox had expected some resistance—a hard, appraising eye, of the sort a detective grew used to, some stubbornness—but she was only too pleased to talk. Perhaps it was because Edmund, belonging to the village, in a way belonged to her.

  “George Calloway was born here about ten years after I was. He’s had a hard enough passage, I suppose. His father was a grain merchant.”

  “Do you ever remember him being violent?” asked Edmund.

  “No, I don’t, and I wouldn’t have picked him for it, either, though I’ve been surprised too often by people in life to be surprised by them anymore, because they’re all so surprising, all of them.”

  Lenox smiled. “That sounds like a riddle.”

  She returned his smile and said, “Well, anyhow, you know what I mean.”

  “When did he become so isolated?”

  At that question she shook her head, and her face grew grimmer. “After Catherine died, his wife. She was a lovely girl. Catherine Adams, as she was. Beautiful dark hair.”

  “Adams, did you say?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Any relation to Elizabeth Watson or Claire Adams?”

  “Why, their oldest sister.”

  Lenox and Edmund exchanged a look. Then Lenox said, “But Atherton told us that she had brought money into the marriage.”

  “Oh, no, quite the opposite. He did. She was poor but very lovely. Calloway was an introspective, quiet young fellow—no interest in continuing in the grain business after his father died, and not very many friends. But he had been left very well off by his parents, and selling the business left him even better off, and he fell head over heels for Catherine. It took time to convince her, but after he did, they had a happy marriage. One daughter, Liza. Then Catherine died very suddenly, and right away George Calloway began to act oddly. Liza went to Norfolk after only a month or two. His family thought it best. She would have been fifteen or sixteen then.”

  “His family?”

  “Yes, he had a lot of cousins in Norfolk, who took her in. She made a very good marriage, actually—a fellow with the East India Company, I believe his name was … oh, my mind … oh, yes, Evans. Mr. Evans. They live in Bengal. A bit of a shame for her to be so far, with her father in this state, but she was always much closer to her mother. It was hard on both of them.”

  “And he became a hermit?”

  “He still comes to market. I see him there. He began taking a great interest in his garden. It was, oh, eight or nine years ago that he stopped touching his hat to me—that he became really very mad, you know, twitching, unhappy, shy. So he got his nickname. If I recall correctly it was actually one of the Watson boys who gave it to him, his own relatives, by marriage.”

  “How on earth can you recall that?”

  Mrs. Browning raised her eyebrows philosophically. “It’s a small town.”

  Lenox shook his head, marveling. When he had traveled on the Lucy, he had picked up a saying from the sailors: When an old sailor dies, a library burns to the ground. Here was an old woman with a thousand histories at her fingertips, not a gossip, really, but rather a storehouse, an institute, a repository of all their memories, here on this little scrap of the world’s land. Part of him wanted to stay and talk to her for the whole day.

  “Who were his other connections?” Lenox asked. “Besides the Watsons?”

  She frowned. “Well—all of us, in a way. My husband used to invite him for a pint after Catherine Calloway died, but he stopped saying yes to that quickly, very quickly. There are no other Calloways left. His father’s brother has probably been dead thirty years. But a great deal of cousinage, as you might imagine.”

  “Do you know of any connection between him and Stevens Stevens?” Lenox asked.

  For the first time, she hesitated—not out of discretion, but because her memory was inexact. They watched her think. “You’ll have to let me remember,” she said. “I think there must be some connection there, but I can’t—I’m running through Stevens’s family in my head, and none of them are related to a Calloway or a Watson, not the Edgars, not the Greshams, so it must be … no, you’ll have to let me try to remember. It will come to me. Some slight connection, though, I’m sure … Calloway and Stevens…”

  “I’m sorry to trouble you.”

  “It’s only that I hate not remembering.”

  “Is there anyone who might have spoken with Calloway recently?” Edmund asked. “To whom he might have confided?”

  Mrs. Browning shook her head. “I know he stopped talking to the Watsons even before he stopped talking to me—his wife’s own family. As I say, he was always a peculiar, inward sort of man. Catherine’s death was the ruin of him. And now I think he must have gone actually mad—if it’s true, that is, if he’s attacked the mayor.”

  “He says he has.”

  “So it’s true? He spoke to you?”

  Lenox shifted uneasily in his chair. “I would appreciate it if you kept that to yourself.”

  “Oh, of course,” she responded. “I may seem like a chatterer, Mr. Lenox, but rest assured, I can keep silent. I’m only speaking so openly because I know you need help.”

  “Thank you,” Edmund said.

  “Of course. You know, Lady Lenox was a wonderful woman, I always said that.”

  “She was, that’s true,” said Edmund.

  “Did you know she was teaching the Coxe family to read?” asked Agatha Browning, and looked only a little surprised when first Lenox, and then even Edmund, had to laugh at her improbable breadth of knowledge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  When they returned to the jailhouse, they found Clavering with Dr. Stallings. “Mr. Stevens is awake,” he informed them.

