The September Society clm-2

by Charles Finch

  “But there was a problem. Another official of the East India Company, Halloran’s boss. An older, white-haired fellow named Braithwaite, who stepped in straight away and claimed the money as the company’s. From which he would receive a finder’s fee, of course.

  “One thing to understand about our battalion: We were the left behind. They were all like me, wild, angry, driven out of England by their behavior. A little pirate ship out in the desert. Well, it didn’t take any time at all for them to decide to kill Braithwaite. Only two of us stood against it. Captain Larch and myself. Larch put his foot down; I simply said that I wouldn’t be a part of it. Larch and Braithwaite died-victims of the battle, as it was later presented, both with their throats cut-and I lived. In fact, in official regiment history Larch and I are the only dead officers of our particular era…

  “Fortunately Juniper and I had long planned to return to London on six months’ leave, and almost immediately we left. I hoped it would all blow over-I think I saw both of you then, Charles and Edmund, and more importantly I saw you, George, beautiful infant that you were-but when we returned, nothing was forgotten, and the next few weeks were the worst of my life. A dozen times I wished I had gone along with the plan. All of them would be rich, not a single one of them was speaking to me, and I knew that all of them doubted my staying silent.

  “The blow fell pretty quickly. I was out hunting with Juniper, the only friend I had left for five thousand miles in any direction. We were in a growth of scrub about a mile away from the campsite, trying to track a flock of birds, when Hallowell ambushed us from about ten yards away. He shot Juniper dead on the spot and then fired at me. I wasn’t hit, but I fell, hoping to fool him. And I did. Hallowell ran off. I listened to his footsteps receding…” He took a breath. “I often think about Juniper, all alone in the world as he was. His death wasn’t worthy of him.

  “I saw straight away that I had an opportunity to escape. I had never been that fond of the military, and now India was too hot to hold me. So I ran back to camp, careful to avoid notice, and grabbed my uniform and a few of my things-pictures from home and so forth, you can imagine-and went about the ugly, bloody job of changing Juniper into me.”

  “What about the scar?” McConnell asked.

  “That was the catch, of course. But leave anything out in the scrub of India long enough and some animal will get interested. Juniper was unrecognizable when they found him. To discourage any rumors-either of suicide or murder-Lysander and Butler made up a story about me getting shot over cards by a native. Preposterous, of course, but they shouted it from the rooftops. One thing they couldn’t hide was the state of my body.”

  “The third page of that report we saw, Thomas,” said Lenox, looking up at his friend. “It must have described the decomposition.”

  It was eerie for Lenox, to hear two tales so similar from a father and son. Both had lost their friends. Both had gone on the run. Both had behaved cannily. And both had avoided death. For now, anyway.

  He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, the wound in his chest still painful, and waited for Payson to go on.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Where did you go?” asked Dallington curiously.

  “China. I had a good deal of money because I had just been paid six months’ wages, and I went to Shanghai and found work. It wasn’t long before I became pretty useful to a few important gentlemen there-well, it’s a story for another time. I’m long since retired by now.”

  Here was the crucial question. “But then why return?” asked Lenox. “Why was the Society interested in your son when they knew you to be dead?”

  “Wilson,” said Payson.

  “Wilson?”

  “It was the worst luck you could possibly have. I had come back to England because I couldn’t stand being away from George any longer. I thought I would find somewhere quiet to live, perhaps in northern Scotland, and watch my boy from afar. One day this summer I had to see him, and I went to Lincoln. And on High Street I saw Wilson, there with his son. It was only for a split second, but he knew it was me. I could see it in his eyes.

  “Only Lysander and Hallowell had known-or thought they knew-Juniper to be alive, still. It must have been a right shock to old Wilson. So he ran off and told the Society.”

  “How do you know?” asked Jenkins.

