“Probably not.”
“Maybe as a surprise ending.”
“You mean, where Duff seems like the man for it but it turns out to be you?”
“Yes,” said Soames, and laughed. His face was red. “But in real life—”
“Never, in real life.”
“No, no. Preposterous.”
“Yes.”
There was a silence.
“Well, I’d better get inside,” said Soames.
“Good to see you, though.”
“Thanks for the wine and all, Lenox.”
“Of course.”
“Are you meeting your brother?”
“Yes,” said Lenox. “In a little while.”
“Say hello. Old Edmund. We were at university together.” A sad moment passed. Then the two men shook hands, and Soames went into the chamber.
Chapter 24
After he had interviewed Soames, Lenox was at loose ends. He was to have lunch with his brother in only an hour, give or take a few minutes, so it would be pointless to go home. He decided that he would take a walk.
The new snowfall was already trodden underfoot, and the city had again taken on a dingy aspect, but the air was clear and, if cold, not unbearably so. He decided he would go down by the river.
Every few hundred yards, in this part of London, there was a staircase leading down from the sidewalk that overlooked the Thames. Lenox went down one of these staircases and soon found himself even with the water, on a little promenade lined with short trees that ran for a while just next to the river, much more quietly than the busy street above.
The water was gray and running fast, with drifts of ice eddying down it and snow fringing its sides. A few birds were flying close to the water, and Lenox stopped to sit on a bench and watch them skimming the small waves. The sky was gray and the river was gray. It was the sort of thing he loved, though a sudden ache where he had been hit called him back to the world.
Soon it was lunch time, and he walked back slowly, looking at the buildings of Whitehall.
Lenox’s interest in politics dated back nearly as far as his memory. Lady Jane’s father had often taken his seat in the Upper House, where Lenox and Jane would watch him speak from the spectators’ gallery, and while Lenox was unimpressed with the trappings of power, he was fascinated by the power itself. It amazed him, after his schoolboy lessons of the monarchs and a deeper look into history at Harrow, that the bodies of Parliament controlled the fate of their countrymen. The discourse, which he read in the papers, was seldom elevated, occasionally very low, but once in a while sparkling. He had grown up with the ideal of the great statesmen, Burke, Fox, Peel, and Palmer-ston, in his mind. And then, he felt, as he grew toward adulthood, that he had fallen into a singularly lucky time, when both Disraeli and Gladstone were coming into their strength as leaders of men. It was a time of great debate.
But it had been a fascination from afar. Sir Edmund, as both brothers had always known, would be the member from Market-house. The baronet always was. Charles, their father thought, would buy an estate near Lenox House, or, if it were absolutely necessary, a house in London. But leisure would fall to him, whichever it were, as the consolation for having lost a career.
And yet there were times when Lenox walked among the members he knew, or spoke confidentially with his brother or with the half-dozen politicians he had known since childhood, when it occurred to him that there still might be a chance; he still might enter the House. He knew their minds, though suited to politics at the moment, were in the end no sharper than his. He felt that he might be equal to the job.
But for now he was content to walk the halls of power, to ask his brother for morsels of information, to read the paper in the evening, and to say hello to Disraeli at a party or to Russell at a country house where they found themselves together—to move partially in the political set.
No matter, no matter. The case at hand, that was the important thing. He walked back in the direction of the members’ entrance at Parliament and then to Bellamy’s, with its low windows and old portraits, to meet his brother.
Lenox had been sure he could take Soames unawares and question him almost without his knowing. That such was not the case put Lenox on his guard. And then, Soames’s manner had been so peculiar. The way he grasped at Duff’s character, his uneasiness at certain questions, and his insistence that none of them would be found to have done it when the facts came out in the clear.
But surely not Soaps the clubman, whom Lenox had known to say hello to for decades, since he and Edmund had been at university together? No, it was the drinking that had rendered him so inarticulate and ill at ease and of such an unhealthy pallor.
Lenox waited for his brother, and at last he arrived in the dining room. They each ordered a slice of hot game pie with sauce, chips, and peas. Sir Edmund, who was in a cheerful mood because he was returning to the country soon, ordered a bottle of port after lunch, and the two men shared it happily, talking not of the case but of Lenox’s own nephews, who were good lads, and of minor matters about the estate: its rolls, the steward’s complaints, and Darrow Farm, which was the largest tenant farm on their land. Sir Edmund had a living in his hands and wondered whether he should sell it to the highest bidder or, at a lower price, to a cousin of their mother’s; both decided that the cousin should have it and come to Markethouse as the rector. The two men occupied themselves with problems such as these, which brothers who are lucky enough to be close may discuss. At the end they talked over Charles’s visit, which would come at Christmastime.
“I had hoped to go to the Riviera, you know.”
“Oh, Charles, you will plan, won’t you? I remember when it was Portugal last year, but you had that case with Meyer the German—oh, and I remember your short-lived dreams of crossing over to America, as well.”
“Well, well, one of these days.”
