A Stranger in Mayfair (8 page)

Lenox sighed. “I take it you’ve spoken to Inspector Fowler?”

“He has,” interjected Ludo.

“I can find out more from him, but what were you doing at the time of his murder?”

“I was here, sir, with Jenny and Betsy.”

“So I understood. Why did he go out?”

“To fetch the bootblack.”

“Did he speak of meeting anybody?”

“As I told Mr. Fowler, no.”

“Is it normal for one of you to leave so soon before dinner?”

“Oh, yes, sir. There are always last-moment tasks.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Collingwood.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Collingwood had walked down Frederick Clarke’s old hall, Ludo motioned Dallington and Lenox up the narrow staircase to the ground floor of the house.

“Mr. Starling, is your family about?” asked Dallington.

“Why do you ask?” said Ludo.

“It would be useful to speak to them.”

“The boys are out. They generally are at night. Elizabeth will have been retired this hour or more.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” said Lenox. “Would you mind if Dallington attended the funeral?”

“No,” said Ludo, though looking as if he rather would. “You can’t attend?”

“Meetings.”

Ludo looked relieved. “Shall we just let the Yard handle it, after all?”

“With your permission, I would like to keep an eye on it,” said Lenox. “Grayson Fowler is an excellent detective. Still. I can’t quite identify what bothers me so much, but it’s there.”

“Well—all right.” They were now in the entrance hall. “Good night.”

Just as Lenox and Dallington said good night, however, a voice stopped them. “Who’s there?” rang out from the drawing room in a cranky old tone.

“Only a couple of friends, Uncle Tiberius,” said Ludo in an agitated way. “We’re on our way out.” He added in a confidential tone, “I’ll come along and go to my club. I rather fancy a hand of whist.”

“Wait!” cried the old man. He appeared in the doorway, holding a candle and dressed in a rumpled suit. “Is it the inspector again? I want to speak to the inspector!”

“No—only my friends,” said Ludo. He looked irritated. “John Dallington, Charles Lenox, may I please introduce you to my father’s uncle, Tiberius Starling.”

“How do you do?” the two visitors asked.

“I remembered something to tell the inspector.”

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

“We’re acting as inspectors, too,” said Dallington mildly, earning for his troubles a look of pure vexation from Ludo, who was almost physically harrying them out. They paused by the door.

“Good, good,” said the old man. “I remembered something about Clarke. The packets.”

“What packets, blast them?” asked Ludo.

“Under the servants’ door,” said Tiberius. He looked at Dallington. “I sit down there, you see, because they have that cooks’ fire. It warms up these old bones. One day I was alone down there—it was Sunday morning—and a packet came under the door. I hobbled over to fetch it for ’em, and it was unsigned. I opened it, and what do you think was inside?”

“What?” asked Dallington.

“A note! A white note, worth a pound! Not even a coin!”

Money. All notes issued by the Bank of England were printed in black on one side and blank on the reverse and were called white notes.

“Oh?” said Lenox.

“I thought it was empty—that’s why I opened it—but down marched Frederick Clarke, who by rights should have been out on a Sunday, and he told me it was his, he was expecting it. I asked what was inside, to test him, you see, and he told me. Well, I had no choice but to give it to him then.”

“You said
packets,
plural.”

“It happened again two Sundays later, but he was there to scoop it up before I did.”

“Why did you never tell me this, Uncle?” said Ludo.

“Forgot. But now he’s dead—rich as he would please.”

“How much did you pay him a year, may I ask, Ludo?” said Lenox.

“Twenty pounds.”

Dallington was shocked. “My God, how dismal!”

“It’s on the lower side, yes, but that includes room and board, of course,” said Ludo, bristling.

“I’m sorry—quite sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I haven’t any idea what any servant earns.”

Lenox ignored this all, deep in thought. At last he said, “Five percent of his yearly wage, slipped under the door so nonchalantly. What was that young man doing with his life, I wonder?”

Chapter Eleven

Lenox and Dallington walked very slowly through the pristine, vacant streets of Mayfair, moonlight and lamplight enough to make it rather bright. They discussed the case and arrived at one essential conclusion: Ludo Starling’s behavior was odd. Neither of them knew whether it was significant, but they concurred upon that fact. As for the packet, or packets, that Frederick Clarke had received, Lenox was inclined to believe that Clarke had been the participant in some variety of fraud or chicanery.

