A Stranger in Mayfair (12 page)

Elizabeth Starling, only temporarily nonplussed, said, “Please, sit—some wine, gentlemen?” Lenox nodded his assent to the proposal.

Two young men came clattering into the room, as if they had been racing downstairs. One was quite fat and tall and the other quite short and thin, with a sparse, queasy mustache that looked as if it had needed careful tending and cultivation in order to exist at all.

The fat, tall one came forward first. “How d’you do?” he said.

“This is Alfred,” said Ludo. “My oldest son. Paul, come forward.” The mustache approached. “These are two friends of mine, Mr. Lenox and Mr. Dallington.”

“Cor, not
John
Dallington, is it?” said Paul, who appeared to be the more enterprising of the two. The older boy looked around hungrily, mouth open, and then, his eyes failing to alight on anything edible, turned hopefully toward the dining room.

“It is John Dallington, yes. Have we met?”

“No, but I know your name. You’re a legend at the varsity. James Douglas-Titmore said you once drank five bottles of champagne in an hour.”

“Well—perhaps. Wouldn’t be to dwell on my accomplishments.”

Elizabeth Starling looked anxious. “Paul, I certainly hope that
you
would never undertake something so frivolous and dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t,” volunteered Alfred, his vowels heavy and jowly. “Shall we eat soon, Mother, do you know?”

Paul looked at his brother scornfully. “’Course you wouldn’t.”

Tiberius belched.

“Oh, dear,” said Ludo, pinkening.

Collingwood came in and rang a small bell. “Supper is served,” he said.

“Lovely,” Alfred said and pushed toward the front of the line to get to the dining room.

“What’d he say?” shouted Tiberius, as half-deaf men will.

“Dinner is served,” said Elizabeth.

“Good for him!” answered Tiberius with a cheerful smile.

“No, dinner is served, Uncle!”

“Always said he would come to good. Excellent lad. Dinner being served shortly, I expect? No, Elizabeth, it’s all right, you can’t be expected to remember everything.”

As they sat to eat, Lenox observed a fresh face among the servants ranged at the side of the room. Clarke had already been replaced, then. Collingwood began spooning soup from a large silver tureen into bowls on the sideboard, which the new footman began to distribute. Very distinctly Lenox heard Alfred’s stomach grumble; they were sitting side by side.

“How do you find Cambridge?” asked the older man.

“S’all right.”

“You’re at Downing, I hear? It’s a lovely college.”

“S’all right.”

“The soup looks nice.”

“Oh, it’s lovely soup here,” said Alfred fervently, at last giving his dinner companion the benefit of his full attention. “They use real cream. At Cambridge the soup is too thin, if you ask me.”

“What do you study?”

“Classics.”

“Oh?”

“Father wanted me to.”

Ludo said grace, and they began to eat. Lenox assayed a few more conversational gambits with Alfred but gave them up when they failed to earn a response. He turned to Ludo, on his left.

“Did you study history, too?”

“Look, Lenox,” said Ludo in a low voice, “I apologize for my speech, before. It’s a difficult time in the house, as you can imagine. Between this lad dying, Paul going up to university for the first time, and the prospect of this title…well, a difficult time, as I say.”

“It’s quite all right.”

“
Will
you leave the case to Fowler?”

“You truly fear my indiscretion?”

“No! Not that at all, you must believe me. It’s simply that the more people are involved, the more attention the situation will receive. I want the murderer found, but I want it done quietly.”

“Isn’t that why you came to me at first?”

Ludo again looked stirred, as if Lenox were misunderstanding him out of sheer obstinacy. “As I told you, Fowler has proved quite a good sort! Listen, will you leave it off, as a favor to me?”

“Paul!” Elizabeth Starling, breaking off her conversation with Dallington, called down the table to her younger son, concern etched in her face. “Is that a flask of liquor I just saw you sip?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Goodness!”

“Not at all the thing,” said Alfred, his glabrous pink face screwed up in judgment. “You mustn’t get a reputation at Downing, Paul.”

“What do you know, anyway? Douglas-Titmore said you haven’t any friends, and you hadn’t any at Shrewsbury either.”

