An Old Betrayal: A Charles Lenox Mystery (Charles Lenox Mysteries) (9 page)

When he was finished, he set out to find Laurel Wheeler. The area in which he intended to search for her was small indeed: He planned to find her within his study, if she was there. A name, a city. This was as close to pure detective work as one could approach. As he ate he asked the new footman, a gawky Leicestershire lad by the name of Silas, to lay a fire in his study, and when Lenox had finished his egg he padded down the softly lit front hall to take a seat at his desk, the fire now crackling warmly at the far end of the room. He settled down into his chair with an exhale of pleasure, ready to lose himself in the hours of the day.

The first question, as he saw it, was where Laurel Wheeler might live. That she took the train once a month from Charing Cross suggested that she lived in London to him—though now that he thought of it, he would like to know from Padden, or one of his colleagues, whether she took a return in the evening. She could also have been connecting at Charing Cross; hence the wait at Gilbert’s. It was often faster to go through London even if it meant many miles more travel.

For some reason Lenox doubted it. The early hour of her departure suggested a day trip to him, to the country to see a parent or sister. As for Gilbert’s, she might simply have been a nervous traveler, inclined to arrive at the station early. Lenox himself had that trait. So did his brother, Edmund—both men ascribed it to the bells of their boyhood school, Harrow, which had for years harried them from one moment of the day to the next.

Lenox turned in his chair toward the tall windows behind him, wet with rain, that looked out over the houses and small shops of Hampden Lane. Though it was Saturday men were out upon their city business, dressed darkly, umbrellas high, leaning forward into their stride.

“Kirk!” he called.

A moment later the house’s butler appeared at the door, a large, good-natured soul, black hair thinned almost to the point of becoming theoretical. “Sir?”

Lenox pointed at a carved walnut bookstand by the fireplace, next to an overstuffed red armchair. “Where did the footmen take those books off to, Kirk? They were here yesterday.”

“I believe they were taken down to the storage room in the cellar, sir.” Kirk coughed discreetly. “Eight or nine months ago, sir.”

Irritably, Lenox said, “Well, I need them.”

“I was instructed at the time to clear the space for your blue books, sir.”

Both men glanced toward the bookstand, which was full of the parliamentary reports. “Can this Silas fellow read?” asked Lenox.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him I need Kelly’s for London, Essex, and Kent.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And he might as well bring up the clerical directories for the same.”

“Yes, sir. I will oversee him in the task myself, sir.”

“Well, hurry about it, please. Don’t wait until you have them all, bring them up piecemeal,” said Lenox.

“Yes, sir.”

When he had gone, Lenox muttered, “Damn your eyes,” and went back to looking out of the window.

There was no truly great directory to the people of England. The Normans had made a good start with the Domesday Book, about eight hundred years before, but no census taker since had matched their enthusiasm or perseverance. In Lenox’s youth there was Pigot’s, a meretricious series of directories, all flash and little substance, in the form of classified advertisements. Pigot’s still existed but had been superseded everywhere except the north (Pigot was a Manchester engraver) by the directories of Mr. Frederic Kelly. Kelly was the chief inspector of all Britain’s inland letter carriers, and after buying the rights to Crichett’s directory of London, he had used his position—over some objection—to compile an excellent series of books.

There were also trade directories, but Lenox felt strongly that the young woman he had seen in Gilbert’s was not the scion of a tradesman. Her appearance, her handwriting, the diction of her letter, all militated against that possibility. He would consult the trade directories only if he grew desperate.

Soon Kirk came with the first of the books Lenox had requested. It was a guide to Essex. Trains from Charing Cross went to Kent and Sussex, but Laurel Wheeler might have transferred along the line to go somewhere in Essex, north of Kent along the eastern coast of England. She wouldn’t have been on the 8:38 if she wanted to go anywhere in Sussex, even by transfer. Lenox, who had grown up in that county, felt sure of that.

It would help if Padden could just tell him the stop at which she left the train—but he had waited the entire afternoon for some word of the conductor and hadn’t heard from him.

Wheeler was a popular surname in Essex, apparently. Lenox took down his Bradshaw’s and, through a little investigation, eliminated about half of the county, deciding that she wouldn’t have practically chosen to take the 8:38 to reach those parts.

