An Old Betrayal: A Charles Lenox Mystery (Charles Lenox Mysteries) (10 page)

“She often carries a black-and-white striped umbrella.”

“Anything else?”

“She dresses uncommonly well.”

Lenox asked a half-dozen more questions in this line, none of them very fruitful. Padden, satiated at last, sat back, hands circling the warm cup that contained the last of the teapot, and tried to recall anything else he could about his passenger. He added a few small details, which the older man dutifully transcribed—but nothing of particular notability.

When it was clear that the conductor had nothing more to offer about the case, Lenox thanked him effusively and then sat with him for fifteen long minutes, discussing the minor problems of the railway system that Padden felt a Member of Parliament ought to fix. Lenox promised (sincerely) to have a look at them and then, with a warm good-bye, walked Padden out to Hampden Lane.

Alone again, he raced back to his study and looked into the Kelly’s for Kent, which was still sitting out on his desk. There were apparently just above four thousand adults resident in Paddock Wood, and he scrolled through their Christian names, looking for anyone named Grace, or initialed with a
G.
There were a few of the latter, none of the former.

Now he looked up at the clock in his study. It was not quite two o’clock. “Kirk!” he called.

The butler appeared in the doorway. “Sir?”

“Fetch my light cloak if you would, the gray one, and pack my valise with these things.” He gestured at the blue books and Stirrington dispatches that sat piled near the edge of his desk. “Some kind of sandwich to eat, too, I suppose, if I get stuck in rural Kent. But tell Jane, if she returns, that I expect to be back before supper.”

Leaving London by train always offered passengers a strange glimpse of the city’s hinterlands, from rambling small railyards full of rusted cars to suburbs of varying gentility. Every mile or so just a little more green appeared between the buildings, until at last one reached the countryside; Kent was almost inexpressibly beautiful at this time of year. On its way to Canterbury the train passed whole fields of delicate pink and purple, thousands of small flowers fluttering with meek bravery toward the uncertain spring sun. To Lenox’s London eyes, familiar with every shade of soot, or perhaps the garish colors that men made, it was restful indeed. He had grown up with more plants than buildings around him. Really they ought to get out to Sussex more, and see his brother; but when was there ever time.

The platform at Paddock Wood was so short that everyone wishing to leave the train there had to crowd onto the first two cars. As the train slowed, Lenox could see the stationmaster waiting for the mail. He was a trim, white-mustached man in a blue uniform, with thick glasses and a stoop. This must be Eustace Wainwright.

Eight or ten people left the train at Paddock Wood, and among them was a family with a very small horse. They had bullied it onto the train at the last stop—“It will only be seven minutes, don’t kick up a fuss”—and the hapless conductor had stared at it despondently for the entire time since then. To the horse’s credit it behaved with admirable decorum throughout its brief ride, standing near the door of the carriage and refusing eye contact with its fellow passengers.

Unfortunately the animal chose precisely the moments of its disembarkation to leave a memento of its gratitude for the conductor’s tolerance. The family (evidently known to Eustace Wainwright, who called their names disapprovingly) hustled away from the platform, speaking loudly to one another to indicate that they hadn’t witnessed their beast’s trespass, leaving the dismayed conductor and stationmaster to confront the problem on their own. On the platform, two small boys in short pants and suspenders, unable to believe their good fortune, were doubled over in an almost impossible posture of mirth.

Lenox thought it best to absent himself from these proceedings and decided to walk into Paddock Wood.

It was a very small town. On one side of the tracks was a wide apple orchard, of the kind for which the county was justly famous—taste aside, tradition said that it had been a Kent apple that fell on Isaac Newton, giving him the idea for his theory of gravity—and on the other a small main street. Lenox strolled toward a small redbrick church, very recent, and as he looked around he realized that most of the buildings were similarly new. None of them looked to his inexpert judgment older than ten or twenty years. Very possibly Paddock Wood was a new town, grown out of not much at all by the flourishing hops industry. Indeed, up the hill that sloped gently above the town he could see field after field of hops, a becoming light green color. At the end of the summer, when the little clusters were ready for harvest, many London families of modest means would take a hop-picking vacation, father, mother, and children spending their days under the sun and making a bit of money for their trouble. It had always sounded idyllic as Lenox heard it described, especially because hop pickers were in such short supply that the wages were rather good. Because the families were paid by the bushel, rather than the hour, the children didn’t have to break their backs.

