A Stranger in Mayfair

by Charles Finch

  “Hello,” he said, standing near their bed.

  “Hello.”

  “How was your evening out?”

  “Well enough as these things go.”

  “Where was it?”

  She gave him a frosty look and was just about to answer when there was a knock at the door downstairs. Lenox, puzzled, trotted down the stairs, with Jane close behind him. Kirk was still dressed and awake and answered the door as they all stood in the wide hallway.

  It was McConnell.

  “Why, Thomas, hello,” said Lady Jane. “How are you?”

  He was red and flustered.

  “Quite well, quite well.” He looked at them blankly for a moment, then seemed to remember his purpose. “I came because Toto is having the baby.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful!” said Lady Jane. “Is everything all right?”

  “Perfectly—perfectly,” said Thomas in a rush.

  There was an awkward silence. Toto’s last pregnancy had ended with the loss of the child some few months in.

  “Shall we come back with you?” asked Lenox softly.

  “I couldn’t ask you—I couldn’t—”

  “We’re coming,” said Lady Jane.

  They went in McConnell’s roomy carriage, after Lady Jane had gone to fetch a parcel of things she had laid aside for the day when the baby came. She clutched it on her lap, occasionally giving Lenox’s hand a squeeze. All of the anger between the newlyweds was dissolved, and they exchanged joyful smiles. Sitting opposite them, McConnell prattled nervously on.

  “The doctors said she was quite healthy, and of course we watched her nutritional intake most strictly—most strictly—fascinating paper I read from Germany about prebirth care, they translated it over here—we gave her good dairy and beef, not too many vegetables—hearty fare, you understand—and I fully expect everything to go well—I feel quite certain it will.”

  Lenox and Lady Jane nodded thoughtfully and said “Oh, yes!” and “Mm, mm” in all the right spots.

  When the carriage arrived only a couple of minutes later at the massive Bond Street house, McConnell darted out and into the door, apparently quite forgetting about his guests.

  “He’s got the nerves of all first fathers,” Lady Jane said quietly as they walked up the steps to the open door. “I’m glad we came.”

  Lenox nodded, but saw something different in his friend’s mien than Jane did. He saw a man looking for redemption, both for not preventing the loss of Toto’s first baby (even though every doctor had concurred that it was an act of God) and for something greater: his whole mess of a life, which had begun so promisingly when he was a young surgeon and made such a happy, spectacular marriage, but which had somehow gone awry. This was his chance to amend all that. It was a fresh start.

  Jane rushed straight upstairs to the vast second bedroom, which had been arranged for Toto’s comfort and where a small huddle of doctors and nurses, all hired at great expense from the best hospitals in England at McConnell’s insistence, consulted with each other. As for the doctor and his friend, their fate was to wait hour upon hour in McConnell’s study.

  It was a wonderful room of two levels; first a comfortable sitting room with desk and armchairs, plus a comprehensive laboratory against the back wall, and then, up a winding marble staircase inlaid with cherubim, a library full of scientific texts. The ceiling, twenty-five feet above them, was a white Wedgwood design.

  “Would you like a drink?” asked McConnell, heading for the table with the spirits on it.

  “Not quite yet—Thomas,” said Lenox hastily, “before all that will you show me what you’ve been working on?”

  McConnell looked at him inscrutably. “Of course,” he said after a moment. “Although I shouldn’t touch any chemicals—I’ve been staying away from them for the past few weeks, and before that scrubbed my hands and arms very thoroughly whenever I worked at my table. For Toto.”

  Against the back wall were three long wooden tables, very rudimentary things. Stacked above these were many small shelves, on which were lined hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bottles of chemical. On the tables themselves were chopping blocks, microscopes, scientific instruments, and formic-acid-filled jars, some otherwise empty, some containing samples. In all, a first-rate chemical laboratory.

  For a diverting half hour McConnell explained his various endeavors. His face brightened, and soon he was lost in the world of his work. It wasn’t the same as surgery to him—Lenox had known him then—but it had its own merits.