They stood at the corner of Hampden Lane discussing it until they were neither content nor unhappy, then parted. It was past midnight. They agreed that Dallington would attend the funeral and then report in to Lenox.

When he went inside his house, Lenox was surprised to find a figure on the small chair in the hallway. It was Jane.

“Hullo,” he said, cheerfully enough.

“Hello, Charles.”

“You sound upset.”

She stood. “I am.”

“What’s the matter?” Dread struck his heart. “Is it Toto?”

“No. It’s you.”

“What have I done?”

“Are you aware of the time?”

“Roughly.” He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Fourteen minutes past midnight,” he said.

“I came home at nine o’clock, and Kirk hadn’t the slightest idea where you were, except to say that John Dallington had dragged you off.”

“I don’t understand what’s wrong, Jane.”

“Why didn’t you tell me where you would be? Or leave a note! The most threadbare consideration would have satisfied. Instead I have had to worry for three hours, needlessly.”

“Three hours scarcely seems enough to go into such a panic over,” he said. “I’d have thought you understood the nature of my profession.”

This raised her ire. “I understand it well enough. You are under the constant threat of getting shot or stabbed or who knows what, while I wait at home and—what, politely wait to hear news of your death?”

“You’re being absurd,” he said in what he instantly knew, and regretted, to be a haughty fashion.

“Absurd?” Suddenly her anger had turned into tears. “To worry about you—that’s absurd? Is this what marriage is meant to be like?”

As she started to cry in earnest, his resentment washed away and was replaced with regret. “I’m terribly sorry, Jane. For so many years I could come and go as I pleased, and now—”

“I don’t have any interest in that. We’re married now. Do you understand that?”

He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away. He sat down. “I hope I do.”

“I don’t know.”

“Really, I am sorry,” he said. Still she wouldn’t look at him. He sighed. “We never argued once during our honeymoon, did we?”

“Our honeymoon was lovely, Charles, but it wasn’t real life. This is real life. And it’s not fair on either of us to have you gallivanting around London, putting yourself in danger, over some obscure murder.”

“Obscure murder? If our friendship had taught you nothing else, I hoped it had taught you that there is no such thing.”

“It’s past midnight!”

“When I’m in the House I won’t be home till much later than this on occasion.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It’s your job.”

“Being a detective is my job, Jane.”

Lady Jane’s voice rose. “Not any longer!”

“As long as I live!”

“You’re in Parliament, Charles!”

“So that’s worth staying out late for? Are you ashamed to be married to a detective?”

She looked as if he had slapped her: suddenly still, suddenly silent. Without a further word she swept out of the room and ran up the stairs.

“Damn,” he said to the empty room.

He sat down, and as the anger burned out of him and he returned to his right mind he felt a deep anguish. Not only had they not fought on their honeymoon, they hadn’t fought in twenty years, that he could remember. There had been cross words, but never a true battle.

He worried that he had ruined their friendship, the best thing in his life, by telling her he loved her. “My heart is ever at your service,” Shakespeare had written, and it was the line Lenox always thought of when Jane came to mind. Might it be that he would have served her better by staying silent?

He went to bed disconsolate, and slept very little.

The next morning she was gone before he woke, though it was barely half past seven. He breakfasted alone, reading the papers as he munched on eggs and ham and gulped down two cups of coffee. The Emperor of Japan had married, according to the
Times.
A chap named Meiji, of all things, and his wife was called Shoken. She was three years older than her new husband, which had apparently been the greatest obstacle to their nuptials. Suddenly the problems of the house on Hampden Street seemed a little smaller. He smiled slightly as he finished the article. It would be all right.

Walking down to Whitehall before nine o’clock, he knew his mind ought to be on the meetings of the day, the blue books he had to read, lunch with his party leaders at Bellamy’s.

Instead he was focused entirely on Frederick Clarke’s anonymous money drop-offs.

What could they mean? He still favored the thought that there was some kind of fraudulence at play, but then why would he have anything delivered under the servants’ door? Wasn’t that a dead giveaway?

There was good news, however. The case might be perplexing, and domestic bliss elusive, but professional happiness was close at hand.

