“Perhaps that the murderer is from the country,” Dunn ventured. “Not many Londoners ride well. Also that he didn’t want to take a cab—be remembered by a cabman.”
Dunn was sharp, Lenox realized. He was also arrogant. He had taken the seat exactly opposite Mayne, implying, with his body language, that it was a meeting between the two of them, merely to be audited by his subordinate at the Yard and the upstart crow of an amateur.
“More than anything,” said Lenox firmly, “it means that he was prepared. He had made plans earlier in the day to escape from Paddington. A horse would have given him good maneuverability and speed. What’s more, he must have had an accomplice, since the horse was waiting for him.”
“He might have stabled it at Paddington and then gone north to find his victim,” said Dunn.
“But that would have involved far more witnesses than hiring a hansom cab,” said Lenox. “I also have a bit of new information to add on this point.”
He then told the men present—including the railway official, still nameless to them—what he had deduced from the sack coat and socks, and what he had learned from Willikens about the man with the white hair and the American accent.
A satisfying silence came over the room.
“You’ve been busy,” said Mayne.
“These Americans,” said Hemstock. His voice was surprisingly bitter. “What are they messing about in London for? They should stick over to their side. They wanted it certain enough to bloody our noses for it twice.”
Lenox remembered—from a dropped word at the pub, early in their acquaintance—that Hemstock’s older brother had died in the War of 1812, near the city of New Orleans.
“With respect to that, it struck me as curious that our victim was coming from Manchester rather than Liverpool,” Lenox said. “I should imagine ten thousand Americans see Liverpool every year, and not a tenth of that number Manchester.”
“Then what could he have been doing there?”
“Anything you care to imagine,” said Dunn. “It doesn’t matter a whit where he was if we don’t know who he was. Perhaps he was doing a Navajo dance in the middle of Cheetham Hill Road. Perhaps he was handing out flyers for Franklin Pierce. Perhaps—”
“Who is Franklin Pierce?” asked Hemstock.
Dunn looked at Hemstock as if he were too stupid to be ambulatory. “The president of the country across that big watery bit to our west right now.”
“Oh.”
“My point,” Dunn said, “is that we have no idea why an American was in Manchester, so it’s a fact of minimal use to us at the moment.”
There was some truth to this, but Lenox said that he had nevertheless ordered the last week’s papers from Manchester—just in case. They ought to be waiting for him at home.
“You’ve done well,” said Mayne. “But still I cannot see that we are very close to solving the murder. What do you propose to do next?”
“I am going to visit the American consulate in the morning.” Even to Lenox’s own ears this sounded rather uninspired, so he added, “I am hoping they have been expecting a visitor to London who has not arrived. Many Americans write ahead to inform their government that they shall be in the city.”
“Not ones who ride in the third-class carriage and come in from the blasted bloody north,” said Dunn.
He was right, unfortunately.
“I suppose it’s worth a try,” said Mayne.
Lenox hadn’t wanted to tell them about the advertisement asking about missing Americans in London, in case it proved fruitless.
But he told them now. Mayne responded with more enthusiasm than he had expected—the Yard was apparently loath to place ads, but Mayne thought they were often effective. He added that of course Lenox would have to sort the wheat from the chaff.
“Of course, sir. I have the time,” Lenox said.
Sir Richard nodded. “Very well. All speed please, gentlemen. Haase’s family is in great distress. Two of his daughters visited me themselves—fine girls, graceful and elegant manners—both engaged—I felt obliged to see ’em, but it was damned awkward not to be able to give them any hope.” He shook his head. “A white horse. There can only be a million or so in the country.”
Lenox walked back home through St. James’s Park in a contemplative mood. The rains had left it a lovely emerald-green color that was rare to see so late in the year, the limbs of the trees just whispering in the cool early evening wind.
At home, Lady Jane was waiting in his study. She sat in a white dress covered in small purple flowers, flipping through a handsomely illustrated catalogue from Tattersall’s, the horse auctioneer.
“Are you planning to buy a horse?” she asked as Lenox came in, tossing his hat toward his desk and missing.
“No. I would buy the name of an American if you’re selling one.”
“George Washington. That will be one shilling.”
“He was British.”
She frowned. “I imagine he would take issue with that, but as you like—Samuel F. B. Morse. He sent the first telegram.”
“Yes, I know he did, damn him. It’s the name of a specific American I’m after.”
She closed the catalogue and looked at him. “Paddington, is it?”
He had gone to the small mirror-topped liquor cart near the window and poured a bit of brandy into a glass. For Lady Jane’s part, she had been sumptuously provided with toasted teacakes and jam by Mrs. Huggins. He sat down.
“Paddington,” he said, nodding. “By the way, I’m awfully happy that Deere will be here for a spell.”
“So am I. And I have exactly the thing to cheer you up, Charles.”
“Jane, I cannot get married tonight.”
“It wouldn’t be tonight.”
“It’s an extremely inconvenient time.”
“Even you must eat supper! And she’s different, Charles. I spoke with her at length this afternoon, and she’s lovely.”
“Like Mary Elizabeth Sharples?”
