Then he stopped.
What had the description of Canterbury been? Dark hair, a big pocket watch, a mark on his throat? Why did that ring a bell? Then he realized: He had just met a dark-haired man with a scar on his neck.
He ran back inside to see Goodson. “Look,” he said, “I think I may know who Geoffrey Canterbury is.”
“Who?”
“John Lysander.”
“The chap you met with?”
“Exactly. I think he convinced Payson to meet him somehow-invoked his father’s name, something like that.”
“Why would he have lingered hereabouts, then, rather than going straight back to London?”
“Because it’s what Geoffrey Canterbury would have done, perhaps? And the opposite of what John Lysander would have.”
“Can you furnish a more exact description of this Lysander?” Lenox did as he was asked. “All right, then,” said Goodson. “I’ll take it to Mrs. Meade.”
“Excellent,” said Lenox.
He returned to his room at the Randolph in a pensive mood and instructed Graham to pack.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
O n the train once more that evening (the trips were becoming tedious) he thought about what he would do in London. First, perhaps, he would find out whatever he could about John Lysander and James Payson. Or better still, he would have Dallington handle Lysander, because he and Lenox had already met.
Oxford an hour behind him, he almost missed it-the quiet implacable towers that stood on against time, the low murmur of people on the sidewalks, the perennially festive pubs that were always greeting a new wave of students just past some looming obstacle, an exam, an essay… and above all the companionable feeling of a university town, of a place that centuries of students have come to frightened and left feeling that they would always belong. The fields on either side of the train, golden in the late light, felt like the border between that simple life of his undergraduate days and these more complicated ones; for, as always, his thoughts had revolved again to Jane.
Pure sentimentality, thought Lenox-but smiled as he did.
He forced himself back to the case and for the rest of the train ride sat low in his seat, eyes hooded, trying to untangle the skein of connections between Red Kelly, John Lysander, Professor Hatch, Bill Dabney, and the dead father and son.
From Victoria he took a two-wheeled hansom cab, thinking first that he would go straight to Hampden Lane, but after a moment he decided to drop in on Toto and Thomas.
He found them again sitting quietly in the small anteroom by the door. It was a happy scene upon which he stumbled. The remnants of an informal supper were just being taken away, and Toto was writing letters at a small correspondence desk, while just by her McConnell was sitting on the sofa reading. Lenox saw this from the outside, the firelight dancing in the dim windows, and almost turned away, but rang at the door instead. Shreve showed him in.
“Charles, how good to see you back. Any progress?” This from McConnell.
“Some. A great deal, in fact, if only it will lead us to the murderer-and to Dabney, of course.” Toto had stood up to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re still in good health, I hope?”
“Oh, yes, the doctor’s quite proud of me-apparently I’ve unconsciously done everything right. I think that’s an absolute sign that I’m meant to be a mother, don’t you? Although it’s a bore to skip my favorite foods. I don’t like that bit. Still, think, in seven months you’ll be a godfather!”
“What present ought a godfather to give his godson, do you think?”
All three of them were sitting now, Toto with her feet up on the couch by McConell, Lenox in a chair opposite. Very definitely, she said, “Oh, you must give her a silver porringer! We’re expecting a christening bowl from Vix, you see.”
Lenox took this to refer to the Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Empress of the Isles, Victoria.
“That’s jolly, then,” he said.
“If she’ll do it. I expect she shall, Father will speak to somebody. But I would find it auspicious.” McConnell rolled his eyes in a way calculated to irritate his wife, and she smacked his hand softly. “Thomas, if you want to raise little Malory a heathen-”
“Malory, is it? Have I agreed to Malory McConnell? Well, she’ll grow up to be a washerwoman, but I’ll love her anyway,” said the doctor, though happiness was etched into his face.
“Take it back!”
Laughing, Lenox said, “Perhaps the Queen’s washerwoman, at any rate. That will be a consolation.”
