An Old Betrayal: A Charles Lenox Mystery (Charles Lenox Mysteries) (33 page)

“That reminds me—we’ve had a letter from Teddy, in Gibraltar. McEwan sends his regards and says there are no chicken eggs on the whole rock, only duck eggs, but he has managed to bake biscuits with ’em nevertheless, and they turned out, let me remember his phrasing … they turned out charming.”

Lenox laughed. “Vital news to be transmitted halfway across the civilized world.”

“That’s why I like Teddy’s letters, they never say anything at all interesting. It makes him seem much closer to home than if they were full of emotion. Still, Molly shall be glad to have him back in December, I can tell you that.”

When they reached Grosvenor Square, Lenox suggested that his older brother get in a hansom back to Parliament, but Edmund thought he just had time to come into the house—which he did, kissing Sophia on her cheeks and Lady Jane on hers, though Jane, with supper to be served in less than a hour, received the favor with less enjoyment; certainly with less giggling.

Edmund stood over Sophia’s bassinet for an added moment or two, making foolish faces, and then looked at his watch. “I suppose I had better go. You’re still coming to the country this weekend, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“You must ride the new chestnut mare we picked out—a beautiful creature.”

Lenox smiled. “Why don’t we go up in the morning?”

Edmund laughed. “Yes, rub it in that I have to return to the House.” He put his cloak on again and lifted a hand. “Tell Molly I’ll see her later this evening.”

“I will.”

Supper that evening was of course far quieter than the one Lady Jane had thrown that spring—and more to Lenox’s taste. (What a luxury to have his evenings back! Never to have to read another blue book!) The guests were the McConnells, Dallington, Polly Buchanan, Molly, the Duke and Duchess of Marchmain, and one or two others of Jane’s particular friends, along with their husbands. They sat twelve, and stayed at the table, laughing and talking, for an hour after they should have left for home. Polly and Toto found each other’s company deeply absorbing, and for his part, McConnell was full of stories of the hospital, one of which was perhaps too lifelike for the preferences of the Duchess, who, though a sporting soul, had to fan herself.

“The patient was quite all right,” said McConnell, laughing.

“Then he can say more than I can,” said the Duchess.

Dallington smiled. “I would have thought they made tougher hides than that out in the country, Mother, where you were raised. It’s the Londoners, like Father and me, who are soft, isn’t it? Polly, what do you think?”

There was nothing in the question, but for whatever reason, perhaps because he was including her in a conversation with his parents, it warmed Polly’s cheeks a brighter pink, and she smiled at Dallington, momentarily lost, for the first time since Lenox had met her, for words. She composed herself and offered some clever answer, to which nobody paid attention—because the love between her and John Dallington was so obvious, so true, whether they had even said it to each other or not yet, that it was hard to look away from.

The next morning, slightly worn from late evening cigars and brandy, Lenox padded downstairs in his dressing gown and slippers, took a cup of coffee from the pot on the sideboard, and went to his study.

Graham was there, reading the
Times.
“Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Any news this morning?” asked Lenox, looking through the letters on his desk.

“Little of consequence. The vote upon the Factory Act has been scheduled for nine days hence, pending debate. Both of the big trials will have their verdicts sent in this morning, Osgood and Mitchell—guilty in both cases, the papers think, and Mitchell will likely hang. Queen Victoria is back in Buckingham Palace after her trip to Germany. And you are retiring from Parliament.”

Lenox looked up, surprised. “Has that made the papers?”

“First page of the
Times,
sir, though just below the fold.”

Lenox smiled. “I will have to live with the indignity.”

Only three people—before yesterday—had known of Lenox’s plan to leave Parliament: Jane, Edmund, and Graham. Now that the news was out the congratulations and regrets began to come in, handfuls of telegrams every few minutes that morning. There were also visitors, many of them curious to hear who would be the next Junior Lord of the Treasury, many others curious to hear who would take his seat in Stirringon. Lenox said that he imagined his old opponent, the brewer Roodle, would stand on the Conservative platform. The Liberals didn’t have a candidate yet.

Just after lunch a note came by hand from Dallington. Two notes under one cover, more precisely—one marked for Jane, which would be his thanks for the evening before, and one for Lenox.

A scrap of paper fell from Lenox’s own letter when he opened it. He stooped to pick it up.

Lenox, Dallington, Strickland

Investigators

It had been printed very handsomely upon heavy card stock, its black letters still almost wet-looking, the curlicues of the font crisp and decisive. Lenox stared at it for a moment and then turned his attention to the note, which was written upon Dallington’s writing paper.

October 11, 1875

Half Moon Street

Dear Lenox,

I had a thousand of these printed this morning, so really I think you are honor-bound to join in. Polly has agreed already. She says her name should be first, but I pointed out that you have been a Member of Parliament, and while God-fearing souls such as ourselves may hold that position in low esteem, there are heathens out in the metropolis who feel differently.

Please respond by next post, or in a few days, or come round, or send a pigeon. Until then I will be sleeping off last night, which was a pleasure.

John Dallington

PS: I only had the one printed, so we can adjust it to put my name first, if you insist.

Lenox held the card in his fingers, flexed it, and smiled. During the summer, when they were in London, he had done a fair bit of armchair consulting, for Dallington, for Jenkins, even for Polly Buchanan, who was very sharp but also inexperienced.

And for a fourth person, whose name he could envision joining theirs upon the card: LeMaire. He and the Frenchman had developed a friendship, based in large part on their fascination with the history and patterns of crime.

