The September Society clm-2

by Charles Finch

  Then there was the hair. Shorn from the entire body, McConnell had said. Why? Because George Payson’s hair was red. It was too easily identifiable. And then, the decomposition of the body had made reliance upon the corpse’s clothing and accessories for identification necessary…

  Lenox explained this. Then he said, “You must have shaved Dabney’s head and body after he died. That’s when you would have seen that you were the real target, and that if you died the heat would subside a little bit.”

  “It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Poor Dabs. He was the greatest, noblest friend you can imagine, Mr. Lenox. When I was pretending to be him last night, everything I said was absolutely true in a strange way. I did tell him he couldn’t come, and he did insist on it. But I had to shave his body. Even knowing that it would nearly kill my mother-have you seen my mother? is she bearing up?-and that his parents would have false hope. But it felt as if I was desecrating him, somehow. It was awful.”

  “The decomposition?”

  Payson looked at him glassily. “There are always foxes out in the meadow at night. I knew that… trusted in it.” A tear dropped from his eye.

  “Perhaps we had better go back to the beginning, then,” said Lenox softly. “Or the middle, at any rate. How did Dabney die?”

  “As I said I had. I went into town for food-again as I said. I thought of it as an adventure, not anything we would get hurt over. I was scared, to be certain, but I was excited as well. At any rate. I went into town and came back with food, and I saw the man fleeing through the thicket. He looked behind him, but I could only just see his face.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “In his forties, probably. He had graying hair, and he wore the kind of suit that always looks like a uniform, if you see what I mean. As if he were a waiter or a valet or something like that.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I chased him, and then-well, you know what I did as well as I do myself, just as you know why I left the clues. I took his body into the middle of the meadow where there would be a great deal of foot traffic and left behind my little clues.”

  The lad sobbed again, trying to hold it back, and strangely enough the genuine sorrow that had convinced Lenox that Bill Dabney was innocent now did the same for George Payson. After the initial shock of realizing the lad was an impostor, Lenox could see the brilliance of what he had done. It was much safer at this moment to be Bill Dabney than George Payson, and how could he have known whether to trust Lenox? Stamp had, but Stamp also hadn’t realized the full implications of Payson’s position.

  “Take me farther back. Why is this all happening? Who are these men? What did your father do to them? Who is Geoffrey Canterbury?”

  With a deep breath to collect himself, Payson told his tale. “Most of those questions I can’t answer, though some of them I can. That’s one of the reasons I’m so anxious to go to this meeting tomorrow evening. I need to find out the truth myself.

  “About two weeks ago I received a strange letter in the post from a man asking to meet me at a pub called the Crown in Didcot, a few miles away. The long walks, as you pointed out-I was counting on somebody thinking it was unusual of me to take a long walk when I put out the stick and the shoes. I do love that walking stick, by the way. My grandfather was a terrific chap.

  “It was a cryptic and slightly mad letter, but I had to go for a plain enough reason. It made mention of my father, which I simply couldn’t resist. My father died when I was so young, and people have always reacted so strangely to his name, that for me he holds a talismanic fascination. My shame, my pride-I’m not sure what he is. Perhaps it’s the same way with all men and their fathers.”

  “What did the letter say specifically?”

  “That the author of it-he called himself Canterbury, as you know, though he readily conceded that it was a false name-had known my father when they served together in India.”

  “You went to the meeting, then.”

  “Yes. The evening after I received the request.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Not really remarkable in any way. He had dark hair, a scar on his throat, and a military posture. As he had in the letter, he seemed slightly mad.”

  It was a dead-on description of Lysander except for madness, which might have been feigned. But why warn the lad? Was Lysander playing both sides against the middle? Did he have some old loyalty to James Payson?

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “He was very mysterious at first, but in the end it came out that he knew of a group called the September Society, a club of my father’s peers from the army, all of whom were leading respectable, quiet lives, and who he said together were some of the most dangerous men in the country.”

  “What? How?” Lenox wondered whether this had been hyperbole or fact.

  “He refused to say. All night long his refrain seemed to be ’I wish I could tell you that, young Mr. Payson, but I cannot. For your own sake and mine.’ He must have said just those words six or seven times.”

  “Did he mention any names?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Why did you believe him?”

  Payson laughed wearily. “I didn’t, not at first. I asked whether he was after money, perhaps. He only chuckled and took out an enormous pocket watch. It was from a London firm and had my father’s name engraved on the back. Canterbury said that my father had asked him to keep it for me, but that he was only returning it now-had only returned now, in fact, from India-because of the threat of the Society. Because some anniversary was arriving, or something that I had done-something. It was vague.”

  Just so, Lenox thought. The pocket watch that the innkeeper who had identified Geoffrey Canterbury had noticed. “That might have been engraved last week, though.”

  Dabney shook his head. “I don’t think so. It looked authentic, for one thing-you’ll remember those old watches of the forties-and the inscription was well worn, nearly faded. I have it here.”

  He took it from his pocket and handed it to Lenox, who examined it closely.