“But listen to us,” said Toto. “Charles, where do you think you’re going to travel next?”
“Morocco!” he said and expounded on the merits of that country for a little while longer.
“Morocco! Oh, no, Malory’s godfather can’t go to Morocco.”
“But it’s awfully beautiful, Toto, I promise.”
“Promise all you like!”
They rattled on in this way for a few minutes more. Presently, McConnell said, “By the way, Charles, did you get that report on Peter Wilson that I sent you?”
“Yes, thanks. It was helpful.”
“I wish I could have been more conclusive.”
“Well, in any event it showed that there are some grounds for suspicion.”
“Quite slim ones, perhaps.”
“By the way-does either of you remember George Payson’s father?”
Both of them shook their heads. Toto said, “I wasn’t born, I don’t think-or only one or two.”
“And I’d have been in Scotland still, or at school.”
Lenox sighed. “No matter; I only mentioned it because I’m going to track down the report of his death, and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble you might have a look at that, too.”
“Yes, of course,” said McConnell. “Foul play?”
“There’s always been some doubt about it, actually. I always heard he was shot over cards, but that may be a myth.”
“Oh, Charles,” said Toto, suddenly perking up, “won’t you have a bit of supper? We’ve just had ours, but we haven’t had coffee yet-or rather, Thomas hasn’t, I’m not meant to at all any longer.”
“Thanks, no,” he said. “I must get home. I only wanted to say hello-and to check that you were in good health.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could be healthier or happier in a million years!”
The truth of this in the face of both his friends gave Lenox a moment’s happiness, even as his brain prowled around the edges of the case.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A few minutes later he was in another cab, bumping homeward. A glass of wine wouldn’t go amiss, he thought, and if he saw lights on next door he might drop in on Lady Jane. The next morning he would go straight to work again-well, perhaps he’d drop by the bookshop, then straight to work. What should he read next? Something contemporary, perhaps, something fresh…
As the cab pulled into Hampden Lane these idle thoughts vanished. The street was ablaze with light, crowded by carriages, and on one stoop-Lady Jane’s stoop, he realized, his heart plummeting-were two bobbies, speaking to a servant.
“Stop here!” said Lenox, and roughly handed the driver some indeterminate amount of change. He picked up his small bag and flung it over his shoulder, then ran the twenty feet to the small stretch of sidewalk where his house joined Jane’s. There was a confusion of people on the street and no real order to things. Spying Mr. Chaffanbrass, he said, “What’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” Chaffanbrass responded. He was bright red and looked out of sorts. “Somebody’s been shot, but everybody seems to be all right!”
Horror and relief flooded Lenox’s mind at once; of course, he would have to ascertain the truth for himself. In his heart was a prayer for Jane’s safety: a deep, almost unconscious prayer. He moved roughly through the crowd of onlookers toward the door. Looking up he saw to his consternation that one of the policemen on the stoop was Inspector Jenkins, who had given him
the coroner’s report on Peter Wilson’s suicide. As Lenox climbed the stairs he rapidly tried to think whether Jenkins would be there without anyone dead, or at least injured.
“Jenkins,” he said, coming to the top step. The door to the house was open and every room was brightly lit, giving the place a look of midnight panic. “What’s happened?”
“Lenox, hello-everybody’s all right. Only one injury, and that superficial.”
“To whom? To whom, Jenkins?”
The inspector looked at his pad. “Annie, a kitchen maid.”
“What happened?”
Again Jenkins consulted his pad. “Apparently a man knocked on the door, face covered by a kerchief, brandishing a revolver, and pointed it menacingly at this housemaid. He dropped a note at her feet, and then as he turned to leave the gun went off. It struck the stone eave of the door and ricocheted back off, grazing Annie on the shoulder.”
“Did she get a good look at him?”
“No, unfortunately.”
“Fainted?”
“On the contrary, she chased him halfway down the block, the plucky old girl.”
“May I go in? Is Jane-Lady Jane Grey-inside?”