In his short time as Lenox’s political secretary, Graham had already proved a marvel. It had only been a few days, but he had filled each of them with furious activity, rarely sleeping longer than a few hours, the commitment he had always shown as a servant transferred to this new work. Aside from organizing the new office to within an inch of its life, he had gone over Lenox’s appointment book, deciphered which meetings were most important, and canceled the rest, something that would save the grateful Lenox several hours a day.

What was most impressive, though, was his quickly growing acquaintance. It took men years to know the various faces of Parliament, but Graham was a quick pupil. This was an unspoken but important fact of life in the House of Commons, and Lenox hadn’t known anything about it. Now, however, they walked the halls and various men Lenox had never laid eyes on nodded at them both. “The Marquess of Aldington’s secretary,” Graham would say, or “Hector Prime’s chief counselor.” Graham’s principal gift in detective work had always been infiltration—making friends in a pub or a kitchen—and he put that gift to use here now in these more exalted corridors.

The apotheosis of this talent in its political form came that morning. Graham was waiting at the Members’ Entrance, as he did every day now, when Lenox arrived.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “In ten minutes you must sit down with the Board of Agriculture. After that—”

Here Graham broke off and nodded his head at an enormously tall, thin young man with a giant forehead. “How do you do?” he said.

“Excellently, Mr. Graham, I thank you.”

After the man had walked on, Lenox said in a low voice, “My God, that was Percy Field.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How on earth do you know him?”

Percy Field was the Prime Minister’s own assistant, a famously accomplished and imperious lad from Magdalene College, prodigiously intelligent, whom the PM himself had declared more important to Great Britain’s welfare than all but ten or twenty people. Field had little patience for most Members, let alone their secretaries.

“He snubbed me, until I took the liberty of inviting him to one of your Tuesdays, sir. I spoke to Lady Lenox in advance of the offer, and she readily consented. Mr. Field’s attitude was cold when I first approached him, but he quickly warmed.”

This was disingenuous; they were Lady Jane’s Tuesdays, as they had been for fifteen years, a gathering of London’s elite—say twenty or so people—in her drawing room. Even for Field an invitation would be a great coup.

“Well done, Graham. Extremely well done.”

They went inside, up to the cramped office, and began the day’s work. For the rest of the morning Lenox dutifully attended his meetings and read his blue books. The entire time, though, his mind was on the murder. As such it wasn’t quite a surprise when he heard himself saying to Graham, “Send my regrets to the one o’clock meeting, please. I’m going round to fetch Dallington. I have to go to Frederick Clarke’s funeral.”

Chapter Twelve

What was the proper form for a servant’s funeral? In general one attended, but then in general the deceased was old and respectable. What if there was the strong prospect of a title, which only scandal could preclude?

The moment Lenox laid eyes on Ludo Starling it was clear the man had been mulling over these questions all morning. In the event Ludo and his wife were present, but Tiberius and the Starling boys weren’t. Jack Collingwood, Jenny Rogers, and Betsy Mints sat in the second row. Alone in the first row was a large, thin woman, perhaps fifty years old but still well-looking, horsey and countryish. She wore a straw mourning bonnet, black, with a deep black crepe ribbon, a soft black gown, and a dark veil. When she turned back Lenox saw that she was rather plain-faced, but somehow still attractive.

“That must be the boy’s mother,” he whispered to Dallington as they took their seats several rows back. “The place of honor.”

“Don’t you feel a bit dodgy here?” asked the young lord. “We didn’t know him.”

Lenox nodded gravely. “Even so, we owe him our best, and this is a singular opportunity to see who he knew and what he was like.”

The funeral took place in a small, appealing Mayfair church, St. George’s, which Lenox knew the Starling family had generously endowed over the years. It was a distinguished building with tall white columns in front, steep stairs to the front door, and a high bell tower overhead, part of the Fifty Churches Act that Parliament had passed in the early eighteenth century at the behest of Queen Anne, to keep up with London’s expansion in population. A pious woman, Anne had wanted to ensure that all of her subjects were close to a church. In the end the project fell well short of its target—a dozen churches or so had gone up—but they had left their mark. The great architect Nicholas Hawksmoor had built many of them, and even the ones he didn’t build (like this) were in his style. They were called Queen Anne’s Churches now—all much of a piece, beautiful, high, very white, and somewhat severe. Given Ludo’s newfound affinity for discretion, it was surprising to find the service held in a firmly aristocratic church.