Still, this left him with about thirty-five Wheelers. None of them were named Laurel, but there was one tantalizing subentry for
L. Wheeler, daughter, 22,
in a town (he had never heard of it, and smiled at the name) called Mucking. He copied out the address, as well as three others that listed only the fathers’ names but indicated the presence of adult children.

Soon after Kirk had brought up the guide to Essex, he followed with the ones for London and Kent, as well as the clerical guides for the same counties. These last were a waste, unfortunately, but in both the London and Kent directories Lenox found addresses to copy out upon his pad of paper. In Canterbury—destination of the 8:38, a train he was coming to loathe—there was even a
Miss Laurel Wheeler,
but she was
aged 61
and, distressingly, according to Mr. Kelly,
possibly dead.
Well.

Several of the London addresses were more promising and required investigation in person. He didn’t have the time to do it himself, and so he began to write a letter with the appropriate information to a man named Skaggs, to whom he had once contracted out such work—a tradition Dallington now carried on—asking him to help.

Just as he was signing his name to the foot of the letter, there was a knock at the front door.

Lenox heard Kirk’s footsteps in the hall but went out himself to see who was visiting. Someone hearty—the rain had gotten quite thick.

“It’s Mr. Frabbs, sir,” said Kirk, turning back into the house. “With another gentleman.”

“Well, bring them in.”

Frabbs required no such invitation, however. He was already charging ahead into the hall, pulling along his companion.

It was Padden. Lenox’s heart leapt up. “Mr. Padden, you came by Parliament?”

Padden, in civilian clothes, shook some of the rain off. “I sent a note, and Mr. Frabbs was around my house what seemed six minutes later.”

“I say, well done, Frabbs. Kirk, give him the run of the larder, make him something hot. Padden, will you take tea or coffee while we speak?”

“Tea, please, sir, strong as you like.”

As Kirk handed each of the new guests a towel, Lenox led the train conductor into his study. “I’m very grateful to you for coming,” he said, “though I reckon I’ve outrun your help on at least one small piece of information.”

“Sir?” said Padden.

“The young woman’s name—it’s Laurel Wheeler, isn’t it?”

To his surprise, Padden laughed. “Laurel Wheeler?”

“Is that not her name?”

They had come down to the end of the room with the fire, and Lenox gestured for his guest to sit. The tall conductor did, tolerably dry now, shed of his hat and overcoat. “No, it’s not.”

Lenox felt a wave of vexation. “Well, a reliable man informed me it was.” Even as he said this, however, he realized that it was a falsehood. Audley was not a reliable man.

“You might not have heard it before,” said Padden. “There are names we give—people like me, you see—to keep the police out of our business. Who knocked over the bobby? John Shawcross. What was the name of the child’s mother? Laurel Wheeler. Someone was having a joke at your expense, unfortunately, Mr. Lenox.”

There was a whole morning wasted. Lenox could happily have seen Audley hanged from London Bridge. He cursed.

Yet even as he heard Padden’s laughter trailing off, Lenox understood that the truth made more sense than the lie, in the cold light of this new information. Why would the young woman have left a card at Audley’s when her note to Dallington was anonymous? Why would Audley go as far as to give him a name but help him no further? In the initial keenness brought on by a new piece of the puzzle, Lenox had forgotten to properly query its reliability.

Still, here was Padden. “I appreciate you coming to see me,” said Lenox. “Are you hungry?”

“A mite, perhaps.”

The footman was already at the door with a tray of tea things—albeit without hot water, which he said was boiling downstairs—and Lenox asked him to fetch up a plate of sandwiches. He had the sense that Padden would be happier if he ate his fill, if he felt he had achieved some transactional parity with Lenox. It was an understandable impulse, for someone walking into a house in this rarefied part of London. As Silas was leaving the room, Lenox added, “And cakes and all of that.”

“Thank you,” said Padden.

“Not at all. Tell me, when we spoke you said that you knew this passenger’s Christian name, if not her surname. It was not Laurel, I presume?”

“No, it was Grace.”

“Grace. And who called her by that name?”