  “He wasn’t a bad chap, Wilson. Certainly not the worst of them. He told them about me, but when they began to consider killing George, he found a way to pass George a note. I was living in Oxford by then, and with the help of Red Kelly, whom I had known long ago in my early days in the army, when our regiments had trained together-an old gambler and drinker, Red-”

  “I was going to ask after him,” said Lenox. “A friend of yours back then?”

  “The most loyal friend I had. My private. When he was wounded I found him a job as a porter at Lincoln-not that I had had a glittering career there, but still, the Payson name carried some weight.”

  “Red! See, Lenox-I knew he knew something!” The young George Payson said this excitedly to Lenox. “He was the one who passed me the notes from Canterbury! How did he help you, Dad?”

  “Passed Wilson’s note addressed to you on to me. It warned you to leave Oxford. I knew then that he had told the Society, and that they had resolved on killing you to draw me out. I was dangerous to them. Still am, I suppose.”

  “And Wilson died for his troubles,” said McConnell.

  “Precisely,” Lenox agreed.

  “The rest is plain enough to you, I suppose. It became my only aim, my only concern in life, to save my son. But I didn’t dare tell you who I was, George. I didn’t want you to know I was still alive, in case they came after you with questions. The only way I could show you how I felt was that damned pocket watch.”

  “No, Dad, I loved it. It gave me hope while I was out there running.”

  As the father and son looked at each other, tears brimming in the eyes of both, there was a strange silence in the room; perhaps the silence of sons thinking about their own fathers.

  “At least you’re both safe now,” said Jenkins, with a great sigh.

  Then a startling voice spoke from behind them in a tone full of hatred. “Are they? Can you be sure of that, Inspector?”

  It was Lysander. And he had a gun.

  Of course, thought Lenox. That’s why I missed him at the meeting. He stayed back in case something precisely like this happened.

  “Well, Lysander,” he said. “You have us at your mercy.”

  But the detective spoke too hastily.

  Lysander had seen all but one of them-McConnell, obscured by the door Lysander had opened, in one swift, athletic movement that made Lenox grateful for all the doctor’s games of polo and golf, slammed the door into Lysander and pounced on the shocked man as he fell. The gun screamed into the surprised silence of the room and fired one harmless bullet into the wall.

  After that it took a great deal of time to sort everything out, and by then the pain in Lenox’s chest was more and more intense. McConnell gave him a solution in water from his medical kit, which helped slightly. Still, though, he decided that Jenkins could handle the questioning for that evening.

  Just then, two constables came clattering up the stairs and into the room. Only one of them spoke, a small, strong-looking chap.

  “Inspector Jenkins, sir, begging a moment of your time.”

  “Yes, Constable Roland?”

  “During our search of the club’s premises, we found something, sir.” Here Roland paused.

  “Well?”

  “Lawrence and I have brought it-here you are, sir. Among a great lot of treasure hidden in the wall.”

  Here the constable, who had probably never seen more than twenty pounds put together in his life, pulled from his pocket a large, sparkling, pristine sapphire, of the darkest blue.

  They had all heard James Payson refer to the stone; nevertheless, there was a sharp intake of breath across the room.

  It was M
cConnell who spoke at last. “Not my area,” he said softly, “and I wouldn’t claim any special knowledge-but-but do you think I could hold it, for a moment, Constable? Thank you, thank you.” He accepted it on his handkerchief. “My God, my God! It’s four times the size of the Star of Bombay! Look at this rock! Insoluble, infusible, and above all perfectly faceted! My God!”

  The whole room watched the doctor.

  “There are only four truly precious stones,” he went on. “Emeralds, diamonds, and rubies-which are only red sapphires-and then these… it would be impossible to put a price on it! I don’t think the headman of that village scavenged this, Mr. Payson… this must have come down through the generations. Look how perfectly it’s cut! Why, there aren’t a dozen people on this planet who can afford this, and only a handful more governments! Well, thank you for letting me see it,” he said, handing the sapphire to Jenkins. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  Everybody in the room took turns examining it until finally Jenkins and the two constables bore it to a waiting brougham with a holy air. (“And you brought it to the heart of Eastcheap, you fathead?” said Jenkins.) Then the group sorted themselves out and arranged their departure.