  After that Lenox acceded to the inevitable drink, a gin with tonic water, and he and McConnell sat, sometimes talking easily, sometimes silent. At one thirty Lady Jane came in and told them, very hurriedly, that all was well. Perhaps fifteen minutes later one of the doctors strode in with a quick step, causing McConnell to gasp and rise to his feet, but the news was the same. At two o’clock they had a plate of cold chicken and a bottle of white wine sent up and ate. After that, time seemed to slow down. Each had a book, but neither read much.

  At three Lenox nodded off. McConnell coughed softly, and Lenox startled awake. It had been an hour since they had seen anyone and half an hour since they had spoken to each other.

  “What names have you thought of?” asked Lenox.

  McConnell smiled privately. “Oh, that’s Toto’s bailiwick.”

  There was a pause. “Are you very anxious?”

  It was a personal question, but the doctor merely shrugged. “My nerves have lived in a state of high tension for nine months now. Every morning when I wake up I’m afraid until I check that all’s well, and every night I lie in bed worrying. At school, were you nervous during the examinations? I was always worse off the day before.”

  “From all Jane says, things have gone well. My one regret about the summer is that we couldn’t be here with you and Toto.”

  “We saw very few people—it was nice, very nice.” Unsaid was that they had grown more comfortable with each other, that the pregnancy had consecrated their rapprochement. “Her parents have been wonderful.”

  “Did you let them know?”

  “This evening? Yes, I telegrammed them straight away, same to my father and mother. Her parents are on their way, and my father sent back his felicitations. Really I desire it to be two days from now and all well. What a terrible thought, to wish time away when life has so little of it anyway…”

  “Why don’t I step out and find a doctor?”

  Just as Lenox said this, though, there was a wail at a far corner of the enormous house. Both men rose to their feet by instinct, and McConnell took a few steps to the door, pain and worry fresh again in his eyes.

  “I’ve no doubt all is well,” said Lenox.

  There was another wail, long and loud. “One day men will be in the birthing room,” said McConnell.

  Lenox was shocked but said only, “Mm.”

  “I’ve seen a birth.”

  “It’s better to let the doctors and the women handle it.”

  “Don’t be retrogade, Charles.”

  Don’t be radical, Lenox wanted to say. “Perhaps I am,” was all he uttered in the event.

  There was a third wail, and then a fourth some seconds later. McConnell paced to and fro as Lenox sat down again.

  “The noises are quite normal,” the doctor said, “but I never cared when I heard them before. It’s awful to say—these women were patients of mine—but it’s true.”

  A fifth wail, and then an even more terrifying sound: footsteps in the stairwell.

  McConnell rushed to the door and flung it open. In his mind Lenox said a short prayer.

  Outside of McConnell’s study was a wide, rarely used salon, covered with eighteenth-century paintings in the bold Continental style. The doctor striding across it seemed like a figure out of myth, his loud steps and white robe in the dark room somehow laden with meaning.

  “I congratulate you!” he called when he was close enough to be heard. His voice echoed across the vast empty room.
“It’s a girl!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time Lenox left at 6:00 A.M. several things had happened. McConnell had burst out of the room and gone to see his wife and child, and come back fifteen minutes later positively beaming (“An angel! Both of them, two angels!”). Lady Jane, eyes rimmed with red, had come down to see Lenox and tell him all about the child, and then the two had agreed, in a hushed embrace, never to fight again. At last Lenox himself had seen the baby, a rosy-skinned, warm-bodied dab of human life.

  Most importantly, the child had a name: Grace Georgianna McConnell. Already they were all calling her George (“Though we must never let the child think it’s because you wanted a boy,” admonished Jane). Her father seemed ready to burst with pride, happiness, and, perhaps most powerfully, relief, while her mother was (apparently) a composed, albeit slightly shaken, picture of maternal bliss. Lenox himself was immensely happy.

