Charles Finch - A Stranger in Mayfair

“I’d like to speak to them,” said Dallington.

“Perhaps they were his real friends. It wouldn’t surprise me. He couldn’t have been proper friends with either of the women in his house or Collingwood, his superior among the staff.”

“True, and he lived along that row of houses. All the footmen would have been in the alley constantly.”

“Precisely.”

The service was a modest one, without music save for Bach’s St. Matthew Passion at the recession. Funerals in London tended to be grandiose (at one last year, Lenox had seen a procession of mutes and jugglers before the coffin), but this was a plain old English service-rather touching in its simplicity.

One rather strange absence was that of Inspector Grayson Fowler of Scotland Yard. Perhaps the feeling of propriety that had nettled Dallington kept him away, but Lenox doubted it. Fowler was a particular type-old, grizzled, disagreeable to most people, and extremely sharp-witted. He was well past fifty years of age, and in his many years on the force had been one of the few people at the Yard of whom Lenox had entirely approved. In turn he had always liked Lenox, who had talked over cases with him many a time, interpreting clues and prodding theories to find their soft spots. Lenox decided that he would visit Scotland Yard that night, despite the curt note he had received when he tried to contact Fowler before. Perhaps it had been a bad day.

As they stood on the steps of the church after the funeral, nobody seemed quite sure what to do. A reception would have been appropriate, but Ludo hadn’t mentioned one, and the boy’s mother was from out of town-and an old family servant! It was shabby of Ludo, actually, and thus it made Lenox doubly glad when one of the six footmen did something gallant. He was a red-haired, freckled, very young-looking man.

To the group he said, “Since we appear to be at loose ends, may my friends and I invite you all to the second floor of the Bricklayers’ Arms? It’s one street down, and Freddie often enjoyed a pint there. Mrs. Clarke, may I take your arm?”

“Oh-yes,” stammered Ludo. “Here, I insist upon buying a round.” He fumbled through his pockets and came up with a note, which the footman had the good manners to accept.

“Freddie,” murmured Lenox to Dallington.

“Maybe I’ll buy a round as well. Come along?”

“Graham will murder me if I don’t get back. Come see me tonight though, will you?”

“Yes, of course.”

A ragged procession had already begun down the street, and Dallington ran up to join it. Lenox sidled up to Ludo Starling.

“Where is the boy’s mother staying?” he asked. “With you, I assume?”

“No. We offered.”

“You don’t know where?”

“A hotel in Hammersmith.”

“But that’s miles and miles away.”

Ludo shrugged. “We offered, as I say.”

“Which hotel?”

“It’s called the Tilton. That’s all I know. Listen, Charles-I feel uneasy about you looking into this murder. It’s nearly been a week already. Fowler says we can’t expect to discover who did this horrible thing to Frederick, and I don’t want to detain you for the purposes of a-a fruitless search.”

“Yes,” said Lenox placidly.

“After all, what’s the point? The House sits again soon, and we both have work to do before then.”

“True.”

“Will you drop it?”

“My priorities are certainly at the House, but if you don’t mind I’ll have Dallington look around a little more.”

“Oh?” said Ludo. His face was difficult to read. “If he has the time, by all means. I just want to be sure you don’t waste any time that would be otherwise spent productively.”

“Thank you,” said Lenox.

As he walked away down Brook Street toward New Bond, Lenox pondered this exchange with Ludo. There was no possibility whatsoever that Grayson Fowler had said the Yard couldn’t expect to solve the case. For one thing it was against policy, and for another Fowler was an irascible, tenacious man, not given to accepting failure gracefully. What could be happening between Ludo’s ears? Why ask Lenox onto the case and then try to kick him off? The title?

He was walking in the direction of Grosvenor Square. He was already late to see Graham, but it had occurred to him during the service that he hadn’t seen Thomas and Toto McConnell in nearly a week, and he decided to go visit them.

It was Toto herself, big as a house, who answered the door. Her funereal butler, Shreve, stood behind her with a dismayed downturn at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, Charles, how wonderful! Look at the size of me, will you? I’m not supposed to be on my feet, but I saw it was you through the window.”

“Shreve could have gotten it.”

The butler coughed a muted agreement.

“Oh, bother that, I wanted to stand up anyway. Thomas was reading one of his scientific papers to me, something or other about dolphins, I can’t keep up and it’s dreadfully boring. I do like his voice, though, don’t you? It’s very soothing.”

McConnell was standing before the sofa, beaming-still tall, still exceedingly handsome with his shaggy hair.

“How are you?” he said.

“Excellent, thank you. Any day now?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think it’s a girl.”

“I do want a girl,” said Toto, heaving herself onto the couch with an unladylike grunt, “but of course a boy would be lovely, too.”

“Anything happening about the murder?” asked McConnell.

“Don’t talk about that nonsense,” said Toto crossly, her pretty face flushed. “I want to hear happy chatter, not about murders and blood. Just this once. After the baby comes the five of us can have a symposium on the subject, but right now I want to talk about nice subjects. How is Jane’s garden, Charles?”

That evening Lenox was sitting at his broad mahogany desk, reading a blue book on the subject of England’s commitments to Ireland. It was early September all of the sudden, after the endless warm summer of his honeymoon, and chill on the streets. Lady Jane had been out all evening, and he had stayed home, hoping to speak with her when she returned. He owed her a better apology and in his mind he worked over the words he would say when she came in.

As it happened the sound of the front door opening brought not her but a breathless Dallington.

“Lord John Dallington, sir,” said Kirk, coming in after the young man yet again. “The young gentleman didn’t knock, sir,” he added with opprobrium. Between him and Shreve, it was a bad day to be a fastidious butler in London.

“I was in a rush, wasn’t I? Lenox, it’s about the case.”

“What?”

“I spent the last five hours at the Bricklayers’ Arms. I think we have a suspect.”

Lenox stood up. “Who?”

“Jack Collingwood.”

Lenox whistled. Append another unhappy butler’s name to the growing list. During their interview Collingwood had sounded so very neutral about Clarke, appropriately sad but not, seemingly, very affected.

“What makes you suspect him?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. Graham, could you scare up a glass of brandy for me? Oh, but of course you’re not Graham-Kirk, is it? Thank you.” He turned to Lenox. “I sipped one glass of porter all afternoon, trying to keep my head clear, even though I bought five rounds. I have a terrible thirst.”

“Make it two, Kirk, and I’ll take mine warm.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve found out why he had scabbed knuckles. Freddie Clarke. Everyone calls him Freddie, by the way-his friends.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t help us. He was an amateur boxer, bare knuckles. Apparently they make these footmen of pretty durable material-he fought every other Thursday and trained whenever he could, including early mornings, at a ring in South London.”