An Old Betrayal: A Charles Lenox Mystery (Charles Lenox Mysteries)

by Charles Finch

  “I’ll be in my study,” he said, kissing her on the cheek before heading up the hallway toward the front of the house. His study was the closest room to the front door. Before he entered, he paused and called out, “Will you have a cup of tea with me before I begin work?” He leaned back to see her reaction.

  For an instant her face darkened, and she seemed about to curse him—but then she smiled, realizing that it was a joke, and rolled her eyes.

  A few minutes later, as he was shuffling through the papers on his desk, Jane knocked on the door and came in without waiting for a response. “Your lunch will be up soon.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She hesitated in the doorway. “I’ve just had a letter from Sylvia Humphrey. Word has spread all over London about Thomas and Polly Buchanan, it would appear. She writes to warn me on Toto’s behalf.”

  Lenox looked up, eyes wide, the papers in his hands momentarily forgotten. “No, has it really?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I had thought of trying to see him this afternoon, if for no other reason than to push him around to Dallington’s for a look-in.”

  “Is John that poorly?”

  “He’ll live. What are they saying about McConnell?”

  “Oh, you can imagine. Leave it, for now.” She came farther into the room, near his desk. “Speaking of Dallington—how was your meeting at Charing Cross?”

  Lenox told her about it, attending again to his papers as he did. She made sympathetic noises at the right moments. In due course a footman arrived with Lenox’s food—he often took meals at his desk—and Jane kept him company as he ate, stealing a green pea with her fingers now and again.

  “Is Sophia asleep?” he asked when he had finished eating.

  Lady Jane glanced at the clock on the mantel. “She ought to be awake. It is nearly two, after all. Shall I fetch her down?”

  Lenox looked up at the clock. “I ought to leave soon, but if she’s awake I could visit her in the nursery.”

  Sophia was awake, in fact, and entertaining herself as the house’s cook, Ellie, sat in the corner knitting. The child turned, face open with expectation, when they came through the door, and then beamed and clapped her fat hands together with surprised delight at the sight of both of her parents in her nursery. She toddled toward them happily, cooing half phrases, a small bundle of person in a pink dress with a white pinafore and navy woolen stockings.

  Lenox lifted her high up into the air, kissed her, and then set her down again. She patted her cheek where his bristles had scratched her. “Where is Miss Emanuel?” Lenox asked Ellie, who was long-enough tenured in Hampden Lane—and cross-grained enough—that she had remained seated after they arrived, though she did pay them the deference of lowering her knitting needles to her lap.

  “She is downstairs fetching the little miss a snack, sir.”

  “You can’t say fairer than that,” said Lenox.

  Lady Jane, who was more at home in the room than her husband, began to tidy, as he stood rather awkwardly near the doorway. Few men could love their child more than he did; yet he saw less of her than he would have wished, because it was not quite right that he should moon around her nursery. It irritated him, to contemplate this stubborn adherence to propriety, and as Sophia crowded his legs, examining his bootlaces, he decided he ought to come upstairs more.

  After a few moments Miss Emanuel appeared, greeting them sunnily. This was Sophia’s new nurse, a sweet, fair-complexioned young woman with straight black hair, a product of the very fine free Jewish schools in the eastern part of the city. She knelt down to give Sophia a point of toast with marmalade, which Sophia immediately dropped to the floor, sticky-side down, and then, face serious, biting her lip with concentration, set about attempting to pick up.

  “No, dear,” said Lady Jane gently, stopping her with a hand.

  Lenox picked the toast up from the floor and wiped the spot with a cloth that was close to hand. “I observe that our daughter is rather clumsy, Miss Emanuel,” he said with a smile. “Jane, perhaps we oughtn’t to apprentice her to the seamstress quite yet, as we had planned.”

  Ellie clucked disapprovingly from the corner. “To think of making such a joke, the poor darling.”

  “At any rate we might wait until her fourth birthday, I suppose.”

  Jane laughed. “Four? Shall she remain indolent as long as that?”

