A Stranger in Mayfair (11 page)

“I’m afraid not.”

“But if—”

“No!” said Fowler loudly and turned into his office, shutting the door hard behind him.

Lenox felt himself turning red with embarrassment. He stood there for a moment, utterly nonplussed.

Eventually he turned and walked down the empty hall out into daylight again, hailed a hansom cab, and directed it to McConnell’s house.

Jane was fetched for him by a happily tipsy young servant girl.

“How is Toto?” he asked his wife.

“She’s doing wonderfully well, tired but resilient.”

“And happy?”

“Oh, marvelously happy.”

He smiled. “Do you know, it was wonderful to witness McConnell’s joy. I thought I had never seen a man so happy.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I wonder, Jane, would you think of having a child one day?”

There was a pause. “I don’t know,” she said at last.

“It might be nice.”

“Aren’t we rather too old?”

He smiled softly. “Not you.”

She returned his affectionate look and grazed his hand with her fingertips. “It’s a conversation for another day, perhaps.”

Hastily—feeling slightly vulnerable, in fact slightly hurt—he said, “Oh, of course, of course. I’m only caught up in the happiness of the moment.”

“I understand.”

“Now—let’s take a look at this child, George. I assume she’s with a nurse somewhere hereabouts?”

“I’m afraid you can’t see her. Toto still has her. She won’t let the nurse take her away—‘just a few minutes longer,’ she keeps saying. You can’t imagine how she beams at the poor little child.”

“Too bad,” said Lenox. “I’ve wasted a trip.”

Chapter Sixteen

Strangely, the Palace of Westminster, that remarkable and ancient-looking panorama of soft yellow stone situated on the banks of the Thames (and better known as Parliament), was now just, in its fully finished form, about four years old.

This was so strange because it already seemed somehow eternal, and of course some parts of it were older. There was the Jewel Tower, a three-story building that stood over a moat, which Edward the Third had built to house his treasures in 1365. And to be fair, construction of the Houses had begun some thirty years before, so
parts
of the new buildings were at least that old. Still, for most of Lenox’s life it had been a work in progress. Only now did it stand on its own, unencumbered by builders or provisional outbuildings, so glorious it might have been there a thousand years.

The reason for the construction of the new Parliament was simple enough. A fire.

Until the middle of the 1820s, sheriffs collecting taxes for the crown had used an archaic method of recordkeeping, the tally stick. Beginning in medieval England, when of course vellum was far scarcer than paper now, the most efficient way to record the payment of taxes had been to make a series of different-sized notches in long sticks. For payment of a thousand pounds, the sheriff cut a notch as wide as his palm in the tally stick, while the payment of a single shilling would be marked with a single nick. The thumb was a hundred pounds, while the payment of one pound was marked, obscurely, with the width of a “swollen piece of barleycorn.”

It was a system that in the eighteenth century was already antiquated, and by William the Fourth’s reign embarrassingly so. Thus it was in 1826 that the Exchequer—that branch of government that manages the empire’s funds—decided to change it. This left one problem, however: two massive cartloads of old tally sticks of which to dispose. The Clerk of Works (unfortunate soul) took it upon himself to burn them in two stoves in the basement that reached below the House of Lords. The next afternoon (October 16, 1834) visitors to the Lords complained of how hot the floor felt. Soon there was smoke.

Then came the fatal mistake. A caretaker of the place, Mrs. Wright, believed she had solved the problem when she turned off the furnaces. She left work. An hour later, the entire group of buildings was almost wholly in flames. The conflagration, even though citizens of London fought it valiantly, consumed almost all of the old Palace of Westminster.

The new Parliament was spectacular. It contained three miles of corridors, more than a thousand rooms, and more than a hundred staircases. As he walked into the Members’ Entrance to go to work, all of this rich history crossed Lenox’s mind. He was a part of it now, too. Slowly but surely a serious burden, an intimidating sort of expectation, had settled on his shoulders.

It made him wonder: What if this position for which he had so long yearned and which he had won at so high a cost was in fact wrong for him? A bad fit? It nearly broke his heart to think so. His brother and his father, both his grandfathers, had served long, distinguished years in the Houses of Parliament. It would be almost unbearable if he were the one to let them down.

