“Could have been anything-a meaningless addendum, the solution to the whole problem. I don’t know. But if it were meaningless, why would it be gone?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
T hat evening at eight forty-five, Lenox put on a swallowtail coat and white evening tie, his SPQR cufflinks, a black waistcoat, and last of all his black patent leather shoes, buffed by the shoe-and-lace boy who came by once a week. Boats were steaming toward the New World, merchants were taking stock in Yorkshire, and railroads were being built one spike at a time so that Lenox could stand at his mirror in the city at the center of the world, preparing himself for the evening. But for better or worse, none of that was on his mind.
He straightened his tie with one last nudge of his knuckle, turned, and went downstairs. His carriage was waiting on the curb, but he didn’t hurry to it as he usually did; he looked over a neat stack of papers on his desk once more, put them into a brown leather case, donned his heavy overcoat, and only then went outside, with Mary wishing him well. It was a special evening.
The SPQRs met once every two months, sometimes less and never more often, in a large room, windowed on two sides, at Boodle’s. Of all his clubs-and by now Lenox belonged to some seven or eight-Boodle’s was the most prestigious, and the one he visited least. Lenox’s ancestor the late eighteenth-century Prime Minister the Marquess of Landsdowne had founded it. People there tended to be somewhat staid, a departure from the club’s earlier days when Beau Brummell had made his last bet there before fleeing to France and the Duke of Wellington had taken his evening meals there with a choice friend or two, guaranteed for once of no adoration. It was placed well, at 28 St. James’s Street, and even clubmen passed it with a reverentially silent step, contemplating their slim chance of entrance; the days were long gone when the club was whimsical and un-self-important enough to be named, as it had been, for a beloved waiter.
“Mr. Lenox,” said Timothy Quails, an institution himself, in the doorway of the club. He held the door open.
“Thanks, Quilts.” Somehow that name had stuck to the doorman. “Am I first?”
“Last, sir, save one.”
He emphasized the word “one” strangely, and Lenox knew whom he meant. He mounted the back staircase two steps at a time and entered the SPQRs’ usual room with a smile at the five men seated at the round table in the corner.
“No sign of our seventh yet, according to Quilts?”
The other five men stood up and crowded around him, smiling and offering their hands in turn. Some of them he only saw at these meetings and some he saw every day, or nearly every day. All of them were his close, close friends; after nine years, he could have gone to any of them with any problem and been assured of their confidence and sympathy. The club was seven for precisely that reason. They were Lenox; young James Hilary, the MP, whom Lenox had proposed, and whose third meeting it was; Sir John Beacham, an engineer and student of Brunel’s who was only slightly older than Hilary, and considered in his profession to be immensely promising; Thomas Weft, who was kind, poor, shy, and brilliant, but had only a sinecure at the Naval Office, procured for him by an SPQR, to show for it; Lord Hallam, the terrifying, imperious inventor and scientist who had introduced McConnell to the Royal Society; and, sixth, Francis Charles Hastings Russell, Liberal Member of Parliament for Bedfordshire, founder of the SPQRs, and agricultural theorist, who would become the 9th Duke of Bedford when his father died.
Then there was the seventh member of the club, who came in about ten minutes later while the other six men sat at the table talking. He was Edward, the Prince of Wales and heir apparent to his mother’s crown. Though he had come late to scholarship-for the SPQRs’ common interest was Roman history-at Christ Church he had been keen, and he and Francis Russell had been friends. That he knew the least of the seven was no obstacle; doors opened at the sight of him that would have been closed shut to the battering of money and even position, usual position. He was candid, friendly, and yet slightly remote. Theirs was his only intellectual pursuit. The rest of the time, married though he was to Princess Alexandra, he was with women and friends, living the life of a playboy.
“Marius,” said the future duke, and was first to shake the prince’s hands.