When he had taken in the width and breadth of Paddock Wood, Lenox made his way back to the station.

The train was gone, the platform empty except for the two boys, who remained on a bench near the entrance, still grinning. Lenox peered down the platform and saw a brick hut with a low blue door, which he assumed to be the province of the stationmaster. It was also, a sign announced, the place to buy train tickets.

Lenox went past the two boys toward the hut and knocked on the door. “Round here!” a voice called.

The sound of a shutter going up on the other side of the edifice confirmed what the voice had said. Lenox went around; there was Eustace Wainwright, sitting on a stool, a book facedown on the brass countertop between them.

“How do you do?” Lenox asked.

“Where to?” asked the stationmaster.

“Ah—no, I have a return ticket.” Lenox patted his pocket. “I was hoping to have a word with you. George Padden sends his regards.”

“Padden? Saw him this morning. Don’t know why he would send his regards again, unless he means to propose.”

Lenox took out his card. “I had a few questions about one of his passengers, and he wished you to know that you could trust me.”

“Well, he can have my regards back, if it pleases him.”

“Would you be willing to give me a few moments of your time?”

“Nothing else to say. I expect I’ll see him tomorrow. If I don’t I won’t lose sleep over it.”

“I’m a detective.”

“I’ve no doubt of it at all.”

It was hard to say if Wainwright, peering obstinately forward through his glasses, was unintelligent or merely had that deep country unwillingness (Lenox knew it well) to hear anybody else’s business, unless he was absolutely forced to do so. “I’m concerned that one of your passengers is in danger, Mr. Wainwright. A young woman who alights here at least once a month, quite possibly more often, on the 8:38 from London. Or I suppose you would consider it the 9:25 from London. She’s fair and usually carries a black-and-white striped umbrella. Her first name is Grace.”

Wainwright frowned. “You say you’re a detective?”

“I am.”

“Who’s hired you?”

“The young woman herself, after a fashion.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, do you know her?”

It was clear from his face that he did. “Perhaps. How do you mean, she might have hired you?”

Lenox explained the encounter he’d had with his client in Gilbert’s and then described his efforts to find the woman, beginning with LeMaire and Audley and concluding more recently with Padden, who had directed him to Paddock Wood. “I would like to help her.”

“I have one question.”

“Yes?” said Lenox.

“How can I be sure that
you
aren’t the man who came into the restaurant and frightened her?”

Lenox sighed. It was a fair question. “You have my card.”

Wainwright looked down. “Yes. It says nothing about you being a detective.”

“Yes, but you have my name and my address. I am at your mercy. And here.” On Lenox’s watch chain there was a small, heavy pen, made of gold and with his initials inscribed along its side. “Take this. It was given me by my wife, and I don’t readily part with it, but I trust you to return it. You see that it has the same initials as the name upon the card. Keep it for a day or two as a token of my goodwill—indeed, take it to the police in London and ask them about me if you wish—and then return it by the post when you can. Here’s three shillings to send it.”

Wainwright looked down at this rather poor bit of proof. Lenox reckoned that if the man was venal he could keep it—a small loss—and that if he was honest it might persuade him of Lenox’s own honesty.

Which perhaps it did. “Her name is Grace Ammons,” said the stationmaster. “Once in a while she picks up mail left for her here.”

Only now did Lenox notice the small wall of pigeonholes behind Wainwright in the hut. He evidently ran a postal clearinghouse of sorts, in addition to his railway tasks. It wasn’t uncommon in the smaller country stations.

“Thank you very, very much,” said Lenox. He pulled out his pad of paper and then reached down to his watch chain for his pen—only to find it wasn’t there. With a smile he took the pen back up and wrote down the name, asking Wainwright to spell it. Then he returned the pen to the counter. “Do you know why she comes to Paddock Wood, or how often?”