  “I had planned to take her outside now,” said Miss Emanuel. “Unless you would prefer we stay here in the nursery a while longer?”

  Lenox looked at his pocket watch. He should by rights leave for his office again now; Graham would be expecting him. Instead he said, “I think I can find time to take her for a walk,” and then, to assuage his guilt—or his lack of guilt, for which in fact he felt guilty—he said he would go downstairs and find ten minutes of work to do in his study, until Miss Emanuel had readied the child to leave.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Later that evening Lenox was glad of the roast chicken, potatoes, and peas he had eaten at home that afternoon, because during the debate there was only time for a biscuit and a glass of port in the Members’ Bar, during a ten-minute recess. It was a heated session. In the end it was nearly two o’clock in the morning when the Artisans’ and Labourers’ Dwellings Improvement Act passed, a strange hybrid object that belonged in the affection of neither party wholly but had enough disjointed support between the two that it became the law of England. When the tide had finally turned, Disraeli gave Lenox, his chief ally among the liberals, a grave nod from across the aisle. It was a gesture few saw but that seemed to Lenox to imply much: thanks, future favors asked and given, even friendship. Compromise received a bad character from some men in the House, the look had said; but not from either of them.

  He went to bed utterly spent and permitted himself the luxury of sleeping until nine. When he woke he put on his warm dressing gown—there was a chill outside that morning, the sunlight hard and frosty—and took his cup of coffee in the armchair near the high windows in their bedroom, where he could watch from three stories up the hum of Hampden Lane. Across the street at the booksellers was the oysterman, selling three for a farthing, or six with bread and butter for two farthings, and passing him on the street were any variety of urgent gentlemen. It was a peaceful thing to watch them from a still place, warm and rested.

  Kirk came in with a note at twenty past the hour. It was from McConnell. The evening before, Lenox had found a moment to invite the doctor to lunch the next day, but it appeared that his friend had to decline.

  Dear Charles,

  Unfortunately I’m committed to lunch at the Surgeons’ this afternoon, but what do you say to our meeting tomorrow instead? I can come to the Athenaeum at one o’clock if you’re free then. Best to Jane and Sophia.

  Thos. McConnell

  Even a detective so far out of practice as Lenox was capable of stopping into the Surgeons’ Club and asking at the front desk whether Dr. McConnell was there. At two o’clock, after a leisurely morning of work at Parliament, that was what he did, though he felt rather shabby for it.

  “He is not in at the moment, sir,” said the dignified gatekeeper of the place. Portraits lined the walls of this entranceway, where in one corner a man struggled into a pair of galoshes.

  “Was he in earlier this afternoon?”

  “No, sir. We have not seen him this week past, sir.”

  “Ah. I must have misread his message.”

  “Would you like to leave a note for him, sir?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Lenox.

  So. McConnell had deceived him.

  He hadn’t liked to involve his carriage driver in this expedition, and so as he came out again onto Portugal Street—the club was just near the Royal College of Surgeons—he hailed a passing omnibus, its driver, in his accustomed white top hat, deigning to pull his horses very nearly to a stop. (Some drivers refused to stop for anything less than a marquess. Their discrimination against the wor
king class was what had made the underground so popular.) It was westbound, at any rate. He stepped into the small, airless chamber and sat upon one of its two benches, which was lined with indigo velvet. Opposite him were two women discussing the bill Parliament had passed.

  “Shameful how they coddle them.”

  “Mm.”

  “I had thought more highly of Disraeli.”

  Lenox smiled faintly, avoiding their eyes. You couldn’t please everyone, he supposed. When the omnibus had traveled two miles down the Strand he got off, leaving them with an amicable nod.

  At the end of the Strand was Pall Mall, of course—and that was just a turning away from White’s. He hadn’t planned to look in for Archie Godwin, but he decided now that Graham could spare him for another twenty minutes.