There were a few hard and fast rules of the SPQR, and one was that names didn’t matter. Weft and the prince could shake hands, for those few hours, as equals, Aurelius and Marius. Lenox was called Julius, and when the prince came to him the royal lips moved slightly: “Well, Julius, how goes it in Oxford?”
“Well enough,” said Lenox, momentarily dumbstruck.
“I wish you all luck there. This is still England…”
The meeting opened with a ceremonial glass of Roman honeyed wine, which the chef at Boodle’s prepared a week in advance. Russell said the traditional opening words.
“Gentlemen, welcome again to this tiny club of ours. Tonight we honor the long dead, for the happiness and instruction they bring to our short lives. Drink with me once, and be my friend forever.”
For supper there was soup, fish, steak, and finally Boodle’s orange fool, made of sponge cake, orange, lemon, heavy cream, and sugar; it tasted delicious with a glass of champagne. Talk over supper was general and avoided their common interest, which was reserved for the postprandial hour. They talked about politics, horses, friends, hunting, cricket, books, their lives. Over dessert everybody was responsible for a paragraph of praise and celebration of the person to his left. Lenox spoke of Beacham, the engineer, with fond and witty brevity, and in turn had to listen to Weft’s encomium.
The great hour, though, was the brandy hour. When it arrived they all felt slightly more solemn, unbuttoned their cuffs, gave great sighs of contented fullness, and sipped their drinks to the accompaniment of a lecture. At this meeting it was Weft’s turn, and the young scholar gave a lively account of gossip’s role in the second Catiline conspiracy (he was a great lover of Cicero, Weft). The speech met with thundering applause and a lively round of questions. Even the prince asked a question-rare for him-on a minor point of Senate history and was congratulated on its aptness. Lenox challenged Weft’s translation of a line of Sallust and gained the small concession from the room at large, though Weft stuck with his original reading. Hallam brought forth an exceedingly rare Roman coin he had acquired at auction and, as a first order of business, made a present of it to the SPQRs, which was greeted with many toasts and great excitement.
(“A silver didrachm of Claudius,” said Hallam authoritatively. He was reckoned to know of such things. “You can all see the uneven cut, as well as Claudius standing in his four-horse chariot. From A.D. 46, would be my guess. One of the rarest early coins.”
“But where shall it be housed?” Hilary asked.
“If the palace will do, I can arrange for its presentation and safekeeping,” said the prince with a noble turn of his head. “It shall come to every meeting.”
Nobody would say otherwise, though Hallam looked slightly crestfallen, and indeed there was much excited talk about a possible SPQR collection-and then a long argument about whether Cambridge or Oxford was a better ultimate location for the hypothetical archive.)
Then there was a motion from Russell to cap the total number of members at any one time at eight, except in the case when a legacy of the seven original members present, or more specifically a son or grandson, had a sufficient interest and knowledge of Roman history to gain admittance to the group.
Now, this was a controversy. A faction comprised of Lenox, Hilary, and Beacham suggested that the number be higher-twelve, say-though with no obligation to reach the cap, because there might well be two deserving candidates to come forth in the future. Russell pointed out that compatibility was as serious an issue as knowledge, and that the group would begin to grow too generic if it got much larger, without the bonds of friendship that they all enjoyed. The prince, Hallam, and Weft all said that they could see both sides of the argument, with Weft leaning toward Russell’s side, Hallam th
e other way, and the prince refusing to commit. This was all very vexing to Russell, who had expected to sail through the vote unanimously. Eventually, though, he agreed to compromise on the number nine. Everyone conceded that finding three eligible candidates in their lifetimes was unlikely, and so nine became the number. Weft added that they didn’t even have an eligible candidate on the horizon and expressed his doubt that the issue would become problematic anytime soon. Still, it had been a pleasing argument and given them all time for another glass of brandy, and so none of them regretted it.