  What a strange matter it had been! Full of mistaken identity and misplaced trust. Even at this early stage Lenox could admit to himself that it had been one of his poorer efforts-marked by minor successes and major lapses. He couldn’t blame himself entirely, though. He had been in love.

  In the end it was Dallington who took him back to Hampden Lane. McConnell had freshly dressed his bandages and given him several packets of the pain solution, along with a promise to come by early the next morning, but he had been anxious to go home and check on Toto. They had finally settled on a name that both of them liked: Bella McConnell. It was a beautiful name, Lenox agreed-beautiful enough even to justify all the arguments that came before it.

  In the carriage Dallington spoke quietly. “Will you make it through the night, then? Your wound, I mean.”

  “Oh, yes, I should say so. For which you deserve a great deal of the credit.”

  “I was pretty dashing, wasn’t I?” said the young man with the first sign of his old grin. “Still, I’m sorry to have made it as close as it was.”

  As he climbed the stairs of his house, Lenox felt sore, relieved, and exhausted-but on the fringe of those feelings was a sort of affection as well. In this short, fraught time he had come to be truly fond of Dallington.

  Graham still hadn’t come home, and so in the front hallway it was Mary who exclaimed over his wound and took his overcoat. A cheerful constable named Addington was there as well and promised to stay the night. Lenox thanked him, asked Mary to find him some food, and then turned up the hallway toward the prospect of a nice smoke and some time alone in his library. It would be paradise, he thought.

  But a different kind of paradise awaited him there. When Mary opened the doors Lenox saw that Lady Jane was sitting on the sofa, not even pretending to read.

  “Oh, Charles!” she said, rising and rushing to his side. “Come sit next to me. Are you comfortable? Is it true what Addington says, you’ve been shot? Charles, how could you?”

  Here she burst into unrestrained tears, which fell down her pale cheeks in little rivers. She clasped his hand tightly in hers. All the awkwardness of their last meeting was forgotten, and their old ease returned.

  Laughing a little, Lenox said, “I’m awfully sorry. But it’s not even bleeding any longer, look!”

  She laughed, too, in a hiccupping way, her spent nerves spilling over, and dried her eyes with Lenox’s handkerchief. In her plain pink dress and blue shawl, her hair falling in curls behind her ears, her large eyes bright and wet, she had never looked more beautiful to her friend. He wasn’t sure what he saw precisely-simply some light that began in her and radiated out, which made her golden and lovely. Which made her Jane.

  “What was it that happened, Charles?” she said.

  “I was foolish enough to hide behind some curtains, and a bullet grazed me just here, between my left arm and my side. McConnell says it won’t hurt for more than two or three days, though. More important, did you hear about little Bella?”

  She laughed again, and finally her eyes were dry. Still, though, she hadn’t let go of his hand. “I like it, don’t you?”

  “I think it’s a perfect name,” he agreed.

  “Toto’s so happy, too.”

  “And McConnell couldn’t wait to find his way home this evening.”

  Then, suddenly, the conversation stopped. They were still looking into each other’s eyes, but for the first time in their long friendship neither of them could say anything. At last Lenox said, “Michael Pierce, the man I met at your house, he was-”

  “He asked me to marry him, Charles.”

  Lenox managed to say, “He seemed like a decent fellow when we met, though it wasn’t for long. I would-”

  “I said no, of course.”

  Their hands were still together, their eyes still met.

  “Where have you been, Jane? What have you been doing, these past weeks? I feel as if my best friend were a ghost. What were you doing in the Seven Dials?” Preemptively, he added, “I saw you there accidentally, I promise.”

  “Of course I believe you, Charles. Of course.” Hesitantly, gingerly, she went on. “As I told you, Michael is my brother’s friend.”

  “Yes,” he said, his heart racing.