  He left early to try to get home so that he could sneak a few hours’ sleep. There were important meetings to attend that morning. As he went, Lady Jane was curled up in the second bed in Toto’s room, sleeping across from the new mother, the crib in between them. Toto’s hand was draped into it. As for McConnell, he had let the women sleep and been full of action. He gave the servants the day off, handed each of them a double florin, and ordered a crate of Pol Roger for them from the shop down the street, then sent eight telegrams to his friends and family. After that he ordered his horses up (apparently forgetting the day off—but nobody minded) with the plan of calling on these friends and family before the telegram could. It was as this plan was hatching that Lenox left.

  Behind his heavy curtains at Hampden Lane the detective slept for two or three untroubled hours. When he woke his first thought was of some obscure worry, and then he remembered the happy conclusion of the night and it vanished. All would be well now, he thought. He hoped.

  Meanwhile the uncaring world marched on, taking extremely little notice of George McConnell’s birth, and Lenox had to dress hastily to make a meeting at eleven with several frontbenchers who were concerned about the strength of the pound.

  “Kirk,” he called from his study just before he left, “have you settled with Chaffanbrass?”

  The butler looked blank. “Sir?”

  “The bookseller across the way.”

  “I’m familiar with the gentleman, sir, but I don’t understand your question.”

  A wave of irritation passed through Lenox before he realized how stupidly reliant on servants—on Graham—he was. “I could probably take care of it. Graham didn’t brief you on that?”

  “Mr. Graham has been so busy in Whitehall, sir, that I see very little of him.”

  “I generally pop over there and pick up books, and Chaffanbrass puts me down for them in his ledger. Graham goes over to pay.”

  “With what funds, sir, might I inquire?”

  “Do you not have any ready money?”

  “Enough to pay the deliverymen, of course, sir.”

  “I’d forgotten Graham went to my bank and withdrew cash for himself.”

  Kirk looked shocked to his core. “Oh, sir?” was all he managed.

  “We developed our own little ways, as you can tell.” Lenox smiled. “There’s money on my dresser—would you settle with Mr. Chaffanbrass today, and explain why it’s late? He counts on Graham coming in.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I hope I don’t ask too much of you. I’ve rather forgotten what’s usual.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You heard about the baby?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well—excellent, excellent.” They stood awkwardly for a moment.

  “Yes, sir. Will that be all?”

  “Of course, go.”

  Lenox went down to Whitehall and had his meeting, though after the long night he had trouble keeping his eyes open—and trouble, truth be told, caring much about the taxation concerns of the rich, blustery bankers who were speaking.

  After it was over he intended to go straight to the McConnells’ house. Instead he found himself walking, almost involuntarily, toward Scotland Yard.

  It was only a few steps away. Whitehall, the imposing avenue between Trafalgar Square and the Houses of Parliament, contained all the most important buildings of government (and was indeed now a word in Lenox’s mind that conjured not a street but an entire small world and its structure, rather like Wall Street in America), including Scotland Yard. The Yard stood originally in two rather modest houses along Whitehall Place, which were constantly stretched to include new property in all directions around them as the Metropolitan Police expanded in size. It was an untidy warren of rooms, with its own smell—dusty paper, old wood floors, wet coats that had never been aired out, dormant fireplaces.

  Lenox knew the constables who manned the front desk and simply nodded at them on his way to the back offices. He passed what had once been Inspector William Exeter’s office, which now stood empty and bore on its door a plaque in the murdered man’s memory. Without saying hello he also passed the office of Inspector Jenkins, the sole man at the Yard with much sympathy for Lenox’s methods or interference.

  Fowler’s office was empty, but just momentarily—a cup of tea steamed on the desk, and a lit cigarette smoldered in an ebony ashtray. As Lenox stood uncertainly in the doorway a voice spoke to him from down the hallway.

  “What are you doing in my office?”

  “Hallo, Fowler. I thought I might have a word with you.”

  “Did you?”