  White’s was a club Lenox rather disliked, the playground of young lords who made outlandish bets and drank themselves to foolishness. (In 1816 the Regency buck Lord Alvanley had bet a friend three thousand pounds that one raindrop would reach the bottom of a bow window before another. By 1823 he had been forced to sell his family’s ancient lands, a surprise to nobody.) It was a beautiful building nevertheless, alabaster and intricately carved, a less hieratically inclined cousin to Westminster Abbey, with a black wrought-iron fence in front.

  “I’m looking for Archibald Godwin,” Lenox said to the bowler-hatted porter at the front door.

  “Not in,” said the porter, not unkindly.

  “Was he here earlier this morning, or yesterday afternoon?”

  The porter laughed. “Not unless you count December last. That was when I saw him most recent.”

  “Not since then?” Lenox asked, with raised eyebrows.

  “No, sir.”

  “Hm. Strange.”

  “Not particular, if you consider he lives in Hampshire.”

  “Does he, though?”

  “Has since I’ve known him,” said the porter. He touched his hat. “Good day.”

  Of course, Who’s Who had said that Godwin lived in Hampshire. Why was he in London? If he hadn’t so much as visited his club, why would Godwin give his address as White’s?

  The last question at least had an answer, perhaps—he might have been hoping to put Lenox off. The young man was plainly a member, and correspondence sent to the club would reach him, eventually but not too quickly. By giving Lenox this address Godwin had discharged his minimal responsibility to another gentleman while managing to discourage further contact.

  Lenox walked down Cleveland Row and into Green Park, until he was in sight of the brick face of Buckingham Palace. The flag was up, which meant the Queen was in residence. A bobby passed by with his usual equipment, a truncheon, a rattle, and a lamp. That rattle had come in handy to Lenox many times, when he and a bobby on the trail of a murderer or thief had found themselves in an unpleasant situation, for its noise brought every constable on a neighboring beat instantly to hand.

  Once a clever criminal he had known, Jonathan Spender, had put the fact to his own use; he had obtained one of the rattles and paid a street boy a shilling to shake it on a crowded corner. As the bobbies came flying toward the boy, Spender was calmly robbing the suddenly unwatched row houses of Eaton Square.

  The thought of Spender’s subterfuge drew Lenox to a stop. He frowned, realizing he should have asked the porter one further question. Was it worth turning back? He consulted his pocket watch and found that it was already past three o’clock. Really he ought to have been down at the Commons, but he couldn’t resist.

  The porter didn’t seem especially surprised to see him again. “Still no sign of Mr. Godwin,” he reported with a smile.

  “May I ask you a question about him?”

  For the first time the friendliness left the porter’s face. It was well enough to say whether or not a member was in, and perhaps to let slip the last time he had been in—but to offer any more would encroach upon the privacy of a selective establishment’s members. “Well?” he asked.

  “This Godwin, I only met him once. He is a tall, fair-haired gentlemen, rather slim, no?”

  The porter shook his head. “Are you after some mischief, sir?”

  Lenox handed over his card. It was like all gentlemen’s cards—his name in the center, address in the lower left, the club he frequented most often in the lower right—but it happened to say that he was a Junior Lord of the Treasury and give his address as Parliament. “We share a mutual acquaintance, a young woman,” he said.

  “I’m not sure you do, respectfully, sir,” said the porter, handing the card back with a slight and reverent incline of his head. “Mr. Godwin is a round gentleman a shade under five foot, and by every account I’ve heard he has been bald since he was seventeen.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “He does not sound like a prepossessing personage,” Dallington observed, chuckling, when Lenox repeated this description to him. “The hearts of the ladies of the Clinkard Meon Valley are safe, unto the most devoted beagler’s daughter.”

  “Do you think the fellow at Gilbert’s was having a joke at my expense?” asked Lenox. “Or at Godwin’s?”

  “Perhaps both.”

  “For my part, I do not.” The Member of Parliament was leaning against the windowsill above Half Moon Street, smoking a small cigar and gazing out at the tree-lined walk below. It was early evening, the light weakening away toward night. He had done his work at the Commons through the late afternoon, and then stolen twenty minutes for himself to tell Dallington of his exertions; he was due back for a debate shortly.

  “Why?”