  “It’s simple enough. He was at Eton with my brother, and they became friends on the rugby pitch-but Michael was always wild, never a very good student. After his classmates went to university, he came to London and became a dilettante, a wastrel. He drank in low and high company alike. He even”-she shuddered-“he behaved badly. Until one night outside a public house in the Seven Dials, when a man named Peter Puddle tried to rob him at knifepoint. Michael was carrying a loaded blackjack and dealt him a blow to the head and-and killed him, Charles.”

  There was utter silence in the room.

  “Michael’s uncle, Lord Holdernesse, and my brother were the only two men who knew the secret. Lord Holdernesse arranged his transit to the colonies, and paid Peter Puddle’s wife and children a weekly remittance and bought them a small house in the Dials. When he died, my brother began to pay the remittance and took me into his confidence; and for years now, three years I suppose, I’ve visited them one morning each week.

  “At first they were sullenly respectful toward me-then friendlier-and finally a real friendship has sprung up between us. But then Michael returned, last month.”

  It was all so clear now, Lenox thought.

  “He was rich, and wanted to make amends; and since he returned I’ve been visiting them not in my spare morning hours but nearly every day, trying to broker some kind of peace-to give Michael, whom my brother loves, some sort of redemption.”

  “You needn’t say another word,” Lenox answered, “and if I’ve been rude enough and unkind enough to question you, or make you feel accountable to me-I’m so sorry.”

  She sighed, tears standing in her eyes. “Then he came along with this absurd proposal of marriage, apparently persuaded of some affection between us that never existed. And of course I said no.”

  “Of course.”

  “But oh, Charles, no-don’t you see-if he had been perfect, if he had been-”

  Lenox, with a strange mixture of courage and happiness roiling in his heart, interrupted her, to say, “You know, for years I’ve been expecting somebody to come along and marry you. I knew it would be a duke or the Prime Minister or a bishop or somebody. I always look out my window and expect him to be strolling along to your house.” He laughed. “And I would have accepted it with good grace, I hope. I knew you deserved the world. But for every moment that I’ve known you, Jane, for the entire time I’ve looked out through the window, I’ve loved you, too. Ardently, and without any anticipation of return. But while I have the courage to say it I must: You are the wisest person I know, and
the most beautiful woman I know. And I love you from the bottom of my heart, and-and I want you to be my wife.”

  Different tears wet her eyes now, and a luminous smile was on her face.

  “Will you?” he asked.

  “Oh, of course, Charles,” she said. “Of course I will.”

  She put her small hand on his shoulder and lifted her face to him, and they kissed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The next few days were the happiest of Lenox’s life.

  He and Jane took long walks along the river, the sun arching high above, watery, warm, bright, leaves scattering at their feet, as they spoke: spoke again with the same ease and intimacy they always had, but in a way so sweetened by love, so strengthened by the acknowledgment of love, that it seemed the smallest word carried the entire freight of their emotions. They told a few friends, and together had several small dinner parties to announce their engagement. (The happiness of a dinner party! He could scarcely believe how becoming part of a couple changed the pleasures of that ritual.) Toto and McConnell, Dallington and the Duchess of Marchmain, Cabot and Hilary, these old friends were constantly in and out of their houses, half as if they were already married. Lenox had a long conversation with Graham, a roundabout, reassuring conversation that ended with the two men pulling out a map and planning in great detail their tour of Morocco.

  So the days passed, the weeks passed, each moment within them a small perfect crystal of happiness, undaunted by what might come next-the happiness of those living entirely in the present.

  A month later, it was truly autumn. Along their little slip of London, leaves were falling at any breeze and the glow of fireplaces shone in every window, while above the high houses birds fell and rose on the cooler drifts of air. There was that note of melancholy in the air that comes briefly when at last summer is really over-when there will be no more exotically warm days interspersed among the colder ones-when finally people pull their collars up against the wind and children submit to heavy sweaters. A pink-cheeked, nightfall time of year, when the light was always diminishing.