Still, still—he couldn’t stop thinking about Ludo Starling’s strange behavior, about the notes slipped under the door for Frederick Clarke, and about whether he had already discovered a truer vocation than politics could ever be.

Graham was sitting at an upwardly sloped clerk’s desk in their cramped office, but stood when Lenox entered.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Hello, Graham.”

“If I may be so bold as to ask, sir—”

“You know what, I don’t think clerks here are quite so deferential as butlers,” said Lenox, smiling. “You can speak less formally if you like.”

“As you please, sir.”

Lenox laughed. “That’s a poor start. But what were you going to ask?”

“Has Dr. McConnell’s child been born?”

“Oh, that! Yes, it’s a girl, and you’ll be pleased to hear she’s quite healthy. They’re calling her George.”

Graham frowned. “Indeed, sir?”

“You find it eccentric? Her name is Grace, really—George is more of a nickname, if that improves it.”

“It would hardly be my place, sir—”

“As I said, I think these young political chaps are extremely brusque with their employers. Get used to treating me like a sheep to herd from appointment to appointment. And on that subject, I believe we have to discuss your pay. Your current salary is…is it a hundred pounds a year?”

Graham tilted his chin forward very slightly in assent.

“We must bump you up. Let me ask my brother what he thinks would be a suitable wage.”

“Thank you, sir, but as you will recall these weeks were intended to be the probationary period of our new arrangement, and it seems premature to—”

“I think it’s working out wonderfully. Probation lifted.”

Graham sighed the mournful sigh of a man afflicted with a frivolous interlocutor just when he most wants serious conversation. “Yes, sir.”

“What’s on today?”

“You have lunch with various Members from Durham, to discuss your regional interests.”

“I’m going as the man from Stirrington, then?” This was Lenox’s constituency, which was quite near the cathedral city of Durham. It was the rather unorthodox way of the English system that a man standing for Parliament did not need to have any prior affiliation with or residency in the place he hoped to represent.

“Precisely, sir.”

“Who are the other fellows?”

“The only one whose name you will know is Mr. Fripp, sir, who has made a great deal of noise on the other side of the aisle on behalf of the navy. Otherwise they are a range of backbenchers with primarily parochial interests. Here is a dossier.”

Lenox took the sheet of paper. “What am I supposed to get out of this luncheon?”

“Sir?”

“Do I have any aim, or is it merely an amicable gathering?”

“From what I gather from the other Members’ secretaries, it has in years past been primarily a friendly occasion, always held just now, before the new session begins.”

“Pointless,” Lenox muttered. “What’s after that?”

“You have several individual meetings with Members of the House of Lords, as you see on the dossier, and a meeting of the committee for the railway system.”

Lenox sighed, moving to the window. He held the list of his day’s events at his side. “I’m glad it’s soon that the session begins. All of this feels unhelpful.”

“The alliances and friendships you make now will serve you when you begin to ascend within the party, sir, or if there’s some piece of law you would like to see passed.”

Half-smiling, the detective answered, “You’ve taken to this much more readily than I have, I think. Friends with Percy Field, planning for me to be Prime Minister. All I can think about is old cases. I read the papers in the morning a bit too eagerly, I find, searching out the crimes that have confounded Scotland Yard. It’s a melancholy feeling.”

“It has been an abrupt transition.”

Unusually close though they were, Lenox would never have given utterance to the thought that passed his mind then—that it had been an abrupt transition into marriage, too, and not always an easy one. Instead he said, “My hope is that when the ball is truly in play, when people are giving speeches and defending their words and
acting,
that then it will all fall into place for me.”

“I dearly wish it, sir.”

“There’s nothing worse than going to work with that slight feeling of dread, is there, Graham?”

“If I may be so bold—”

Lenox smiled. “You must be quite to the point, remember, quite rude!”

“Very well. Then I would say that this feeling will pass, and soon you will remember that you came to Parliament not only for yourself but for others. You do, in fact, represent the people you met in Stirrington. Perhaps that knowledge will lift your spirits.”