Padden frowned, as if he hadn’t considered the relevance of this question. “Now that you pose the question, I cannot recall. Some fellow passenger.”

“She has been traveling long enough, I may then assume, to have made some acquaintance upon the train?”

“About a third of my passengers on the 8:38 take it daily.”

“I find that surprising—take the train out of London? Surely the opposite course would be more likely?”

“There are many small businesses in the countryside near London, within a short walk of the train station so they can take advantage of the labor force in the city. In my third-class carriage are the factory workers. Solicitors and investors in the second-class carriage.”

“And Grace?”

“She took a second-class ticket.”

“Not first?”

Padden smiled. “On her initial trips she took a first-class ticket—but the second-class carriage is roomy and half-empty, and first class rarely has more than one or two passengers in it. I suppose she felt she could economize.”

Lenox was making notes as the hot water and sandwiches came in, and Padden took advantage of the silence to fall upon both the food and drink with ravenous appetite. Every conductor Lenox had met could have eaten for England—something about snatching a bite between stations, perhaps, and the continual ambulatory exertions that came with the position.

The question about which Lenox was most curious—where this young woman left the train—he wanted to approach delicately. For some reason he was still afraid that he might startle Padden away.

“Has she ever traveled in the company of another person?” Lenox asked.

“Once. A young man.”

“Tall and fair-haired?”

Padden shook his head. “Tall, but dark-haired, with a dark beard.”

Lenox’s pen scratched over the pad of paper in long careless lines, recording as much as possible. “Age?”

“Near enough to hers.”

“Which is?”

“Beyond twenty, anyhow. Twenty-five?”

Lenox looked up at the conductor, who was himself perhaps thirty or thirty-five. He knew from experience that it became more difficult to judge the age of young people as one departed their ranks. “What was their relationship?”

“I didn’t inquire.”

“But could you not say, based upon their demeanor?”

This seemed like another new idea for the young man, who was more methodical in his mind than the ideal witness—not much imagination. “They talked very friendly.”

“Was her arm through his?” asked Lenox.

Padden, a new sandwich halfway to his mouth, paused, furrowing his brow, trying to recollect, and then gave it up for a bad job. “I can’t recall,” he said. “I should have paid more attention had I known it was significant.”

“Of course.”

“Could I take another half cup of tea?”

“Have another whole one, my dear fellow,” said Lenox, leaning forward to pour it for him.

For the second time Padden spooned a shocking quantity of sugar into his cup, stirred it in, took a gulp of the concoction, and sat back with a satisfied sigh. “Don’t feel human till I’ve had my ninth cup of the day,” he said.

It was a very modest witticism, but Lenox laughed generously. At last, gently, he said, “Did you mention that she went all the way down your line, to Canterbury?”

“No, no, she’s for Paddock Wood. Returns by the 6:14.”

“Paddock Wood. How far is that from London?”

“Forty-seven minutes,” said Padden and took another sip of the tea.

Lenox had a hasty taste of his own, eyes over the rim of the cup because he was still writing, and said, “So then from the 8:38 it arrives—”

“Twenty-five past the hour. Usually a minute or two before.”

Lenox knew something of Paddock Wood. It was a small brewing community, where they grew most of the hops in Kent. He had a university friend who had grown up not far from there, outside of Maidstone. “Is the Canterbury line the only one that goes there?” he asked Padden.

“No, nor the most frequent. The line from London to Dover, via Redhill, also goes there.”

It was possible, then, that young Grace went to Paddock Wood more often than once a month. He hoped so—he meant to have a word with the stationmaster at Paddock Wood as soon as possible. With this in mind, he asked Padden who that was.

“It’s Eustace Wainwright. He’s as blind as six bats, sorry to say, but a personable enough sort of fellow.”

“May I tell him that I know you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Padden. “As I say, we’re stopped there a moment or two every morning. I give him the mailbag.”

It was a common sight—the conductor of the train slowing it just enough to pass a light blue bag into the waiting arms of the stationmaster, then speeding off. Some took it slower than others. “This young woman,” Lenox said, “has she any distinguishing article of clothing, or item of luggage, that you can recall?”