“I daresay.” Sir Edmund laughed. “But it won’t do to get your hopes up again. Be happy to come to the country; we can hunt a bit, you know. I’ve finally managed to convince Crump”—the butler at Lenox House since time immemorial—“that we need real fires while anyone at all is awake. Though you would have thought I’d suggested we set the old portraits ablaze.”
Lenox laughed along with his brother. “I look forward to it so greatly, you know. To see Molly and the boys.”
“Yes, well, they only wish you’d come more often. Particularly the boys.”
“Yes,” said Lenox, and smiled to himself. “Where are you off to?”
“The law and order committee in the House. The Royal Academy’s report on banned poisons is coming in.”
Lenox had an idea. “Who was responsible for it, in the House?”
Edmund thought. “Young James Hilary. Duff. Alexander Adams. Those three, I think.”
“Duff?” For a moment disappointment coursed through Lenox. Was that why Duff had the arsenic? But if so, why buy it in a private shop? Surely the Academy would have given them samples.
After a few moments of further talk, Edmund and Lenox stood up and began to walk back toward the members’ entrance, wending their way through the refreshment rooms and tearooms and card rooms.
“You’re staying in the House for the evening?” Lenox asked, as they walked.
“I must. Terrible trouble, of course, but they would like it.”
“Shall we trade jobs? I’ll leave you the task of interviewing Duff.”
“Newton Duff?” Sir Edmund grimaced. “Perhaps we’ll trade later. Oh! There he is.”
Both men had seen Duff, who was a member, settling on a couch in the usually abandoned chess room, surrounded by a set of papers he appeared to be deciphering.
“Would you like me to take you over?” Sir Edmund asked in a low voice.
“Yes, actually. I suppose it may as well be now as ever.”
“Unpleasant, though.”
“Thank you for reminding me, dear brother.”
“Only saying. Here we go.”
The two men walked over to Duff, but Lenox had to cough once before the austere member would look up.
“Mr. Duff,” said Lenox. “We’ve met several times before, but I daresay you don’t remember.”
“I do.”
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“Well, I must be off, then!” said Sir Edmund, and shook his brother’s hand and walked away.
Duff looked down at his papers again.
“May I sit, for a moment?” Lenox asked.
“I suppose, yes, if you must. I came to this room seeking solitude.”
There was another moment of silence. Duff’s hard, dark eyes focused relentlessly on him. His hair was dark as well, and combed back, and he had the strong jaw and lean body of someone without much pleasure in his life except work.
“I believe you’re staying with George Barnard?”
“I am.”
“Some business of a murder, from what people say.”
Duff finally looked up, though it was not an altogether pleasant look that he gave Lenox.
“Yes.”
“Have they any idea what happened?”
In response to this question, Duff stood up and said, with an iron glance, “I must be on my way, sir. Good day.”
Lenox watched him leave with a sigh. Why had he bought that arsenic? He was a difficult man. Other men, whom Duff walked by on his way to the chambers, seemed to wait for him to pass until they spoke again. Curious, his reaction—but hard to say whether Duff merely disdained frivolity or, perhaps, knew Lenox’s business, as Soames had, or, indeed, mistrusted his own answers, should the line of questioning have gone any further.
Chapter 25
Charles, Charles, Charles!” said Lady Jane, rushing to the door to meet him. “Oh, Kirk, call Lucy, won’t you?”
She took his hand and led him to the rose-colored sofa, where they sat, but she was in such a flurry of emotions that she stood up almost immediately and paced back and forth in front of the fire, though she would tell Lenox nothing.
It was near teatime, which had become, since the beginning of the case, a daily event for Lenox and Lady Jane. They had always managed to see each other several times a week in the afternoons—and inevitably more in the evenings, for they shared a similar society—but now, he knew, he had a daily mandate to come see her and discuss Prue Smith’s murder. He liked it, in a way. Often he took tea at home, as the quietest part of his day, but to be with his friend was no chore. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really, that she had become so invested in the matter; but in a way, nevertheless, he was.
The butler, so instructed, clambered heavily down the lower stairs, in his loud way, of which Graham so disapproved, and reappeared a moment later with the young maid Lenox had met once before, who had been Prue Smith’s nearest friend.
“Lucy, be kind enough to repeat for us what Kirk overheard you saying.”
“I’m sorry to be sure, ma’am.”
“Very well. Now let us hear it.”
“I only meant it as a bit of fun, ma’am, nothing serious,” she said uncomfortably.
Lady Jane stood up—she had been back upon the couch—and gazed imperiously, in the way Lenox always forgot she could, at the young girl.
“Lucy,” she said, “I demand that you tell us what you said now.”
“Yes, ma’am. I only said—leastwise, I only meant to say—as how Prue, she knew one of the nephews, the grand one, called Claude.”
Lenox said gently, “She knew him?”
“Well—knew him well, like, sir.”
“They had an affair, Lucy?”
Lady Jane sighed and walked toward the fire. Kirk coughed and Lucy stammered out an apology.
“It’s all right, Lucy,” said Lenox quietly. “It’s quite all right. When did this begin?”
“Last month, sir, when Mr. Claude came down to London. He’d nip into Prue’s bedroom, sir.”
“How often?”
“Often, like, sir.”
“What did she say about the matter?”