“Once a month, as you said. I imagine she has some acquaintance here.”

“And do you know where she’s from?”

“All of her letters come from the West End of London.”

Lenox noticed that the next London-bound train was approaching on the other side of the station. If he moved quickly he could make it, and spare himself another hour in Paddock Wood. “Do you remember an address?”

“No. Although her outgoing mail I do remember—if she’s really in trouble, this young woman.”

This felt like an intrusion, but it might prove useful. “Where did she write?” asked Lenox.

“It was only twice, but I remember because she addressed the letters to herself, and then of course because it was such an uncommon address. She mailed them to Buckingham Palace.”

It was twilight when Lenox arrived back in London. Despite the misdirection of Audley, he had a name, and perhaps even a location. He felt energized.

From Charing Cross he took a cab to Half Moon Street. Mrs. Lucas answered the door. “How do you do, Mr. Lenox?”

“Is the patient receiving visitors?”

“At their own peril. Please, come along inside. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Badly. If you could run a spoonful of sugar in it I would be in your everlasting debt.”

She smiled. “You know the way up, then. I’ll bring it along shortly.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lucas.”

Dallington greeted Lenox, ushering him into the room and onto the sofa near the hearth, taking for himself the armchair opposite. Unfortunately it seemed that he had taken a step back in his recovery; he looked pale and clammy, his eyes overbright from the lingering effects of fever.

“Have you managed to leave your rooms at all?” Lenox asked.

“Not yet. I still don’t have the vitality for it, I’m afraid. Rotten bore.”

“At least Mrs. Lucas is here.”

Dallington smiled wryly, as if he were reflecting upon the mixed nature of that blessing, but said, “Yes, she’s a brick.”

“Is there anything Jane or I could bring you?”

“Only news. The dullness of being ill is beyond anything you ever experienced. For a few days one can adopt a posture of statesmanlike gravity, hushed tones, weak broth—but after that it’s simply an inconvenience, unless you attain the dignity of a very serious disease. I don’t recommend it.”

“The good news is that I have found out her name—your client’s, the young girl at Gilbert’s.”

“You haven’t!”

“I have. She’s called Grace Ammons, and she may or may not receive mail at Buckingham Palace.” As he said this Lenox was attempting to break off a loose thread hanging from the pocket of his houndstooth jacket. When he looked up he saw a change in Dallington’s face. “What?”

“Grace Ammons?” the younger detective asked, concerned and alert. “You’re quite sure that was the name?”

“I’m sure. You look as if you know it.”

“Indeed I do. She is one of the Queen’s social secretaries.”

Lenox stared at him for a moment. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I’ve seen her once or twice, a very pretty young woman. I know for a fact that Jasper Hartle from the Beargarden was in love with her, until his aunt forced him to marry that aluminum heiress from the States.”

“What is her history?”

“Her grandfather was a butcher in Chicago, as far as I understand it, and—”

“No, Dallington, not Jasper Hartle’s poor wife, you fool, Grace Ammons.”

“Oh, her. She’s nobody much either—by the lights of the palace, I mean, not my own. She came from up north, some small landholding family there. Good stock. She must be very discreet, since she works directly for Mrs. Engel.”

This was the Queen’s forbidding principal social secretary, an iron-willed German woman, thin as a coatrack, of more than seventy years, who traveled with Victoria and kept the grand ledger of her appointments. “This makes the letter to you look rather more significant,” said Lenox.

“Perhaps.”

“Is she well-known?”

“In court circles,” said Dallington. “I haven’t seen her out upon the circuit much, but simply by virtue of her position she is a part of London society. Jane will know her name. Doubtless you’ve been in the same room with her.”

“If she’s not out much, how did Jasper Hartle meet her, or come to fall in love with her?”

“When I discover the private habits and yearnings of Jasper Hartle you will be the first to know them.”

Lenox smiled. “Perish the thought.”

There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Lucas came in, bearing a tea tray. “Here you are, sir,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Lenox gratefully, taking a cup from her. She smiled and withdrew. “This looks like a proper tonic. It’s been a long day. I’ve yet to tell you about my adventures among your peers.”