Lenox gave the closing remarks. These were different each time, and responsibility for them rotated among the men. In general they were meant to pledge the renewal of every man’s friendship with every other. He removed a sheet of paper from the thin brown folder he had brought, and read.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “we come here every two months to celebrate the ancient culture which all of us love. And if I may say so, they are six of the happiest nights of the year for me. I read something of the old texts every day-Virgil, Polybius, Tacitus, Ovid-and I may say that they are common in my life. But it is uncommon to meet with a small group of other people so sympathetic and friendly, so lively and intelligent. It is uncommon that we all feel at ease with each other, in our short interactions together. It is uncommon that we have this felicity in our lives. As Marcus Aurelius pointed out, we are only passing creatures-but happy and fortunate ones. Please raise your glasses with me that these passing hours of our lifetime are so blessed with good spirit and friendship.”
The applause bespoke recognition, somber, affirmative, and genuine. They raised their glasses, their room visible as a small square of light in the late darkness of the city.
CHAPTER FORTY
W ho was Major Peter Wilson, late of the 12th Suffolk W 2nd, cofounder of the September Society, and recently deceased?
The next morning was rainy, too, and after rising late (and slightly foggy-headed), Lenox in his slippers and robe had taken himself to his old thinking post by the fire. Sipping his cup of tea, he pondered Wilson’s strange and superficially senseless death. Wilson must have had a good pension, had certainly had a distinguished career, and enjoyed-theoretically-a group of close friends. The more Lenox thought over the idea of suicide, the more improbable it seemed.
When he finished his breakfast, Lenox donned a blue morning coat and set out to walk the short distance to Park Lane. He had decided to pay another visit to the September Society’s (and Biblius Club’s) talkative doorman.
The rain was thin and driving, bitter, and the buildings along St. James’s Park looked gray and dull, lifeless even where they were dimly lit. A rolling fog had appeared, too. It became denser as Lenox came nearer the Thames, until the streets were almost impenetrable beyond a few feet. When he reached Carlton Gardens and the stout building that housed the two clubs, he found a different, older doorman present.
“Hello there. I was hoping to find Thomas Hallowell here?”
“He’s not on for another half hour, sir.”
“Isn’t he? That’s too bad. Any idea where he might be at the moment?”
“Probably down the pub, sir, having a bite of breakfast.”
“Which one would that be?”
“The Royal Oak, sir, just through that alley.”
“Thanks very much.”
Like so many pubs in England, the Royal Oak was named for the oak tree in Shropshire in which Charles II had hidden from the Commonwealth troops after a key battle in the Civil War. It was an undistinguished pub, with a brass bar, charred wood tables, and low lamps that were always guttering and shifting, casting a sallow light over the dark room. Lenox found Hallowell eating ham and eggs with a mug of coffee at the bar, a vast napkin spread over his chest to avoid disturbing his neatly turned-out suit of clothes. He looked up at the detective when the barman, who had a massive mustache that was wet with beer, asked what Lenox was drinking.
“A half of mild, then,” said Lenox and put his change on the stile.
“Mr. Lenox?” asked Hallowell, looking disconcerted.
“That’s right. Hope you don’t mind my coming to see you.”
“No, not at all-only I don’t know anything else about the murder, or I would have come to see you.”
“Actually I know a bit more, and I was hoping to ask you a question or two.”
The man looked doubtful.
“Nothing to incriminate anybody at either club-only background, you see. We’re all pushing in the same direction, the members of the club and me and you. But you know them. Like their privacy, don’t they?”
He nodded knowingly. “Aye, that’s right.”
“So they might not recognize quickly enough that we’re all on the same side.”
Thomas nodded again, and Lenox knew that he had license to ask his questions. “What I really want to know about is Peter Wilson, Tom.”
“Major Wilson? He was a nice enough old chap-quite military, you know, very orderly and all.”
“Did he get on well with all the others?”
“In the Society?”
“Right.”
“Yes, he seemed to. He was close with a chap named Allen-Lieutenant Allen, we call him.”