“Oh, it wasn’t serious, sir—she meant to marry Jem, sir, and keep Deck on the side, I guess, sir.”
Lady Jane grimaced, and Lenox stood up. “Shall we continue in the hallway?” he said to Kirk, who nodded.
But Jane said, “I’ll hear this,” with that strength of purpose Lenox knew so well and bade Lucy to continue.
“Well, I guess that’s all, m’lady,” said the girl.
“Was there anyone else?” asked Lenox. “I shall try just as hard to find out who killed her, Lucy, no matter what you tell me. She deserved to be killed just as little as the Archbishop of Canterbury does. But I have to know if there was anyone else.”
She shook her head with certainty. “No, sir. And even Prue knew it wasn’t right, about Mr. Claude, only she couldn’t say no, really—and he’s a charming young man, sir, you know.”
“Indeed,” said Lenox. He nodded to Kirk. “Thank you, Lucy,” he said, and turned away, and the butler led the maid back downstairs.
He walked to Lady Jane, who had her back to him now, and looked out the window.
“It’s really the fault of Barnard’s nephew,” he said. “The poor girl—”
“You’re right, of course, Charles. But it seems awful nevertheless.”
“Yes,” he said. He took her hand and smiled sympathetically when she turned to look at him.
“Well,” she said, still frowning. “Tea?”
“Of course.”
They sat again, and Lenox asked how the Devonshires’ party had been, to which Lady Jane replied that it had been rather boring, because an ambassador of great reputation and poor social skills had been the central attraction. But she had played a hand of cards and had stayed late with Toto, talking over the new season—the young girls were coming out now—and where it might be fun to stay in the country after Christmas.
“Oh, but Charles,” she said at last, cutting him a slice of treacle tart, “you must tell me, have you found anything new?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But it is a difficult case, of course, and it has barely been three days.”
“I mistrust that man Duff, you know, and the nephew sounds like the limit, but so does the other one. I bet they all three did it together, just to be awful.”
“I’ll look into it,” said Lenox, laughing.
“Must it have been one of them, though?” she asked.
“Or Potts, or Soames. Or indeed Barnard.”
“Nobody else?”
“I grow less sure by the moment. But I am beginning to think that it may have been Soames.”
“Not Jack Soames? He’s so gentle!”
“It seems possible.”
She looked at him wide-eyed.
“Oh, but you’re right,” he said, “it seems impossible as well, of course. Duff seems more likely.” He murmured this last thought.
“No,” she said. “You know what you’re doing, Charles.”
“It’s only that it’s maddening.”
“But you have to solve the case—I know you can—and your getting hurt makes me want it even more.”
“I thought you said you’d rather I quit.”
“Not anymore. I don’t want you to be afraid.”
“Thank you, Jane.”
“What will you do next?”
“I’m waiting for word of Potts, and I ought to interview Claude Barnard again. And then I will have to wait for the ball, to see if I can have a look at the people.”
Barnard’s ball was in two days, and Lenox had firm ideas about what he would do there, but he decided not to share them with Lady Jane—which was, indeed, a good decision, because when she remembered that it was nearly time for the ball, she began to speak about another set of subjects entirely, including the possible attire of one Lady Wendall; the prospects of a young girl with great beauty and birth, but without fortune; and the possibility that Lenox, who preferred to stay off to the sides, might be persuaded for
once to dance.
Chapter 26
In reality, Lenox was even less hopeful than he told Lady Jane he was. Events seemed to have arrived at an impasse. He had very little access to the suspects, and very little reason to suspect any of them individually—other than Eustace’s knowledge of botany. But Eustace was exempt, according to Graham’s undoubtedly reliable information.
The only real hope, Lenox felt, was the ball.
He sat down at around eight o’clock to supper, though not in the dining hall, choosing instead to sit at his desk in the library, where he could read. A new book about Peru had come from the bookseller across the way. After the previous evening, when the Devonshires’ party had slipped his mind altogether, he had double-checked that there was nowhere to go tonight; and there wasn’t. He felt restless again, as he laid aside his fork and knife, but had no impulse to go for a walk, which was natural, one night after his attack, and neither did he much feel like reading or answering letters. Perhaps it was, after all, time to go down to the St. James’s Club, where he could read the newspapers in the front room and look at the park through the window, or have a quiet chat.
But the doorbell rang just as he was standing up from his desk so that he might go upstairs and change, and Graham brought forth a most unexpected visitor, one whom Lenox had never thought would dare to ask admission to his house: Inspector Exeter.
“Mr. Lenox,” said the tall man, bowing.
His bobby’s helmet was tucked beneath his arm, and with his other hand he absentmindedly twirled his mustache. It looked as if he had spent a day on the streets; his cheeks were red and he had snow and mud around his boots, Lenox noticed, although he had tried to wipe them off.
“I see you’ve come from Barnard’s?” Lenox said.
Exeter carefully studied his entire person, searching out the clue that had betrayed him, but it was a game he inevitably lost.
“How do you figure?” he asked.
“The lemon,” said Lenox.
“What lemon?”
“Giving off a slight smell. You’ve had your tea there, I imagine.”
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