  “In addition to which,” Payson went on, “Canterbury was simply plausible. He spoke familiarly of my father, the way my grandparents once did. Of his temper, of his winning manners when he was in a good mood, of his impetuousness. It didn’t seem at all feigned to me. You may judge my judgment as you will, of course.”

  “I see. And,” he said, handing the watch back, “it does look authentic. How did you leave it with Canterbury?”

  “He said he was going to go to London to look into matters more deeply and advised me to be ready to run at any moment. We agreed on a system of communication to arrange our meetings-”

  “The empty letters you received?”

  “Yes! How did you-? But yes, we settled on our next meeting every time we saw each other, and the empty letters indicated that the meeting was still on.”

  “How many times more did you meet?”

  “Twice more, in different villages outside of Oxford. Until the night before I was forced to leave.”

  “That dance card,” murmured Lenox. “You sent it down as a blind, with a separate note explaining that if he signed it Roland Light, your scout’s name, it would appear incidental.”

  “Exactly. My, you really are omniscient.”

  “On the contrary, I’m as slow as the milk train.”

  “Canterbury wrote to me saying that he needed to see me urgently, and we agreed to meet at the Jesus ball. I was too nervous to dance or have anything like fun. We met, and he told me that I had to flee.”

  “Did he give a reason?”

  “No, he didn’t, but he seemed genuinely panicked.”

  “I see.” Was it Lysander? Why? “Why did you meet with Hatch just before you left? At Shotter’s?”

  “Ah, there you’ve found one of the small secrets I was concealing, Mr. Lenox. I don’t need anybody else hurt over me or my father.”

  (Was there bitterness in this
last word? Hopes of some further knowledge of his missing parent dashed?)

  “What do you mean?”

  “Professor Hatch was the only person I told about Canterbury, except Dabs. I had been sitting with him one morning on the lawns and it had just burst out of me, in fact. Old Hatch was a brick about it, a real brick. He talked me through all of the possibilities. He encouraged me to talk about things-about feelings-that I never had before.”

  “And that morning?”

  “I was in a panic. I had agreed to meet with him the night before, and I sent a note over suggesting Shotter’s-a townie place, not many students or dons there, which I always rather liked. He met me, and I told him what I meant to do.”

  “Then you rushed back to your rooms, saw your mother… tell me, did you kill Longshanks?”

  Payson shook his head. “He was dying. We had taken him, Dabs and I, out to one of the country vets round about Oxford, and he had cancer, poor chap. I loved that cat like a brother…”

  “So you fed him laudanum?”

  “He was in my lap the entire time, as trusting as he could be, the dear thing… you know, it’s funny, but I feel near tears again. All of it’s so bound up in my mind… my father, Dabney… this ridiculous cat.” The lad covered his face.

  “And you stabbed the cat with your father’s letter opener, left a message beneath in public school cross-tip-and then you saw your mother in the courtyard?”

  “Yes, precisely. I suppose she told you that. I put her off with some excuse. I know it seems cruel, but I knew she would set the alarms, and I needed people to know I was in danger-though what kind of danger I didn’t really know.”

  “And Hatch brought you a parcel, later that day?”

  “Yes-but how… yes, he did, down south of Christ Church Meadow. He came and said that if I was going to be obstinate I might as well have some help. The parcel had some food in it, a few other necessities, a bit like the packages one used to get in school, you know.”

  “Then it might be he who betrayed you.”

  “Never! He specifically said he’d keep our secret till the grave. Said a few cheery words, and then wished Bill and me good luck. Bill!”

  Here payson stifled a sob. Lenox looked past him toward the sunny streets, lost deep in thought.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The two men spoke until nightfall, as Lenox gently pushed Payson to fill out his story with more detail. By the time they were done a part of the mystery was gone-the irrelevant part. All the clues Lenox had so ingeniously gathered and speculated about fit tidily into Payson’s explanations.

  But the larger question loomed. What was the nature of the history between Payson’s father and his old battalion mates that it had such force twenty years into the future? That ostensibly reasonable men would kill for it?

  As he went to sleep that evening Lenox felt a number of things. He was sorry for the loyal Bill Dabney and his parents; he was apprehensive about the Society’s meeting; and in some small part of his mind he was relieved that it would all be over soon. It had been a strange and laborious case, doubled in anxiousness for him because Lady Jane was still so far from being his wife.

  The next morning he wrote letters to McConnell and Jenkins. To the inspector he wrote a succinct summation of his plan, forgoing any mention of his young visitor, and asked him to be on hand somewhere outside in case either there was an arrest to be made or the plan collapsed. The note to McConnell was shorter and affectionate; in it Lenox proffered another adventure, gave the time and location where he could probably find Jenkins, and advised him not to come. You are going to be a father, Lenox wrote, and though he knew it to be beneath him felt once more a pang of jealousy, and it’s better that you give up being shot at or manhandled just for now. He also wrote to Rosie Little, aching to tell her about George Payson, but bound to keep his secret-and hers, of course, for he hadn’t mentioned Rosie to George.