This was the giantess from Lady Sattle’s, who was so in love with old Blake, bless her. “She is not like Mary Sharples.”
“No? What a relief.”
“I’m not too proud to admit that I may have erred regarding Miss Sharples. There. Now will you come?”
He slumped down a little lower in his armchair. It had been getting quite cold outside as six passed, and the warmth of the fire and the brandy had brought a stinging into his cheeks. “Answer me sincerely—please. Is there some reason for this concerted effort to get me a wife?”
Lady Jane just looked at him. He had a strong affection for the frank, level gaze she cast upon him in moments like this, as if she cared too much for him to be honest.
“There is, actually. Your mother is anxious,” she said. “She passed the word to me. Perhaps to one or two of her friends as well. Subtly, I promise—at least in my case.”
Lenox was astonished. “My mother! Can she really be the cause of such a stir? Why is it even on her mind?”
“You’re twenty-seven.”
“Yes, I know, right on death’s door. But what does it matter to her if I’m married now or at twenty-nine? I shall still have a full year of life left then.”
Jane shook her head. “Perhaps it’s your career, Charles.”
“My career?”
Jane looked upset, as if it were hard to be as delicate as she would like. “I don’t know. Yes. Either concern that it has precluded you from the right match, or … or hope that a marriage would stop you from risking your life.” She hesitated. “To be perfectly honest, Charles, I think she hopes that a wife will make you give it up.”
Despite thinking he was immune to this criticism, Lenox found himself going bright red—he could feel it.
“Does she?” he said, in a voice trying too hard to be indifferent.
“She has already lost your father. If—”
“I understand, Jane,” he said, sharply.
She paused. “I would like to see you happy
, too,” she said.
“I am happy enough, I think. My life is very full.” He thought of Pride and Prejudice and said, “I dine with four-and-twenty families—at least, at least.”
She smiled at that. “But it would be infinitely easier on me to plan dinner parties if you were paired.”
“Ah!” He took a sip of his tea. “That is a sensible argument. The first one I’ve yet heard.”
“She really is different, Charles—Kitty Ashbrook.”
Lenox tried to remember if he’d heard the name. “Ashbrook?”
“She is the Marquess of Doulton’s great-niece. Her father was in the navy, I believe. She has ten thousand pounds, and very pretty eyes, and she dresses better than nearly anyone I know. You know I do not say that lightly.”
“I’m only offended that you’re holding back from me the women who dress themselves better still than Kitty Ashbrook.”
“They’re married. Or perhaps they don’t exist. She really does, I mean it—as if she were Parisian.” This was the highest compliment one woman in London could pay another’s sense of dress, during this particular moment of the city’s history. “Listen, there’s supper and dancing at Martha Quentin’s tonight. Will you come? It is quite open to you, I know—I saw her earlier. James and I would be so happy of your company.”
Lenox looked at his watch. “What was her name?”
“Catherine Ashbrook. Kitty.”
He could feel his notes in his breast pocket. The thought of sitting here with them in the gloaming seemed suddenly a little hard to bear, however.
“Very well,” he said. “Give me a moment to change.”
“Oh, good! We’ll go shares on a ride over—let me go tell James. You’ll like her, I promise.”
“My hope is that I will love the woman I marry.”
Lady Jane laughed. “You’ll love her, then—just come, and you’ll fall in love.”
“There’s no chance I fall in love with Miss Catherine Ashbrook, Jane. I pledge that to you here and now. Make a note of it somewhere.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The English language possessed a small but substantial group of words, descended from medieval days, which had, in the course of being rubbed with use over the centuries—like a silver coin changing hands for the thousandth time—gained or added an N. The select few people who called Charles Lenox Charlie, for example, would have been, to a medieval person, employing his little, or eke, name—but time had transformed the words an eke name into a nickname. Conversely, the word that was a synonym for a snake had once been a nadder and was now an adder; a napron had become an apron; and as late as Shakespeare’s time, an uncle had been a nuncle.
That last word still just floated in the language of the city, and Sir Crispin Quentin was (in Lenox’s mind anyhow), by virtue of his gentle, old-fashioned manner and ever-present smile, the truest example of that breed—a nuncle. And his wife, Lady Martha, thereby a naunt.
They had met later in life, Sir Crispin and Lady Martha Quentin, each well past the age of fifty. They were almost identical to look at: thin, red, and, but for the fact that they were always beaming, not especially attractive. They had in all other ways besides appearance been hopelessly mismatched. He was a successful merchant, born to a butcher, while she was a spinster who happened to be the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the land—the Duke of Northumberland.
It had been a pairing made by love. As a consequence, perhaps, they were always at the greatest pains to encourage in others the happiness that they had found, against every odd, in each other—for by class they should never even have met, and once they had, her father might still have forbidden her the match. The very “Sir” in his name was an embarrassment to her bloodlines: a knighthood won from the Queen for selling hemp in industrial quantities and then funding a scholarship for orphans to attend one of the city schools, Westminster, and later, if they passed the entrance exams, a university of their choice. Next to the Dukedom of Northumberland itself, not large potatoes.