  “Awake!” Edmund cried.

  “Has he spoken yet?” asked Lenox.

  Stallings shook his head. “I fear that speech is still a ways off, but I am heartened by his progress. I give credit to your friend from London, Dr. McDonald.”

  “McConnell.”

  “Excuse me—McConnell. He prescribed a very mild dose of phosphorous given in beef soup, and I would swear that the patient’s pulse has grown stronger since I gave it to him.”

  “That is excellent news. The moment he can speak, please ask him who his attacker was.”

  Stallings looked doubtful. “Calm is probably for the best, at least until he is much stronger.”

  “Use your judgment, I suppose,” said Lenox. “It would be very useful to hear the answer.”

  A woman or a child. McConnell’s description of the attacker: Might it prove as incisively given as his prescription for the wounds of the man who had been attacked? Was Calloway protecting one of the sisters of his late, beloved wife, either Elizabeth Watson, Hadley’s charwoman, or Claire Adams, who cleaned the town hall?

  Although Claire Adams had an alibi, from the family for which she cle
aned. It was Elizabeth Watson who did not. But she could scarcely have mistaken Hadley’s house for Stevens’s.

  A few minutes later, as Clavering was telling them in a low whisper about what Calloway’s confession would mean for his trial, there was another knock on the jailhouse door. It was Arthur Hadley who came in.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I came as soon as I returned to the village. I apologize for having left. Word had spread to the pub in Chichester Tuesday evening about the drawing on the wall of Stevens’s office, and I admit that the fear I felt kept me away.”

  “Where are your gemstones, may I ask?” said Lenox.

  “In a deposit box in the London branch of the Dover Assurance, under lock and key, and two stories beneath street level.”

  “An intelligent measure,” Lenox said, “though, as it happens, I no longer feel any anxiety on their behalf.”

  “No?”

  Lenox explained his theory of Hadley’s case—and as the pieces clicked into place, one by one, a powerful inner emancipation played out across the insurance salesman’s features. A mistake, all a mistake. What a relief. At the end of Lenox’s explanation Hadley looked five years younger than he had at the start.

  “Stevens, though, that’s terribly unlucky,” he said, barely managing to keep the absolute delight out of his voice. In fairness, he’d just had a stay of execution, for all he knew. His sympathy was at least partly sincere. There were few men on earth who wouldn’t rather their neighbor’s skin be at risk than their own. “Will he live?”

  “We hope so,” said Edmund. “He’s at least awake.”

  “I’ll go by and see him. He was very decent to me when I first came to Markethouse.”

  After he left, the three sat and talked for a while. The word “jailhouse” sounded rather severe, but between them Clavering and Bunce had made it a homey little place, with a teakettle in the corner, bits and bobs and old bottles of beer on the scarred desk, newspapers here and there, and a dozen candle stubs, all of it warm enough that the actual cell almost became an afterthought. Edmund, Clavering, and Lenox sat for a comfortable hour, drinking strong tea and discussing the case.

  Comfortable, but also not very useful, Lenox knew, and after a while, with a sigh, he stood up. There was still much to do, if he suspected that Calloway was not telling the whole truth.

  As he stood up he realized that there was still a telegram in his pocket. Mrs. Appleby had given him three the day before, one from Jane, one from the Dover Assurance. The third had been sent in at Chancery Lane—Dallington. Lenox had left it for later, and now found that later had come. He opened it.

  All here very glum STOP Lacker approached with password STOP by of all people Chadwick STOP good news is was held and admitted only three names STOP still rotten thing dash it STOP no criminal charges Polly and I couldn’t bring selves STOP Jukes burst into tears but cannot see how can be kept STOP muller case proceeds promisingly STOP more on it soon STOP best all there STOP

  Lenox’s face must have fallen as he read this, because Edmund looked at him with concern.

  “What is it, Charles? Not bad news, I hope?”

  “Oh, of a sort,” replied Lenox. He explained: Chadwick and Jukes were the two boys who worked in the office in Chancery Lane. Both had been living on the streets and running farthing errands, including occasionally for Lenox or Dallington and Polly, which was how they had gotten their jobs. They were the two who, upon finding regular work at the agency, had used their first pay to buy the hats of which they were so inordinately proud. “One of them has betrayed us to LeMaire and Monomark.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We left out a false letter, with the name of a lawyer and a password to give him in order to see our full list of clients. In fact it was only Lacker—and Chadwick came to him, I guess.”

  “And the other boy?”

  Lenox passed the telegram. “You can see for yourself.”

  Edmund read it. “Very hard on him, if he didn’t know anything, this Jukes.”

  “I know it. But Dallington’s right, what other option do we have?”

  Edmund frowned. “I suppose. I wonder what he means, too, that the Muller case is coming along.”