“She is, but…” He looked dubious.
“We’re old friends-please ask her.”
Jenkins nodded to his constable, who went inside and checked. On returning, he said, “Looks all right, then,” and with a grateful nod Lenox pushed his way inside. He saw Lady Jane sitting on her rose-colored sofa, all alone. Instinctively he dropped his valise and ran to be beside her, embracing her shoulders as he sat.
“Thank God you’re safe” was all he could manage to say.
She didn’t seem at all surprised by his unusual actions and hugged him in return. “I’m quite all right,” she insisted. “Only a little shaken.”
A little shaken!
“How is Annie?”
“They’ve taken her away to Dr. Brooke’s.”
That was the doctor on Harley Street whom both Jane and Lenox routinely visited. “Where was she hit?”
“The bullet grazed her arm, just by the shoulder. I came back to find Kirk and the police here, and she seemed the sanest of all of them. Said she only needed a bit of iodine.”
Here she gave out and buried her face in Lenox’s shoulder, crying.
“What is it?” he said. “What?”
“I wish I had half her courage, Charles. Look at this.”
She reached into her pocket and produced a note. Lenox read it twice, trying to be clearheaded. It read: Tell your friend to leave Payson in the ground, or we’ll be back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
W hat do you think the Yard can do, Jenkins?” said Lenox. It was half an hour later, and the two men were standing on the street. The crowds had begun to dissolve, the stream of startled neighbors at the door had slowed, and in Lady Jane’s house the servants were all having a glass of brandy under Kirk’s supervision. Jane herself was still in the drawing room, with the recently arrived Toto and the Duchess of Marchmain at her side.
Briefly Jenkins consulted his notepad. “Not much, I fear. We only have one description of the man, and that’s a vague one-we just managed to figure out his height and weight, but they’re average.”
“Nothing, then.”
“Well, whoever murdered George Payson has made the mistake of involving the London police force. We’ll give you and Inspector”-again Jenkins’s eyes scanned his notes-“Inspector Goodson all the help you need on this end. You’ve described the September Society to me, and we’ll put a constable near Lysander’s house, watch his comings and goings for a few days. And we’ll shake out our usual East End gangs, see if they know anything. Which is always possible.”
Lenox shook his head. “It’s a pity there’s no more to be done.”
Jenkins nodded. “Yes. Still, everything turned out as well as it could have.”
“That’s true.”
“We’ll leave a rotation of constables in front of these two houses as well, for a few days anyway.”
“Well, thanks-you’ve made this a lot smoother than it might have been.”
“Cheers, Lenox. And I say, please do keep me up to date on the case. I shall want to find out who did this very much.”
They parted with a handshake, Jenkins to speak to his men and Lenox to return inside. The inspector was doing as well as he could under the circumstances, but it was infuriating that someone had threatened Lady Jane’s house with a gun-in fact shot her servant!-with relative impunity.
Inside there was some normalcy to the voices of Lenox’s friends. As he paused in the hallway he overheard Toto talking about her baby again, Thomas chiming in with an occasional low word of wit, and Jane laughing at all the two of them said. Good of them to try to cheer her up; and even better of her to try to reassure them that she was already cheered. Was he blinded by love, or was it only to himself that she had shown her true fear, her true emotions? He hoped-feeling ridiculous even as he did, for he wasn’t generally given to over-the-top Arthurian chivalry-that he was worthy of her confidence. He hoped his love was enough.
“Everything all right in here?” he said, speaking to Jane alone as Toto, the duchess, and Thomas were once again buried in the controversy over the name Malory.
“Yes,” she said, laughing and slightly rolling her eyes toward the couple. “Things have gone back to normal rather quickly, as you can see.”
“I’ve spoken to Jenkins.”
“Have you?” she said lightly. “What has he said?”
She was wearing a pale green dress, simple and straight, and her pretty face betrayed no anxiety; and when he looked at her lovely curling hair and long, proud neck, his heart nearly burst.