An agency. That would rout Audley, at any rate.

Of course, he had plans for the immediate months following his departure from the Commons. He slipped the card into his pocket. There was a great deal to do; he was scheduled to visit Leck the weekend after he stepped down, and the weekend following that they were due in Somerset, to visit his uncle Freddie and show off Sophia’s new skills. (She could speak a few halting words, and understand even more—a positive Pericles, Lenox insisted in his letters to Plumbley.) It had also been a while since he had set foot outside of London. He would like to see the mountains of Italy again, and taste their strange, rather wonderful food. He wondered if the idea would appeal to Jane.

At teatime later that afternoon he was at the Commons, reading the evening newspapers as they came in. They all mentioned his speech, though only the
Evening Star
picked up on its oblique references to Disraeli’s underhandedness. Several of them lauded his service, as the papers that morning had. Gratifying, of course. They also speculated about his replacement.

It was a line from the
Telegraph
that struck him: “Though the district has not yet favored Mr. Robert Roodle with the seat he has now sought three times, Mr. Lenox’s retirement, and the lack of an obvious local candidate on the other side of the ticket, make his chances appear for the moment more favorable.”

It gave Lenox an audacious idea. That evening when he arrived at home (the debate in the Commons had been quiet—rather enjoyable, now that their kind was numbered for him) he said to Jane, after giving her a kiss hello, “Do you want to travel to Stirrington with me tomorrow?”

“Not in the slightest. Why?”

“My dear!”

She laughed. “I do have appointments. But I’ll go if you like. Why?”

When she heard his idea, she was immediately more willing, and so the next morning the two began the four-hour journey to Durham. When they arrived Lenox shook hands with the stationmaster (who had gotten so drunk the previous election day that he had forgotten to vote) and then with a succession of other locals, who stopped to ask if it was true, as the papers were reporting, that he was standing down. He felt rather guilty. England’s system was so strange—that a man could represent a populace with which he had no association, or even, sometimes, affinity. Fortunately Lenox had grown truly fond of Stirrington’s people; in most decisions he made he had tried to remember them, though sometimes the exigencies of London and her people, the great capital, predominated in his thoughts.

They took a brougham to the Queen’s Arms, several streets away—a distinguished-looking public house, whitewashed and crossed with black beams, an old Tudor structure at the corner of two streets. Above the door was a bell that rang as they entered. A young woman was behind the bar, which was quiet at this time of day, two or three soft-voiced old men nursing their pints in amiable companionship.

“Nettie?” said Lenox.

“Mr. Lenox! How are you? We wondered whether we might hear from you.”

Lenox went and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely. It’s not a month until your marriage, I believe?”

“Yes, three weeks. I’m awfully excited.”

Nettie was the niece and ward of Edward Crook—the savvy, circumspect, overweight owner of the Queen’s Arms, and Lenox’s political agent in Stirrington. After she poured them each a glass of lemon squash she went upstairs to fetch Crook.

The publican was genuinely pleased to see them, in his reticent way, and, because it was nearing lunchtime, asked Nettie to run to the kitchens and order them all some food. He said he had read the speech in the papers and been surprised by it, but he seemed accustomed to the news already.

“Do you have a candidate yet?” Lenox asked.

Crook snorted. “What, in the last five hours? We don’t. Old Stoke’s grandson, the only logical candidate, wants no part of it—he’s playing baccarat on the continent. It will be hard to beat Roodle.”

“I have the man for you. He’s a natural talent, Crook, really you have to see it to believe it.”

“Who’s that?”

“My secretary. Graham.”

Crook laughed. “Your butler? That is your proposal?”

“He’s not been my butler for many years now.”

Lenox saw the skepticism in Crook’s face.

“Have you informed him of your plan?”

“Not yet. You do not reckon him a worthy candidate?”

“Upon the contrary, he is one of the sharpest political minds I have known, and was your best surrogate here during your elections, but he was once your butler, Mr. Lenox.”

“I cannot allow that it matters. He’ll have the money. I’ll stake him. I’ve brought Jane up to speak to the women of Stirrington—you recall what a bond they had—and I’ll stay and campaign for a month, longer if I’d be useful. And Crook, you wouldn’t believe how he could excel in Parliament. More than ever I could. Why, Disraeli—”

Here Lenox launched into the story of the spring, telling it very vividly. When he was part of the way through, Nettie came out of the kitchen, struggling under several plates of steaming food.

Jane went to help, and as she returned she heard Crook say, “We could give it a go, I suppose. It would be a long shot, mind.”

“We can but try,” Lenox answered immediately, his voice optimistic.

Hearing those words, seeing his face—flushed with excitement at his plan—Jane, still a few steps away, felt a tremendous burst of love for her husband. It was strange: She saw him, just for a brief instant, from a very great distance, as he sat there by the fireplace, an aging spaniel curled at the rug near his feet, a scent of fall in the air when the door opened and a new customer entered. What an astonishing world, she thought during the fleeting moment before she set the plates down and joined the conversation again. And what happiness to share it with someone.

Also by Charles Finch

A Death in the Small Hours

A Burial at Sea

A Stranger in Mayfair

The Fleet Street Murders

The September Society

A Beautiful Blue Death

About the Author

CHARLES FINCH is the author of the bestselling and critically acclaimed Lenox mysteries. His first contemporary novel,
The Last Enchantments,
will be published in early 2014 by St. Martin’s Press. Finch is a graduate of Yale and Oxford and lives in Chicago.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.