The detective’s heart went out to Alfred, whose face crumpled up as if he were going to cry. “I don’t think I had a single friend my first term at Oxford,” Lenox said. “That was years ago, but I expect it’s the same way now.”

“It only starts in the second term,” agreed Dallington.

“Is that true?” asked Paul, who apparently looked upon the word of a man who could drink five bottles of champagne in an hour as gospel.

“Oh, very true.”

“Hand over the flask,” said Elizabeth Starling.

Tiberius belched. “Tiberius Jr! Tibby!” he called out in a high-pitched voice.

“Not the cat, Uncle,” said Ludo despairingly.

In the cab back through Mayfair, after supper had reached its merciful conclusion, Lenox and Dallington laughed together over the night’s events.

“That family is a mess,” said the younger man.

“I don’t envy them that great-uncle of Ludo’s, rich as he may be.”

“Amusing old git, if you have the right sense of humor. Anyway, do you plan to heed their request?”

“That I leave the case alone?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t. Of course not. In fact I think we should go visit the dead boy’s mother in the morning.”

Chapter Eighteen

Hammersmith was a genteel, factory-scattered borough of London, some five miles west of Mayfair and situated on a turn in the Thames. As Dallington and Lenox rode out early the next morning, they continued their discussion of the evening at the Starlings’.

“Did you have a chance to spy on Collingwood?” asked Lenox.

“Unfortunately I was occupied with Paul, the younger son. He asked me a thousand different questions about pubs at Cambridge. I’d be surprised if his innards survive a month of King Street, with all the drinking he seems to have planned.”

Reminded by the word “drinking” that he had tea, Lenox took out his silver flask (a present from McConnell—its cloth case was in his family’s tartan) and took a long sip. “I wonder whether Collingwood is capable of violence. It seems so unlikely that he would kill Frederick Clarke over a few coins—a pound at the outside.”

“Who knows how important his position might be to him, or indeed whether there was something else between the two of them besides the money Collingwood stole. I’m going to see Ginger, Clarke’s friend, after we finish here. Perhaps he’ll know something more by now.”

They had pulled up to a low-slung sandstone building, which advertised itself on a small placard as the Tilton Hotel. This was where Mrs. Clarke had chosen to stay during her trip to London for the funeral. The entrance hall had a sort of shabby grandeur, with very nice furniture that was all worn at the edges, a floor of beautiful tiles that had gotten dingy, and attendants in fraying uniforms. Lenox registered the place in his head as a piece of evidence; it wasn’t the sort of place one stayed if one had tailored suits, as Frederick Clarke had.

A few moments later they were sitting with her in the tearoom next door. Lenox went to the counter and bought cakes and coffee, as well as a scone and jam for Mrs. Clarke’s breakfast.

She was a striking woman, nearly fifty but still slender and well dressed. Her hair was black and her face very alive, at once shrewd and playful—though now these characteristics were only half visible under an outer layer of grief. Her wide mouth was pinched with anxiety.

“Thank you,” she said when Lenox returned with the food. Her accent was less distinct than the average housemaid’s—perhaps through conscious effort. “Mr. Dallington has been telling me about your credentials as an investigator. Extremely impressive.”

“He plays a decent hand of cards, too,” said Dallington with a grin.

She smiled faintly. “I’m sure.”

“Is your hotel comfortable?” asked Lenox.

“Thank you, yes.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. By all accounts your son was a fine young man.”

“A good boxer as well,” said Dallington encouragingly.

“His letters were full of boxing, I do know that. Which makes it seem so unfair that he didn’t get a chance to fight back.” She brought her handkerchief to her mouth, her eyes suddenly stricken.

“Did he like his work, too?” asked Lenox.

“Yes, he seemed to.”

“He must have mentioned the people he worked with—Miss Rogers, Mr. Collingwood?”

“Only Mr. Collingwood.”

“In a negative light?”

“Not always. I sometimes thought they seemed quite friendly, though Freddie did mention that the butler could be strict with the staff. He wouldn’t have liked that.” She nibbled at her slice of lemon cake.

“What were his plans?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did he hope to continue on as a footman?”

“He spoke of university, in fact. The new place, not Oxford or Cambridge.”