“A regular?”
“No-not a regular, exactly, but came in pretty often with the major.”
“Who are the most regular Society members?”
“Oh, there are seven or eight.”
“Major Butler? Captain Lysander?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Major Wilson?”
“Not as often-about half as often. Though they all come in for the meetings.”
“Meetings?”
“There’s a Society meeting every month, and they usually get a quorum then-three-quarters of the members. We have to stay late for those. But for the September meeting, we get the night off.”
“Has that just happened? The September meeting?”
Hallowell shook his head. “Not till Monday. I’ve been looking forward to the free night.”
“Do you know anything about the meeting?”
“No-oh, except by courtesy the Biblius don’t come, either. Same way when the Biblius have their meeting, in June. Though we doormen are meant to be there then.”
“How about the cook and the footmen? Do they go to the September meeting?”
“No, sir, only their personal butler, who was in the military with them-a private, I guess, we call him Private Dove.”
“And he’s there for the September meeting?”
“Oh, he’s always there. Lives in the attic.”
Changing tacks, Lenox said, “And Major Wilson, he was sound? More polite than Lysander, for example, or Butler?”
“Yes, sir, I’d say so.”
“Did he ever seem low in his spirits?”
“Oh, no, sir, the opposite-he was the only one who always had a good word for you. About the weather, about the society pages… nice to have a few minutes pass by in conversation, it was. I was sorry to see him go.”
The man obviously had a brightness and quickness that were going to waste in his job. The perfect spy, in other words.
“Would you mind meeting again, Thomas? I can’t say how helpful you’ve been.”
He nodded circumspectly. “Yes, I suppose.”
“Can I generally catch you here around this time?”
“Generally.”
“All right. Good. Excellent. And you must let me buy your breakfast-the least I can do.”
Lenox laid a few more coins in the bartender’s palm, nodded to Hallowell, and walked past the drinking men, slumped low at their tables, and out again into the gray, wet air. It was almost a relief after the dismal and smoke-stained pub.
When he returned home wet, Mary fussed over him, taking his coat and shoes and thrusting him by the fire with a glass of hot wine, which he took a sip of and then ignored.
The fire was bright and lovely, though, and again his thoughts fell to the case
, circling and circling around its perimeter, looking for the hidden point of access to its heart. Could it be as simple as a scar on a neck-was Lysander Geoffrey Canterbury, and was Geoffrey Canterbury the murderer? What were they after, these people? How did they all live so comfortably on their army pensions-beyond their army pensions? (For, of course, Green Park Terrace was an exclusive and expensive place.)
Nearing noon, just as he had taken up Felix Holt to read, there was a knock at the front door. He first heard Mary go to the door and then a low, unclear, but obviously urgent conversation that pulled him out of his chair. He stood indecisively, trying to hear the murmurs. After a moment Mary pulled open the double doors of the library, and Lenox saw that the person at the door had been George Payson’s friend and Bill Dabney’s roommate, Tom Stamp.
“Tom, how can I help you? Have a seat, have a seat.”
The young man looked pale. “Mr. Lenox, I couldn’t turn to anybody else.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
Stamp paused and gulped for air; obviously he had made haste in coming. “I think I’m going to be killed-I think they’re after me, whoever they are.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Look at this.”
Stamp produced a September Society card.
“Turn it over,” he said.
On its reverse was written, Who can you trust?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
D o you recognize the handwriting?” Lenox asked. “I suppose not-perhaps a better way of asking the question is: Do you think the writer was trying to disguise his handwriting?”
It was some minutes later, and Mary had produced a glass of brandy and the dusty bottle for Stamp, who was slumped low in the other armchair by the fireplace. Ashen and dismayed, one of his two best friends recently dead, he seemed worlds away from the jovial and high-spirited young man Lenox had met in Lincoln’s Grove Quad less than a week ago. There was no fight in him-at the moment, anyway.
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