  “The woman’s reaction, the impostor’s face. There was something sinister in it. Then, too, the note was so unsettling.”

  Dallington shrugged. “Then what do we make of him?”

  “He seemed wellborn, and knew enough to use the name of a person not likely to appear at White’s, to embarrass his alibi, in case I should search for him there. He did not count on my making more than a cursory effort.”

  “But what if you had written to him, and the letter had gone to this fellow in the country?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps it was a hoax. Based upon his appearance, he was a gentleman, but the gentlemen of White’s have their own rules. Not many people outside of the club like them.”

  Dallington himself was a member at White’s. He smiled. “What more can we do?”

  Lenox sighed. “I cannot see what course we have other than to wait. I fear the young woman will not write to you again, because she suspects you to have betrayed her. Although perhaps she will know otherwise and send for you a second time.”

  “What about Godwin, the false Godwin?”

  “I asked the chap at White’s whether he could identify a taller fair-haired gentleman with a silver-handled cane. Only two or three dozen, he said.”

  Dallington laughed hoarsely. He was still ill, but well enough now to have propped himself up by the warmth of the fireplace, lit though it was spring. “It’s no matter. Two more cases have come in, and when I am well enough I shall move on to other matters.”

  This reminded Lenox. “Did you know, incidentally, that there is a woman advertising a detective agency in the newspapers?”

  “Miss Strickland? Yes, I’ve seen her notices and wish her joy in her undertaking. She can’t guess how many cranks she’ll have knocking at her door. Which means perhaps that fewer will knock at mine.”

  “You are not anxious to be bullied off your turf?” asked Lenox.

  “I have Jenkins bringing me cases.” This was an inspector from the Yard, who had first been one of Lenox’s allies and now was Dallington’s. “And there seems to have been no abatement in the number of private references I receive.”

  “It is true that London is adequately supplied with crime.”

  “No sign of a shortage to come, either.”

  “Unfortunately, from a civic perspective—fortunately, to someone in your line of work.”

  Dallington smiled. “Just so.”

&n
bsp; They parted then, agreeing to be in contact if anything fresh came to light. The younger man guessed that he would be well enough to participate in their dinner the next Tuesday; ever since Lenox had passed his practice on, the two had met weekly to discuss Dallington’s work, Lenox bringing his greater experience and knowledge of the history of crime to bear on new cases. Several years before, when Dallington had still been naive, albeit enthusiastic and acute, Lenox had nearly every week managed to shed light on some detail of a case, occasionally solving the thing in a single burst of instinct and reasoning. Now, however, it was more common for them to reach the same conclusions at the same pace—Dallington slightly faster, if anything, though Lenox still had, to his advantage, a native brilliance for causation and motivation. It made this Godwin all the more frustrating to contemplate: The impulse behind his actions was so unclear.

  The next day Lenox and McConnell had lunch at the Athenaeum. Funny that the doctor’s jovial mood and healthy face—sometimes so wan and pulled at, by drink or anxiety, now, like the rest of him, fighting fit—should plummet Lenox into sadness.

  McConnell seemed to perceive that Lenox’s spirits were low. “Are you quite well?” he asked, just as their soup arrived. Then, hurrying to make a personal question lighter, he added, “Long hours in Parliament, I mean to say?”

  “Quite long at the moment, yes.”

  “Be sure to get a tolerable amount of daylight, now that there’s some sun again. It will perk you up no end.”

  “Ah, have you been out riding?” asked Lenox.

  “Oh, yes, every morning,” answered McConnell blithely. “I find the exercise sets up the day wonderfully.”

  “How is the old crowd in Hyde Park?”

  “Motley, as usual.” To gain admission to the park one had to be dressed like a gentleman and riding a horse; some thieves hired the requisite suit of clothes and animal for four hours, and practiced upon young gentle ladies who had just arrived for their first season from the country, or the young gentlemen who would make any unscrupulous wager you pushed in their direction. One foolish young baronet, Sir Felix Carbury, had ridden into the park one morning and walked out an hour later, having been gambled off of his horse. “I generally keep to myself.”