“You’re right.”

There was a pause. “And, sir, one last meeting, which isn’t on the list.”

“Oh?”

“It may ease the pressure, sir. Mrs. Elizabeth Starling sent a note, asking if you would care to take dinner there.”

Lenox grinned. “Did she? Please, write back and tell her I would.”

Chapter Seventeen

Ludo, standing in his drawing room, looked miserable as he greeted Dallington and Lenox that night. Collingwood had brought them in (they shared a swift, questioning glance as he turned to lead them down the front corridor) and announced them, all in a mood that was both scrupulously polite and somehow obliquely dismissive. Perhaps he didn’t think of a detective as a suitable dinner guest at the house, or perhaps he had something to hide and regretted their presence so nearby. And there was one last possibility: that he was still jarred by the violent death of someone with whom he had worked in close proximity, and so not quite himself.

One thing was sure. It had been six days since the murder, and if they didn’t make a breakthrough soon the trail might well run cold.

Starling, perhaps for that reason, looked alternately flushed and pale.

“Oh, ah, Lenox,” he said. “Good of you to come, quite good of you. And Mr.—er, Mr. Dallington, I believe. How do you do? You both received my wife’s invitations?”

“Call me John, please.”

“John—certainly. Yes, Elizabeth thought the least we could do to thank you for your work was have you to supper. It will be a family affair, only the seven of us—my sons, whom of course you know, Lenox, and my great-uncle, Tiberius. I think you met him.”

“Yes—it was he who told us that Frederick Clarke had been getting money slipped to him under the door of the servants’ quarters.”

This agitated Ludo. Pleadingly, he said, “Oh,
don’t
let’s talk about Clarke. I can tell you it’s cast a tremendous pall over life here, and I think we would all be much more comfortable if we kept to other subjects.”

“As you please, of course,” said Lenox. Dallington smiled slightly.

“In fact, one of the reasons I asked you here was to request that you drop the case. I have full faith in Grayson Fowler, and believe—”

They all turned as a woman’s voice came from the doorway behind them. “Having amateur detectives wandering around London and buying drinks for footmen can only serve to draw attention to this unfortunate circumstance. Hello again, Mr. Lenox.” She laughed to show she wasn’t too serious.

“How do you do, Mrs. Starling. I hope you know John Dallington?”

With a wide, warm smile, Elizabeth Starling said, “My pleasure. I’m sorry if I sound rude on the subject, gentlemen, but Inspector Fowler’s discretion is far in excess of what we expected, and we feel we can count on him entirely. Consider Ludo’s request withdrawn. It was importunate to begin with, I think.”

She had a charm to her that softened Ludo’s impoliteness, and Lenox found himself nodding slightly.

“Where are the boys, dear?” asked Ludo.

“Do you take my position, Mr. Lenox?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Wonderful. I think Ludo told you about the honor that may soon accrue to us. We mustn’t put a foot wrong.”

“Did you like the lad?” asked Dallington, whose tone came very close to impertinence. His next words spilled over into it altogether. “Not to turn the subject away from the honor that may accrue to you.”

“I did,” said Elizabeth, “and Ludo, to answer your question, I believe I hear their footsteps on the stair.”

In the event, it was not the Starling boys but the old uncle, Tiberius. He was wearing a hunting jacket with holes in the elbows, trousers that would have been more appropriate on a pig farmer than a gentleman, and shoes that, being orange and black, looked frankly peculiar. His ivory-white hair stood straight up in a stiff prow. Upon entering the room he took a large handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blew his nose into it.

“Uncle, I had Collingwood lay out your dinner jacket. Did you miss it?”

“Damn thing doesn’t fit. How do you do, fellows?” he said to Lenox and Dallington. “Have you found out who killed our footman?”

“Not yet,” said Dallington. His own dinner suit was quite fine—he was something of a dandy—but he was smiling widely at Tiberius. A kindred spirit. “I must say, I admire your shoes.”

“Cheers for that. They get some strange looks, but they’re quite comfortable. Fellow in India made them for me. Black as midnight.” He belched loudly. “When’s dinner?”