  While they had been obsessed with the events of Markethouse, the world, Lady Jane had told them the night before, had redoubled its own obsession with the missing German pianist; there was no other subject in any society now, high or low. The royals themselves had asked Jane if Lenox had any particular information on the matter.

  “I wonder myself,” said Lenox. “I wish this were solved so I could go up this moment.”

  “And miss Houghton’s ball?” said Edmund.

  “I would be willing to forgo even that very great joy.”

  At that moment, a hoarse voice spoke behind them—Calloway, whom they had all almost forgotten was present.

  Clavering looked up from the paperwork he was doing at his desk. “What was that?” he said.

  “I asked what’s become of the dog,” said Calloway.

  “How did you come by that dog anyhow?” Clavering replied.

  Calloway didn’t respond, merely stared at them. At last, Lenox said, “He’s been returned to Mr. Mickelson, I believe.”

  “His owner,” Clavering added belligerently.

  Calloway nodded once and then looked away from them and toward the one small window of his cell, set high in the wall and barred. They all looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak again, but he didn’t—not even after Clavering tried to prod him into speech with a few harmless questions about his garden.

  Why did he care about that dog? Lenox wondered. Why had he taken it in the first place?

  Just then the door of the jailhouse opened again. This time it was Pointilleux, bleary-eyed, with his black hair pushed up in a stiff wave. “How are you, gentlemen?” he said.

  Clavering stood up. “Let’s go next door, just to be safe.”

  They went into a small cloakroom through the door, out of Calloway’s earshot, where they stood, huddled among their own jackets, and the boots and whistles of all the volunteer night watchmen.

  Lenox noticed that Pointilleux was holding a notebook. “I believe I have now consume every paper in this office,” said the young Frenchman.

  “You must be very full,” Lenox said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  “Did you sleep?” asked Edmund wonderingly.

  “Not yet I have not.”

  “Never mind that,” said Lenox, who was less solicitous than his brother of Pointilleux’s health. “What did you find?”

  “I find something, I believe. A connection between Mr. Calloway and Mr. Stevens.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The sheet of paper Pointilleux passed Lenox was a list in three columns. Clavering and Edmund crowded around to look over his shoulder as he read it.

  Harville

  44 p.a./quarterly

  3/9/75

  Barth

  46 p.a./quarterly

  30/1/73

  Snow

  41 p.a./quarterly

  22/12/72

  Tuttle

  36 p.a./quarterly

  4/5/69

  Ainsworth

  35 p.a./quarterly

  27/4/69

  Moore

  36 p.a./quarterly

  14/2/66

  Calloway

  34 p.a./quarterly

  21/7/65

  Sather

  30 p.a./quarterly

  11/11/61

  Claxton

  55 p.a./semi-annually

  9/1/57

  French

  55 p.a./semi-annually

  6/12/54

  Lenox read the list twice and felt his mind prodding the case at its edges, looking for where this information might fit into it.

  “This is a simplify copy I have construct,” Pointilleux said. “In the book, the ledger, each name takes one page, and the salary payment are reco
rded by quarter, by date.”

  “These must be his secretaries,” Edmund said. “Miss Harville top of the list and most recent.”

  “I think so, too,” Pointilleux said.

  “Does this mean Calloway was his secretary?” asked Edmund.

  “Not Calloway. Calloway’s daughter, perhaps, or another relative?” said Lenox. “Stevens only hires women.”

  Clavering corrected him. “Now he does, but French and Claxton are both men. French still lives in town here—seen his way to a fair-sized trading company, furniture, makes a very handsome set of chairs, too.”

  “Well, that explains that,” said Lenox. “Stevens hired women because he could pay them less. Look, Miss Harville still isn’t making what Mr. French did in 1854, twenty-three years ago.”

  Edmund shook his head. “It may be Calloway’s daughter was Stevens’s secretary eleven years ago, then, for about eight months. She left his employment, it looks like, around the time that her mother died, and her father went mad—and she went to live in Norfolk. I don’t see what it has to do with this attack.”

  Neither did Lenox. He kept thinking of Elizabeth Watson. Was it possible his theory of the break-in at Hadley’s was wrong? That it wasn’t a mistake?

  “Clavering,” he said, “who is this—Ainsworth? She only worked for Stevens for a few weeks.”

  The constable’s face fell. “That was sad, that, Sarah Ainsworth. She was a troubled girl from the start, though. Clever, which was why Stevens took her on. But she disappeared one night, run away to London, we always heard. Her mother was proper heartbroken over it. The daughter hasn’t been back since.”

  “Are any of these people related to Watson?” asked Lenox.

  Clavering took the list and scrutinized it, then shook his head. “No. All of these young girls are from the more educated classes than Claire and Elizabeth—respectfully meant, you know.”

  “Another excuse to pay them less, perhaps, if they came from comfortable families,” said Edmund.

  Lenox nodded. “There’s another name I know here, too. Snow. If that’s Adelaide Snow, I met her outside of the village.”