  Five o’clock approached rapidly. Lenox and Payson had lunch together and discussed their plan, agreeing to hide in separate parts of the September Society’s main room so that if one were exposed the other might at least have a chance of remaining concealed. Lenox tried again to convince his young friend to stay behind, but Payson was grimly determined to participate. One way or the other, he said, he would see it through to the end. There was no backing out of it now.

  Lenox’s last act before they left was to write a note to Lady Annabelle, who after all had set him on this course. He told Mary, “Send this the moment I signal you to, please.” It bore the tidings of her son’s resurrection.

  Finally, at a few minutes before five, the two set out in soft-soled shoes, charcoal gray suits, which were meant to look inconspicuous, though Payson’s borrowed one was too large for him, and low-brimmed caps. At the Royal Oak, Hallowell was waiting for them at a front table. He looked extremely nervous.

  “Not here,” he said. “Wait a moment and then follow me out.”

  They regrouped in a low doorway in the alleyway outside.

  “Who is this?” Hallowell asked.

  “My assistant. He may prove indispensable.”

  “I agreed to hide you, Mr. Lenox. Two people simply won’t work.”

  Payson piped up. “I’ll find a place to hide. It’s important.”

  Gradually they talked Hallowell around. With great reluctance he took them to the back gate of the Biblius Club’s garden and unlatched the door.

  “The Biblius will all be out tonight, as I mentioned to you once before, Mr. Lenox.”

  They went upstairs the back way, along the stairs that attached the kitchen to the two clubs’ respective dining rooms. The September Society’s dining room was small and comfortable without much decoration, a plain place.

  The main room of the club was not.

  It was a wide, long, high-ceilinged room, and every surface in it was covered with artifacts of the Far East. There were ornate, painted clay pipes, old tin lamps, portraits of the Earl of Elgin, Lord Amherst, and a number of other British Viceroys of India, bolts of decorative cloth along every surface, old and battered service rifles (Lenox noted, thinking of Matte, the gun expert) hanging from the walls, and in one corner of the room a life-sized sculpture of a tiger with bared teeth. While Hallowell fretfully asked them where they meant to hide, Lenox and Payson took a short look at all of it. There was no question of the worth and quality of the objects. They had the usual value of imperial plunder.

  It took no time at all to find two hiding places. Lenox meant to stay behind the thick, dark curtains in front of the window; Hallowell assured him that they would remain closed for the secretive meeting, and even if they were opened he would remain concealed. Payson chose a spot behind a massive wardrobe only five feet or so from where Lenox would hide. It was angled into a corner and had a triangle of space behind it that he could slide into. A clearly relieved Hallowell left them without much in the way of politeness, and Lenox and Payson, both armed, nervous, and bored, settled down for a long whispered conversation.

  The hours passed agonizingly slowly. The edge of apprehension in the air gave the time an aura of adventure, but as the minutes crept by the feeling dissipated. At last they had been there two hours with only two to go; then suddenly there was only an hour to go, and their whispers grew hesitant and even softer; then there was half an hour to go before the meeting, and neither of them dared speak; and then, just as they both began to die a little, there was a footfall in the front hallway.

  It was a thrilling, terrifying moment.

  Lenox didn’t recognize the man’s face-he was just able to see the left half of the room-but he was obviously a member, of the right age, with the same military bearing Lysander had. Perhaps this was the enigmatic Theophilus Butler?

  It took fifteen minutes for the rest of the members to arrive, first in ones and twos and then in a great flood. Lenox could hear himself breathing and tried desperately to quiet himself. While the majority of the men drank glasses of wine and traded s
tories, at the far end of the room, away from the windows, a smaller group was in deep conversation. Lenox guessed that these were to be the meeting’s conductors. Among them he recognized only Maran.

  Lysander wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  In all there were twenty-two men present. Every one of them had the well-fed appearance of a contented middle age, far removed from the battlegrounds of the East. They scarcely looked dangerous-merely self-satisfied, lords of all they surveyed, a mood Lenox knew could be dangerous in itself. They looked like the kind of men who could justify any action to themselves, given a moment or two.

  It was Maran who opened the meeting.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “You are all very welcome indeed. In a moment I’ll turn this meeting over to Major Butler.” He nodded at a doughy, narrow-eyed gentleman standing just behind him. “But first, please raise your glasses in a toast to the 12th Suffolk 2nd, in a toast to India, and in a toast to September.”

  The men drank each other’s health, and then Butler stepped forward. Whether it was prejudice or not, Lenox didn’t like the look of him.

  “Gentlemen, how do you do?” His voice was startlingly high-pitched, with a cold maliciousness obvious in its slightly giddy, laughing tones. “This meeting finds us all in good moods. Our income is consistent, our plans move along smoothly, and Maran has done his work admirably.”

  A small ovation went up at this.

  “There is only one situation of real concern to report on, as you are all aware.”

  A murmur of agreement and alarm moved around the room. “But our junior friend has handled it, hasn’t he? All’s set up just at this moment, isn’t it?” A small man, tiny, wrinkled, and sun-baked, said this.

  “Yes, it’s all been smoothed over. But there’s another aspect to the problem. A man we all once knew has indeed returned to London, and his problematic reappearance has only one solution. I trust that we all know what that solution is and remain in concord as to its execution.”