But the Quentins were beloved; for who could not love two people so full of love themselves, humble before its mysterious and surprising grandeur. Their house was (by baronial standards) relatively modest, yet all of London met there, including members of the royal family—and including, at least that evening, Lady Jane, Lord Deere, and Charles Lenox.
The Quentins decorated in the new style. It was Victoria and her admirers who had spread it—a sort of prodigious clutter, walls and tables crowded past elegance, every piece of cloth in the room double- or triple-embroidered, little remnants of statuary, wretchedly heavy silver platters and ewers, big dark clocks, etchings of colossal ruins. The spare black-and-ivory elegance of Lenox’s childhood was gone now—submerged beneath a rockslide of things, objects.
Sir Crispin and Lady Martha themselves might have been decorated by the same hand. He wore broadcloth trousers with a soft velvet coat of bottle green, she a gown with a wide crinoline and a recession of ruffles from waist to high neck that must have required ten times more material than the average dress.
“Edmund’s stockings would look very subdued here,” Charles murmured to Lady Jane, as Deere greeted their jolly hosts.
“You’re so old-fashioned, Charles,” replied Lady Jane.
“That’s a slander, and I’ll tell you why—I ordered a sack coat at my tailor’s last month.”
“Did you!”
“I didn’t want to,” he admitted, “but I did.”
“That will look very handsome at the races next spring. Very American.”
Lenox threw up his hands—everyone else on the face of the earth would have spotted the victim on the 449 as an American before he, apparently—but Jane, busy taking her shawl from her shoulders, didn’t notice.
“Charles Lenox!” said Sir Crispin, striding forward with his hand out. “How pleased the young ladies will be that another dancing partner has arrived!”
Lenox smiled. He loved Sir Crispin—he had no starch in him, the old chap, would reminisce at the drop of a hat about childhood days in the butcher’s shop. “How pleased I am to be here, sir. I thank you for having me.”
The party was an admirable one. In all, there must have been forty people there, but one never felt jostled or hemmed in. A small room had been cleared for dancing, with a string trio in one corner. There was a different small room for socialization and food and drink—a division of which Lady Jane (who knew about these things) voiced her approval.
By ten o’clock, Lenox was sure that he had won a small victory over his friend, because the woman he was meant to meet, Kitty Ashbrook, had not appeared.
Then, though, just after the hour, she arrived, in the company of her mother, and Lady Jane led her over to Lenox—casually, to her credit, with every semblance of the introduction coming as an accident.
He did like the way she looked—that much he admitted to himself immediately. She was small, with chestnut hair and skin slightly more tanned than fashionable, even white teeth, and a sweet, dimpled smile.
Nevertheless, he was prepared to be merely polite with her—and would have been, had he not, before he quite knew how it had happened, offered to dance with her.
How did Jane engineer these things so effortlessly? He couldn’t even remember posing the question—but not five minutes after they’d met, Lenox and Kitty Ashbrook were moving onto the parquet floor together.
This floor was made in a lovely geometric pattern of blond wood, which picked up the click of every shoe. When they had clicked across the room and reached the end of the line of dancers, he held out a hand and she accepted it. They bowed to each other, the music struck up, and they danced.
Such dancing was always filled with small conversation. Miss Ashbrook began it. “You are a detective, Lady Deere said, Mr. Lenox?” she said as they made a turn.
“Ah! Yes. An amateur—like a rock collector, if you will. Or a curate who practices astronomy on Mondays.”
She smiled. “So inept as t
hat?”
“I hope not, but I fear so.”
It was a rather antiquated dance—pleasantly antiquated, however, and they went through their paces, matching hands, twisting away from each other and back.
He had half forgotten the pleasure of dancing with a lovely woman, not because he hadn’t done so, but because his pleasure in the act itself had vanished some time before. He hadn’t even quite noticed its absence until now, to his surprise, it returned.
When they passed, she said, “I warn you that I cannot marry you, Mr. Lenox.”
He burst into laughter, gently taking her hand as they spun toward each other. “It is the first preemptive rejection I have received, and I offer you my warm admiration for that. Very original. And why should you marry me, after all!”
She gave him a smile of appreciation and apology. “I must seem abrupt,” she said.
“Oh, no—not at all.” They circled another couple and then met face-to-face. “In fact, I suspect we are in the same position, Miss Ashbrook.”
“Which one is that?”
He waited until they were close once more and said, “We are both the projects of well-meaning friends.”
She laughed. They finished the dance in what Lenox thought was at least respectable—and on her part, indeed, graceful—fashion. Without speaking, they stood before each other, awaiting the recommencement of the music, and he felt a little thrill at this unexpressed agreement that they would dance again. It was by no means a given. Only the knowledge that his friends would be triumphant over the fact subdued the gratification of the feeling; and not all that much, if he were honest.
They danced a varsouvienne, and in their third song as a pair, a waltz, they took each other into a swift embrace, swift but to Lenox heady indeed. All the while they kept up a lively conversation. He discovered that Miss Ashbrook was uncommonly intelligent—she had read books and periodicals he didn’t know existed, in French and Russian as well as English—but showed it without the laborious pride one found in so many widely read men and women.
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