  He was distinctly unfriendly. This wouldn’t have surprised the vast majority of people who knew Grayson Fowler. He was an essentially disagreeable man, not particularly handsome, slightly snarling, always half-shaven, and poorly dressed. Nevertheless, with Lenox he had, in the past at any rate, been affable enough, because Fowler was sharp and valued the quality in others.

  “It’s about Frederick Clarke.”

  “I imagined it might be.”

  “Can I come in?”

  They were standing rather awkwardly in the doorway, with too little space between them. “I’d just as soon you didn’t,” said Fowler.

  “I don’t want to tread on your turf. Ludo Starling is an old friend of mine, and asked me some time ago whether I might—”

  “I believe since then he’s advised you to let Scotland Yard handle the case?”

  “Well—halfheartedly. If we could just speak—”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “But if—”

  “No!” said Fowler loudly and turned into his office, shutting the door hard behind him.

  Lenox felt himself turning red with embarrassment. He stood there for a moment, utterly nonplussed.

  Eventually he turned and walked down the empty hall out into daylight again, hailed a hansom cab, and directed it to McConnell’s house.

  Jane was fetched for him by a happily tipsy young servant girl.

  “How is Toto?” he asked his wife.

  “She’s doing wonderfully well, tired but resilient.”

  “And happy?”

  “Oh, marvelously happy.”

  He smiled. “Do you know, it was wonderful to witness McConnell’s joy. I thought I had never seen a man so happy.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I wonder, Jane, would you think of having a child one day?”

  There was a pause. “I don’t know,” she said at last.

  “It might be nice.”

  “Aren’t we rather too old?”

  He smiled softly. “Not you.”

  She returned his affectionate look and grazed his hand with her fingertips. “It’s a conversation for another day, perhaps.”

  Hastily—feeling slightly vulnerable, in fact slightly hurt—he said, “Oh, of course, of course. I’m only caught up in the happiness of the moment.”

  “I understand.”

  “Now—let’s take a look at this child, George. I assume she’s with a nurse somewhere hereabouts?”

 
“I’m afraid you can’t see her. Toto still has her. She won’t let the nurse take her away—‘just a few minutes longer,’ she keeps saying. You can’t imagine how she beams at the poor little child.”

  “Too bad,” said Lenox. “I’ve wasted a trip.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Strangely, the Palace of Westminster, that remarkable and ancient-looking panorama of soft yellow stone situated on the banks of the Thames (and better known as Parliament), was now just, in its fully finished form, about four years old.

  This was so strange because it already seemed somehow eternal, and of course some parts of it were older. There was the Jewel Tower, a three-story building that stood over a moat, which Edward the Third had built to house his treasures in 1365. And to be fair, construction of the Houses had begun some thirty years before, so parts of the new buildings were at least that old. Still, for most of Lenox’s life it had been a work in progress. Only now did it stand on its own, unencumbered by builders or provisional outbuildings, so glorious it might have been there a thousand years.

  The reason for the construction of the new Parliament was simple enough. A fire.

  Until the middle of the 1820s, sheriffs collecting taxes for the crown had used an archaic method of recordkeeping, the tally stick. Beginning in medieval England, when of course vellum was far scarcer than paper now, the most efficient way to record the payment of taxes had been to make a series of different-sized notches in long sticks. For payment of a thousand pounds, the sheriff cut a notch as wide as his palm in the tally stick, while the payment of a single shilling would be marked with a single nick. The thumb was a hundred pounds, while the payment of one pound was marked, obscurely, with the width of a “swollen piece of barleycorn.”

  It was a system that in the eighteenth century was already antiquated, and by William the Fourth’s reign embarrassingly so. Thus it was in 1826 that the Exchequer—that branch of government that manages the empire’s funds—decided to change it. This left one problem, however: two massive cartloads of old tally sticks of which to dispose. The Clerk of Works (unfortunate soul) took it upon himself to burn them in two stoves in the basement that reached below the House of Lords. The next afternoon (October 16, 1834) visitors to the Lords complained of how hot the floor felt. Soon there was smoke.