“Only that they would try to track the man down, and that they’ll have a rotation of police constables set in front of our houses. But I think you’d probably better visit your brother, don’t you?”
The Earl of Houghton, whose house was only a mile or two from Edmund Lenox’s, was a well-intentioned, studious, and thoughtful man, but without Jane’s lightness; a man who took his responsibilities and position too seriously to be like her.
“I don’t think I shall, no. It happens that I can’t leave London at this particular moment, and then, why give them the pleasure? Surely if there are constables here the person won’t dare return.”
“Probably not. It was probably only a message to me-and for that I apologize again.”
“It’s not your fault that there are madmen in the world. It’s not your fault that somebody killed that poor boy in Oxford.”
“But it is my fault for holding you so dear.”
In the moment of silence that followed this comment, Lenox’s and Lady Jane’s eyes never left each other. The other three broke off their conversation and looked at the pair of them. At last Toto said, “Is everything all right with the policeman, Charles?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, tearing his eyes away from Lady Jane’s to look at her. “They’ll put somebody by the house for a few days. And I’ve said to Jane she should visit her brother for a little while.”
“Oh, don’t leave London, Jane, you can’t!”
“She’ll have to if it makes her feel safer, darling,” said McConnell to his wife. Then he turned to the rest of them. “In fact, if you prefer you can stay with us for a few nights. Just until things are as calm as usual.”
“Now that, as my father would say, is a ripping idea.” Toto beamed. “Please do, won’t you, Jane? We’ll make you ever so comfortable. And nobody will be there but you and me, because Thomas looks at squids in his microscope all day! And we’ll have lovely things to eat and read novels and see our friends if we feel like it.”
McConnell half laughed, half grimaced at the depiction of his daily life, but otherwise seemed enthusiastic, and Toto looked utterly delighted.
“Shall I, Charles?” said Lady Jane, delaying her friend’s happiness momentarily.
“It’s an excellent idea, I
should say. It would make me easier in my mind.”
She turned to Thomas. “Then I will, thanks. Only for a night or two.”
“Or a week,” said Toto doggedly. “Consider staying for a week, at least.”
“Perhaps three nights. I can’t stay more than that or people will think I’m afraid of going home.”
“Well-three nights to be going on with,” said Toto and hugged Jane.
“McConnell,” said Lenox, “shall we leave them for a few minutes?”
The two men stepped outside. All but Jenkins and the two constables who were on the first watch had left, and Jenkins was getting ready to go.
“Keep in close touch, would you Lenox?” he said.
“I shall-I’ll write to you once a day with whatever progress we have if I can’t come see you.”
“Excellent.”
Turning to his friend, Lenox said, “You will keep an eye on Jane, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Exactly. I actually wanted a word on another subject as well. Are you still friends with Harry Arlington, at the War Office?”
“Yes-you know that.”
“I was going to ask you a favor. I need to see the file of a soldier who died twenty years ago. In the 12th Suffolk 2nd.”
“Is this about the case?”
“Precisely.”
“Tangentially, I assume?”
“From the age? No, in fact it’s at the heart of the matter.”
“I’ll write to Harry straight away when I get home. What’s the soldier’s name?”
“James Payson.”
McConnell looked appropriately taken aback. “The lad’s father? How does he figure into it?”
“He would have been one of the tiny number of men eligible for the September Society, had he lived.”
“I’ll write him tonight,” said McConnell. “If you go by tomorrow morning, he’ll certainly have gotten my note.”
“Thanks, Thomas.”
“Not at all.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A fter several sunny, seasonable days, the next morning was gray. Just as Lenox stirred into a first, dreamy kind of wakefulness, rain began to drop softly against his windows. It reminded him somewhere deep in his mind of his first days at boarding school, when as a thirteen-year-old he had sat at the desk in his tiny room feeling lost in the world. Soon enough he had made friends, but the desolate feeling of that rainy autumn had always remained with him.
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