For many centuries these had been the only two universities in England, but now others were springing up. “University College, do you mean? Here in London?”

“Yes, exactly. He said they offered a good education without all the snobbery. But just for the moment he was earning a decent wage and saving his money, I think. We never spoke about his plans, to be quite honest. I was always pleased for him to do whatever he liked. I only know he thought about university because we live in Cambridge, and when he visited me he said that he could never go anywhere like that—pointing at the university, you understand.”

“I didn’t realize you lived in Cambridge.”

“Yes, these several years, and before I worked in London as well. It’s where I grew up. My father was a gardener at Peterhouse.”

“Did you come to work for the Starlings because you met them in Cambridge, then?” asked Lenox.

She looked at him curiously. “Why would you think that? I came to work for the Starlings because they needed a housemaid and the hiring agency sent me there—you see, I had come to London because I wanted to see a bit of the world. I left when I inherited money from my uncle George and opened my pub. The Dove.”

“Did Frederick like the Starlings?”

“He never mentioned it. I imagine he did since he stayed so long.”

“Did you like working there?”

She shrugged. “I liked the girls on the alley—oh, yes, the one where Freddie died,” she said in response to Lenox’s surprised look. “We lived our whole life in that alley, the ten or fifteen of us. There was a great deal of gossip and chat. It pleased me to think of him there, running out for small errands and meeting people.”

“A community,” Lenox murmured.

“Yes, precisely.”

Lenox made a mental note to interview other people “on the alley”—not just the footmen who had been friends with the dead lad.

“Did he ever wear a ring, that you recall?” asked Dallington.

“No,” said his mother. “What sort of ring?”

“A signet ring? With a picture on the front, gold?”

“No.” She shook her head firmly. “Certainly not.”

“In your experience did he often have much money? When he came to visit you on his holidays, for instance?”

“Oh, dear, no—he saved his money, I think.”

“Did he dress differently after he moved to London? In a nicer suit, for instance?”

“Not at all. He had his old suits mended and wore them until they were threadbare. He always offered me money, though. Not that I needed it—the Dove does quite well—but still, the offer.” She took a sip of tea, and a slight smile came over her face. “You can’t imagine how wonderful he was to me. Mr. Clarke is dead, you see, and when Freddie came to visit he was so thoughtful—so considerate. What a nice boy he was.”

“There, there,” said Lenox. She had tears in her eyes.

“He did all the chores a man usually does in the pub, when he was home. Fixed squeaky doors and creaking chairs, carried the kegs, rousted the patrons who had too much drink and were acting loud. It was a treat for me, not to be on my own.” Now she was really crying. “And he’s gone forever.”

Because of his work Lenox had seen so many grieving people in the last two decades that he was, to his shame, in some degree immune to their suffering. It was no different with Mrs. Clarke; he sympathized with her, but the rawness of her emotions—he could now feel detached from it. Inwardly he vowed to discover who had killed Freddie, if only to make amends for this own private callousness.

“Are you leaving town, Mrs. Clarke?”

She shook her head decisively. “Certainly not. Mr. Rathbone, who sold the Pig and Whistle some years ago, has come out of retirement to run the Dove while I’m away. I mean to stay here until I find out the truth.”

“Can I ask—who do you think killed your son?”

Her tears started afresh. “I don’t know!” she said. “I wish I did.”

“Do you recall anything else he said about life at the Starlings’, anything unusual? Anything about Mr. Collingwood?”

She thought for a moment, one delicate hand touching her pale chin. “He said that Collingwood was secretive, I remember. Freddie said, ‘I don’t have any friends in the house, only on the alley. Collingwood is far too secretive.’”

Freddie had his own secrets,
thought Lenox, his mind on the money. “Did you ever send him money, by any chance?” It was a long shot.

She frowned. “No, not after his first month or so there, when I made sure he had enough. I didn’t want him to go, you see.”

“Oh?”

“He could have taken over the pub for me. Even if he had only wanted to live in London, he needn’t have been a footman. He could have taken lodgings and applied to be a tutor—he was excellent in books, you know—or any number of things. But he insisted on London, and on being a footman—and in fact on being a footman for the Starlings.”

“Why the Starlings?”